Still Life by Sarah Winman

Author:Sarah Winman [Winman, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2021-04-20T17:00:00+00:00

La Dolce Vita

1960

The turn of the decade was welcomed. Farewell, the Fifties – what have you ever done for us?

Quite a lot, actually, said Massimo, lighting a cigarette and preparing to deliver a well-informed speech. Let me explain, he said. The country’s in the grip of an economic miracle due in no small part to the Marshall Plan – or the European Recovery Program, to give it its proper name – and there’s a great sense of relief and optimism after the war and Fascism.

I can feel that, said Pete.

Me too, said Cress.

Reconstruction is at an all-time high and mass migration has shifted a demographic from the deprived rural south to the more urban affluent north. Consequently, prosperity has found its way into the working classes and a new consumer society is flourishing. Fiat, Pirelli, Alfa Romeo, Vespa—

Gucci, said Ulysses.

Gucci, repeated Massimo. Names that have put Italy on the world stage. Fashion has now become available to the masses – and he flashed the label of his new off-the-peg jacket – and washing machines and refrigerators and, more importantly, tinned tomatoes have transformed the lives of women like never before. Cars have replaced donkey and carts, and motorcycles bicycles. What else?

Televisions, said Cress.

Ah yes, televisions, Cress. Televisions everywhere! And the Pensione Bertolini even has a telephone and nobody cares. So, good times, said Massimo, exhaling a long stream of smoke. They were sitting outside Michele’s, under a large awning that had been bestowed by the Campari group for consistently high drink sales. The place was packed. Ulysses watched Giulia carry out good luck plates of lentils and cotechino.

A toast, said Claude, wanting to leave his mark on the evening. Hello, the Sixties! More of the same, please!

The men raised their glasses. Hello, the Sixties, more of the same, please!

Kid was over by the church steps, strumming a guitar. Course, she wasn’t called kid any more, she was Alys. All fourteen years and four months of her. Beatnik before she knew what it meant, in her railwayman’s cap and fishing sweater and shortened jeans. She waved to Pete and Cress walking across the square, Ulysses and Massimo deep in conversation behind. She’d become distant with Ulysses and didn’t know how to put it right.

Overnight things had changed. The feeling that the eyes of the world were laughing at her – well, she had that all the time now, now that she wanted to kiss girls. And she felt a bit wrong and the church didn’t help and neither did the kids at school with their gossip and jibes. She’d let Guido touch her barely formed breasts just to scotch the rumours. When she’d got home that night, she couldn’t look at Ulysses and she went to bed and didn’t eat. Maybe that was the start? Of the distance, she meant. An act of shame can never lessen another, but how could she know that, because she was fourteen years and four months old, and she was hormones and questions and no sign of a period yet.

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