A little over a month before, they’d driven up to Orvieto, a city built on a huge rock overlooking the Paglia Valley. They’d sat on the bonnet of the jeep and drunk red wine out of their canteens as bombers roared overhead towards Mount Cetona, the boundary of Tuscany. They’d stumbled into the cathedral, into the San Brizio chapel, where Luca Signorelli’s masterpiece of the Last Judgement could be found. Neither of them believers, the images had still held them to account.
Darnley said that Sigmund Freud had visited in 1899 and had somehow forgotten Signorelli’s name. This he’d called the mechanism of repression and it became fundamental in Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams. God – but you probably know this already, don’t you, Temps? And not waiting for an answer, Darnley marched out into the crisp June sun, leaving Ulysses giddy in the whirl of information, and in Darnley’s unwavering belief in him.
The road straightened out and from the trees in the distance, a glint of light flickered across his face. He slowed and came to a stop with the engine running. He reached down for his binoculars and saw it was a woman standing by the roadside watching him through hers.
She waved him down with an unlit cigarette, and when the jeep came to a halt, she cried, Oh thank God! Eighth Army?
Just a tiny fraction of it, I’m afraid, said Ulysses, and she held out her hand. I’m Evelyn Skinner.
Private Temper, said Ulysses. Where’ve you come from, Miss Skinner, if you don’t mind me asking?
Rome, she said.
What? Now?
Good Lord, no! From that albergo behind the trees. Came up a week ago with a friend and stopped off in Cortona to assess the damage to the Francesco di Giorgio. Miraculously, untouched. We’ve been waiting ever since.
Waiting for what?
I’m trying to contact the Allied Military Government.
For what purpose, Miss Skinner?
To liaise with the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Officers. They know I’m here, but they seem to have abandoned me. I’m an art historian. I thought I could be of use once they’ve located all the works from the museums and churches. They’ve been sequestered around these hills, you know. All the masterpieces. The whole gang – even dear old Cimabue. But I suppose you know that, don’t you?
Ulysses smiled. I did hear a rumour, Miss Skinner.
Do you have a light? she asked.
I wouldn’t recommend it. Look what happened to me, and he pointed to the scar at the corner of his lip. Sniper, he said. A near miss.
Evelyn stared at him.
But it hit you, she said.
But not the important bit, he said, tapping his head. Nearly took my lips off, though. Then where would you be?
Struggling with my plosives, Private Temper. Now light me up. Please.
Ulysses leant across and struck a match.
Thank you, she said, blowing out smoke in a perfect circle. She raised her arm and looked about. See? No snipers. So, do you think you can help me? I’ll be no trouble at all. And my lips, still perfectly intact, will be forever sealed. What do you say?
You’re putting me in a bit of a bind, miss.
Oh, I’m sure you’re no stranger to that.
Do you believe in fate, Miss Skinner?
Fate? It is a gift. According to Dante, anyhow.
A gift? I like that. Come on then, miss, hop in.
Oh, drop the ‘miss’， for God’s sake, said Evelyn, sitting down next to him. My name’s Evelyn. And yours?
Ulysses.
Ulysses! How wonderful! And is there a Penelope waiting for your return?
Nah. Just a Peggy. And I doubt she’s waiting, and he turned the ignition and the jeep pulled away.
The rogue shelling that had accompanied the afternoon had ceased and a soft, almost believable, peace lay across the wooded hills and hilltop refuges, across the dark symmetry of vines that terraced the slopes.
Ulysses lit a cigarette.
So, said Evelyn, tell me a little—
London. Twenty-four. Married. No kids.
Evelyn laughed. You’ve done this before.
You gotta be quick, right? Could be dead tomorrow. You?
Kent. Sixty-four. Unmarried. Childless. And what of life before all this?
Globes, he said. Dad made ’em and I sold ’em. Then he died and I just made ’em.
You made the world turn!
Find a Temper & Son globe and you’ll find my mum’s name hidden somewhere on the surface.
A town called …？ she asked.
Nora.
How romantic.
Nice, right?
You and Peggy like that?
Nah, me and Peg are the opposite. Left to me, I’d name stars after her. We got married on a bender, only way we could do it. When she woke up and saw the ring, she punched me in the face. Happiest day of my life, though. Then I joined the Army and we’re strangers again.