He showered long. Lay on the bed and listened to the drum of rain against the shutters. The red neon sign from Michele’s pulsed across the dark and the Beach Boys sang ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ faintly from the jukebox. If it was anyone but Massimo, he would’ve cancelled. It was the kind of night to settle on the sofa with a grappa and a large parrot for company.
He put on a suit, loosely knotted a dark tie and discarded shoes in favour of wellington boots. He grabbed an umbrella and headed out into the storm-lashed night. Along Lungarno Guicciardini, thunder rumbled across the hills. The streets were inundated and cascades of water were thrown up by passing taxis and packed buses. Black umbrellas clogged the narrow pavements and the green, white and red bunting, hastily erected for the following day’s holiday, was drenched.
But it was the river whose transformation was most startling. The grassy flatlands where the fishermen stood had been swallowed by the swollen current. Crossing Santa Trìnita bridge, the water raged through the stone arches only a few feet below. How could such a softly spoken green stream have turned into this?
Massimo was waiting for him outside Palazzo Strozzi, and after commenting on his sartorial elegance – and why not wellington boots, Ulisse? – he said that he’d already been up to the gathering and it was incredibly dull although the wine, as you’d expect, was good. So I suggest we go eat.
The suggestion was Zia Chiara, tucked behind Piazza Santa Croce. It was a small restaurant that was really a domestic front room, with three tables of two only and no menu. You ate whatever Zia Chiara had made that evening for her family upstairs. Ulysses knew the food to be superb. The evening, finally, on an upswing.
The wind had subsided, and the journey east was made at a fair trot. They arrived at Zia Chiara’s door relatively dry and in good spirits. The walls carried photographs, some sepia, some faded, of farm life before the family’s move to the urban north. A crucifix too, of course, and a signed photograph from a beloved film star: Zia Chiara. Nobody does it better. Sophia Loren x
They sat next to a cat, who, seemingly indifferent to the nightly incursion on its home, washed itself thoroughly before settling on Massimo’s lap. A jug of red wine and a basket of pane casalingo were placed on the table and for an hour Chiara forgot about them.
The conversation turned immediately to Alys and Cressy’s pilgrimage to Rome. Ulysses said that Cress wanted to see where the poet Keats had died, said it would help him get a sense of the city through a twenty-five-year-old’s eyes.
I was engaged when I was twenty-five, said Massimo.
You were?
To Annunziata Berlingo. After I broke it off, she married a Frescobaldi.
That’s quite a rebound.
He wasn’t the main branch. A mere twig. You think they’ll get to the Cinecittà Studios?
If Alys has her way.
Any souvenir would be appreciated.
Ulysses laughed. She knows that.
Massimo poured out the wine and said, My mother has an admirer, by the way.
Your mother does?
I know, I know. We placed her in the home for safety. She’s like a teenager. Very amorous. But what can you do?
By the time the beef came out, the men had made good progress on the wine, and the bad weather outside, a thing of the past. Rain? What rain? said Massimo. At some point, Ulysses thought to mention the height and force of the river.
Massimo said it was probably the snowmelt from Monte Falterona. Or maybe they opened the gates on the dams to release the pressure? Massimo stood up. Talking of releasing the pressure, he said and the signora pointed to the back.
They paid the bill and wished one another a happy festa and the two men left the old woman in a chair resting her eyes, the older brother shuffling down the stairs in search of a sliver of cheese.
Piazza Santa Croce was quiet, a few parked cars, but no wanderers that night. At the corner of Via de’ Benci, they clasped one another and arranged to meet on Saturday for a re-run of 8? at the Rex. Massimo went north, Ulysses south, the river loud as he approached.
He crossed at the Ponte Vecchio. The bridge was shaking beneath his feet, the Arno grinding against the old stones that Taddeo Gaddi had laid in 1345, throwing up water against the parapet. The moon waning gibbous, cloaked by clouds amongst a starless night.
By the Palazzo Pitti, the city was empty. Ulysses cut through Via dello Sprone into Piazza dei Sapiti and noticed water bubbling out from the narrow slits along the gutters. He threw a glance at his workshop, at the globe suspended in the darkness, vulnerable and pure. Cress said he’d captured the essence of the planet itself.