The car arrived on the hour. The driver, a portly man with a beatific face, opened the door with a flourish. Though the Peugeot was an older model, the leather upholstery inside was still richly coloured and pliable and the highly polished dashboard reflected loving care.
Gaetano, as my driver introduced himself, drove beyond the centre of the city, passing suburbs of old concrete and new apartments, supermarkets and petrol stations until the historic precinct seemed to be only a dream.
Twenty minutes later, we climbed into the southern hills so richly green in contrast to the grey of the suburbs. We passed villas on large estates often surrounded by their own small forests – some ostentatious, some elegant and stately. We turned off the road and paused before massive wrought-iron gates
