The white gate at the end of the privet hedge is half-open, and you go up the path. Under the hanging wire basket of moss and geraniums in the porch, an Aberdeen cocks his head at you, his little legs stiff, his tail going in little jerks. Through the open doors of the garage the back of a car can be seen; an Austin Twelve, you decide, and this year’s model. The dog moves aside, sniffs at your heels, prepared to be friendly. You scratch him behind the ear, ring the bell, and are shown into a room.
You notice a large map of Palestine on the wall, and examine a group over the fireplace, young men in high collars, tight trousers, and faces that make you think of Three Men in a Boat. There are two clergymen in the middle of the front row, an old one with gaiters, a younger one with a moustache holding a splay-legged fox terrier with two heads. A time exposure, presumably, and the dog must have moved. A coloured picture also catches your attention. A figure in a white robe against an Indian background; the face is mild, the hair long and golden. You remember the smells of the bazaar, the fierce eyes, the armoured car nosing its way carefully but authoritatively through the crowd. And what’s this? a photograph of the statue of a Dominican. Yes, so it is, Giordano Bruno. And you smile as you think of the simple Romans who cross themselves reverently as they pass. Like the Holy Year pilgrims, with their rosaries in the temple of Mithras under the church of San Clemente.