Seeing the Sindaco's embarrassment, his portly friend began to
question me; good-humouredly enough, but in such a fat bubbling
voice (made more indistinct by the cigar he kept in his mouth) that
with difficulty I understood him. What was I doing at Cotrone? I
endeavoured to explain that Cotrone greatly interested me. Ha!
Cotrone interested me? Really? Now what did I find interesting at
Cotrone? I spoke of historic associations. The Sindaco and his
friend exchanged glances, smiled in a puzzled, tolerant,
half-pitying way, and decided that my request might be granted. In
another minute I withdrew, carrying half a sheet of note-paper on
which were scrawled in pencil a few words, followed by the proud
signature "Berlinghieri." When I had deciphered the scrawl, I found
it was an injunction to allow me to view a certain estate "_senza
nulla toccare_"--without touching anything. So a doubt still
lingered in the dignitary's mind.
Cotrone has no vehicle plying for hire--save that in which I
arrived at the hotel. I had to walk in search of the orange orchard,
all along the straight dusty road leading to the station.
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