It was at this point, both Signor and Signora Mimmi confessed to the gathering, that they lost sight of the soldier when he moved from the ladder to the roof. Weren’t you interested? the greengrocer asked. No, they said. We wanted to make love.
So, there was Ulysses. On the roof with a nice little wine buzz, 100 feet up with a man he didn’t know precariously close to the edge and an easy target for the most incompetent sniper.
Signore? said Ulysses, I seem to have your hat. And Ulysses held out the fedora in a casual and unthreatening manner. As an opening gambit, he thought it would establish whether the man could （a） speak and （b） understand English. The resultant silence proved he could do neither. Ulysses left the hat by the terrace and inched his way down the shallow slope. The gasps from below were audible. As Ulysses drew near, he could see that the man was in his fifties, wearing a suit and tie of all things, dressed for his funeral. I wonder what’s brought you up here? he thought, and he smiled because everyone told him he had the most disarming smile.
Down below, Michele the café owner had miraculously acquired a pair of binoculars and was reporting the situation to the eager crowd that was growing by the minute.
He’s smiling, he said.
Arturo?
No, the soldier. Now he’s lighting a cigarette.
Arturo?
Madonna mia, the soldier! And Michele gesticulated wildly and lowered the binoculars.
On the roof, Ulysses brought the cigarette to his mouth and assessed the situation. It was a beautiful summer’s afternoon.
The sun was at his back, casting a web of brilliance across the rooftops and the light fell pink across the Bellosguardo Tower and the Duomo and the hills shimmered in haze. He was flooded with gratitude. If life was to end there, then so be it. He felt his father by his side. And his father’s father. He was earthed to a long line of Tempers, all mild-mannered, decent men, who’d never asked for much except good odds once in a while. He wondered if the name had actually derived from Templar, the warrior priest. Fighting in the name of faith and love, however misguided. There were consequences to actions, of course— These were his thoughts before he dislodged a tile that sent him hurtling into space.
The crowd below gasped. O mio Dio! shouted Michele’s wife Giulia. O mio Dio! The priest crossed himself multiple times, and a stranger to the area, who had Fascist tendencies, crossed his fingers and hoped for the worst.
The predicament, as far as Ulysses could see, wasn’t that he was half on and half off the roof, but that his gun barrel was caught in the guttering. He was wedged in a rather uncomfortable position, testicles not known for their weight-bearing capacity. Ulysses turned towards the man and, still optimistic that a conversation without commonality of language was possible, said, Now listen to me, signore … and went on to explain that he’d been in a similar situation once before, and apart from the physical discomfort, which was severe, he was still hopeful for a positive outcome, if only – his voice, at this point, was calm and measured with not an ounce of pleading – if only you could bend down and release the barrel of the gun.
The signore frowned.
The gun. Ulysses’ eyes motioned to the gun. Bang, bang. All that was necessary, he said, was a small movement. A lean forwards, a slight crouch and an outstretched hand. An action that demanded nothing more than a bodily counterbalance. No more than you would do, say, to pull a child out of a pond. Nothing more.
Down below, Michele explained to the crowd, The soldier’s gun barrel’s caught in the guttering.
A murmur of disbelief rose.
They seem to be talking, said Michele.
How can they be talking? said the elderly contessa. Arturo doesn’t speak English; the soldier doesn’t speak Italian. This is a disaster. Do something, idiot man.
Michele stepped forward and in his strong accent shouted, Oi, Arturo! The gun barrel’s stuck! You have to release the gun from the guttering!
The crowd below started to shout, Release the gun! Release the gun! Release the gun!
Arturo bent down.
No, don’t close your eyes, said Ulysses.
Arturo looked at him.
That’s it. Sì, sì. That’s it. Almost there. Almost—
He’s released the gun! shouted Michele from below. The crowd cheered and clapped. Well done, Arturo! they shouted and started to chant his name. Arturo looked down at them, confused. It was death he’d been seeking, not acclaim.
Ulysses gave him a thumbs up before a quick assessment of his next move. He found that his body weight favoured the roof considerably more than the drop and he began to listen to the building. To its hardened solidity. To the centuries-old terracotta tiles. To the guttering. To the lives once lived within. And in this act of listening was a simple question: Can I trust you? It was a question he asked silently of everyone within minutes of an encounter. Peggy: cruel but trustworthy. Evelyn Skinner: trustworthy. Captain Darnley: I’d follow him to hell.