Vitto knelt to eye level. “You don’t, huh?”
William shook his head. “I think Juba left them there so we could carve more names.” He pointed toward the marble. “Too much white space.”
Vitto eyed the statue that wasn’t really a statue and then ruffled William’s hair as an idea struck him. “Can I have those?”
William handed over the hammer and chisel. Both felt heavy and awkward in Vitto’s hands, vastly different from his collection of paintbrushes. His first bite into the marble felt completely unworthy of the medium. But after his fourth and fifth blow, when he’d allowed some strength into his strike and stopped worrying about the attention his carving was now bringing across the piazza, he settled into a comfortable rhythm that didn’t stop until the last letter, followed by an exclamation point. He wiped the dust clean and stepped back to view what he’d done.
The lettering was clear and substantial, if not quite as polished as Robert’s inscription: “Juba was here!”
Satisfied with how it looked and in a hurry to get to his mother’s journal, to her final story and the entry made in the hours before she’d jumped off the cliff, which he was to read at last call that night, Vitto placed the hammer and chisel on the travertine. They would remain until Mrs. Eaves passed away three weeks later, her name, along with a few piano keys, chiseled into the marble by the increasingly unsteady hand of Cowboy Cane.
“Miss Elenore Eaves,” he chiseled, “was here too!”
Thirty-Seven
June 1939
The Tuscany Hotel
Magdalena’s hands shook as she found the place in her journal, knowing her story would lend a finality to the night’s last call that no one would know about until later. They’d heard her stories before and would not think much of this one during the telling of it.
But later, she wondered, will they understand?
She noticed that Vitto and Valerie were not in attendance this evening. She’d written down in her journal that the two of them had fought only hours ago and that she’d been the reason for it. Valerie had been right. “Dear Valerie, how astute you are. I am dying. The water is slowly doing this to me, I know, but it is the only way.” She found her hands calming as she looked over the guests standing across the piazza, her heart slowing to a comfortable pace as she reviewed the first words of her story, written previously in Italian.
The crowd hushed in anticipation.
“Mnemosyne,” she began, “the goddess of memory and time, was also the inventor of languages and words, and so she came to represent the memorization needed to pass stories from generation to generation—history and myth, family sagas and oral history—because writing had not yet been invented.”
She paced as she spoke, as was her custom. “After the Titanomachy, when Zeus became the newly established ruler of all the gods, he set out with a plan to seduce the lovely Mnemosyne, disguising himself as a shepherd.”
She winked at the crowd. “Now cover your ears because this story is about to get a little naughty.” She waited for laughter to die down. “They slept together for nine consecutive days before returning to Mount Olympus, and from that union the nine Muses were born.”
Magdalena sneaked a glance at her husband, who stood to the side, listening intently. She found it difficult to look at him, knowing what she planned to do later. Afraid that if she met his eyes she would not be able to go on with the story—or the plans.
“Overjoyed with his new daughters, Zeus first kept them close by his throne to entertain his guests with stories and song. He soon made his son Apollo, the god of music and prophecy, their leader and guardian and sent them to earth, where they inspired golden ages of history—great works of art and music and story.”
Here she paused and briefly locked eyes with Juba, who was standing next to the fountain of the piazza. Dear Juba, thank you, she said with her eyes, and he nodded in return. “Apollo took his role seriously and never let the Muses out of his sight, promising to always protect them and their mother, Mnemosyne.
“Then came a time when life on earth grew dark. The evils that had emerged from Pandora’s box were slowly taking over—pride and envy, pain and greed and suffering.” She paused again, closed her eyes briefly to gather herself. “So much suffering. War and poverty, ignorance and abuse, hunger and pestilence wreaked havoc on the human race while the gods watched from their perch on Mount Olympus. Barbarians invaded centers of learning and ransacked great works of art. Learned men and women hid themselves and their books away. A plague known as Black Death devastated town after town. And Apollo, fearing for the safety of his charges, hustled the Muses back to Olympus, to their place beside the throne of Zeus.”
Magdalena’s energy surged as the story took hold of her, and she played to the crowd, acting out her next words, the next actions. “For a long time, the gods on Olympus watched the swirling darkness below, the ravages of Pandora’s evils. But one day Mnemosyne, sitting lazily upon her throne of stone and surrounded by her fountain of water, which triggered memory, reminded Zeus that Pandora had closed her box before all its inhabitants escaped. But that one day it had whispered.”
Mr. Carney shouted from the crowd. “What did it whisper, Magdalena?”
She waited for the chuckles to die down and said with a grin, “That there was hope inside that box, and it badly wanted out. So Pandora had opened the box.” Again, she gestured, pantomiming a winged thing emerging from captivity. “And out came hope for all mankind.”
She mimicked a conversation with the goddess: “What is your point, Mnemosyne? That humans need to be reminded of that? Of hope? Well, perhaps you’re right. So what do you propose, now that plague has nearly finished off the lot of them?”
Mr. Carney, drunk and happy, shouted, “What did she propose, Magdalena?”
She pointed at him as if she’d pointed at Zeus himself. “A rebirth, Mr. Carney. Mnemosyne told Zeus that life on earth needn’t be so gloomy and harsh, so full of hard work and ignorance and wars and disease. What humans needed was a new way of thinking—or rather an old way of thinking. A return to the classical vision of the Greeks and Romans. Of beauty and light and reason and hope.”
She gestured to the hotel around them before continuing. “Mnemosyne nodded toward the nine Muses, who danced listlessly around their father’s throne. Through the years since their return to Olympus, they had grown increasingly bored. ‘We should put them back to work, Zeus, doing what they were born to do.’”
Magdalena turned in a circle, taking in the gazes from all her listeners. “‘Life for people below can be enjoyable again, Zeus. They need beauty and comfort and education. Art and science and music and poetry can change the way they think and make their lives more beautiful.’
“‘So what do you propose?’ asked Zeus.”
Mr. Carney again: “What does Zeus propose, Magdalena?”
“‘As I said, a rebirth. We’ll call it a Renaissance. We’ll send the girls down there to inspire and bring beauty and light to a world gone dreary. It’s time. Past time.’
“‘And where should we send them?’”
Mr. Carney was about to shout it out, but Magdalena’s suddenly serious look stopped him. “‘To Italy,’ said Mnemosyne, ‘because the humans there once knew us well. And specifically to Tuscany, because it’s the most beautiful place on earth.’”
Magdalena smiled, knowing her listeners were aware of her birthplace and would get her little joke. She went on, “And that’s what they did. One by one, over a course of years, the nine Muses were delegated to Tuscany, to the city known as Florence. And soon their influence spread to surrounding cities such as Rome and Milan and Venice. It wasn’t long before the Muses spread their influence to all of Europe, inspiring great art and music, architecture and songs, writings and buildings, the like of which no one had ever seen before.”
Magdalena paused to take a drink from the cup she’d rested on the fountain’s edge before she’d begun—none of them knowing the dr
ink within had come from the very fountain around which they’d congregated. “The Muses didn’t stay on earth all the time, of course. They returned often to their home on Olympus, each one somehow transformed by her time on earth, more glorious and beautiful, with tales of great artists and scientists and musicians. And each, upon her return, begged to be sent back down to do more. Every artist needed a muse, and there were too many artists and creators now to count.
“Even Mnemosyne, who watched daily and monthly and yearly from above, itched to go down and see for herself this Renaissance that was her brainchild. She longed especially to see a man her nine daughters had spoken of, a mortal man of strength and honor who had been born with a hammer in his hand, a man with flowing hair that gave him strength, a man who carved beautiful statues from marble that made even Michelangelo rage with envy.”
Magdalena surveyed the crowd and noticed that Robert had conveniently walked away, somehow knowing where her story would lead. “A man who claimed to be more than a man. A beautiful but prideful man who claimed to be the Renaissance. A culmination of all those who had painted and sculpted and thought and created through the years. This man saw color like no other because he claimed to be color. He was stone and canvas and tile and cloth and everything in between. He was a thinker and a scientist, and he walked the Italian streets like a god fallen from the sky, the envy of every man and the focus of every woman, including the nine Muses and now of Mnemosyne herself.”
Magdalena drank more water and scanned the crowd again for Robert, for Vitto, for Valerie. But finding them still absent, she continued her story, perhaps now with more vigor and confidence because they were not there to hear it. Because they were not ready to hear it.
“Then one day”—she held up an index finger to the sky—“Zeus grew jealous of all this attention the Renaissance man was drawing. He sent a lightning bolt down from the heavens that hit the man in the heart and turned him into a statue, frozen in midwalk right there on the streets of Florence.” Here she briefly froze like a statue. “And for months he was the curiosity of many, looking even more godlike than before, but unable to live and create.
“Mnemosyne cried to Zeus, pleading for him to undo what he’d done, but Zeus was stubborn. He said the only thing that would free the Renaissance man would be her tears, which would never reach him, because Zeus would never allow her to go to Florence. She hatched a plan to sneak down while Zeus slept, but he learned of her plan and vowed never to sleep.
“‘The Muses have outdone themselves,’ he told her. ‘They’ve helped create much that is good, only to have let the heads of mortals grow large with pride. They need closer watching—as do you, my love.’
“Mnemosyne fretted, unable to change Zeus’s mind but determined to help the Renaissance man. So one day when Zeus was in one of his moods, stomping about the heavens and creating rumbles of thunder with each step, she whispered to the underworld, her voice echoing to the cave of Hypnos, begging for him to somehow force Zeus to sleep.”
Mr. Carney’s gaze was now fully on her, as was everyone else’s.
“Hypnos echoed back that he would grant her request, but under one condition. ‘Anything,’ she said, for the longer she looked upon that statue frozen on the streets of Florence, the more she fell in love with the man created from her own heart. “‘I will give you a beautiful chalice filled with water from the River Lethe, disguised as the sweetest wine,’ said Hypnos. ‘Zeus will drink of it and fall asleep, as requested. But you must drink from the chalice, too, and forget that this conversation ever took place.’
“Mnemosyne agreed to these terms and followed them to the letter. Zeus did fall asleep that night, and she did sip from the chalice, just enough to forget that her conversation with Hypnos had ever taken place. Then she prepared to go to earth while her consort slumbered. The heavens were still rumbling from Zeus’s day of stomping about, and when a lightning bolt split the clouds she traveled with it, landing on the streets of Florence in the middle of the night. She approached the stony Renaissance man and stared at it for what seemed like years before kneeling next to it and wrapping her arms around the front leg. There she wept and eventually fell asleep.”
Magdalena wiped her own eyes and went on. “When Mnemosyne awoke it was day, and the streets teemed with people, many talking about the statue and wondering aloud where it had gone. But there was a strong hand gripping her own, telling her they must hide, pulling her through the crowds, this way and that, until they stopped in the shadows of a tall stone building. Mnemosyne looked up and recognized her Renaissance man. His muscles were taut, his eyes blue like the sky. Her tears had undone the stony curse that Zeus had cast for him.
“The two of them spent days and nights on the streets while thunder rumbled above. They agreed to marry, and with a push from the oceans and seas they returned to the heavens, hand in hand.
“Zeus, of course, was filled with jealousy and rage. He pointed toward this mortal man who had claimed to be a god and threatened to lop off his head with a sickle. The man opened his arms and said, ‘But I am the Renaissance, created from the heart and mind of the woman I was born to love.’ And Zeus couldn’t argue with that.
“The Muses, meanwhile, grew jealous as well, because they, too, loved the man they believed they’d helped create. Soon they began arguing with one another, and even Apollo couldn’t calm them. Annoyed with their bickering, Zeus bundled them together with rope and threatened to eat them all, as his father Cronus had done with his children. But his love for them overcame his anger and he released them—for the moment.
“The Renaissance man, now garbed in the rich, colorful robes Mnemosyne had given him, asked Zeus to make him immortal so that he and the mother of the Muses could live as one. But Zeus took offense.
“‘You!’ he shouted, pointing to the Renaissance man.” Magdalena’s voice grew angry, sterner, as the story called for, although, unbeknownst to her listeners, her anger was real. “‘Walking and talking and acting like a god does not make you one. Your pride and your greed will certainly be your downfall.’
“‘And you!’ Now he pointed to Mnemosyne. ‘Your deception must not be rewarded.’
“Meanwhile, behind him, the Muses still bickered. And Zeus, tired of hearing it, rolled them all into a ball, Mnemosyne with them, until they all became one—one woman, one muse, one goddess, fallen—all while Apollo and the rest of the court watched on in shock.”
Magdalena scanned the crowd again. Juba now watched her intently from the bar. “Zeus then took the chalice from the arm of his throne, the one still mostly full from what he’d sipped before. He made the new woman drink it all gone and told her she’d return to earth with the waters from the River Lethe flowing through her. And from the Renaissance man, who stood before him in his robes of the richest red and blue and gold, Zeus took his ability to see the color that surrounded him.
“Zeus took away their gifts, you see. He pronounced it as a sentence: ‘You must both return to earth and live among mortals, but far away from one another. You’—he pointed toward the new woman—‘will no longer remember that you ever knew him. And you who are called Renaissance man’—he pointed toward the man—‘will no longer see the color that you claimed to embody.’ But then, thinking of Pandora’s box, he offered them a tiny bit of hope: ‘If you somehow manage to find one another again, all will be returned.’
“‘And then I’ll be made immortal?’ asked the Renaissance man.
“‘No,’ said Zeus, ‘not until lessons are learned.’” Magdalena pointed to the crowd. “‘Not until pride is returned to Pandora’s box and hope is again set free. Not until giving of yourself becomes more important than yearning for what you have lost. Only then will you be made immortal.’
“Zeus had made his pronouncement, but his anger remained. Anger at Apollo for not keeping a close enough eye on the Muses. Anger at his consort Mnemosyne for tricking him and defying him. Anger at his daughters for doing too good a job on earth. Anger
at this man whose pride had tempted fate. And anger, perhaps, at himself, for acting in haste and destroying those he loved.”
Magdalena playacted what she said next. “The angry Zeus stomped, and the heavens rumbled. He stomped again, and lightning cut through darkness all over the world. He picked up the empty chalice, still wet with the waters of forgetfulness, and hurled it at Mnemosyne’s memory fountain.
“A few drops of the water splashed, escaping through the clouds and mixing with the waters of a little creek that flowed over a small outcropping of coastal land. Mixed with forgetfulness, the creek waters didn’t know which way to flow, so it tried one way and then another, eternally confused.
“Zeus then upturned the stones of Mnemosyne’s fountain and hurled them, piece by memory-soaked piece, down to the earth, where the stones and water they once held landed a few hundred yards away from the creek. Next, he threw a bolt of lightning through the clouds, opening them vast and wide, and torrents of rainwater mixed with the remnants of forgetfulness fell upon the earth, where it touched the elderly like a plague.
“Zeus stomped again, and the heavens opened wider.” Magdalena held her arms skyward, hands to the clouds. “First the Renaissance man tumbled down. The woman who used to be Mnemosyne and her Muses soon followed. Before the clouds closed up, Apollo opened his lungs in song and, as the protector of the Muses, went after them. All of them tumbled toward the raging seas.
“Zeus looked down as they fell and felt a pang of remorse. He called upon his brother Poseidon to not let them drown in his waters, but to spit them back up to the shore instead, where they would start their lives anew.” Magdalena closed her eyes, felt her heart thumping now against her rib cage. “‘And he sent down to the woman a bit of his own rage to protect her should she ever need it and to parcel it out as she must.”
Flashes of blood, flashes of that horrible man, Lippi, urged Magdalena’s words faster. “The waves then calmed enough for another voice to be heard in the wind. The voice of Zeus’s other brother Hades, echoing up like a rumbling belch from the underworld, claiming that one of the stones from Mnemosyne’s fountain had been hurled with such force that it had crashed through to the underworld and into the River Styx, leaving a gaping hole through which the light streamed and Mnemosyne’s memory water dripped.
Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel Page 31
