Portuguese Irregular Verbs by Alexander McCall Smith

best cooks in Tuscany,’ said the farmer, bright-eyed. ‘That’s why I married her.’
    ‘I should not wish to impose,’ said von Igelfeld, hardly daring to believe his good fortune.
    ‘It would be no imposition at all,’ he was reassured by the farmer’s wife. ‘We have so much food here, and only two mouths to eat it now that our children have gone to Milan. You would be doing us a favour, truly you would.’
    The meal was served at the table under the tree. To begin with they ate zuppa crema di piselli , rich and delicious. This was followed by bowls of tagliatelle alla paesana , heavy with garlic. Finally, an immense casserole dish of capretto al vino bianco was brought out, and of this everybody had three helpings.
    Von Igelfeld sat back, quite replete. During the meal, conversation had been somewhat inhibited by the amount of food which required to be consumed, but now it picked up again.
    ‘You must be a happy man,’ observed von Igelfeld. ‘How lucky you are to live here, in this charming place. It’s so utterly peaceful.’
    The farmer nodded.
    ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been to Rome. I’ve never even set foot in Florence, if it comes to that.’
    ‘Nor Siena,’ interjected his wife. ‘In fact, you’ve never been anywhere at all.’
    The farmer nodded. ‘I don’t mind: enough happens here to keep us busy.’
    ‘Oh it does,’ agreed his wife. ‘Tell the professore about the angels.’
    The farmer glanced at von Igelfeld.
    ‘We have seen angels here,’ he said quietly. ‘On several occasions. Once, indeed, while we were sitting under this very tree. Two of them passed more or less overhead and then vanished behind those hills over there.’
    Von Igelfeld looked up into the echoing, empty sky. It seemed quite possible that angels might be encountered in such a setting. It was against such landscapes, after all, that Italian artists had painted heavenly flights; it seemed quite natural.
    ‘I can well believe it,’ he said.
    ‘The priest didn’t,’ snapped the farmer’s wife. ‘What did he say to you? Accused you of superstition, or something like that.’
    ‘He said that angels weren’t meant to be taken seriously,’ said the farmer slowly. ‘He said that they were symbols. Can you believe that? A priest saying that?’
    ‘Astonishing,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Angels are very important.’
    ‘I’m glad to hear you say that,’ said the farmer. ‘The angels are really our only hope.’
    They were silent for a moment, and von Igelfeld thought of angels. He would never see one, he was sure. Visions were reserved for the worthy, for people like this farmer who uncomplainingly spent his entire life on this little corner of land. Visions were a matter of desert.
    ‘And then,’ said the farmer. ‘We had a major incident during the war – on that very hillside.’
    Von Igelfeld looked at the hillside. It was quite unexceptional, with its innocent olive groves and its scattered oaks. What could have happened there? A terrible ambush perhaps?
    ‘I was only eight then,’ said the farmer. ‘I was standing in the farmyard with my father and two of my uncles. All the trouble had passed us by, and so we were not worried when we saw the large American transport plane fly low overhead. We watched it, wondering where it was going, and then suddenly we saw a door in its side open and several parachutists jumped out. They floated down gently, coming to land on the hillside. Then the plane headed off over Montalcino and disappeared.
    ‘We ran over to where the men had landed and greeted them. They smiled at us and said: “We’re Americans and we’ve come to free you.”
    ‘Well, we told them that we’d already been freed and that there was really nothing for them to do. So they looked a bit disappointed, but they came and had dinner with us. Then, after dinner, they went off to sleep in the barn, using their parachutes for bedding, and one of them went into the village. He