Livia Moretti stepped out onto the street and closed her eyes against the dazzling brightness. After the darkness of her top-floor apartment, the glare of bright white light felt almost shocking. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind her and she leant against it, steadying herself, sensing its heat through her faded cream linen summer coat. She fumbled for the fastening of her handbag, and felt inside the silk pocket for her door key. As was her habit, she checked for the other contents, ensuring everything was in its place. Her elegant fingers touched her small emerald-green leather purse, followed by the engraved silver money clip – an antiquated but neat contraption for keeping notes orderly – and finally, the little jewel-encrusted powder compact her mother had given her over seventy years before. In the bottom of the handbag was a small silver-handled magnifying glass. Livia snapped the bag shut, content that all was well and slipped it into position in the crook of her arm; with her other hand, she reached for her white stick leaning against the stone surround of the front door.
She walked along the cobbled street at a slow but even pace, her head very erect, even in her ninth decade, having been drilled as a child to stand up straight by her German governess. Fräulein Schneider had strapped a board across her charge’s back, pinning Livia’s shoulders into position. It had seemed harsh at the time, restricting her movements, preventing her from lolling and slouching as she would have liked. Even on holiday in the resort town of Forte dei Marmi on the Ligurian coast, where the family went to escape the heat of the city, the board was still worn at mealtimes. Livia remembered the ecstasy as it was removed and she was allowed to slip into a loose white linen frock, her bare feet on the white sand, her dark hair covered with a straw panama. Her mother, meanwhile, would be sitting upright in her rattan chair, her white skin protected by a parasol.
A gaggle of tourists fluttered towards Livia. Their features and bodies were indistinct; they were just an amorphous grouping of people, barring her way, standing gawping at the Duomo, flapping their arms and clicking. She often complained about them to her cleaner, Monica. ‘Why must they stand in the middle of everywhere? They make it so difficult to get around. And what are they doing – making these clicking noises all the time?’
‘They’re taking photos… selfies.’
‘Selfies, what on earth are “selfies”?’
‘Photos you take of yourself.’
‘Well, how ridiculous. They’ve come all the way to Florence to take photos of themselves? Why don’t they at least take pictures of the beautiful buildings?’
‘I don’t know,’ Monica had replied, as she plumped the needlepoint cushions on the battered linen sofa. ‘They’re not interested in the buildings, I suppose. They just want to prove they’ve been here.’
Livia shook her head, bewildered. Everything changes, she thought. Everything moves on. Life cannot stay the same.
Her route that morning was imprinted on her memory. Although she was unable to see the precise details of the buildings around her, their familiar shapes loomed on the edges of her vision. She knew how many steps it was from the Duomo to the small café in the Piazza della Repubblica, and counted silently to herself as she walked: ‘One hundred and forty-eight, forty-nine… and stop.’ The roar of a motorbike, as it rushed past her, created an eddy in the air, rustling her silk dress.
‘Can I help you cross the road?’ The man’s voice was young and friendly. She would usually have declined, preferring to manage herself, but he had already taken her elbow – the arm that carried the handbag – and was edging her forward. She found herself walking faster than she would have liked across the road and up onto the pavement on the other side.
‘Thank you,’ she said crisply.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied. ‘Can I take you anywhere?’
‘No, thank you. I’m just going to Café Paskowski. It’s only a few minutes from here.’
‘I’m going there myself,’ he said. ‘May I accompany you?’
They walked the last hundred yards together. His touch on her arm, as he guided her through the crowds, was gentle and deferential.
‘It’s a delightful café, isn’t it?’ he said, gazing up at the large glazed windows and the Edwardian signage above the door. ‘I’ve been here several times since I arrived in Florence. I’ve seen you here occasionally – it’s obviously your favourite haunt too.’