You’re not even looking at it, said Alys.
No, I’m smelling it, said Evelyn. The olfactory bulb passes scent close to the amygdala and hippocampus, both areas in the brain that deal with emotion and memory.
I didn’t know that, said Alys.
Evelyn stepped back from the painting and said, Do you come here often, Gatekeeper?
Sometimes. You?
Not often, no. I last saw this painting during the war.
Which one?
Touché, kid, said Evelyn.
I was born at the end of the war.
That war, then. That’s when I saw it. Not here though, she added.
Not that long ago, then.
No. Not that long ago.
And what do you have there? said Evelyn, knowing full well what the roll of paper would reveal.
A picture. I had it done this morning, and Alys unrolled the portrait and held it up next to her face. It’s me, she said.
Oh, there’s no doubt about that.
And then Evelyn noticed it. In the right-hand corner. A signature. But Dotty’s real signature. She had given the child a valuable gift.
I made her sign it, said Alys. She wasn’t going to. And then she did. It might not be her real name.
Oh, I’m sure it is.
Do you think it’s worth anything?
Oh yes.
A lot?
Best keep it safe.
I’ll have it framed, then.
That’s the spirit, said Evelyn and she looked down at her watch.
Do you have to be somewhere, Evelyn?
I do. I have a date with Rome.
Now?
In a while.
I’ll lock up then, said Alys, and she pulled the gate to and locked it. She placed the key on the edge of the font.
I like the cloud, said the kid.
Evelyn stopped.
That cloud, and the kid pointed back to the painting.
Do you? said Evelyn. I knew someone who liked the cloud, too, once. And she looked at the child for a resemblance to the soldier from her past. She brushed the thought from her head. Couldn’t be. And she opened the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the sunlight. She put on her sunglasses and the kid did the same. They walked towards the Ponte Vecchio, stride for stride, and Evelyn said how much she liked the kid’s cap.
I got it after seeing Fellini’s I Vitelloni.
And did you enjoy the film?
Yes I did. A nice change from neo-realism.
Had enough of it?
It did what it needed to do.
And what was that?
Change the rules of film-making forever. I think Bicycle Thieves will be known as one of the great films, said Alys.
I think you might be right, said Evelyn.
That end sequence in I Vitelloni, you know when Moraldo’s on the train and the camera moves through his friends’ bedrooms? It’s how it is, isn’t it? Saying goodbye. All the people you leave.
Have you had to say goodbye?
Just the once.
They were separated momentarily by a dawdling group of tourists on the bridge and Alys had to run around them to catch up. She said, Do you know a lot, Evelyn?
A fair amount.
You look like you do.
That’ll be the white turban.
Why are all the statues men?
Evelyn laughed. Ah yes, that is problematic. Short or long answer?
When’s your train?
Fair point. Short then. Because men sculpted them, cast them, forged them. Renaissance Italy was a world of men and a world for men. A world that advocated the inferiority of women.
Gosh.
Gosh indeed. Evelyn stopped at the midpoint of the bridge. Come here, she said.
Kid went towards her and looked out across the river towards the dark hills. Evelyn pointed.
There – the Biblioteca. A showcase for men. There – the Palazzo Vecchio, showcase for men. There – the Institute of the History of Science, a showcase for men. Over there – the Uffizi Gallery, a showcase for men. History has erased the unseen, said Evelyn. And we will never know the contribution women made to that unique time.
Where were they then? said kid.
Evelyn looked down at her young pupil. How old are you? she said.
Nearly nine. But they say I have an old head on young shoulders.
Do they? Well, they say I have the opposite.
Kid laughed. You’re funny, she said.
So where were the women? Well, that depended on class. Inside, mostly, if you were wealthy and married. Considerable time in the birthing room, hoping to produce male heirs. A constant succession of pregnancies from your mid-teens to your forties. You’d also be expected to run the household, of course. Organising the servants. Sewing. Making bread. Making fires. That was a woman’s life, kid. Or the convent – the only available career for a woman. That was the choice.
You’re not selling this life to me, Evelyn.