Still Life

by Sarah Winman

They were coming out of the cinema. Last episode of the Trilogia del Dollaro. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. That Ennio Morricone, said Massimo. I think he’s completely redefined the cinematic soundtrack, said Jem. Ulysses and Pete laughing. Made for each other, whispered Cress.

As the clouds gathered overhead and the morning turned dark, she realized London in wartime had been the star of that fateful show. Love and sex came fast and danced with the nearness of death and my God did it make life golden. Made it giddy and immediate. They clung to one another because the essence of life itself had been revealed to them, and it was as simple as a Californian orange grove with the sound of bees, and blossom, and heat as heady as existence itself.

The years 1971 to ’74 were a mixed bag, all in all, and Cressy’s absence was sharply felt. Right- and left-wing political extremists were trying to transform the country according to their own utopian vision, and assassinations and bombings hit the headlines. The gentle people of the pensione were quietly shaken, Ulysses especially. Evelyn said, We’re still living in the footprints of the French Revolution, of Hitler and Mussolini. Scratch the surface of the varnish and it raises its head again. Evil was defeated but it never went away. This is something we must live with, Ulysses.

I’m Glen. Glen Mollan. Peg stretched out her hand. Nice to meet you, Glen. And then the man paused as if he didn’t know how to proceed. He said, Eddie was my best friend. The air was sucked right out of the room as a vortex spun them back to August 1944. The night Peg and Eddie had met in the Soho dance club, Glen Mollan had been there too. He’d had a charm of his own; he certainly didn’t go home alone that night. He and Eddie were often mistaken for brothers.

How much do you want to know? Glen said. All of it, said Peg. Eddie Clayton, Peg’s American Boy, had died in France six months after they met. His official name wasn’t Eddie Clayton but Henry Edward Claydon. Known as Eddie. And he was married young but unhappily so. He had planned to divorce and marry Peg and take her back to the States, that much was true. Had even told his parents this intention. They were a gentle family. They would support whatever their son needed to do. Peg wasn’t a secret, Peg was real. So he did love me.

Glen answered, He was crazy about you. How’d he die? said Peg. Two jeeps racing. Eddie’s hit a tree stump and flipped. Peg felt dizzy. All those years. All those years of waiting. All those years of waiting to be set free.

Ulysses woke Alys up and she came and lay on the floor while Peg told her everything Glen had said. Alys, stoic as ever, took it in like a weather report. Peg cried, but not for herself. If you’d asked her who for, she couldn’t have said. Maybe simply for a young man who never grew old, that same old same old tale of war. Alys went over to her mother and held her. First time ever, it was. S’pose you could say that’s what Eddie gave them that night. And there, as the sun broke through the shutters, the ghost of Eddie Clayton was finally laid to rest.

What time you meeting Glen Mollan? said Ulysses. In an hour. Quick coffee before the set. Nervous? A bit. It’ll be fine, said Ulysses. And you look lovely, Peg. And remember, said Evelyn. It’s only coffee. You don’t have to fall in love with the man. Ha! said Peg. She’s funny. A year later, Peg and Glen Mollan fell in love.

Des brushed leaves from his new red corduroy trousers. He said, Evelyn a hundred yet, lad? Three years off. But she reckons she’s bowing out at ninety-nine. We’ll do a big party then. Doesn’t want a telegram from the queen. Quite adamant about it actually, so she’s cutting it short. Not a royalist, then? I think she thinks a bottle of champagne is more in keeping. Or a knighthood. Such a clear-eyed appraisal of life, said Des. What a woman!

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.

London may beckon once again. Or give it to Alys. Dotty’s got Kent. She hates the countryside, but she’ll see the joke. And she’ll cherish it in the end. Everything else is by the by. And I want my ashes scattered on the Arno like Constance.

I think that’s all you need to know. Righto. You look like you want to ask me something. It’s something Dotty— Oh, don’t listen to her! Were you a spy? Of course I was. She’ll find out when the National Archives release the papers. Hopefully she won’t be driving or operating heavy machinery at the time.

Evelyn cleared her throat. She said, I saw a lone rower carving across the Arno. The foothills were darkening, and the cypress trees around San Miniato were topped by a ghostly mist. Ochre walls appeared more golden as the sun softened. Lights appeared throughout the city and took their place on the surface of the river. The rower slipped through this spectacle of light. Water dripped off the blades of his oars, and momentarily, I was in that drip. Falling into the green twilight depths of history. You have silenced the room, said the reverend.

The river was low, and the renaioli were on a break. From dusk till dawn the men shoveled sediment from the riverbed into carts or waiting boats. Four of them were sitting smoking now. Hats tilted back, shirtsleeves rolled high. Miss Everly said the gravel had been caused by the erosion of stone buildings along the riverbank in times of flood, and would be used again in future construction. Nothing was ever wasted, she said. The Arno was like the Ganges, the source of life. Both giver and taker. Sewer and fishmonger. Miss Everly knew everything about the city.

I’ve seen my father parry the blows— But your father’s successful! Not in his eyes. He’s not Cézanne. All artists are tortured by all they’re not and by art that’s not theirs. It’s lonely, Mr. Collins. But I think I could be a memorable teacher.

Domini canes also means “hounds of the Lord.” That’s where they get their name from. I always found it rather unsettling. Goodness, does it really? said one of the Brown sisters. I won’t sleep at all tonight. The very thought makes me shiver, said the other. They always were a militant bunch, said Mr. Collins. Seeking out the heretic with a lit torch. I’d have been the first to the flame. If only, said the reverend quietly.

And that Savonarola. Encouraging the burning of nudes and portraits of women because of the temptation conveyed. Can men not control themselves, Reverend? Don’t look at me, said the reverend.

Is this imagination? Is this what spurs you to paint? Is this my inheritance from you? It’s always been quite hard to know—to pinpoint, let’s say—where one’s unique story really begins. Does it really start at the moment of birth, or with those who came before? Instilling, distilling, in one’s veins the lived life, the unlived life, the regrets, the joys, as effortlessly, as dubiously one might say, as they hand down a certain walk (you to me), or a frown (you to me) or limp, mousy hair (Mother to me). If this is so, then my story starts with you. What I want to say is, you have handed me your affliction and its accompanying power.

Only in the experience of love, do we know what it is to be human.

Shafts of light divided the nave. I witnessed a young woman throwing herself down in front of the altar. The scene was as dramatic as any Caravaggio. What could have caused such despair? What are we without love? Waiting, said Evelyn. Miss Everly smiled. She rested her chin in her hand. Her eyes set firmly on Evelyn’s face, scrutinizing. Waiting, she repeated. And are you waiting, my dear? No, said Evelyn. Not anymore.

Miss Everly unexpectedly and rather tenderly took hold of Evelyn’s arm and said: You can still see it—the layout. Arnolfo di Cambio’s final communal circuit of walls to enclose the city. Follow my finger, Miss Skinner. Over there, over there, down . . . An enclosed city was his dream. His insieme. What the Italians call a togetherness. Of course, it was a masterpiece of defense, and yet, so much more. It shaped the city. Made it a direct descendant of Rome, and that made people believe its destiny was golden. He created a knowable city, Miss Skinner. And knowable it remains. It’s how the city becomes part of us forever. Never lets us go. Pulls us back time after time.

Time is what it’s all about. The ephemeral seed of time. The heavy thud of the pendulum swing, the noose of time.

The grandfather clock struck midnight with eleven gongs, and people said good-byes and good nights and bon voyages and climbed the stairs to bed. Evelyn looked about her and thought she would miss them all. Even the Reverend Hyndesight, in hindsight.

Cherish it, said Miss Everly. I did at your age. Love is the most wonderful discovery in the pantheon of human existence.

So, time heals. Mostly. Sometimes carelessly. And in unsuspecting moments, the pain catches and reminds one of all that’s been missing. The fulcrum of what might have been. But then it passes. Winter moves into spring and swallows return. The proximity of new skin returns to the sheets. Beauty does what is required. Jobs fulfill and conversations inspire. Loneliness becomes a mere Sunday. Scattered clothes. Empty bowls. Rotting fruit. Passing time. But still life in all its beauty and complexity.

They drove east and met the sun. The flaming dawn caused Ulysses to pull over, caused the grape harvesters to pause whilst the sky flared pink and violet and gold in eyes of wonder. Five hours later, they arrived at the Coriano Ridge War Cemetery, situated in a green valley between Rimini and San Martino.

They walked across the grass. The cemetery was beautifully tended and the lavender bushes brought in the bees and that little nudge of toil lifted the murmuring of sorrow. Swifts, yet to depart, darted joyfully overhead. Ulysses knew where to find Captain Darnley, of course, and it took him no time at all to say, Over here, Evelyn. Here he is.

Ulysses said that time ran backward for him whenever he came here. That’s how he described it, anyway. From the moment Darnley fell. Rushing him to a field hospital in Ancona, two others injured in the back, driving one-handed, the other hand pressed against the wound. Eddying time, Evelyn. Churches, frescoes. Sicily. That first handshake in the desert. All those moments, those years, were his now. To remember or to forget. That’s what Ulysses said. So I choose to remember. The best man ever. And everything about him is vivid. And he is young. And he is laughing.