Holton said that he remembered it very well.
They spoke then of Florence and as they talked Jim Trebling began to remember many things.
The city had been liberated for several months. The war was almost over and Holton and Trebling were able to take a week’s leave: they went to Florence.
Parts of the city had been badly damaged. The old buildings on the Arno had been leveled in many places but the Ponte Vecchio was still there. These things had not been very important, however, because they had not gone to see antiques. They had gone to rest, to meet women, and to try to find enough liquor to get drunk on.
They stayed with a family outside of the town; they stayed in a place called Fiesole.
Trebling remembered the house clearly: long and rambling, dirty-white stucco with small iron balconies beneath the larger windows. A rock garden, dusty gray-green olive trees and an unearthly view of the valley in which was Florence.
The house belonged to a family named Bruno, friends of Robert Holton’s mother. They had invited the two of them to stay as long as they liked: in those days it was a good policy to have American soldiers in one’s home.
Robert Holton had liked a girl named Carla. Trebling had liked her too, but not as much as Holton did. He remembered one night when the three had sat on the terrace, watching the city.
It was summer and the night was warm and vibrant. The city lights glittered in the valley-cup; the lights were golden and flickering and the river shone darkly.