Danilo had parked in an abandoned field near the seminary school.
He opened the boot and took out the tools of his trade, the buckets, trowels and spades. He was about to take the back seat down when he heard a noise.
“Why did you stop?”
“I thought I heard something. Did you?”
“No.”
“It came from there behind the wall.”
“I didn’t hear anything. Che fai? What are you doing?”
Near the wall was a gnarled and knotty olive tree. Danilo hauled himself up by one of the low lying branches. When he was about half way up, he stopped and looked into the garden.
There, behind some bushes, Danilo could make out the black biretta of a priest.
Danilo climbed to a higher branch.
The priest was standing with his hands behind his back. On his face was a relaxed, almost beatific expression.
Danilo got down the tree. He picked up a stone and put it in his pocket.
“Danilo, che fai?”
“Zitto!” he said. “They’ll hear you.”
Danilo picked up several more stones and put them in his pocket. Then, he climbed back up the tree.
He took one of the stones from his pocket and threw it over the wall.
Having found his range, he threw two more stones in quick succession.
“Corri!” cried the priest. “Corri! Run!”
Holding onto his biretta, the priest ran in pursuit of his catamite.
Danilo climbed down the tree.
“Sister,” he said, still chuckling to himself as he turned to the nun. “Aren’t you going to remove your wimple?”
*
“I think this is the most outrageous story I have ever heard. The Count should go to Confession and pray for his soul.”
“The Count does not have a soul… By the way, that nun is not your ex-girlfriend, innit?”
“No, I was joking, remember. She isn’t a nun.”
“Just checking. So many things happen in public life in Italy. You get used to shock.”