You, me, this—and she indicated the dusk-drenched square outside. “How beautiful is sunset, when the glow / Of heaven descends upon a land like thee, / Thou paradise of exiles, Italy!” Dante? Shelley, she said, and they clinked glasses. Happy birthday, he said. To your long and extraordinary life. She took a sip and said, You grew into your name after all. Took you a long time to get back from war, but you did it, Ulysses. I’ve left you the flat in Bloomsbury, by the way.
