No, indeed.
But fate.
Evelyn smiled. I think you’re right.
Morgan! Morgan!
Oh dear. Mother, he mouthed and left the dining room for the drawing room.
Evelyn looked down at the question mark. What are you asking me? Something about love?
The American commercial traveller coughed. Miss Skinner? You’re in a world of your own. I said, Does Miss Skinner wish to partake in some vino rosso?
Yes, that would be lovely, said Evelyn in answer to his question. She looked over to the corner, but beauty had disappeared into the kitchen.
With three days left before Evelyn’s departure, ponderous silences had advanced with the fear of absence and the future lurking. They held one another longer whenever they could, weary from sex and the recitation of verb declensions. The impossibility of a longer-lasting love intensified the minutes and hours in a way freedom never would have. No promises were made. No return was spoken about by Evelyn. In truth, little was spoken about except the beautiful mundaneness of the present.
Evelyn was on her way out when she noticed Forster in the salon, writing in a notepad balanced upon his knee. She didn’t say anything, simply watched – the poor man had so little time to himself, she would not disturb him. His cheeks were flushed, and she hoped he was writing something saucy. He looked up briefly and smiled.
Miss Skinner.
Mr Forster.
My mother has an attack of lumbago, so I’ve been granted a stay of execution.
Would you like to join me? I was just—
Evelyn didn’t even finish her sentence before he was out of his chair. He began to clap himself all over distractedly.
Have you lost something, Mr Forster?
Probably, but I don’t know what it is yet. Baedeker or no Baedeker? he added.
No Baedeker, she said grandly, and they walked towards the door.
Outside was a baptism of sunlight. Forster breathed deeply – looked intensely happy – and crossed the road without looking, and only the quick thinking of a cyclist prevented an afternoon at the ospedale.
Phew! he said. See what I mean? He looked at Evelyn.
Evelyn took his arm and pulled him into the small chapel of the Madonna delle Grazie.
We’re going to light a candle, Mr Forster.
Will that keep me safe?
Millions of others have attempted it. Why shouldn’t we?
Faith is rather a numbers game, isn’t it? he said, as he lit a taper.
What should I ask for? he said.
How about a long life?
Yes, indeed. And for my mother, too. Does she require a candle for herself, do you think?
I’m not an expert, Mr Forster, but I think one will be fine.
The church echoed with the sound of coins dropping into the box.
My mother insists that the English have faults, and that we mustn’t mention them abroad in case foreigners find them out.
Evelyn laughed. I think our secret’s out. Foreigners know what we are. Quite horrid, I think. We must try and be different.
I could try and tip more. Porters always grumble at my tips. I’m sure that’s why my luggage goes missing.
That would be a start, said Evelyn and she magically disappeared into a bakery on her left.
When she came out, Forster said, I thought I’d lost you forever! A sleight of hand between street and il fornaio. But here you are again! And I’m very happy to see you.
Evelyn handed him a doughnut wrapped in paper and said, bombolone alla crema, Mr Forster. A lady poet friend of mine introduced me to them. She said they are the true elixir of life. A cure-all.
Forster put the doughnut to his mouth. He shut his eyes and a dribble of custard gathered at the corner of his lips. He said, Miss Skinner, your friend is right. I have no doubt that this creamy little bun could maintain life indefinitely.
He stopped, arms out wide. No pain at all, Miss Skinner. No pain. And I also think my Italian has improved.
By Palazzo Strozzi, Evelyn persuaded Forster to get a shave. （And that evening he would declare the natural genius of Italian barbers, and he would blush across his well-exfoliated cheeks.） They doubled back and walked across the Ponte Vecchio to the Chiesa di Santa Felicità and stopped at a café for an aperitif. They moved under an umbrella before the rains came, and watched a tourist cab pass.
Two vermouth chinato, said Evelyn to the waiter.
How do people not love Italy? she said.
Forster thought for a moment. Let’s say Italy and I are slow to an amorous clinch, Miss Skinner, but we have, at least, moved to the Chesterfield.
I think it’s a country where things happen.
Things, Miss Skinner?
Love! she wanted to scream. Where love happens.