Chin up, Lynny, said Dotty, as if reading her thoughts. Still early days.
And they turned back, Dotty leading the way to the Uffizi. Outside, in the piazza, sprawled on the ground, were dozens of young people caked in mud. Some wore beads, all had tired, glazed eyes and faces streaked with dirt. Evelyn lit up at the sight of them. Long-haired, short-haired, beards, hippies, women in skirts or shorts or trousers, an air of soporific exhaustion and a little love, warmed by a brazier, passing bottles of wine donated by a grateful Florentine and the songs of the Beatles, Beach Boys, Bob and Baez tripping out from a frail transistor radio that had seen better, cleaner days. Most of the men look like Allen Ginsberg, said Dotty.
They’re the future, said Evelyn.
God help us, said Dotty.
But those students who were studying art recognised Dotty immediately and made room for her and Evelyn at a makeshift dining table. The women shared their clementines and pears, and the students shared their wine. A young woman asked if they were there to help with the restoration and Dotty said, Oh yes. And also for this – and she nudged Evelyn to show the newspaper photograph of Ulysses. There were many comments about the force of the water and the effort on the man’s face and the beauty of the globe, but no. No one knew who he was or had seen him around.
Worth a try, whispered Dotty.
If only they’d known that 600 metres away underground, Jem Gunnerslake was passing books to a young woman who was once called kid but was now called Alys. But these revelations would have to wait. For now, an air of contentment hung over the scene.
Days passed. Frost, mist, gloom, blue sky, sun.
Evelyn showed the photograph of Ulysses to shopkeepers, passing students, she even showed it to a group of carabinieri outside the Duomo. One man thought he’d heard of a globe maker in San Frediano and Evelyn headed there but to no avail. That trip wore her out and her ankle flared from overuse. She needed two days with her leg up at the pensione. We’re so close, I can feel it, said Dotty, jollying her along.
But Evelyn wasn’t so sure. She slept a lot, which wasn’t like her at all.
International funds started to pour into the city to rescue the damaged art, and Dotty got the volunteer bug and donated a piece of work to Artists for Florence. She sent a telegram to gallery owner Joyce to see if a large work entitled IT’S ONLY EVER THE START was still available. （The return telegram revealed it was.） Evelyn persuaded Dotty to do what she herself would like to have done, which was to head back to Santa Croce and make herself useful.
Dotty joined a line of students into the basilica and there recognised Mr Hempel from the V&A, who recognised her at the same time. They’d met at a fundraiser for somethingorother. He was a sculpture conservator, and he put her to work immediately on the marble monuments. Layers of solvent followed by layers of talcum powder to get the oil out of the stone. Tedious to the hilt, and a day felt like a month to Dotty, but not only had she been tasked with Dante’s memorial – couldn’t wait to tell Evelyn! – she was also working alongside a very lovely young woman from Stockholm.
Could you hold this please, Dotty?
I most certainly can, Inga.
And then—
One morning when December was within reach, when the sky was sharply blue and a brittle frost brought clarity of mind, Evelyn held on to the wall in her bedroom, stood on one leg and put her full weight on her ankle. A little hop and no pain. She was revived. Onwards, my darling.
She was back in the newly reopened café, seated under the waterline with a double espresso. The caffeine was hammering away in her chest like a woodpecker. On the table in front of her was the picture of Ulysses. She felt something was staring her in the face, something so brutishly familiar and yet it remained elusive; she couldn’t put a finger on it. A shadow fell across the image and she looked up at the owner.
Chi è? the man said.
A friend, said Evelyn. But I don’t know where he is. I know he’s here, in Florence. Somewhere. But where? That is the question.
The man picked up the newspaper clipping. After a beat, he said, Il Palazzo di Bianca Cappello.
What? said Evelyn.
Via Maggio. You see? he said. Just see here – this corner. The pattern is so distinct.
Oh my goodness, that’s it! That’s where I recognised it from! Thank you, thank you, my dear man.
And Evelyn re-tied her scarf, downed her coffee and left.
She crossed over Santa Trìnita bridge, pausing momentarily to watch the engineers below clear the riverbed of its debris. The sad sight of a gutted piano hauled into the air, the death song of its strings sharply plangent.