From down the hallway, Ulysses can hear Cress’s heavy breathing and thinks he’s sleeping.
But really the old boy is crying.
Cress has just finished Forster’s novel and there’s a lot to take in. Intellect versus feeling and Cress is all feeling and love. It’s goodbye to the Baedeker, too, since it has become ridiculous through Forster’s eyes. The following morning Cress will abandon it to the living-room floor where it will become a satisfactory doorstop and remain so for years. Cress stands in front of the mirror in his vest and shorts and repeats over and over, I am vital.
The next day, Cress put down his telescope and wiped his brow.
So, old fella, said the ornamental orange tree. Whatcha gonna do? It’s now or never.
Is it?
Go on – put a little cologne on those smooth cheeks of yours and show ’em what they’ve been missing. I’ll be rooting for you.
（PAUSE.）
That’s a joke, by the way.
I know, said Cress.
Cress went to his room and did what the tree said. He positioned his new panama hat at a jaunty angle and changed his shoes. Unlike Ulysses, he was still a fan of the sock.
He walked nervously down the stairwell just as the elderly contessa was struggling up with a bag of shopping. He tried to help her with it, but she shooed him away with an invective of idiota, a word that, even for Cress, needed little translation.
He said Buongiorno to the kids hanging out by the statue and they said Buongiorno back to him with an additional ‘Signor Cress’。
Signor Cress, he thought. Like a character out of literature.
Ulysses called out to him from Michele’s, but Cress was in pure zen mode. Giulia stood by Ulysses’ table to watch and even the priest halted his journey across the square to cross himself.
Cress could feel the tension mount in his chest. He approached the stone bench and the old women looked up and stopped their chat. He touched the rim of his hat and delivered a florid greeting that he’d practised well, and which took them by surprise. He sat on the end of the bench, one buttock dangling precariously off, and from his bag, brought out his knitting, a modest four rows of dark brown hem. The old women nudged one another and whispered.
Cress raised his needles and said, Sto lavorando a maglia un maglione senza maniche – a sentence that plunged him head first into the many pitfalls of Italian pronunciation, as instead of informing the women he was knitting a sleeveless sweater, he did, in fact, tell them it was a sleeveless melon. But it did the trick. A little laughter mingled with something else, and it was the something else that caused Signora Mimmi to budge up and give him extra room. The gesture priceless. He spent two hours with them that afternoon, simply listening, enjoying their smells and the effervescence of their storytelling. He even told them in faltering Italian that the Moken sea tribes didn’t have words for I want, take or mine. This was met with silence. But of the wonder variety. Imagine a world like that, he said. Imagine! they said, and Signora Mimmi raised her hand and ordered a tray of vermouth from Michele’s.
PENSIONE BERTOLINI
BEAUTIFUL ROOMS
GOOD PRICE
BEST LOCATION
Ulysses and the kid had been waiting three hours in the station concourse and were about to call it a day when the train from Venice pulled in. Out sprang an older couple from Manchester （they would later learn）， looking quite at ease in the chaos of Europe. They were Mr and Mrs Bambridge （Call us Des and Poppy）。
Des was a businessman and had never walked away from a good price in his life. He stood in front of the sign and said, How good?
Whatever you want, said Ulysses.
That’s no way to run a business, lad.
Never run one before, said the kid.
Come on, Poppy, these two need our help. I’ll telephone the Benito and cancel.
You have a view, said Cress, opening their bedroom door ceremoniously.
The bells from Santo Spirito rang out and the divine smell of bistecca wafted up from Michele’s and the evening light was yellow and soft. Des and Poppy were entranced.
Makes the Benito look like a shithouse, said Des.
Look at the amorini frescoes on the ceiling, Des!
And the quality of the linen! It’s stunning.
Cress ran through his speech. Towels, extra blankets and pillows in there, he said. Bathroom’s down the hall. Plenty of hot water, etc, etc. Welcome drinks in the living room at your leisure. I’ll leave your keys here, he said, bowing slightly as he departed.
Des and Poppy would stay a week.
At the end of which, the serendipitous element to this encounter became apparent.
It was as Ulysses was coming up the stairs after a day in the workshop that Des stuck his head out the front door and said, Fancy a beer, lad?