finding Facchinetti

They rose early, having decided to keep that morning clear. They took their tools to the corner of the room and, carefully, with a routine that only an old couple could share without prior planning, began to unscrew the cupboard that, 43 years earlier, Mr M had worked into the wall as a place to store their shoes. A steaming pot of tea cooled above the fireplace; they worked with such focus that they forgot to pour any into the two white mugs waiting on the tray.

When the cupboard eventually came down, it was as she had expected. ‘I told you,’ she said, breaking into laughter, ‘I told you he’d be there.’ Mr M nodded. He couldn’t disagree with her, she was often right about things like this. There he was, Paolo Facchinetti, with a small brush and a pot of black paint at his feet. ‘I was just trying to capture the mould,’ the painter said, ‘before the summer comes and dries it away.’ Mrs M chuckled still more, nudging Mr M with her elbow. ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I told you.’