Page 55 of Under a Dancing Star

Ben shrugs. “I care about my work,” he says. “I’m no fan of Mussolini, God knows. But I know plenty who are, and some of those people are likely to be the ones who can help me work.” He frowns briefly and then his face clears. “All of this political fuss will probably come to nothing; the world will go back to normal. It’s the work that will last.”

The rest of the journey passes companionably enough. I ask Ben about some of the art we will see, and his face lights up as he describes the colours and textures, the genius of the old masters and the startling, vibrant works of the new. I like listening to him talk about it; he makes it all come alive for me. In return, I pull out the detailed itinerary I have made of all the museums that I want to visit, detailing the collections at the natural history museum, telling him about the plants at the botanical gardens.

“It’s the third oldest in Europe,” I say excitedly. “It was established in 1545 by a Medici, Ben… A Medici!”

“Everything in Florence was founded by a Medici,” Ben says. “And you’ve missed off some of the best places.”

“How will we do it all?” I ask despairingly.

“We’ll manage,” Ben says. “I promise, you won’t miss anything on your preposterous list.”

When we reach the station Ben climbs down the steps and hold his hands up for the bags. Our eyes meet, and I grin, remembering how we first met. Ben grimaces, which I think means he is remembering it too.

No one has come to meet us, but Ben says there would be no point – he knows where he’s going and they’ll all be waiting at the house anyway. The station is heaving, full of people shouting and shoving at each other. Parts of the impressive new structure are still covered in scaffolding but above us soars a great glass roof.

“More of Il Duce’s improvements,” Ben says, gesturing around us.

“It’s certainly very modern,” I say, looking around at the imposing building.

I’m constantly distracted by the noise, the crowds, all there is to see as we walk out of the station and into a bustling piazza. Another explosion of sound greets us, as hawkers try to sell their wares from various stands.

“They used to hold chariot races in this square,” I say. “Right up until the end of last century.” It’s easy to imagine: the square hemmed in by tall stone-faced buildings, a sense of timelessness exists hovering over it all as if we are both now and then, as if the line between us and the past is suddenly less certain. I can see it all here in front of me, and this nearness to history is dizzying, like walking straight into the pages of the sort of book I would read at home.

“Santa Maria Novella.” Ben points to the church on the other side of the square. “Always my first stop when I get to Florence. Come on.” He hitches the bag on his shoulder again and grabs my hand, weaving through the crowd. “This was one of my mother’s favourite places,” he says.

We push through the wrought-iron gate cut into the high walls and around the small, neat cloister behind. When we walk into the church there’s an incredible feeling of space and light. The high stone arches meet gracefully in a vaulted ceiling. The floor is laid in a checkerboard of black, grey and white, rubbed smooth by a million footsteps. The muted colours of the walls and ceilings tangle with the brilliant stained glass windows. Despite there being so much to take in it leaves me feeling serene, as if the quiet and the beauty speak to something right at the core of me, as if I feel it right in my bones.

We go back through the cloister and enter another chapel, one that feels a million miles away from the huge white space we’ve just been in. Here, the walls and the ceiling are painted in earthy jewel tones crowned by a midnight-blue sky filled with saints. It’s joyful, noisy, clamouring: a riot of colour.

“It’s incredible,” I murmur, feeling suddenly a little shy. “I can see why your mother liked it so much.”

Ben returns my smile and reaches for my hand again. I like the feeling of his fingers around mine. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go and find Lili.”

We wind our way down narrow cobbled streets and it seems that every corner we turn in this beautiful maze leads to another scene so picturesque that even I, with my lack of artistic eye, am moved. The light here is golden, and it brushes lovingly against every surface like a kiss.

Finally, we come to a stop in front of a tall building with a terracotta roof. There are peeling grey painted shutters at the windows. Ben bounds up the three wide steps that lead to the front door and pulls enthusiastically on the bell which I can hear clanging distantly inside the house.

“Open up, Lil!” he calls. “The prodigal son has returned!” He looks younger all of a sudden, and I can imagine him running up these steps as a small, scruffy boy.

A second later the door flies open and Ben is being waltzed around by a lanky woman in a loose white shirt and slacks. Her bobbed hair is a light brown peppered with grey and her tanned face is wrinkled and laughing.

“Ahhh! My boy, my boy!” she exclaims, pulling Ben’s face down and kissing him on the cheeks. “You’ve grown another foot at least.” She slaps him on the shoulder as though she’s telling him off for it.

“And you must be Beatrice.” She turns to me, her expression welcoming, her arms open. Her voice is warm and sing-song American and she pulls me into an enthusiastic hug.

Behind her I see a pretty, slightly round lady who looks like a Dutch porcelain milkmaid.

“Gert!” Ben manages before he’s pulled into another smothering embrace. When he’s released Gert has wet eyes which she dabs at ineffectually with a large white lacy handkerchief.

“Come in, come in!” she says, standing aside so that we can move through the doorway. “Let’s not give the neighbours any more to talk about!”

I step through the door into a dingy hallway. The carpet is worn and there is a row of brass hooks piled at least three deep with coats and hats and scarves in various states of disrepair. Ben chucks our bags down at the bottom of the staircase and dives through a door on our right. I follow behind and catch my breath.

The whole bottom floor on this side of the house has been opened up to make one huge room. The walls are painted burgundy and the floorboards are stripped and polished. At one end of the room is a makeshift kitchen with a couple of counters and an ancient-looking stove. Copper pans hang from the walls beside a tall window that looks over a small green strip of garden. Fragrant, dried herbs hang in bunches from the ceiling.

At the other end of the room are several squashy sofas and some battered armchairs clustered around an incredibly long coffee table which is in turn groaning under the weight of books and newspapers and magazines and dirty wine glasses. There’s an ageing piano in the corner, and the top of that is also covered in books.

The thing that takes your breath away, though, is the art. Jostling for space on the walls and illuminated by the beautiful light that spills through the windows are dozens of paintings in different styles. It’s like the most ridiculous jewel of a museum. There are huge landscapes in heavy frames and there are napkins with ink sketches on them pinned up carelessly with gold tacks. Depictions of classical mythology rest alongside geometric shapes in bold colours and the effect is dizzying.