Page 58 of Under a Dancing Star

“A lot of people think he’s charming,” he says with an easy shrug. I’m struck again by how little these things seem to touch him. Lili’s anger is palpable, but Ben is relaxed, already more interested in the breakfast that he’s been handed.

“I suppose it’s the same in England,” I say. “Lots of my parents’ friends seem quite interested in the BUF.”

“That’s the British Union of Fascists?” Ben’s brow crinkles.

“Yes.” I blow gently on my coffee. “It’s all dressed up in so much civility,” I say. “Like that horrible Lady Frances woman my uncle seems so enamoured of.”

Lili nods. “Evil can come under the guise of gentility. Things will get a lot worse before they get better,” she says with certainty.

“Let’s not talk about it this morning,” Gert chimes in, coming through the door in a pale pink silk dressing gown. She reaches up to peck Lili on the cheek. “We should be making the most of having Ben and Bea here with us for a few days.”

We chat quietly about other things as we eat our breakfast, but I know I’m not the only one with half my mind still on our conversation. I remember again the newsreels I have seen of Mussolini shouting from a podium at wild crowds of people, leading military demonstrations of rows and rows of soldiers, stony-faced and obedient. Lili’s warning sits in my stomach like a stone and part of me knows she’s right, knows that something dark and dangerous is wrapping itself in a death grip around this beautiful country. It may be easy to ignore it, but it doesn’t seem like something that’s going to go away on its own, whatever Ben may say.

“So what do you two have planned for today?” Gert asks.

“A lot,” I say, a surge of excitement thrilling through me.

“So much that we should really get going,” Ben agrees. “Thanks for breakfast, Lil.” He walks around to the other side of the counter and kisses Lili on the cheek.

She reaches out a hand and pats the side of his face. “We’ll see you both later for a family dinner,” she says.

Ben and I leave the house, stepping into the dazzling sunshine. Adrenaline thumps through my veins as I realize that we have the whole city to explore. It’s that vertiginous feeling of freedom again, calling to me, reminding me that I’m far from home.

The city is a warren of side streets and we zigzag through them heading for our destination. Ben is buzzing with excitement, almost giddy, and his enthusiasm feeds mine as we skitter through the streets, giggling like school children.

We walk for miles. Strolling through the Piazza del Duomo, I finally see the famous red brick domes up close. As I stretch my neck, tipping my head up to the skies to take it all in, right up to the gleaming bronze ball that Leonardo himself may have had his hands on, the cathedral is like something from a fantasy. The white and green marble exterior looks like it has been spun from sugar in an eccentric confectioner’s workshop, the fulfilment of a greedy child’s wish. It is a ridiculous, delicious delight.

“It’s so beautiful,” I say.

“Like a wedding cake,” Ben says, his nose slightly wrinkled.

I smile. “I was thinking a home for your sugar mice.”

We keep moving, through to the Piazza della Signoria, where the town hall, the Palazzo Vecchio, looms – an impressive fortress, a palace complete with battlements at the top. In the square we pass a group of Blackshirts, none of them much older than me, and they are joking and laughing, though in their black shirts, ties and hats they still manage to look sinister, like overgrown crows.

I look at them for a moment and catch the eye of one boy. He grins and shouts something in Italian that I don’t understand.

“What did he say?” I ask Ben.

“You don’t want to know,” he says grimly, dragging me along.

“I would think you would know me better than that,” I reply.

An exasperated smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just say he was appreciative of your appearance.”

“Ah.” I turn over my shoulder and catch the boy’s eye, then I shout something back. The boy’s mouth drops open in incredulity and then, amidst his friends’ shouts of laughter, he begins to move towards us.

“You’ve done it now,” Ben sighs, tugging me down an alleyway. We run, zigzagging a little, until he is certain we have lost our pursuer.

“And where did you learn that?” Ben asks. “I’m fairly sure they don’t teach words like that to proper young ladies.”

“Good job there aren’t any of those around, then,” I reply. “And I learned it from Ursula, of course. Such a poetic language, Italian.” It’s rankling a little that we fled so easily. The sight of the Blackshirts unnerved me, and a part of me relished the idea of a confrontation. I wanted to push back against something that I know in my heart is wrong. Doing nothing, running away, it feels … cowardly.

There’s not too much time to dwell on this, though, as we have reached our first important stop, a pilgrimage to Ben’s place of worship: the Uffizi gallery. We turn down an unobtrusive side street and find ourselves walking the length of the narrow courtyard between the two wings of the museum; ahead is a tantalizing glimpse of the Arno and all around us the high walls of the old building, built for the Medici. Graceful pillars support a wide portico where happy tourists buzz like little bees, and we join the swarm into the gallery.

Inside the museum there’s a sense of calm. It is already very obvious to me that the people of Florence hold the business of art to be a serious one, sacred almost, so intertwined with the iconography and the churches and cathedrals that stand shoulder to shoulder here. We clip along the endless, light-filled hallway, one side given over completely to windows. We stop along the way to examine the delicate busts and statues here and I marvel at the way that the softness and warmth of flesh and cloth can be depicted in chill, pure white marble.

We duck into the galleries that lead off the hallway and the artwork that’s on display is almost comically famous. There’s Botticelli’s Venus rising from her shell, and Titian’s Venus of Urbino with her frank stare, and the little dog curled at her feet. There are paintings by Michelangelo, Rembrandt and Raphael. It is almost overwhelming, but Ben is the perfect guide, pointing out little details and explaining different techniques that the artists used.