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Saturday, Early Morning: In the Via Canina

 

The sun climbed slowly from behind the mountains. The sky was of that clear and innocent blue which carries with it a threat of rain to come. The first rays struck the gilded summit of Brunelleschi’s Duomo, then, as the sun climbed higher, they tilted slowly downwards, lighting up the high buildings, penetrating into the courts and back streets, edging their way into cracks and corners.

The Via Canina is one of the oldest streets in Florence. Age has sunk it below the surrounding surface. The eastern side is bounded by the low brick wall and iron railing of the Cimitero di San Antonio, a forest of white crosses and crooked cherubim; the left hand side a continuous row of very old houses, some of them condemned, shuttered, and empty, a few of them still occupied.

The sun cleared the eastern edge of the street, lighting up the space between the cemetery wall and the street itself, a narrow strip of pavement and deep gutter.

In the gutter lay a bundle of old clothes. The sun inspected it carefully before passing on. First, a pair of boots, toe-caps twisted inwards, boot heels outward. Then a pair of trousers and an old jacket. The far end of the bundle looked like a child’s pink and white woolly ball, but it was barred with stripes of a darker colour.

The door of one of the occupied houses opened and a woman came out, yawning. She crossed the street, started to walk up the pavement and stopped when she saw the bundle.

Her mouth opened slowly, as if she was going to yawn again, but what came out was a scream.