That momentary awkwardness as they entered Livia’s room. It was sparse but clean, as Evelyn knew it would be, but there was a suffocating undercurrent to the space, a claustrophobic existence of little opportunity. Livia poured out a glass of water and handed it to her. They smiled at one another. No words had yet been said. Evelyn took the water to the window, and through the shutters she spied Santa Croce and the statue of Dante. The airlessness Evelyn had previously felt, she suddenly realised was hers. The disparity between their lives ever more obvious. She stood at the window to centre her breathing. When she turned, Livia had undressed on the narrow bed. There was an equality in that. In the discarding of clothes. Evelyn put down her glass. She loved her even more.
Evelyn woke first. Shafts of afternoon light cut through the shutters and it took a moment before she realised this was not her room at the Simi. On the floor lay dresses, drawers and chemise. A bowl of dirty water that had collected a rime of dust, the rags with which they’d washed one another, the silken trail of discarded desire. Curls of orange peel, too. An Italian dictionary. A nub of bread, rock hard now. She saw everything as if it was framed. The fall of light on the bowl told the greatest story.
She looked at the long line of pale nakedness next to her, and was lost to that moment. Life was meaningless without her, without the life she represented. She would never be able to explain her gratitude without it sounding patronising and slight. Livia stirred. Evelyn kissed her smile. I love you I love you I love you over and over, until it became a singular monophonic song.
That last afternoon they hauled themselves from the sheets and took a packed tram from San Marco to Fiesole. They stood at the back, on the windswept platform, holding on to bonnets and laughing with the children at the wheel-screeching journey. The tram shuddering, stopping, straining up the hill.
In Fiesole the weather was warm and fair, but shawls were wrapped tighter as autumn swept in off the Apennines in unexpected gusts. They walked arm in arm to a place where the views across Florence and the Arno plain were ravishing. The afternoon light had turned the valley gold and the roofs shone vivid red. And of course, that dome.
They walked down through olive groves and fig trees, through tall grasses where they held hands and picked up prickly casings under an unexpected stretch of nut trees. They bought gelato from a cart and walked a path down to the Roman amphitheatre where they sat and fed one another the sweet chocolate ice, and because it was quiet, and they were alone, they kissed one another’s lips warm, their pockets full of chestnuts. On the air was the faint smell of rosemary and thyme. Evelyn stood up and walked to the middle of the stage area, and there recited one of Constance’s poems. It was about discovery and astonishment and forgiveness. And all the while Livia watched, smiled, applauded. And then it rained – but there was still sun – and they both eagerly looked about for a rainbow, but that would have been too perfect, too unreal for a last day of love. They talked freely. About what? The taste of a pastry, this woman, that man; such unremarkable, trivial everyday things.
On the journey down, the tram was packed, and people were complaining and Evelyn and Livia pressed tightly together, front to front, breast to breast in uncomplaining bliss. The wheels screeched, the coaches shuddered, and men leapt on clinging to the outside, other hand on their hats as wind and speed lifted anything not tied down.
At San Marco, people descended, breathless and shaken as if they had weathered the wrath of God. Evelyn suggested a drink in a square, and they walked arm in arm, eyes glazed by sunshine and sorrow.
They became quiet as the counting down to dusk began. Evelyn watched Livia light a cigarette. How she screwed up her eyes when the wind changed direction and brought the smoke back to her. What? said Livia. I’m counting your freckles. Why? said Livia. Because no one else will, said Evelyn.
They agreed to say goodbye on a bridge. Dusk finally joined them. Lights reflected on the Arno joined them. The dome of San Frediano watching. In a sea of entwined naked limbs they’d said goodbye before.
But here they shook hands.
And smiled.
In thanks.
It was agreed that Livia would turn to leave first and she did.
She did not look back.
That night Evelyn took herself to the Teatro Verdi. It wasn’t even a quarter full and her grief felt exposed. The audience found the first act of Boccaccio very funny and called three encores for the comic trio. But Evelyn didn’t find it funny. She sat in the dark and wondered why she was there.
She got back to the Simi just before curfew and noticed Forster in the drawing room, writing a letter.