She arrived in Florence after midnight and found a cheap pensione in a side street. A bald man with liver spots on his pate showed her the way along a murky corridor. She opened the shutters, the window looked onto a narrow courtyard. She put her head out and looked up to the small section of dark sky. When she had undressed and was lying under the blanket between the worn sheets, it seemed completely absurd that she should be in the same town as Giorgio, that he was in another bed somewhere, alone or with an unknown woman. Maybe she would never find him, maybe he would have no wish to see her. Maybe he had moved to another town.

In the morning when she went out to the little reception desk at the end of the corridor the bald man had been replaced by a pregnant woman in a large apron. Behind her the door to the kitchen stood open, pots were already steaming on the stove. An elderly black-clad woman sat in a corner of the kitchen watching television. The television voices almost drowned out Lucca’s and she had to gesture furiously before managing to convey to the woman that she needed a telephone directory. There were four people with the name of Giorgio Montale. She wrote down the addresses and phone numbers. The pregnant woman stood at the stove stirring the pot with one hand pressed to her side. Lucca asked to borrow the telephone and held a clenched fist to one ear. The pregnant woman smilingly shook her head without ceasing the mechanical circular movement of her ladle in the steaming pot.

There was a bar at the end of the street. Lucca asked for an espresso and poured in three bags of sugar. She had never drunk black coffee before. That was something the witch in Milan had taught her. There was a pay-phone at the end of the bar. She dialled the top number on her list and pressed a finger in her ear to muffle the loud voices and the hiss of the coffee machine. The first Giorgio Montale was an old man with a cracked, piping voice. A woman’s voice answered to the next number. Lucca asked for Giorgio Montale, and the woman’s voice repeated the same incomprehensible question in an insistent tone until she finally gave up. Lucca thought the woman had cut her off, but the next moment she heard a soft man’s voice. She asked in English if he was Giorgio Montale. He was. The man with the soft voice spoke a little German.

Lucca started to shake at the knees as she introduced herself and explained why she was calling. The man was very friendly. No, unfortunately he didn’t have a daughter in Denmark, but he and his wife had always wanted to go to Stockholm. He had two sons, but she was a girl, why was she called Lucca? She explained that she was named after her father’s home town. It was a beautiful town, he said, she must be a beautiful girl. He himself came from Palermo. Lucca could hear his wife talking to him in the background. He was sorry, he would have to hang up. He was sure she would find her father.

Neither the third nor the fourth Giorgio Montale answered the telephone. Lucca found her way to the station and bought a street plan at a kiosk. She found the addresses in the index, unfolded the map on the floor and bent down over the crooked web of streets, surrounded by the shoes and suitcases on wheels of passers-by. One of the Giorgios lived in a suburb, the other in the city centre, on the other side of the river. She decided to walk across there. It was hot, and the narrow streets were crowded with tourists, trudging sluggishly along in groups. She walked map in hand so as not to lose her way and only fleetingly noticed the façades of green and white marble of the churches she passed en route. The river was yellowish brown like the house walls, and from the bridge where she crossed she could see another bridge with small houses built on it, at a distance they looked like birds’ nesting-boxes. Behind the flat, tiled roofs beside the river rose the dome of the cathedral, it too was covered with red tiles, slightly pointed in its vast curvature.

Soon afterwards she was on the second floor of an old building ringing the doorbell. The marble floor of the landing was checked like a chess board, and the wooden panels of the staircase were dark and shone with varnish. She rang again and was about to go when she heard a bolt being drawn. She jumped, she had not heard steps inside the apartment. The man who opened the door must have been in his early thirties. His short hair was fair and stood on end, but his skin was dark and his eyes brown. He was very muscular, and there was a marked contrast between his broad hairy arms and the soft movement he used to smooth the collar of his kimono, as if he was caressing himself. He smiled and put his head on one side, giving her an inquiring look.

She asked if he was Giorgio Montale. He shook his head, still smiling, negatively waving his index finger to and fro as if she was a child who had done something wrong. She asked if Giorgio Montale lived there. He nodded but she could not understand what he said in his lazy, melodious voice, which was surprisingly high. The man looked at her expectantly. A large blue-grey cat appeared in the doorway. It laid back its ears and pressed its head lovingly against the man’s powerful legs. She couldn’t find anything to say. He held up a flat hand as a sign for her to wait, pushed the door partly closed and came back soon afterwards with a notebook and pen. She wrote her name and the name of the pensione.

Walking back to the river she realised she hadn’t eaten anything yet. Everything seemed pretty hopeless. She felt sure it was not her Giorgio who lived with the blue cat and the man with yellow hair. The idea made her smile. The list of addresses was already crumpled from being clutched in her hand. When she caught sight of a taxi she signalled. She gave the driver the last address and leaned back in the seat. Gradually the historic buildings came to an end, and the town looked like any other city with straight streets and modern houses. They drove for a long way before the taxi suddenly stopped in front of a big housing block. She paid and stood looking around her. A group of boys were kicking a football around on the bare ground between the blocks of damp-stained concrete with covered balconies where washing hung in layers. The sun was already low in the sky. In the distance a water tower loomed over the row of cypresses beside a motorway. On the other side she saw the silhouette of the big arched roof over the rows of seats in a stadium.

She rang several times when she had finally found the right door. No one was in. She sat down on the stairs and leaned against the cool wall. Voices sounded from the surrounding flats, a child cried, and a television blared a high-pitched fanfare. She bent her knees and pushed against the wall when a woman passed her on her way up with her bulging bags of shopping. Shortly afterwards an old man came down, slowly, his back was bent. He stopped a few steps further down and looked at her curiously with his runny eyes. His shirt stuck out of the fly on his shiny worn trousers and he had forgotten to shave his throat. Lucca smiled at him. He didn’t seem to notice or else did not take in her friendly expression. He merely stared at her vacantly before going on downstairs.

Half an hour passed before Lucca heard steps approaching again. A woman came in sight and stopped where the old man had stood. She must have been in her late forties, fifty perhaps. Her thick hair was a grey and black bird’s nest around her pale, worn features. She had narrow eyes which fixed Lucca with a hard glance as she slowly came on up the stairs. Lucca stood up and introduced herself. The woman brushed the hair from her eyes with a bony hand before hesitantly extending it towards Lucca. She spoke English with a strong accent, in a hoarse voice. As she unlocked the door she explained that Giorgio would be in later. She turned in the open door. Her name was Stella, by the way. She looked at Lucca and gave her a delayed smile.

She apologised for the mess. Lucca glanced round. It looked as if no housework or tidying up had been done for a long time. The furnishings were so anonymous that they said nothing about the inhabitants of the flat, other than their total lack of interest in its appearance. There was a dining table at one end of the living room, still adorned with cups and plates from breakfast. At the other end were a shabby sofa and two assorted armchairs. There were no curtains and the walls were bare. In one corner were a television and an ironing board in front of a pile of cardboard boxes full of clothes. Stella asked if she was hungry and started to clear away the cups and plates.

The door to the bedroom was open, Lucca glimpsed an unmade bed. It is a small flat, said Stella behind her back, putting a plate of cheese and salami on the table. Did she have somewhere to stay? Lucca nodded and sat down. When had she arrived? Stella lit a cigarette as Lucca ate and explained how she had found them. Stella would have to go out again soon, but she could just wait for Giorgio. They both worked in the evenings, actually he should be home by now. But she should have something to drink as well! She shook her head at her own vagueness and went back into the kitchen. Lucca looked out at the covered balcony. Three man’s shirts hung on the line floppily waving their sleeves.

Stella came back with a bottle of mineral water and a glass. Unfortunately that was all she had. She should have known Lucca was coming. Lucca said she had tried to telephone. Stella lit another cigarette and inhaled, looking at Lucca with her hard narrow eyes. She had expected her to turn up one day. Suddenly she got to her feet, Giorgio would be sure to come soon. She went into the bedroom. When she came back she had on a white shirt with a black bow tie, a black, thigh-length skirt and black stockings. There was something inappropriate about the tie, and Stella looked as if she could see what Lucca was thinking. Her hair was combed back from her forehead and gathered with a clasp. Her face seemed still more angular and wasted without the bird’s nest of unkempt hair to frame it. She put out her hand in farewell. Lucca would probably have left when she came back. She hoped she would have a pleasant stay in Italy.

Lucca heard her steps fade out of hearing down the stairs. She rose and opened the bedroom door. Their clothes were jumbled together in heaps on the bed, the floor and over a chair. A low bookcase held books in close-packed piles and on top of it was a framed photograph. She recognised Stella, a younger, sunburned Stella in a flowered dress. Beside her stood a man with dark curly hair and a full beard. He wore a checked shirt hanging loose over his trousers. The same old shirt he had worn when they were at the summer cottage. Lucca recalled the feeling of the soft, washed-out material when she pressed her face against his stomach. She put a hand over his jaw. The eyes were the same too, the creases around them when he smiled.

She lay down on the sofa in the living room. Now it was just a question of waiting and she would hear the steps coming up the stairs and a key inserted in the lock. She thought of Stella’s hard, inquiring scrutiny before she took the last steps up and stretched out her hand.

She awoke in semi-darkness. At first she did not know where she was. She could feel there was someone in the room and sat up in confusion. He sat astride a chair over at the table with his arms resting on its back. He looked at her, supporting his chin on his crossed arms. His beard had gone and his unruly hair looked as if someone had emptied an ashtray over his head. Slowly she recognised his features from the youthful black and white picture, behind the furrows carved into his face. He had been observing her while she slept. It’s me, she said in Danish, in a muted voice. It’s me, Lucca . . .

He nodded and smiled faintly, and only then did she notice the tears that had gathered at the corners of his eyes. She rose and went over to him, but stopped when he turned his face away. She stood still for a moment before cautiously laying a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, dried his cheeks with his palms and got up from the chair. Then he suddenly smiled and flung out his arms like a clown, as if to excuse his tears. He embraced her. She didn’t cry. She would have liked to cry, she had pictured herself weeping.

She was surprised he was not taller. He smelled slightly of sweat, but his smell was not as she remembered. While they stood there embracing he said something she did not understand. He held her away from him and smiled again. He spoke Italian to her. Apparently he had forgotten the scraps of Danish he had learned while he lived with Else. She hadn’t imagined they might not be able to talk together. It made them shy. He pointed to his watch and smiled again. Andiamo, he said and nodded towards the door.

She had no idea where he was taking her. Now and then he looked at her with his sad eyes and smiled mysteriously. He asked her to wait outside a shop and soon returned with a bottle of wine and a bag smelling of grilled chicken. He waved the wine and the bag and smiled, indicating they should go on. He put on speed, occasionally glancing at his watch. They had walked for a quarter of an hour when they came to a cinema. Was he going to invite her to the movies? Giorgio went first up a steep staircase on the side of the building. The steps led to a door in the middle of the bare wall. He unlocked it, switched on the light inside and held open the door for her with a gallant gesture.

While she watched he took a big reel of film from a round box and fixed it with practised movements on one of the projectors. He called her over with a cunning look and pointed to a little window. Down in the auditorium the audience were taking their places. He pressed a button and the lights dimmed in the hall. Then he started the machine and the spool began to rotate with a ticking sound while the film ran past the bright ray of light that penetrated the darkness of the cinema. Giorgio pointed to his watch again and shook his wrist as if he had burned himself. Lucca had to smile.

He took plates, cutlery and glasses from a cupboard and laid a small table between the projectors. The grilled chicken was still warm and Giorgio watched her gleefully as she gnawed the meat from her half and sucked her fingers. He took a sip of wine and washed it around his mouth with the air of a discriminating connoisseur which brought the smile to her face again. They drank a silent toast, Giorgio assumed a ceremonial expression, and it all made her feel she was in a silent film, partly because of the ticking sound of the machine, partly Giorgio’s comic gestures. He wanted to amuse her, but the melancholy look did not leave his eyes. The wine relaxed her, and the tension that had held her in its hard grip for two days was replaced by a crestfallen flatness. There was so much she would have liked to ask him about, so much she had wanted to tell him.

He rose, put a reel of film on the other machine and told her by signs to look out of the little window. Lucca viewed the distant picture floating in the dark. A man and a woman lay in a four-poster bed making love in the golden light of an open fire, and suddenly she saw a little white flash in the right hand corner of the picture. Immediately Giorgio set the other projector going and the next moment the couple in bed were succeeded by a group of riders in fluttering cloaks galloping beside a wood at dawn. He stopped the first projector, took the reel off and carried it over to a table with two steel plates on which he rewound the film. He went to the window and absent-mindedly watched what was happening on the screen.

When they were in the street after the show he took her arm and led her to a bus stop. Fishing a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his breast pocket he offered her one. She accepted it, although she didn’t feel like smoking. There was hardly any traffic. Long rows of cars were parked beside the closed shutters of the shops. A little further on they heard the shrill yelp of a burglar alarm. Giorgio stooped slightly, one hand in his pocket, now and then taking a drag at his cigarette. He looked at her and shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe his eyes. Lucca . . . he said softly. She smiled back, but it was a slow smile, her mouth felt sluggish and stiff.

There were only a few people on the bus. A girl of her own age sat looking blankly out at the shuttered façades. The thick layer of powder on her cheeks made her look like a doll in the dull light. She cautiously pulled at the nylon stocking on one knee where a stitch had run and moved her head from side to side, she must have had a stiff neck from sitting on an office chair all day. Behind her sat a young man in soldier’s uniform with a rucksack between his legs. He had his earphones on and sat with closed eyes, nodding mechanically. Lucca could hear a faintly pulsing whisper from his ears.

Giorgio patted her arm and pointed at the window pane reflecting their transparent faces. He straightened her profile like any street photographer and rearranged his own face in profile, alternately pointing at her nose and his own, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye in a way that made her laugh. He laughed himself. It was true, she had his nose. He looked down at the hands on her lap, laughed again and let his shoulders drop as he shook his head wonderingly. Lucca, he mumbled, Lucca . . . she laid a cautious hand over his and stroked the prominent veins on its back. He regarded her fingers attentively.

They left the bus in front of a big modern hotel. The porter glanced disapprovingly at Giorgio’s crumpled shirt hanging outside the faded jeans. When they had passed him Giorgio turned and put out his tongue at the figure, back turned, in top hat and tails. He winked at Lucca with a cheeky expression that made him look like a schoolboy, soliciting her admiration for his pranks. She followed him into the empty bar. It was furnished like an English club with dark panels and deep leather sofas. A tall woman in a white shirt with a bow tie stood behind the bar. Stella looked neither surprised nor glad when she caught sight of them. Giorgio went to introduce them to each other, but she interrupted him with a quick remark. He flung out his arms and sat on a bar stool. Stella asked what she would like to drink. Lucca asked for orange juice, Giorgio had a beer.

Stella translated what he said in a neutral tone, like a professional interpreter, but Lucca could hear she did not translate everything, and not precisely as it was said. He had been very surprised. If he had known she was coming he would have taken time off so they could go out to eat. He was very glad to see her. Lucca replied to the questions Stella translated, and watched Giorgio as he listened intently to Stella’s rendering of her replies. He asked about ordinary things, whether she was still at school and what plans she had for further education. She told him she might be going to act. He looked at her seriously, it was an insecure way of life.

She asked why he did not work in films any more. Stella hesitated a moment before translating. He smiled and gesticulated with fingertips together. He did still work with films! Then he cast a long look into the mirror behind the bar. It wasn’t so easy. Besides, they didn’t make real films any more. They only made stories of car chases and bare breasts! Stella gave a crooked smile as she translated. And he didn’t want to do it just for the money. He looked at her like a teacher. You had to believe in what you did or it wouldn’t be any good. There was always a way to survive. He wagged his chin rebelliously. He survived . . . Lucca nodded, he looked at her warmly. Maybe she would become a great actress. Maybe one day she would play the leading part in one of the films he showed at the cinema! He laughed at the thought.

They sat in silence for a while. Stella served a German couple who came to sit at the end of the bar. For the first time Lucca was aware of the synthetic music for strings that seemed to come from all around them. Giorgio put his head on one side with a dreaming air as he played on an invisible violin. Stella came back. Lucca cleared her throat. Why had he never been to visit them? Stella gave her a brief glance before translating. He looked away and took the last cigarette in the pack and patted his pockets, he couldn’t find his lighter. Stella handed him a box of matches. He burned his fingers when he lit the match and sucked greedily at the cigarette. It was a long story. He didn’t know how much her mother had told her. They had been so different . . . he sent her an appealing look. He had once suggested coming, but her mother had thought it wasn’t a good idea. Lucca couldn’t tell whether he was lying. He slid off the bar stool and looked at her apologetically as he nodded in the direction of the toilet.

Stella removed the ashtray by his place and put down a fresh one. When he was out of sight she looked at Lucca and held her eyes with her own narrow ones. She seemed very tired suddenly, her cheeks drooped around the corners of her mouth. Lucca didn’t know whether it was fear or anger she saw in the other woman’s gaze. Stella spoke in such a low voice that it was hard to hear what she said. Leave him alone . . . she whispered . . . please . . . Lucca turned her face away. The German made a sign to Stella, holding out a note in his fingers. Giorgio came back. He clapped his hands together and said something loudly to Stella, who turned round and threw him a stern glance, as the astonished German picked up his change from the counter. Giorgio looked at Lucca with raised eyebrows and an expression that seemed to say something like: What a right shrew he had to live with.

When the Germans had left he repeated what he had said. Stella translated in a weary voice. He would take her out to see the town tomorrow, if she could come. Did she know where the cathedral was? They could meet there. Twelve o’clock? Giorgio nodded questioningly. Lucca nodded back. Stella asked how long she was staying. She didn’t translate that. Lucca replied that she hadn’t decided yet. She said she wanted to go back to her pensione. Giorgio offered to walk back with her, but she said she would take a taxi. Stella went to ring for one. He walked out of the hotel with her, neither of them said anything while they waited. When at last the taxi came he smiled brightly, almost as if relieved, she thought, as he hugged her close.

She hesitated when she saw him waiting outside the Baptistery next day, behind the dense traffic. He had on a brown velvet suit, even though it was very hot, and a white, newly ironed shirt. She had wept in the taxi on the way back to the pensione, soundlessly so the driver wouldn’t notice. She had lain awake a long time, listening to the sounds of the town that reached into the courtyard. But what had she expected, in fact? He had changed into someone else after all these years, his life was different now. To him she was a distant, painful memory.

Had Else prevented him from seeing her? She didn’t believe that. She would like to, but she couldn’t. Neither could she decide whether he looked touching or simply pitiful as he stood in front of the Baptistery’s green and white-striped marble façade in his best suit, nervously watching out for her. She hesitated as he caught sight of her and waved exaggeratedly, as if she was ashamed, either of him or of herself. He looked quite good with his pronounced features and unruly, grizzled hair, but his stooping shoulders and perpetual clowning left the impression of a man life had cowed. A man who had resigned himself to its blindly banal necessities.

He showed her the cathedral and the Galleria dell’Accademia with Michelangelo’s David and the slaves fighting to release themselves from the marble they have only half escaped from. He led her through the Uffizi galleries and she walked beside him among the Japanese and American tourists and only caught disconnected glimpses of faces, bodies and landscapes in the old paintings. He talked incessantly as if believing she would understand in the end if he just kept on, as he had done when she was little. He was tireless, but the sights of Florence were all they had to keep them there together. Luckily there was plenty to see. She recalled Stella’s timid, threatening face when she asked her to leave him alone.

They ate at a restaurant in a side street, a simple place with sawdust on the floor, frequented by workmen. He was obviously a regular customer. The owner smiled at her and shook his head in acknowledgement of life’s singularity when Giorgio introduced his grown-up daughter from Denmark. No, she didn’t speak Italian. What a shame! She understood that much. After lunch, as they were having their espresso, Giorgio pulled a photograph out of his pocket with a secretive look on his face. Was it a picture of them together? Maybe there was still a trace of the years when he had after all been there. A fleeting impression of a New Year’s Eve when she sat in his arms dressed as an Indian princess. A proof that it was true that he had once run with her on his shoulders among the spruce trees of the plantation, with laughter bubbling and rising inside her like waves.

She looked at the black and white photograph and recognised the young Giorgio. He stood with a boom in one hand, the other resting on the shoulder of a man she also thought she had seen before. A handsome man, more handsome than Giorgio, with tired, screwed up eyes and a prominent chin. He placed a finger on the picture and she remembered the witch in Milan and her portrait of her son and daughter-in-law with red eyes. He looked at her in triumph. Mastroianni! he said, smiling nostalgically as he emptied his coffee cup. She gave him back the picture. He looked out at the street through the coloured fly curtain. Suddenly he pointed at his watch, as he had done the previous day. She visualised the projecting room where they had sat eating chicken and smiled, embarrassed.

They went back to the cathedral. Now it was time to say goodbye. She knew it, and she could see he knew it too. They embraced. She had decided to leave him alone, but only now did she realise what it meant. He stood looking at her, hands at his sides, for a moment without the clown’s conciliatory grimaces, which swore by laughter because the last freedom in the world was obviously that of being voluntarily comical, ridiculous at one’s own expense. But she did not think of that until long afterwards, many years later. She would remember his face framed by the Baptistery’s limpid uncluttered Renaissance geometry, his face devoid of waggishness. He too knew their parting was behind them, that it was only a matter of seconds, and so he could allow himself to stay a little longer.

She noted his untidy grey hair, the furrows on his forehead and cheeks, his mouth’s natural expression of mute regret and the eyes with the smile lines deeply scored into the thin skin. He must have smiled so much in his life. He raised his hand, hesitated a second and gently brushed the tip of her nose with the knuckle of his index finger. His nose. The only trace of himself he had left apart from her name and a few blurred pictures. Then he slowly took a step backwards, and another. His eyes turned dark as tunnels and he raised his arms a little way, hands open, as he turned and walked away with quick steps.

Everything inside her clenched into a hard breathless knot, and for a moment she clung to the iron railing between the traffic and the marble wall of the Baptistery, until the knot loosened and the cobbles beneath her melted and flowed out of sight. She let the tears run at will down her cheeks, indifferent to the worried or curious glances of passers-by. It was easier to breathe when she walked with long steps and a salty smarting at the corners of her mouth. When she reached the station her eyes had dried. Only the dried-up traces of tears made her cheeks feel slightly taut.