lawyer, he always supports the “little man”: people who can’t fight for themselves – the worker, the tenant, the shopkeeper fighting injustice from a domineering landlord, that sort of thing. I suppose it’s rubbed off on me. Besides, we don’t have much money now.’ She looked over at her friend lying on the grass. ‘Now, that’s enough about me. I want to know all about your family.’
‘My life is much less interesting. My mother looks after the house – although she used to be a secretary. My father’s a doctor; he’s a surgeon at the hospital.’
‘That must be challenging – particularly at the moment with the war going on.’
‘He gets very depressed,’ said Elena, sitting up, and wrapping her arms around her knees. ‘The hospitals don’t have the supplies they need – it makes him angry.’
‘I’m sorry, that must be hard. Do you have brothers and sisters?’
‘No. I’m the only one, like you.’
The two girls’ History of Art lectures were generally held in an airy panelled lecture theatre, its walls covered with impressive religious works of art. They usually sat together at the rear of the hall, and Livia, who preferred her English Literature classes to History of Art, often found her concentration wandering.
One warm afternoon, she felt her eyelids drooping as their tutor showed slide after slide of works by Verrocchio, a Renaissance artist and mentor of Leonardo da Vinci himself. Livia’s eyes began to wander sleepily around the lecture theatre and settled on an intense young man sitting a few places away. He was scribbling notes in a leather-bound book on his lap, his metal-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. He had dark hair that flopped over his face, which he pushed back distractedly from time to time. Perhaps sensing he was being observed, he looked around and noticed the delicate, dark-haired girl watching him. He smiled at her. She blushed, looking away embarrassed, and hooked her own shoulder-length hair behind her ears. Elena, sitting next to her, noticed her friend’s reaction.
‘He’s good-looking, isn’t he?’ she whispered. ‘I know his family a little; his father’s a surgeon at the same hospital as my father. Cosimo’s doing a doctorate here – philosophy, I seem to remember.’
‘What’s he doing in our lecture then?’ Livia whispered back.
‘He must be interested in Verrocchio, I suppose,’ Elena replied. ‘And now, it seems, he’s interested in you too.’
When the lecture was over and the students were milling about outside the hall, the young man weaved through the crowd, heading straight for the two girls. Livia blushed slightly as he approached them.
‘Cosimo,’ said Elena, ‘how lovely to see you again.’
He bent down to kiss his friend on the cheek, but he was clearly transfixed by Livia.
‘Cosimo… may I introduce Livia, a new friend of mine.’
He bowed his head a little. ‘It’s wonderful to meet you.’
‘Well,’ said Elena tactfully, ‘I ought to be going – I’ve got a tutorial. I’ll see you later, Livia.’
As the summer faded into autumn and the air grew cooler, Cosimo and Livia were inseparable. They wandered the streets, holding hands and talking feverishly. They discussed everything – their studies, their families and, of course, the war. Nothing was off limits. They discovered that their fathers – both men with a strong sense of public duty – shared a hatred of Fascism.
‘Do you know what I like about you?’ Cosimo asked Livia one chilly afternoon as they wandered around Piazza della Repubblica, the wintry sun sinking in the west, casting long shadows.
‘No,’ Livia replied playfully.
‘You never annoy me.’
She came to a halt outside a café and stared at him. ‘What do you mean? Are you often annoyed by people?’
‘Constantly. Most people speak before they think, and have no sense of humour or irony. You’re not like that. For someone so young, you’re very wise.’
He turned and gazed down at her. She sensed his desire to kiss her, and tilted her face towards his. At that moment, a strong gust of wind blew through the piazza, and she shivered slightly.
‘You’re cold,’ he said. ‘Let’s go in here.’ He pointed towards an impressive-looking restaurant with tall glazed windows. It was called Café Paskowski.
‘It looks rather expensive.’ Livia peered anxiously at the elegantly dressed customers sitting inside.
‘No, it’s not really. It’s popular with poverty-stricken artists and rich aristocrats alike – it’s an interesting place.’ He smiled and winked at her, took her by the elbow and steered her firmly inside. They chose a table by the window from where they could view the comings and