That brace of pheasants? I can tell you the farmer’s journey from bed to field to a shotgun ready to fire. Half a scallop shell? The hand that opened it.
Is this imagination? Is this what spurs you to paint? Is this my inheritance from you?
It’s always been quite hard to know – to pinpoint, let’s say – where one’s unique story really begins. Does it really start at the moment of birth, or with those who came before? Instilling, distilling, in one’s veins the lived life, the unlived life, the regrets, the joys, as effortlessly, as dubiously one might say, as they hand down a certain walk （you to me）， or a frown （you to me） or limp, mousy hair （Mother to me）。 If this is so, then my story starts with you.
What I want to say is, you have handed me your affliction and its accompanying power. What I’m writing about of course is—
Love, said Miss Everly.
A shadow fell across Evelyn’s page.
What? said Evelyn, covering her writing and looking up.
Only in the experience of love, do we know what it is to be human. I’ve been thinking about that sentence as I walked around San Frediano today, said Miss Everly. The poverty is acute. A life of hardship, mostly and yet – may I?
Oh, please do, Miss Everly. I’m so delighted to see you.
Miss Everly sat down opposite Evelyn and took out her cigarette case.
Evelyn closed her notebook.
Miss Everly placed a cigarette in her mouth and said, I came back through Piazza Santo Spirito and entered the basilica. Shafts of light divided the nave. I witnessed a young woman throwing herself down in front of the altar. The scene was as dramatic as any Caravaggio. What could have caused such despair? What are we without love?
Waiting, said Evelyn.
Miss Everly smiled. She rested her chin in her hand. Her eyes set firmly on Evelyn’s face, scrutinising. Waiting, she repeated. And are you waiting, my dear?
No, said Evelyn. Not any more.
Miss Everly suggested a walk east and a climb to San Miniato al Monte and the finest views of the city. She said a shift in outlook – physical, of course – would bring a sense of proportion to the onslaught of insight and passionate regard both women were experiencing. She said they could also call into a wonderful forno and stock up on some pastries.
Cypresses stood tall on either side of the path, and the cool, damp air offset the heart-pumping warmth of the ascent. Miss Everly’s face was red and shiny, and she stopped against the mossy wall and took deep breaths in the shade of umbrella pines.
She said, I knew someone who did this on their knees, and he wasn’t even a Catholic.
Gosh, said Evelyn.
Actually, we’re quite close to the spot where he died. Come on.
They eschewed Piazzale Michelangelo and the gathering of tourists and continued climbing towards the monastery and church. We will be changed by this experience, said Miss Everly. This is godliness in its highest. Small g, of course.
Of course, smiled Evelyn, who already felt changed.
The view was as beautiful as Miss Everly had said it would be. Evelyn thought Miss Everly was still catching her breath, but the timbre of her inhalation was far more emotional; she might even have been crying. Evelyn looked away discreetly.
Miss Everly unexpectedly and rather tenderly took hold of Evelyn’s arm and said: You can still see it – the layout. Arnolfo di Cambio’s final communal circuit of walls to enclose the city. Follow my finger, Miss Skinner. Over there, over there, down … An enclosed city was his dream. His insieme. What the Italians call a togetherness. Of course, it was a masterpiece of defence, and yet, so much more. It shaped the city. Made it a direct descendant of Rome, and that made people believe its destiny was golden. He created a knowable city, Miss Skinner. And knowable it remains. It’s how the city becomes part of us forever. Never lets us go. Pulls us back time after time.
And then silence. The wind through the cypresses. The song of birds. Evelyn unwrapping bakery delicacies.
Would you like a sfoglia now? she said, offering Miss Everly one of the crema-filled puff pastries bought especially for the climb.
What a splendid idea. Let’s go to the graveyard and sweeten death a little.
They walked past the church, past a friar heading towards the campanile, and they entered the cemetery.
Come, said Miss Everly, let’s go and sit next to those amorini over there. They look in need of some mortal company and a touch of gossip.
They sat on a low wall at the end of an ornate crypt.
Would you like a photograph on your grave too, Miss Everly?
Me? Oh no. Ashes in the Arno if you please. Fish food. And please do call me Constance.