He heard the sound of English vowels up ahead and quickened his pace. They were battalion stragglers coming from a brothel, and, safety in numbers, they traversed the checkpoint and the threat of court martial and staggered up towards the villa where they were billeted. The night became fragrant and flowers from lime trees spilled over the wall. The scent draped across them and filled the space between them, dizzied them like bees.
Darnley was waiting in the orchard by Ulysses’ tent. The familiar stooped outline, the furtive rise of cigarette to mouth, the furrowed brow lit by the cold blue light of the moon. Darnley turned at the sound of his footsteps. Nice hat, Temps, he said.
Thanks, sir, and Ulysses took it off and showed him. Darnley motioned for him to follow and they walked to the edge of the trees to the remotest part of the garden, away from ears.
Darnley said, We’re leaving.
What?
Tomorrow. Back over to the Adriatic. Fifth Army stays put.
Fuck.
Indeed.
All a bit sudden. You all right, sir?
No. Not really. And Darnley ran his hand around the hat band. I don’t know, he said. Something’s not right. Is it cooler tonight, or is it me?
Bit cooler, sir, said Ulysses, lying.
Thought so, said Darnley and he placed the Borsalino back on Ulysses’ head.
I saved a man’s life this afternoon, sir.
You save mine every single day, Temps. You heading in?
In a bit, sir.
Night then Temps, and Darnley – without thinking – took his leave Italian style. There was a pause, however, before the second kiss and in that intimate space was a 1937 Brunello di Montalcino. Decanted. And in that intimate space was something unvoiced. No more sir. And war is over.
You look very handsome, said Darnley before disappearing through the trees back up to the villa.
The following day, on 11 August, la Campana del Popolo in the Palazzo Vecchio chimed continuously, encouraging every other bell in Florence to do the same. The sound chased the Germans up into Fiesole and into the surrounding hills.
At the modest albergo, Evelyn Skinner, Margaret someone and the signore stood on the terrace, listening.
Gloria. Gloriosus. Glorious, pronounced Evelyn.
Margaret said nothing because she was still smarting over Pontormo’s Deposition, and had moved into the annexe the night before, into a somewhat smaller and cooler room.
Liberazione! said the proprietor.
In more ways than one, thought Evelyn.
She went with him to search for bottles of frizzantino and the proprietor, overcome by the emotion of the morning, attempted to kiss Evelyn in the old cowshed （not a euphemism, she would one day say）。 Oh what the hell, she thought, and offered her mouth. He was surprisingly tender, but the kiss asserted her view that men were still not for her, and after she thanked him in perfect Italian, confirming that the kiss would be their first and last, she turned around only to see Margaret someone standing in the light-dappled doorway, mouth pinched as if a wasp had unwittingly found entry.
How could you? whispered Margaret.
Get a grip, said Evelyn, passing her swiftly and striding towards the terrace.
The proprietor popped the cork and narrowly missed an unsuspecting swallow.
Evelyn toasted loudly, To freedom and all who sail in her!
The bells guided Darnley and Ulysses out of the city as if they were kings.
Darnley asked Ulysses to pull over to a stretch of road that offered the most spectacular views, and he stood up and named every church and monument he could see.
Ulysses watched him salute the city: his longest, most committed relationship to anything.
Darnley said, Come on Temps, let’s go! and the jeep pulled away and rejoined the convoy heading east. The sun was high and the shadows spare. The smell was of dust and lime flowers, and men. Darnley gibbering on about an obscure sculptor whose work had been attributed to someone else.
Ulysses said, I think you’re one of the best men I know, sir. The best man ever, sir.
Darnley turned to him and smiled. （Click.） Caught forever.
Captain Darnley was killed in action on 9 September 1944 at Coriano Ridge. Three days short of his thirty-first birthday.
Ulysses became quiet that day. He wouldn’t talk about him for years.
Somewhere Between an Atom and a Star
1946–53
The start of November had Old Cressy staring at a small ornamental tree. A prunus serrulata, a Japanese cherry. No one knew who had planted it, because the area was dominated by plane trees, but some bright spark had once had a bright idea and had given it a home there, as an act of joyous rebellion. Or maybe a bird had long ago shat out the seed that had grown into such startling wonderment. But whoever – whatever – was the cause, the tree had become, for Cressy, a symbol of everything good.