Evelyn read out loud. ‘Florence struggles to save its past.’ Well, it’s always done that. Oh God no! Cimabue’s Crucifix unsalvageable, they say.
Is that significant?
Oh gosh yes. It really is, Dotty. A salutary link between the Byzantine and the Renaissance. Without Cimabue there wouldn’t have been Giotto.
And without Giotto? said Dotty.
We may as well have called it a day. Evelyn looked down and continued to read out loud. She said, Army are using flamethrowers to dispose of horse carcasses, del Sarto’s Last Supper in San Salvi has succumbed. Prisoners from the Murate were released temporarily and now they’ve escaped.
Well you would, wouldn’t you? said Dotty. Hardly news.
And frogmen have gone into the sewers to clear them.
Deserve a king’s ransom for that, said Dotty.
Professor Carlo Ragghianti – and I quote, said Evelyn – ‘believes help from abroad for stricken Florence will do more than anything to revive the spirit of its citizens for the long struggle which lies ahead’。
Dotty stood up and said, Fancy some olives?
Why not, said Evelyn and she turned the page. And as soon as she had, she cried out Dotty’s name.
Dotty rushed back in. What is it, darling?
Evelyn handed the newspaper to Dotty: A photograph of a man, waist height in the flood waters of Florence, holding aloft a large globe. The caption read: Atlas rising from the flood.
It’s not Atlas, said Evelyn, shaking. It’s—
Your soldier, isn’t it?
Evelyn nodded. I’ve found him, Dotty.
Five days later, they were marching through Rome Airport. The lovely woman at Cook’s travel agency had suggested they take a flight, on account of the flood-damaged railway system, and then a bus to Florence. Bus? said Dotty, as if she’d never been on one. She hadn’t.
Dotty was dressed for a month at sea, but Evelyn was definitely dressed for mud. She was wearing galoshes and a riding mac that had seen better days and never a horse. Dotty said she smelt strongly of rubber. Which was not wholly unappealing, she added.
A taxi took them to the bus station, where a kind and helpful luggage porter led them to a spot of lunch in Giuseppe Verdi’s, an Italian equivalent of a transport caff. It was packed, which was a good sign, with just one table available.
As soon as Evelyn opened her mouth, she became an Italian again. Her charm offensive opened the door of a surly waiter, behind which was a host of homemade specials, none of which were chalked on the board. Eventually, both Evelyn and Dotty agreed on the spaghetti alla carbonara, bread and a carafe of house wine: white.
Evelyn looked about and sighed.
You’re home, said Dotty.
We’re home. All those years we spent with Aunt Maria.
We were rather naughty, said Dotty. D’you think she knew?
Of course she knew! She told me as much – Ah, grazie, said Evelyn as the wine arrived – told me as much before she died. She said, I pray you find the right one. She used the feminine for ‘the right one’。
Oh, classy Maria, said Dotty and she poured out the wine. Here—
And the women raised their glasses. To finding Ulysses, they said.
The wine was crisp and reviving, the carbonara delicious. Wholly authentic, said Evelyn. In what way? said Dotty. No cream whatsoever. No cream? But it’s so creamy! The creaminess, said Evelyn, is purely yolk with the faintest hint of egg white. With the addition of cheese, both parmesan and pec— I thought it was pecorino! said Dotty. And is the bacon bacon or another sleight of hand?
Not bacon, my darling. But guanciale. Pig jowl.
Guanciale, repeated Dotty. How I’ve missed Italy! A delicate crunch, and then your mouth floods with an oily saltiness— The only seasoning, said Evelyn, is a grind, perhaps, of pepper. And the whole ensemble brought together with a soup?on of pasta water.
Well I never.
They struggled through the terminus with their luggage until a young American woman brought help their way.
In the queue to board, Dotty said, Well, this is an adventure! And the young woman said, Have you not been to Florence before, Miss Cunningham? And Evelyn said, She’s talking about going on a bus.
A quarter of an hour later, Dotty said, Never again.
The bus hadn’t even left Rome.
They pulled into Santa Maria Novella rail station just before the five o’clock bells rang out, and dusk was a solid accompaniment. Evelyn and Dotty climbed down the steps and collected their luggage. The smell of diesel and sewage cut through the air and set a sombre tone to this encounter.
Oh my, said Evelyn. What’s happened to you Firenze, amore mio?