There’s a medieval feeling in the air, said Dotty. Brutal, violent and yes, suspicious.
They moved carefully down the incline into a bleak square lit glaringly by arc lights. They said goodbye to the young American woman and watched as she almost came a cropper on the oil.
I don’t fancy our chances on that stuff, said Dotty.
And by a stroke of luck, one of the only remaining taxis that had a special permit to enter the city happened to pass at that moment. Dotty raised her hand.
Oh, well spotted! said Evelyn. She gave the address and they clambered in.
The taxi took the long way round to the river due to the unpassable nature of many roads. No streetlights, no neon advertising, only the sweep of headlights caught the undulating wave of destruction. An occasional lit brazier around which soldiers and the homeless warmed themselves.
At 5.30 p.m., Evelyn and Dotty arrived outside Pensione Picci, only noticing then that the guest house had been built on a slightly elevated part of the lungarno, which had ultimately spared it. Enzo was waiting for them outside, holding a kerosene lamp.
My dear Enzo! You got the telegram! said Evelyn, and Enzo said it was the highlight of his week. You’re my only guests, he said in his gruff Florentine accent. He took their luggage and led them inside. As they climbed the stairs, he explained the small miracles that had happened every day, the progress the city had made. Electricity and running water had now been restored and although dinner will be a little basic, I will not let you starve, he said.
And how are the people coping? said Evelyn.
（One more flight of stairs to go.）
Ah, the people! （A deep sigh.） Resilient and suffering. Thousands of businesses in ruin. Thousands of families living in barracks. Twenty thousand on the relief roll. But we keep going, we always have. We keep cleaning and when we remember to, we keep singing. And one day, we will triumph once more. Here we are, he said. Your room, signore. Just as you left it.
Inside, a small electric heater in the corner glowed orange. Enzo placed the cases on racks. One last thing, he said, and he disappeared. Five minutes later, he knocked on the door and handed Evelyn a bottle of perfectly chilled spumante. Because I know you have a choice, he said.
When he closed the door, Dotty threw herself on the bed, inconsolable. These people, Lynny.
I know, my darling.
The next morning, the two women set out carefully under a low grey sky. Although the worst of the debris had been dragged away – into the river by the looks of things, said Dotty – a new wave of mud and oil had appeared after the cellars were pumped clean. The city, once again, sat under a thick brown layer of precarious stinking rot.
Red Cross tents had sprung up in squares, and trestle tables and benches too. Braziers and the wail of the ambulances or the fire service were a constant reckoning.
Along the Arno, the embankments and parapets were being rebuilt, and the earth shook with the rumble of tractors and diggers. Away from the river, shops had begun to reappear, albeit timidly and with little stock. A fruttivendolo sold them clementines and pears.
They stopped at a café that had only reopened that morning, and the owner showed them the waterline: 6 feet. He sat them beneath it ominously and brought them cappuccini and pastries and Evelyn had a glance at La Nazione. Thirteen thousand artworks injured or lost. No hope at all for the Cimabue Crucifix. Millions of books still under mud. And my dear church of San Firenze has suffered terribly, she said.
Anything good at all? said Dotty.
Evelyn scanned the pages. Oh yes, here’s something. Masaccio frescoes in Cappella Brancacci unharmed. Giotto’s frescoes in Santa Croce also safe for now, although the water’s coming up through the walls and the salt is threatening to unseat the paint. Do you think we might head over there, Dotty?
If we take it slow, I think we might just have a chance, Dotty replied.
It took them two hours to get to Santa Croce. Trying mostly to walk in tracks laid down by cars or other people’s feet, Evelyn especially was exhausted by the effort. Her heart was dealt a double blow at the sight of narrow streets still full of water, and unstable building fronts held up by timber scaffold. When they got to the square, apart from the removal of cars, it seemed little headway had been made in fourteen days. The square was still a rotten bog.
Only the flood of 1333 could be compared to this tragedy, she said.
She stood back as a bulldozer rolled past. She leant against the wall and wondered what on earth she was doing. What use was this eighty-six-year-old woman in a city that needed energy and strong arms, and yes, good balance? You silly, silly woman.