It was all my fault, signora, said Evelyn. I didn’t look where I was going—
Bit of decorum, dearie, said the signora, who moved swiftly over to the linen closet.
The two young women were silent. They watched the signora depart and shifted gracefully into her absence. They acknowledged their hand-holding with further pressure. They swapped names （Livia, Evelyn） and they said goodbye. Evelyn stopped by the door and looked back. She said goodbye again. She rushed out. She felt light-headed and giddy and the most intense happiness she’d ever felt in her life. She turned towards the Uffizi, knowing she was on the threshold of the most thrilling adventure ever.
Miss Skinner!
（It was Miss Everly.）
Hello there, said Evelyn.
You look positively radiant. The city is infusing us with all sorts of—
Oh my, said Evelyn, covering her nose.
Ah yes, said Miss Everly. The smell of Florence. Waste and deterioration. It’s the pozzi neri, agitated by the rain. Vast containers of the stuff spilling beneath us. Suddenly its presence rises up. But one doesn’t come to Italy for niceness, one comes for life. For passion! And where are you off to, Miss Skinner, this fine day?
To here. The Uffizi.
Oh goodness! So am I. Would you like company? And a very enthusiastic guide?
I’d be delighted, said Evelyn.
As they approached the entrance to the gallery, the corner of a damp loincloth was lifted by the breeze, alerting them to the presence of a half-naked living statue.
I really did think it was a statue, said Evelyn. Who’s it supposed to be? whispered Evelyn.
Michelangelo.
How can you tell?
The pose. Rather fey. And also, the tondo at his feet. A poor imitation of the Holy Family. I would have thought a tin cup more appropriate to collect coinage.
Shall I give him a lira, Miss Everly?
You will certainly not! Stick to the coppers, Miss Skinner. A couple of centesimi, at most. It’s not as if he’s doing anything, and they bustled past him into the building.
At the bottom of the stairs, Miss Everly said, You’ll see lots of Annunciations, Miss Skinner. Many Adorations of the Magi, Depositions from the Cross, and oh yes, let’s not forget Flagellations of Christ. And we’ll see a lot of ecstasy today and not all of it spiritual. But I can see you are a woman of the world.
I am, I am, said Evelyn.
Good, said Miss Everly and she held up her skirt and said, I hope you have good knees, Miss Skinner?
Oh, I do, said Evelyn, taking off her bonnet. They’re my mother’s. Sturdy and Italian. Hers found every saint’s day.
Marvellous. Avanti, then! Let’s proceed to climb.
There was little conversation until they’d reached the upper floor, where Miss Everly suggested they head straight to the Tribuna.
Along the corridor, they passed countless Apollos and Ceres and Tiberias and various other Roman antiquary, only for Miss Everly to point out a facial anomaly or expression – ‘Full of indecision, that face. Couldn’t order a bistecca, let alone an army’ – and when they came across Hercules Slaying the Centaur Nessus, Miss Everly said that the Giovanni da Bologna in the Loggia dei Lanzi was far, far superior.
Through here! said Miss Everly. Ah, Masaccio’s Madonna and Child. Such fragility. Such – ooh. The Filippo Lippi. Madonna and Child again. But this time with two angels for variation. Botticelli was his pupil, Miss Skinner. Can you see the influence?
I—
（But it was a rhetorical question.）
Come on then! said Miss Everly. There’s some lovely hair in the Botticelli room.
And to the Botticelli room they went.
They stood back, scrutinising a painting.
Well?
She looks bored, said Evelyn. It must be hard being a Madonna.
Utterly thankless, said Miss Everly. And yet, she is the prototype for all Italian women. Now – the pomegranate, Miss Skinner, is the symbol of …？
Eternal life? Resurrection?
Correct. It is also the fruit of many legends, and Miss Everly looked about and lowered her voice. She said, Greek mythology says that the pomegranate grew out of the blood from Acdestis’ wounded— Evelyn leant in closer. From his wounded what, Miss Everly?
Miss Everly looked about her again and said, Penis, Miss Skinner.
（Gasps from a nearby tour group.）
Acdestis was a lustful young god. Violent and rather unlikeable, whose genitals were tied up by good old Bacchus. A peckish nymph came by, ate the fruit, and became pregnant as a result. Ergo, symbol of fertility. And you won’t get that from a Baedeker. This way, my dear! and she marched ahead. Not going too fast for you, am I?