We have gone down into village for supper, Marco and Juliet and I. Macro took us down in the red car. He would not ordinarily do this: the red one is close inside, and meant to vigorously defend the luxury of needing only two seats. The arrangements had put Juliet somewhat stretched across my lap. Marco would instead I think have taken a more sedate vehicle to make us more comfortable, but he deeply enjoys the red car, and he has been troubled lately. He is a believer of relaxing when eating at restaurants.

Marco arrived in the village refreshed. It is lucky that Juliet is so slim, as her weight on me was pleasant, and I do not think she would have fit otherwise. I had thought it improper, but halfway down she gently pulled my hand across her and I held her as well as I could the rest of the way. After Marco had pulled to a stop, we wobbled from the car, spent from spending so long on the edge of such terrible forces. I cannot claim that I did not enjoy it, but it did not relax me. Juliet's thoughts are inscrutable as she calmly leads us to the restaurant.

Marco spoke to us of the place on the way down the hills. The Bel Canto lives in the rebuilt remains of what used to be a church, the back half of which is something of a legend for the habit of being blown apart in war. It has been built and rebuilt many times. The front with the carvings over the door and the tall, blunted bell tower stand quietly in one corner of the square, humble in their lasting. The lines are thick tonight, with many waiting for their supper in glittering evening gowns and inky suits with constellations of neckties. As we approach them from across the square, their conversation builds from the silent animation of hands to a low collective mumble. They take no notice of us as we walk past them to the top of the line at the door.

The man at the podium is gently dressed, ticking off and adding names to a page of creamy paper in precise lettering under the soft point of a fountain pen. I am beginning to feel out of sorts; Marco is dressed in a cotton arab shirt and painter's trousers, both of which show ample evidence that he was indeed painting earlier, and with some vigor. His hair is its usual raggely mass. He is wearing no shoes. Juliet is not wearing shoes, either, and I know both from her minimalist leanings on such things and the frightful descent that she is wearing cotton shorts and a linen shirt, and that is all. Her hair is soft and smells sweet. I am somehow wearing shoes, but for the rest of me I cannot imagine how I appear to these people. The man at the podium is uttering strings of perfect honorifics in three languages, and I fully expect to find myself in the gutter in moments, rubbing a sore ear. Marco and Juliet seem unconcerned. I follow as best I can, trying not to look at anyone in the line we are disregarding.

Marco steps up smartly to the podium, and we are mercifully ignored by everyone but the man behind it. I am curious as to what honorific Marco will rate, but the gentleman with the pen simply says "Marco," then "three?", then "please" and with a sweep of an arm leads us through the doors. I briefly see the main dining room, murky and lit by candles on the tables, but the man with the pen leads us instead to the left and up the stairs. They are old and dark, and take us up at least a turns' worth of the tower. We emerge into the soft air of evening in the open space of the bell above us, safe in the top of the tower and unmoving. I am staring at the bell.

The man with the pen touches my shoulder. "It will not ring, sir," he says. He slips down the stairs.

The four walls are open up here, offering a breathtaking view of the village. All are roofs, everywhere, the soft shades of tiles interlocking. We can look down on the square as we please, at the long line of men and women snaking out past the cafe. Better, we can see the hills, heated by the setting sun. The air is cool, and moves playfully past us. They have set out a table, three chairs, three places, three glasses and a bottle of wine. The wine is beading slightly in the breeze.

"There are no menus," I say.

Marco has settled into his chair. He looks very comfortable. "We do not get menus," he says. Juliet has already found her way into her chair, curled and unfurling the napkin across her lap. Marco has begun pouring wine from his seat with a long arm, almost carelessly. He spills nothing. "All will be well," he says. "Please, sit. We eat."