Night rolled in cold and sharp. Cress sitting at the dining table, surrounded by candles and students, holding court.
I would actually call it a small miracolo, he said. The Moto Guzzi was thrown clear of the tumult by the first surge of water, landed on the steps, ergo protecting it from the onslaught of oil and muck that was to follow. Now you tell me why?
God’s a motorcycle enthusiast? said Ulysses, collecting the plates.
Massimo was by the window, watching Cress and the students. He said, Alys, who’s the young man in the green jumper?
That’s Jem. He arrived a few days ago. He’s lovely. I’ve been working with him at the library. You want me to introduce you?
No. Go on then. Yes. No, Alys, no. I—
Jem?
Jem looked up from the table and smiled. Alys waved him over. This is Massimo. Massimo, Jem.
On the sofa the elderly contessa was staring at Claude and Claude was staring at her. First one to blink.
In the doorway, Pete and Des. Des was heading back the following day for a conference on the sustainability of plastic, and was even taking one of the tar-soaked moulds with him. Pete, though, had decided to stay.
D’you mind, Des? said Pete.
Do I mind? Course I don’t. If I wasn’t a keynote speaker I’d be staying on myself. But I’ll miss your company in the cockpit, I can tell you that for nothing.
Temps!
Ulysses came out of the kitchen. You OK, Pete?
I’ve been thinking, Temps. I’m not going home. Not with Des. Not ever. How does that sound?
Sounds really good to me, Pete. How’s it sound to you?
Bit daft, if I’m totally honest. I’ve no idea what I’m gonna do.
You’ll do what you’ve always done, said Ulysses, glancing at the piano.
Pete huddled low, fingers dextrous across the keys, fag smoke bothering his bloodshot eyes. This song’s called ‘Angeli del fango’， he said. Mud angels.
It was a ballad, about the young men and women who’d come to the city. About good rising out of need, about love in all its forms, about kindness and looking out for one another, and only the third verse was about art, but even that was about the paradox of meaning. It was classic Pete. Took you one way, took you back, then delivered the punch. He leant back from the keys and cracked his knuckles. The soft waft of dope inched in from the terrace. ’Ello ’ello. Marrakesh all over again, he said.
So that was it. Early to bed. The students switched on their torches and went down the stairs to the pensione to sleep. Des called it a night too, handed Ulysses an envelope and asked him to give it to Michele and Giulia. Is this what I think it is? said Ulysses. You think right, said Des. Money for a new kitchen and anything else they need. Note inside explains it all. If I can’t do it for people in need, what’s the point of being rich? Night, lad.
See you in the morning, Des.
That left only Jem by the bookshelf, head down reading. In his hands a burgundy cloth-covered book. He looked up and quoted: Old women light the porte-cochères
Shut the grilles with thorough care
And with that same maternal light
They close the city for the night.
But like a child, un-keen to sleep,
The city rises from the deep …
Massimo clapped – a little too enthusiastically.
Everything by Constance Everly, said Cress.
Yes, said Jem and he held up the poetry collection. I bought the book Nothing for my old art teacher, Evelyn Skinner. She and Constance were great friends. That’s one of the reasons why I’m here, I suppose. Because of Evelyn. Anyway, he said. It’s late. And I’m talking too— Oh no, said Alys. Stay where you are, Jem Gunnerslake.
Constance Everly? said Cress.
Evelyn Skinner? said Ulysses.
Yes, said Jem.
I think you need to sit back down and tell us all you know, said Cress.
Massimo fetched a bottle of amaro and Jem duly did.
Now–
A thousand miles away, Evelyn Skinner was sitting in her flat in Bloomsbury, leg up on a stool, with her right ankle wrapped in ice. Her ears had been burning for the last twenty-four hours, although she didn’t think the two afflictions were linked. She’d been following stories of the flood avidly, maybe a little too avidly, because it made her distracted and a few days ago, climbing out of the Kenwood Ladies’ Pond in Hampstead, she’d slipped. It was a silly sprain, that’s all, and had caused huge merriment at the time, on account of her suddenly finding out at the age of eighty-six she could do the splits. The prescription was to rest up and follow the medical advice.
Sunday afternoon and Dotty handed her a large G & T. To be taken with a painkiller, said Dotty. Oh, and here, she added, suddenly remembering the newspaper. Florence floods are on page five, she said, handing the Observer to Evelyn.