The Year is Almost Over

Days in Florence

"Suddenly all I could think of was that I wanted that time of my life again, to go back, to be there again."

In the summer of 1934 I travelled to Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance, and the cradle of civilisation. In some ways I had left the best until last, and I arranged to stay there for a month. Of course, the city was beautiful, and my visit was everything I hoped it would be. But while I was there, something happened, something changed me, and the way I had been feeling. It came from an unexpected direction, but I think it helped me begin to find what I had probably been looking for more than anything else - peace of mind without my beautiful Genevieve.

My hotel was close to the Piazza della Signoria, and I soon realised that I had found the most ideal place imaginable for a tourist to stay. Each day I would set out on a new quest, and I would almost always find other interesting things along the way. The grandness of the Palazzo Pitti, the serene creations of mankind in the Uffizi, the Galleria dell'Accademia... where most cities had one or two places to visit, Florence had dozens. I took numerous photographs, but after a while I felt that using my camera was too much of a distraction, so I just surrendered myself to my experience. And every street was a postcard. Each fountain I passed seemed to invite me to throw a coin, to add to the stars that were wished upon in the galaxy at my feet. What could I wish for? At my age, were all my wishes behind me? But I would throw in a coin anyway, as if in unspoken gratitude for all the wishes in my life that had come true.

One afternoon, after returning from a visit to the cathedral, I found a quiet, empty café where I took a chance to rest. The large shutter windows were open to allow in the warm air, and the walls were decorated with large posters advertising various condiments and wines in whimsical ways. The waiter had a bizarre moustache and a spotless apron, and he darted back and forth, leaning forward and singing out the orders with a sycophantic cheerfulness. I loosened my tie and sat there with a café au lait and a cigar, and watched the world go past for a while. I saw a young girl in a floral dress, with a battered bicycle, stop at the fountain and splash her face with water. After she had finished she saw me, and smiled, then clambered onto her bicycle and rode away. On the other side of the fountain I saw an artist sitting on a box in front of his easel. I paid my bill, left the café and wandered over to have a closer look. He was an old man, older than me. He had a huge mop of wiry hair and a beard, dark but peppered with grey. His face was lined, with sun, age and worry, yet the slow and careless way he carried himself seemed to radiate apathy. I suppose a man of his age will often lose an interest in what people think of him - he was dressed in a ragged smock, filthy bandanna, red socks and worn sandals. Pinned to his easel was a small studio photograph of a beautiful girl and two little children. He noticed me, and with a grand sweep of his arm he presented his painting.

"Have a close look," he said with an American accent. "I throw the paint on the canvas. Just smudges and smears. But when you step back, you see something! Well I hope so, anyway."

He gave me a grin which faded into indifference, and went back to his painting. I watched a little longer, then went on my way.

The next day, after more sightseeing, I ended up at the same café. The waiter smiled and said,

"Same again for the signorrrrr?"

I nodded, wondering if he would remember what I had yesterday. He did, and just this simple thing made me happy.

As I sat there, I became aware of the occasional faint scent of some lovely perfume, a smell I knew, but one that evoked some strong emotion, moments before I could summon the memory of how I knew it. I didn't move, trying to capture the scent again. My memory awoke, and I recognised it as a perfume that Genevieve had worn, in the early years of our courting. I was transfixed by the scent, by the emotion, by the memory... the memory of our first meeting.