“Thanks, I am sure you do,” Sean said, taking the bag and the card.
Sean turned slowly, adjusting his cane to the cobblestones, and crossed through the piazza, pulling his bag, which bumped along loudly behind him. When he reached the Baptistery across from the Duomo, he stood and stared at it for a long time. The driver was right. He had played the scene over and over in his head. He imagined running into her as she came walking past him. He imagined all the things he would say to her. Dammit. He was a fool to think he could come here, just show up, and everything would go as he had imagined, as he had planned and dreamed, simply because he had some dumb hallucination on the night of the fire.
Sean fought another urge to turn around and tell the driver to stop, but instead walked toward the entrance of the church.
Chapter 27
THERE IS AN UPRUSH WHEN ONE WALKS THROUGH THE door of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore. One half-expects to be assaulted by an opulent interior, one at least befitting its over-the-top exterior. But walking through the doors, Sean felt exactly how he had over eleven years ago, when he first set foot inside the gargantuan, stark nave. He felt swallowed. Infinitesimal. Insignificant. And yet, he felt connected . . . connected to everyone and everything. The vast open space filled with light and people made him feel that he was intimately connected to the divine architect, and all the men who’d made it, too, who worked for centuries to build the structure. It took thousands of men and women to build the structure, brick by brick, and none of them knew the lives they’d touch. Few of them probably knew that the magnificent structure would stand for centuries, long after they lived. Invisible to him now, the spirits of those people reached out and touched Sean as he walked. He just knew it. He’d felt them with him eleven years earlier and he felt them now. As he walked through it again, he felt like a maverick wave was hitting him and taking him to the cold depths of the ocean floor. A weight heavier than he’d ever felt pressed on his chest. He inhaled deeply and tried to catch his breath. He reached for a mask that was not there to pull off.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
When he reached the front of the church, and stood beneath the colossal dome, he suddenly remembered something he’d forgotten. A found memory, the kind that happens only when looking through old boxes in cobwebbed basements, where suddenly a long-forgotten and unseen picture conjures it all up and worms its way through one’s subconscious. Like a few months ago when he’d come upon a photo of Cathleen and himself at the Bronx Zoo back when they were kids. He could have been no more than nine or ten years old. He could smell the camel they were riding. He could see their mother waving at them. It had been a day lost until found decades later in a box. And just like when he saw that picture and remembered, he saw the dome and could see Chiara stop him, take his hand, and say to him in impeccable English, “Do you know how they built that giant dome, Sean? It had never been done before. Nothing this magnificent had ever been created. The closest thing was the Pantheon in Rome, but the architects of the Pantheon didn’t leave instructions, of course, so no one knew just how they created it. The people of Florence felt hopeless. They didn’t think that their church, which took centuries to build, would ever get the promised dome. But eventually the genius architect Brunelleschi solved the problem of building a dome on such a gargantuan scale. It is still somewhat of a mystery and argued about in certain circles, but the gist is that by creating an intricate web of chains and iron rods, he was able to build a somewhat flexible but strong structure that would eventually form the bones of the dome. He made a series of them and formed them in the shape of an octagon to hold the shape,” Chiara said, pulling Sean’s arms with hers and interlocking them to demonstrate how the chains were pulled taut. “It took eight sides to create the strength to support it,” Chiara explained further. “Masons reinforced the structure as they built it with an ingenious bricklaying method—interlocking them in a herringbone pattern. The cross ties of the iron chains and rails were woven together and then were covered with the bricks and mortar of the inner dome. The bottom chains can be seen protruding from the drum at the base of the dome. The others are hidden. Can you see?” Chiara asked, breaking their taut circle of arms and pointing up.
Sean nodded, but he didn’t see.
“They never even needed scaffolding. They just stood on the web of chains and built from the inside out.”
“So there are iron rods and chains still up there?” Sean asked.
“Yes, the clay bricks were formed in fire, Sean, and then formed the body of the dome. And the inside was reinforced with metal.”
Formed in fire and reinforced with metal. Sean dropped his cane with the memory and looked up toward the small windows cut into the dome.
“And all of it was created so that at the top of the dome, a circle of windows could be installed, to let the light in. So that through the fire, the hard metal, and the heavy stuff of this world, the light could come shining through,” Sean remembered Chiara saying and pointing.
“All that for a little bit of light,” Sean said, looking up at the dome and then back at Chiara in disbelief.
“Yes, Sean. A little bit of light makes all the difference. How else would we be able to see the angels?” Chiara’s head fell back and she pointed up to the frescoes painted on the interior of the dome.
“How do you know so much? So much about the light?” Sean asked her, taking her by the hands and looking deep in her eyes.
“I was named after it. Sort of. My father . . . he brought me here as a child and he told me the same story I just told you. He came here every day and prayed under that light for a daughter. My mother was old like him and they wanted a child. And he made a promise to the angels and the light above that if he was granted this request, he would name me after the light they pointed to. He would spend his life in service to it.”
“Wait, I thought Chiara meant Clare?” Sean asked.
“Chiara means clear—so light may pass, so that it may enter,” she said, smiling and pointing.
“All this for a little light.” Sean laughed and hugged her close. “Little Chiara,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
Sean, overcome by the memory, caught his breath and looked up at Vasari’s, Zuccari’s, and Cresti’s frescoes, painted over the course of eleven years. Each building upon each other’s work, where one left off another began. One informed the other, making each consecutive fresco more beautiful, more alive. Each added their own version of light to the entire dome, covering the fire-burned bricks, chains, and metal with beauty, essence, and spirit. Each interpretation wholly different than the other but together working to tell a complete story of the world, creation, judgment, hell, earth, and heaven. Each used their divine talents to fill the giant, empty white dome with beauty and light.
Sean saw Cresti’s Choirs of Angels, which encircled the dome. Their wings spread wide, and their arms pointing to both the light above and the people below. He thought of Chiara, the light, and the eight sides that helped strengthen and reinforce the dome. Eight.
He looked at the angels above and then started another mental list, slowly whispering each of their names aloud:
Mom
Cathleen
Colm
Gaspar
James
Libby
Tom
Chiara
He envisioned each of their faces in the faces of the angels above him. And he was overcome by the thought of the eight people who held him up, pushed him into the light.
Sean fell to his knees.
Chapter 28
AN HOUR AFTER LEAVING THE DUOMO, SEAN STOOD outside the Montanari family apartment afraid to knock. Despite what the driver had warned him not to do, he stood planning what his explanation might be to Chiara’s father and just how he might elicit her whereabouts from the protective man. He had not seen him since the last Sunday dinner he had been invited to. Just days before he left Chiara and Florence for good.
Sean had held hi
s arm up in preparation for a knock when the door opened in front of him. A skinny teenage girl with heavy eye makeup stood before him. She was small in stature like Chiara and had Chiara’s hair color and amber-colored eyes, but she was more angular and dark.
“Lucia?” Sean asked in disbelief.
“Si?” The girl looked at the man, confused for a moment, and finished pulling on her jacket and grabbed her bag off the chair by the door, giving him a suspicious once-over.
“It’s me. Sean Magee? You were a little girl, no more than three or four, when I saw you last. I dated your sister, Chiara. A long time ago. Do you remember me?” Sean asked.
“Sean? Magee?” Lucia’s eyes squinted suspiciously. “You’re real?” she said in perfect English, like her sister.
“Of course.”
“You’re alive?” she said, poking Sean.
“Yes, of course, why . . .” And then Sean remembered. It had never occurred to him, it never crossed his mind for a second that Chiara would have thought he died or that that would even have been a possibility.
“She said you disappeared. Poof. Gone. One day here, the next day gone. I don’t remember much of it, but I remember being sad for her, because she would spend hours curled up on her bed holding your picture,” Lucia said, not holding back in the least.
“God, I am so sorry,” Sean said to her, realizing that his leaving affected more than just Chiara.
“She got over you. So don’t get too sorry. And you don’t have to pretend sorry for me,” Lucia snapped back again. “You grown-ups are so full of shit.”
Teenagers scared Sean. They said exactly what they thought. Social media had made it even worse. It made him uncomfortable. They all felt entitled to share their opinions and highlight perceived grown-up hypocrisy. Half-truths and hypocrisy were the bane of every teen’s existence and had been since the beginning of time, long before they could tweet it or post it. He remembered his own teen years well. He remembered when his idea of truth was more prized than another’s pain, sacrifice, or closely guarded secret. Teens felt for lies and deceits like Sean felt for fire behind thick walls and they rejoiced in finding and revealing them. More than anything, they enjoyed crashing through them with axes of perceived truth.
“I’m not pretending,” Sean said.
“Really? Then why are you here? Do you just happen to be in the neighborhood? Since when did New York City move next door?” Lucia asked, using her thumb to point to her neighbor’s door.
“Los Angeles actually. I came from Los Angeles,” Sean corrected her.
“Well, you’re out of luck. You came a long way for nothing. My sister, Chiara, she’s not here,” Lucia said.
Sean’s shoulders dropped and he turned.
Lucia looked at Sean’s ear as he turned and then noticed his scarred hands and his cane. “Did you fight in the war?” she asked, staring.
“What? No. Why? What war?”
“Any. All of America’s wars. You’re a soldier? You’re injured,” she said, pointing to Sean’s ear and then his hands.
“No,” Sean explained. “I am a firefighter. Well, I used to be.”
“Ah, ah,” Lucia said, softening at the sight of Sean’s melted ear and what looked to her like a lame attempt to cover it with long hair that had been brushed forward to hide the burns.
Sean, feeling her stare, put his hands up to push his hair forward and realized it only brought more attention to his burned hands. He felt his face flush with embarrassment and turned again to leave.
“Hey! Hey! Where are you going?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I probably look and sound very foolish to you.”
“No, I’m sorry. I was rude. It’s just that . . . I wasn’t expecting you . . . or your . . . well . . . how you look now.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Sean, do you want to come with me? I am going to see her. We have lunch plans.”
“Wait. I thought you said she wasn’t here. She is still here—in Florence?” Sean asked hopefully.
“Si, si. She is not home right now. She works at the Art Institute. She is a curator. She lives here,” Lucia said, pointing back into the apartment. “Our father died right after our mother did. Cancer and a stroke. They were old when they had Chiara and practically ancient when they had me and Franco. So she got stuck taking care of us. She knew it would end up like this.”
“So she’s not . . .”
“No, no, no. No husband. No boyfriend. She’s what you call in America a single white female.”
“We don’t actually call anyone that. One movie did, a long time ago.” Sean felt suddenly light and jocular, brimming with the hope that he might actually find Chiara today. He pulled himself together to ask Lucia when her father passed away.
“About three years ago. My sister was in Rome living with a boyfriend. She came back to take care of us and the boyfriend wouldn’t follow.”
“That’s too bad,” Sean said, feigning sympathy.
“He was an asshole. Don’t feel too badly,” Lucia deadpanned.
“So you’re going to see her, right now?” Sean asked, trying to clarify whether the invitation still stood.
“You know Chiara will fall over dead when she sees you. You know she still keeps your picture in her jewelry box. I see it every time I steal her earrings. You used to be hot,” Lucia quipped, coming out of the door and closing it, then slipping in her keys to turn the series of locks.
“And I’m not anymore?” Sean said, looking worried.
“No one your age is hot. You and my sister are old.”
“The thirties are not old,” Sean corrected her.
“It’s twice as old as me. So you’re super old. Do you think sixty-year-olds are hot?”
“Point taken,” Sean said, hobbling behind the girl, who walked quickly ahead of him.
“You coming?” she asked, turning around.
“You’re gonna have to be patient, Lucia. I’m an old man,” Sean said, limping behind her.
Lucia stopped and grabbed his arm and guided him down the steps, saying, “Oh, I love an adventure. Life is so boring.”
“It’s really not,” Sean said.
“When you’re a kid, it is. It’s so boring, I want to do outrageous things,” Lucia admitted with a shout and swung her arms out wide, almost knocking Sean over.
“You and every other kid. Just don’t be an idiot. You’d be amazed by how much of your life is determined by the stupid things you do to break up the boredom. In fact, most of life is determined by the stupid things you do. The split-second, rash decisions are the ones that make all the difference between whether you end up on either Savile or death row.”
“You sound like Chiara.”
“She’s smart. Always was.”
“She thinks she knows everything,” Lucia said, rolling her eyes.
“She’s old, so she knows more than you. A wise man once told me the key to life and love is this . . . ,” Sean said, turning to the girl.
“What?” Lucia said as she pushed through the apartment building door and spilled out into the street.
“Listen. Listen to your sister. I wouldn’t have gotten in half as much trouble in life if I had listened to mine,” Sean said, coming up behind her.
“Yeah, but I bet you were never bored,” Lucia said smartly.
“Point taken,” Sean said for the second time since they met.
“Are you nervous, Sean? Because you look nervous,” Lucia said bluntly, tearing through his truth with her teen ax.
“Yes, Lucia, I am,” he said, inhaling. “I’m nervous and excited. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment. What it took for me to get here. To this day,” Sean admitted.
“Well, don’t be disappointed. She’s changed a lot since then.”
“We all have. I have, too,” Sean said.
“She’s tough. She used to laugh so much. She doesn’t anymore,” Lucia said while fumbling with her iPod and inserti
ng her earphones as she walked.
“Life is tough, Lucia. From the sound of it, it’s been especially rough for her,” Sean said, pulling one of the earphones out as he spoke to her.
Lucia nodded, looked up at the sky, flipped her long hair to reinsert the earphone in defiance, and said, “You know, Sean, she’ll kill me for this, but here’s what I am going to do. You and I both want something. So I’ll make you a deal. You want to see my sister and I could use a break from my sister. She’s both boring and old.” Lucia feigned a yawn and then laughed. “So you go to lunch with her. She’ll make you eat lettuce and won’t let you order a cappuccino. But she’ll be at this café on this street around the corner from the Art Institute,” Lucia said, writing down the address and name of the café on a piece of paper she had pulled from a notebook in her purse. “And in exchange for this address, you will tell her I went to the library to study,” Lucia said, stuffing the address in Sean’s jacket pocket and patting his heart.
“Are you going to get me in trouble, Lucia?”
“Probably. But better you than me,” Lucia said, swinging the bag over her shoulder and taking off down the street.
“Jesus,” Sean said, shaking his head. “Kids today.”
Chapter 29
AS SEAN SAT WAITING FOR CHIARA TO ARRIVE, HE tried his best to do what the cabdriver had instructed. He tried not to think of all the things he would say to her. He would try not to come to her with excuses. He tapped his foot and adjusted his legs under the table several times. He looked at every woman who passed by on the street and thought each one might be her. A chubby woman with blond hair: Maybe she gained weight and started to dye her hair? A tall, gamine woman wearing bright red lipstick: Maybe she had a growth spurt? Then he panicked and thought she wasn’t coming at all. He thought that Lucia had never been going to meet her sister. That it was all a big joke on his account. Ha-ha, you dumb American. You freaky stalker, you. Like I’d ever give you my sister’s whereabouts? Scram, loser. After fifteen minutes of destructive self-talk, Sean grabbed his cane and tried to stand. Pushing himself up, he bent down over his cane and hoisted himself into a standing, though bent position. When he finally stood up straight, Chiara Montanari was there before him.
Proof of Angels Page 19
