Crossing the line - 13. Giorgio Moroni in the Spring

Dan had put several feelers out about Greg, even to the extent of going out for drinks with various of his ex-mates. I’d met him at the pub at one of these; my entrance designed as an excuse for him to leave if he needed one. A large and uninteresting road-house sort of pub, plenty of background noise, a big table of men and women busy downing pints, swapping gossip, discussing the match, and latest Formula One scandal. That sort of thing.

Everyone wanted me to stay for a drink, and it seemed churlish to simply bugger off. Dan made a funny little gesture with his eyes which I was learning meant he was OK, so one drink it was. I was the novelty, Dan’s boyfriend. Had I met any of them before?

Buggered if I know, which was embarrassing. I felt I ought to have paid more attention to Dan’s work colleagues, or rather former work colleagues. Luckily for me, the talk was of holidays, and someone turned to me and asked where we were going on holiday. I looked up at Dan and we caught each other’s eyes and laughed. It had never occurred to us. There was a crack from one of the blokes about Dan avoiding holidays. It became quite a lively subject and certainly kept conversation going; evidently the younger Dan had acquired something of a reputation for never going away.

“So, where would you like to go on holiday?” We were walking part of the way home (to Brixton), having a pleasant stroll down Kennington Road, past the Imperial War Museum, and planned to catch the bus at Kennington. “Most of my recent trips away have been work things, go and see and exhibition, get entertained and glad-handed, then tack a few days on. I’ve done Dresden, Vienna, and Berlin that way plenty of times, as well as lovely smaller places where you might never have thought to make the effort to go.”

“So, you don’t go and sit on a beach?”

I rolled my eyes, “Do you?”

He held out a slim, pale wrist, “Not unless I’m well covered, otherwise I get burned to buggery.”

“So, how about Italy?”

“What, sun and sea?”

“There’s a DH Lawrence book, Sea and Sardinia, that I was convinced was called Sex and Sardinia.” Dan snorted. “No, I was thinking more of palazzos, pasta and paintings.”

He looked at me and nodded, “Ok, I think that’d work. Let’s think about it.”

I did think about it, I did some research and looked at what was coming up regarding exhibitions, that sort of thing. But deep down, I knew that I rather wanted something a bit quiet, so Dan and I could relax together. The hustle and bustle of tourists in Rome or Florence did not appeal. Where had Dan’s family originally come from? I realised I had no idea.

“Where did your family come from in Italy?”

“The South, a village near Naples. Gran reckons it’s not worth visiting, half-way up a mountain and most of the houses half-derelict now.”

“So, no distant relatives?”

“Hardly. Everyone left, like Gran and Granpa. His family was from the same place, but Granpa’s Dad worked in the North, that’s where the jobs were, so Granpa’s idea of home cooking is a bit different from Gran’s. I wouldn’t mind going, sometime; but we’d need to be careful with dates, it gets friggin’ hot down there.”

I shrugged, “Lots to see though in the area.”

“And Naples gets mobbed with tourists because of Pompei and Herculaneum. Sod’s law says that the cool period coincides with one of Mr H’s busy periods entertaining at The Manor.”

Dan had been doing due diligence and had checked about when it would and would not be convenient to take leave. Perhaps word got back to Francis Heyward about Dan’s holiday plans, or perhaps it was just serendipity, but next morning there was an email from Archie. Friends of Mr Heyward’s had a villa in the Veneto, not far from Verona and Vicenza – wowza! There was an exhibition at the Castelvecchio in Verona by a contemporary Italian artist, Giorgio Moroni. Moroni’s work was admired and supported by several of Mr Heyward’s friends, and he was thinking of buying a work. If I was able to review the exhibition then there would be the use of accommodation at these friends’ villa, including a car that was kept for guests, and Francis would cover our flights. I could write what I liked about the exhibition, there had been little coverage of Moroni’s work in the English press. And we could stay on for a few days, rent free.

I looked at Dan, “Do you fancy the Veneto in Spring?”

He rolled his eyes, “Isn’t it a bit dodgy, them paying for you to go to the exhibition?”

I pulled a face, “Well, it happens all the time. If you want coverage, you must get people there. Usually there’s a credit at the bottom of the article, so and so travelled somewhere by whatsit airlines with the support of…”

He nodded, “Fair enough, I suppose.”

“Of more interest is who these friends are?” I put the word in quotes with my hands, “I don’t want to find I’m staying with Giorgio Moroni’s mother or something.”

He grinned, “You reckon that’s possible?”

“I’ll check with Archie.” I looked at the email again, “The dates are a bit tight; we’d have to go soon.”

“You reckon at a weekend?”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

We compared diaries and realised that there was a slot coming up soon. If I was organised and got work done, I could take the time off and Francis Heyward was away so The Manor would be quiet.

“More to the point, do you want to do it? Verona’s old but touristy, the Castelvecchio is fabulous, an old castle re-built in the 1960s by the Italian architect, Carlo Scarpa. There’s nothing quite like it, then there are the villas, all the Palladio architecture, the lakes, the mountains.

He laughed, “Stop, you’ve got me sold. I can practise my Italian. Gran says I’m getting lazy.” He looked at me, “Can we just chill, not try to see everything. I like the idea of a lazy coffee in a cafe, a walk, a church or a villa, lunch, that sort of thing.” He cocked his head, “You reckon we can do that?”

I nodded, “There might be obligations, but I know the area quite well so won’t feel I’m missing out and can show you the best bits.”

“Obligations?”

“There is no such thing as a free lunch, or a free holiday. There might be a reception or receptions, people to meet. These friends of Francis Heyward’s might want to show us off. In the great scheme of things, I’m not a big fish, but if English critics haven’t written much about Moroni, then these friends might regard it as a coup, and want to make the most of our visit.”

“You mean we’ll be shown off to local knobs at a do at the big house. I presume that there is a big house, Archie’s email reads like that.”

I laughed, “They’re hardly going to give us the run of a whole 18th century villa or something, are they?”

I emailed Archie with a tentative acceptance and some queries and got plenty of information back. The house was owned by a distinguished Italian couple, he had taught in London which is where Francis Heyward had got to know them. They owned some of the artist, Giorgio Moroni’s work and were great admirers and patrons but had no direct links to him. The villa was largely 18th century, interesting but not important in the scale of things (i.e. compared to the Palladio villa just down the road). The guest accommodation was in a number of ancillary buildings, a short walk from the main villa. I.e. we were staying in a posh barn conversion. We firmed up dates, and Archie sent us flight tickets almost by return. We’d be going in a little over a week, travelling business class. I explained to Dan that that didn’t mean much on a short haul flight, but it got us priority when doing customs and immigration at Gatwick. We’d be met at Verona Airport by Elena, their local agent.

All I had to do was plan my outfits and we had to work out what the hell Dan was going to wear. Work suits aside, Dan lived in jeans and chinos, polo shirts and t-shirts, but he’d need something smarter, and perhaps lighter, given the temperature. I couldn’t charge in and simply decide; he hated the idea of shopping, but as soon as I mentioned the weather and the temperature, he became more sympathetic and agreed we’d find time to pop to the shops for Summer wear. I was having to learn the gentle art of compromise in my old age.