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plate, always with the exhortation: ‘Eat small, David. Eat small. There is more to come’: the culungiones , the malloreddus , the burrida , even a small taste of cordula , with Raina’s clear explanation that lamb entrails were involved and no offence would be taken if I didn’t try it, all this served with plenty of pane carasau , the traditional bread.
    Carlo poured me chianti—from Naples, he explained, and added in a low earnest voice, mock-conspiratorial: ‘Tonight we shall let the Italians go first. Australian wines for the second glass, Sardinian wines for the toasts and the tasting. What do you say? Sounds right?’
    ‘I say you’re trying to make it impossible for me to remember any names at all.’
    Carlo found that hilarious, laughing and pounding the table, repeating what I’d said for those who hadn’t heard.
    I continued with my meal, loving the food, loving the warm, genial atmosphere, the fond and comfortable talk of people who knew each other well and were glad to be together again. There was none of the awkwardness of needing to amuse the stranger. I was among family and friends. But for the distinctly Australian accents that came and went amid the Mediterranean ones, I could have been anywhere in the world.
    Plates were cleared, glasses replenished. New dishes continued to arrive, brought in by Raina or one of her friends. One moment there was no-one in the kitchen; the next, four of the women would trail off after Raina and return with more specialties, all served to the refrain of: ‘Eat small. You must try this.’
    The Risis were amazing hosts. Raina was charming, unfailingly attentive to her guests, but it was almost as if she held back to let Carlo hold court. He told jokes, slapped arms, went and crouched beside each of his guests at some point, murmuring asides he then shared with everyone when he returned to his chair. He told anecdotes, made serious pronouncements about pig-farming, cattle-farming and Italian politics. Sometimes he spoke in Italian, naturally and exuberantly, without self-consciousness or apology.
    Finally, back in his chair, he topped up my glass and played formal host again. ‘Beth Rankin said you are a journalist, David. A writer. It keeps you busy, eh?’
    ‘Freelance now, I’m afraid, Carlo. A few health problems.’
    ‘You’re here to recover.’
    ‘Something like that. I’m working on a book and some other things. A mutual friend arranged that I stay. It’s perfect.’
    ‘It’s a fine land hereabouts. A good land. You will do well.’
    It was an odd comment, and it made me realise, belatedly—the wines were having their effect—that Carlo was speaking for the table’s benefit, that everyone had stopped their conversations and were listening. I could have asked about the tower and the bottle-trees quite innocently then, made it seem like neighbourly curiosity, but something stopped me, possibly the steadiness of his gaze, being the focus of everyone’s attention.
    I sat trying to think of what to say next. Thankfully, Raina came to my aid.
    ‘Carlo, you must let David concentrate. He has the names to remember.’
    Carlo reacted like a cartoon villain, all mock-chagrin as if a plan had been exposed. ‘Raina, you have seen through my schemes again! Scusi , David. I meant to go beyond host’s duty and slip you an extra glass of wine. But we shall talk, and you will listen and memorise the names. For all our sakes, you must succeed. Remember the Cannonau!’
    And with that, the talk resumed. I had to smile. I really was meant to fulfil their request, learn the names and recite them. Without saying anything further, I set to it.
    Through the eating and drinking, through Carlo’s run of stories and constant bonhomie, I’d more than once found myself studying the girl at the end of the table furthest from the kitchen. She seemed nice enough if hardly a beauty. Her name was Gemma, if I wasn’t mistaken; that’s what someone else had called her, and