He laughed.
This here is the love child of a mandarin and a pomelo.
What in fuck’s name’s a pomelo?
Citrus maxima.
You seen one?
Nah. Just read about it. It’s like a large grapefruit with thick skin and a lot of pith.
Bit like Col then, she said as the dark outline of the pub came into sight.
When you seeing him again?
Day after tomorrow.
Well, you tell him stuff, Peg. You give him hope.
A week after the Oltrarno district of Florence had been liberated, Ulysses and Darnley were in the Boboli Gardens behind the Pitti Palace, where they’d been managing a supply convoy all morning. Darnley was standing on a wall overlooking the city. The sound of gunfire ricocheted across the Arno and smoke rose from the streets below. Ulysses was hidden in a bush, gun sight trained on the Belvedere Fort where a Fascist sniper had caused havoc all morning.
You still OK with this, sir?
Yes, yes, said Darnley. I die here, I die happy. OK if I smoke?
Whatever you like. You’re a mere lure.
I am a lure, said Darnley. I’m a lure unto myself, and he laughed and struck a match. This view, he said. Miracle of right time right place. ‘Luce intellettual, piena d’amore.’
What’s that mean, sir?
Light of the mind, full of love.
Nice.
Isn’t it?
One of yours, sir?
No! Dante. The belief that a combination of intellect and beauty can make the world a better place. You see our sniper yet?
Not yet, sir, said Ulysses, wiping sweat out of his eye. Probably having lunch.
Probably, said Darnley, blowing out a long stream of smoke. He said, And there in the centre representing the glory of the city itself— What are you pointing at, sir?
The cathedral. Brunelleschi’s dome. Ushering in the great period of Renaissance humanism. Built in majesty so those seated below it could receive God. And yet, first and foremost it’s a testament to the order and beauty of the universe. A universe that is responsive and non-judgemental, Temps, and in which mankind has a place: man as the measure of all things. And the poets and artists ran with that conviction. Perspective composition arranged around the human figure. The square and the circle became the bedrock of fifteenth-century architecture and in Vitruvian spirit Leonardo placed man inside both. Science and theology living side by side, Temps. The gift of intellect and artistic achievement as God-given as faith. What a moment for these maverick minds to have come together. Yes, it was short-lived, but so what? The explosion of energy from that time destroyed myths and superstitions and revealed the heavens just as they were. Subject to decay and mutability. Just like us.
Darnley flicked away the cigarette. He said, I was thinking. After the war, we could—
We don’t do after, do we sir?
Oh fuck God no, of course we don’t. Sorry. It’s this view. It makes me dream.
More rage, sir, please.
More rage?
Yes please, said Ulysses. And a lot more volume. Wave your arms around.
Like this?
That’s perfect, said Ulysses. Ah, here we go, I see him—
My life in your hands, Temps—
Always, sir, and he held his breath. He lined the man up in his sight and the trigger moved easily. The jarring crack of a gunshot rang out, and in the distance, a body fell from the tower, then a panino a moment later. Darnley cheered and jumped down from the wall. Ulysses crawled out from the bush and brushed himself down.
Darnley said, D’you notice a smell, Temps?
I do, sir. Death and unwashed bodies, I’d say.
That’s precise, said Darnley as they headed up towards Neptune’s Fountain.
And a touch of the usual, said Ulysses.
When they got to the fountain, a group of women were scrubbing their children and clothes in the same fetid water.
Darnley shook his head. Jesus Christ! he said. Niccolò di Raffaello di Niccolò dei Pericoli would turn in his grave.
Oh, I doubt he’d be able to move, sir, once they’d got his name in.
It physically pains me, Ulysses, he said. To see these gardens like this.
I know it does, sir.
You can see that?
I can.
Don’t they care?
It’s hard to care if you don’t have bread, sir. Or water.
Darnley sighed.
Come on Alexander St John Darnley. Let’s find you a jeep and get you back.
The stench of squalor hit them as they stepped down into the courtyard. The place was crawling like a Naples slum. Thousands of traumatised people with only one source of water as if emerging from a siege. Ulysses and Darnley struggled through the murk towards the supply convoy. To their left an argument erupted over the allocation of flour. Sheets and clothing hung down from the upper balconies of the palace, and under the portico, away from the sun, people sprawled across mattresses holding tight to meagre belongings. Makeshift charcoal stoves were firing up, and the air was acrid and fumy. These were the people who’d once lived in the vicinity of the river Arno. Forced to evacuate their homes before the retreating German Army blew up the bridges. All except the one, that is.