Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.
So long as men （and women, she added） can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Evelyn raised her glass to the forest, and everyone raised theirs. Pete swore there was a hush of appreciation through the leaves, and Ulysses said he heard it too.
The walk back was slow and uneventful and for a brief moment they all held hands. That was Alys’s idea and she held Peg’s.
And there they left Cress to become a tree.
The years 1971 to ’74 were a mixed bag, all in all, and Cressy’s absence was sharply felt. Right-and left-wing political extremists were trying to transform the country into their own utopian vision, and assassinations and bombings hit the headlines. The gentle people of the pensione were quietly shaken, Ulysses especially. Evelyn said, We’re still living in the footprints of the French Revolution, of Hitler and Mussolini. Scratch the surface of the varnish and it raises its head again. Evil was defeated but it never went away. This is something we must live with, Ulysses.
Against this backdrop of insurrection, Peg began her professional singing career. That it coincided with her divorce from Ted was lost on no one. She joined Pete in the hotels and clubs, and they became an instant hit with a repertoire honed across the decades. They were a couple of pros who could match one another’s musical instinct. They were called Temper Fine – nothing more than their surnames tagged together; Pete, low into the mic, said, Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Peggy Temper. Dotty and Evelyn stood at the back and applauded loudly. The slow fade to the first number as the orange sun set across the flaming Arno. Dotty leant across to Evelyn and whispered, In another lifetime, Lynny, her and me— Oh don’t be fooled, said Evelyn. She’d eat you for breakfast. If only, said Dotty.
’72 saw Fellini’s Roma come to Florence. Evelyn was ecstatic at the director’s homage to a city she knew so well, and Pete declared he’d give his left foot and an ear to be in a Fellini film. You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you, Pete? said Massimo and Pete said he had. And in the most peculiar turn of events, which had Cressy written all over it, Pete’s headshot ended up on the casting desk for Amarcord and he was whisked away to Stage 5 of the Cinecittà Studios. Massimo begged Pete to take him along too, but Pete wasn’t allowed to bring a friend – although he did ask, God love him. Pete’s part was small but noticeable, and the cinematic experience in its entirety changed him. He was treated like a star for the day. Sometimes that’s all it takes.
That’s a lovely jacket, said Ulysses.
One of Marcello Mastroianni’s, said Pete.
Really suits you.
Thanks, Temps.
That was also the year that Massimo moved into the pensione after his mum died. There was money for a flat, but he didn’t want the scrutiny when Jem came to stay, so— You really want to? said Ulysses. Here with us?
Do you mind? Do I mind? Are you serious? Are you? （The conversation continued like that for a while.） Massimo took over dinner service on occasion and his cooking even got a mention in the visitors’ book: ‘Those rice-stuffed tomatoes were heaven scent.’ （There was a spelling mistake, but quite an apt and charming one.） And in London, Col tied himself to the cherry tree when the bulldozers rolled in. The Hackney Gazette was all over the story and reported Col as saying: ‘Non-violent action is the only way.’ The demolition crew cut Col free, the cherry tree ended up in the back of a skip, and Col had a night in the slammer after punching a policeman. Mrs Kaur and Ginny were waiting for him when he came out. Mrs Kaur said she was proud of him and Col walked like a king that day.
So there they were: a cold afternoon in Santo Spirito square at the beginning of ’73.
Ulysses, Massimo and Evelyn were outside Michele’s, drinking coffee and grappa. The market had cleared away early and Evelyn was telling the men about the summer she’d met Katharine Hepburn at the Kenwood Ladies’ Pond in Hampstead, when into this reverie ran Pete. He’d been with Peg and Alys at a demonstration for abortion rights and his hand-painted T-shirt extolling women’s choice was pulled tight over his sheepskin coat.
He stood in front of them, trying to catch his breath.
You won’t believe who we just saw, he said, panting.
Go on, said Ulysses.
Romy Peller.
Never!