Evelyn leant back and looked at Darnley’s face. Full of bluster, isn’t he? she said. Look at him. Just a boy really. You’re all just boys. You care for him, don’t you? she said.
I do, Evelyn. I really do, he said, and he pulled over to let an Allied convoy pass. The noise was an assault and they sat back and watched the trucks pass, the pale stony faces of soldiers looking back at them. The sense was one of doom.
They’ll be in the city soon, won’t they? she asked.
Couple of days, tops. Kiwis first. South Africans. Then us.
Will it be bad? she asked.
I ’spect so, he said. It’s always bad.
The last of the dust from the last of the trucks settled. Ulysses lit two cigarettes.
He said, That painting? The Pont—
—ormo, she said. Pontormo’s Deposition?
Yeah, and he handed her a cigarette. Darnley said he studied it before all this and I said what’s to study? It’s just a picture, right?
It is just a picture. And you are right, said Evelyn. Art historians have made gods of men.
So?
So, said Evelyn.
All this fuss?
Evelyn laughed. The fuss, as you say, can certainly be exaggerated. But what it’s always about, for me, is response. It’s a painting that demands of us a response. All the best ones do.
What response?
You tell me.
I don’t know what that means.
You were taken with the cloud back there. It drew you in. It interested you.
It looked separate from the picture, said Ulysses.
Noting the drama that’s unfolding below, perhaps. A symbol of heaven? The Holy Spirit? Or a simple reminder that the action is taking place outside. All this is a response, Ulysses. It’s not more complicated than that. Of course, we can then throw in execution of the craft – how well one paints – and the history of the piece, its provenance, and we can come up with value. But always the value for me will be response. How it moves one.
And that makes it worth saving?
I think so. I really do. To make sure it’s around for another generation. Because it is important, Ulysses.
More important than people?
Evelyn let out a long stream of smoke. She said, They go together. It’s what we’ve always done. Left a mark on a cave, or on a page. Showing who we are, sharing our view of the world, the life we’re made to bear. Our turmoil is revealed in those painted faces – sometimes tenderly, sometimes grotesquely, but art becomes a mirror. All the symbolism and the paradox, ours to interpret. That’s how it becomes part of us. And as counterpoint to our suffering, we have beauty. We like beauty, don’t we? Something good on the eye cheers us. Does something to us on a cellular level, makes us feel alive and enriched. Beautiful art opens our eyes to the beauty of the world, Ulysses. It repositions our sight and judgement. Captures forever that which is fleeting. A meagre stain in the corridors of history, that’s all we are. A little mark of scuff. One hundred and fifty years ago Napoleon breathed the same air as we do now. The battalion of time marches on. Art versus humanity is not the question, Ulysses. One doesn’t exist without the other. Art is the antidote. Is that enough to make it important? Well yes, I think it is.
Through the olive trees, the albergo came into sight. Here we are, said Evelyn quietly, and the jeep slowed down and stopped. The ticking sound of a cooling engine. The distant call of an owl. Darnley’s heavy breath.
Look, said Ulysses as a faint light came on in an upper room. Welcome party? he said.
Oh, I doubt that, said Evelyn as she climbed from the jeep. She bent close to Darnley’s ear, and placed her hand on his shoulder. Captain Darnley, she whispered.
He woke, dazed.
It’s time to say goodnight, she said.
Miss Skinner.
No, no. Stay where you are, she said, and she offered her hand. Thank you, she said. For tonight. Keep your head down and stay in the world, if you please.
Darnley smiled. Take care, Miss Skinner. It’s been a pleasure.
Likewise.
And I’ll give the AMG a nudge, I promise.
Thank you, and Evelyn turned to Ulysses. I’m not sure I can say goodbye to you, young man.
Then let’s not, Evelyn.
Ulysses got out of the jeep and offered his hand. She took it in hers.
A gift, right? he said.
A gift, indeed, she said. Dante Alighieri. You’ll meet him in Florence, outside Santa Croce. He looks rather grumpy. Give him my best, though.
Will do.
And stay invincible, she said.
He saluted her. Watched her stomp across the parched grass towards the terrace.
It was too dark for him to see her turn back and look at him, but she did. She watched him get into the jeep, watched him disappear around the curve of the bend. She said something quietly, not a prayer exactly, just a little nod to keep him safe.