The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  “You smell like roses and biscotti,” Gabriele called out to her. “Until Sunday!” He continued waving until she could no longer see him.

  “I couldn’t give them back,” she told Signora Farnese when she returned to her seat. “He was too far away.” She sat down and wrote across the bottom of Gabriele’s portrait: “Italian soldier on the train from Naples” and the date. Later, she planned to fill in the background. She placed the medal and the money with the drawing and closed them inside her sketchbook. Is this what people mean by an “Italian” experience? She smiled.

  “What did he say his name was?” Signora Farnese asked. “I’ll have someone find out about him.”

  “Gabriele Marcheschi. He said he would call on me on Sunday. I’ll give the picture and the medal and the money to him then.”

  “So you gave him my address, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” said Signora Farnese. “Then there is nothing else to be done except to tell you that this, too, is highly improper. You are my guest, and I am your chaperone. I am the one who should invite guests to my house on your behalf. That is how we do things in Italy. Please remember that for my sake, if not for your own. And never give my address to anyone.”

  “Not even a taxi driver?” Willa said, intending to tease her.

  “Not even a taxi driver.”

  “I’m sorry,” Willa said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t do it again.”

  “Firenze, signora, signorina,” the conductor told them. He looked outside and then at his watch, surprised. “Three minutes early.” The train swayed, braked, and came to a stop with a shriek and an exhalation of steam. Outside, the purple grey twilight filled the corners of the day. Through the window, Willa could see the water-stained buildings hunched down against the impending darkness. A thin rain had left everything wet but unwashed.

  They followed a porter. The used air of the station carried the odors of dampened dust and wool. Willa hadn’t expected it to be so cold. She was glad she had worn her warm coat.

  “Wait here while I find Antonio,” Signora Farnese said. On the crowded platform, people huddled together in brown-grey bundles. They look like sparrows, Willa thought. She had expected Italy to be more colorful. Drizzle settled around her. It glistened on her luggage and left a damp film on her coat. When she buttoned the top button, her glove came back wet. A cold wind lifted loose papers and swirled them around her feet. She shivered and adjusted her hat. At last, the porter arrived with their trunks and put the rest of their luggage on his cart. Willa followed him inside the station. At least inside it was dry and warm. In the echoing waiting room, the porter set their belongings on the moist floor.

  “Please wait,” Willa said. She took out the map from her carpetbag. “Dov’è Fiesole?” Where is Fiesole?

  “So there you are!” The voice came from behind her. She turned around. “You missed our engagement, girlie”—Grable shook his finger at her—“and then you and your chaperone walked off.” The porter pointed to Fiesole. “Looks like you can find your way around, though. Lemme see. Where is it you’re going?” Grable looked at the map. “Fiesole, is it? Who d’ya know in Fiesole?” Willa didn’t answer. “I’ll help you find it.”

  “I don’t need any help, thank you,” Willa said. Grable turned on her, his thick lips parted and curled. He was taller than she remembered. His small eyes contained an unexpected threat.

  “Not so fast. You stood me up last night and you ducked out on me again this morning.” She avoided looking at him. He moved closer to her, filling up the space between them.

  “Leave me alone,” she said loudly. People turned to look.

  “Boy, you sure didn’t act that way on the ship,” he said equally loudly. What would these people think? “Bit of a tease, ain’tcha?” She saw his fury and knew he would hurt her if he could. Where is Signora Farnese?

  Grable offered the porter several bills. “Get us a taxi.” The porter hesitated. “Now!”

  “Willa!” Signora Farnese called. “Here you are.”

  “Had a hard time finding her myself,” Grable said. He held out his black-gloved hand. “‘Scuse my glove, signora, and ‘scuse us. This young lady and I have an appointment to keep.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Signora Farnese. A middle-aged man in a worn, black suit appeared at Signora Farnese’s elbow. “Antonio, we’ll go to the car. Bring everything with you.” Relieved, Willa followed, leaving Grable behind. “In Italy, if a young woman is seen without a chaperone, people assume she’s available to anyone,” Signora Farnese told her after they were in the car. “Antonio and I will accompany you while you’re here.” She smiled. “Never mind. Now that you’re here, I want you to meet some people who can be helpful to you.” The car rattled through the dark and then wound uphill toward Fiesole. “Pierluigi Flavi is a respected art and antiquities dealer, and I think you would like each other.” The wet streets sparkled in the headlights. Willa vowed not to make any more mistakes.

  6

  FIESOLE, ITALY 1934

  On Sunday, the day Signora Farnese had planned a luncheon in Willa’s honor, Willa strolled in the garden, noting the variety of plants—vegetables, herbs, vines, roses, wildflowers—and the fragrance of jasmine. Flocks of birds in delicate formations flew overhead, calling. The impression of wild abundance and casual disorder belied the careful geometry of the central courtyard and fountain and the symmetrical paths radiating out from them toward varied views. The leaves of the deciduous trees flickered to the ground in a confetti of red, gold and orange. Under a piercing cerulean sky marbled with light clouds, the olive groves and vineyards followed the soft curves of the hillsides as if they were tumbling into the valley below, rolling toward the tiled rooftops and tawny buildings of Firenze. How does one capture the sensation of tumbling? The sensations of painting—the feel of the brush, the thickness of the paint, the texture of the canvas—didn’t match the sensation of falling.

  Signora Farnese’s maid, Assuntina, approached her. “Signorina, the guests have arrived.” Excited and nervous about this first social occasion, Willa followed Assuntina along one of the paths that led up a rise to a terrace sheltered by a pergola supporting a large and twisted wisteria. They entered a glass-enclosed loggia where potted citrus trees blossomed. Willa dropped her jacket on a nearby chair. With a disapproving glance, Assuntina took the jacket away. Willa shook out her hair and adjusted her ivory silk dress, then licked her finger and bent down to rub a bit of dirt off her pale shoe.

  Signora Farnese entered the loggia with the first of the guests. “Willa, may I present Pierluigi Flavi and his parents, Stefano Flavi, who directs L’Accademia d’Arte, and Paola Flavi, his wife and my late husband’s sister.” She took Willa’s hand. “And it is my great pleasure to present Willa Carver, my American guest, who, I may say, is going to make a very fine artist.” Signora Farnese said this with a certainty that surprised Willa.

  “Piacere di conoscerLa,” Willa said extending her hand to each of the guests. She hoped her Italian was correct. Was it conoscerLa or conoscerLei? Italian could be so complicated sometimes.

  “You speak Italian very well,” Pierluigi Flavi said to her. “I don’t hear any accent.” ConocerLa must be correct then, Willa thought, relieved to have made a good first impression.

  A Mr. Bradshaw arrived, guided by Antonio. Though Willa failed to catch his first name, Signora Farnese said that he was an American who imported and exported important works of art. “He’s the best,” she added, as if Willa might have a need of his services. Next, there was a professor of art history, his wife and their twin daughters, whose names, Salomè and Delilah, seemed far bolder than the girls’ shy presences. Finally, a very elderly white-haired couple with beaked noses and black clothing hobbled in, leaning on their canes. They cocked their heads when anyone spoke. Willa thought they resembled crows. “You’re both looking very well today,” Signora Farnese told them. She spoke very loudly. The two looked at their h
ostess blankly.

  The guests gathered around a small sculpture and two paintings, still lifes in neutral colors, which Signora Farnese had recently purchased from Pierluigi Flavi. Willa preferred brighter colors and did not immediately see great significance in the paintings, but the others pronounced the artist a “seminal figure in twentieth century art.” Willa had never heard of Morandi. The sculpture, called “Mother and Child,” depicted two figures so narrow and elongated that Willa thought a more descriptive title might be “Starvation.” She was surprised when the guests congratulated Signora Farnese on these “important” and “valuable” acquisitions to her excellent collection and thought them “sound investments.” Willa wished she understood more about art. How long would it take to learn?

  “Isabella has an excellent eye,” Pierluigi Flavi said.

  “You are much too modest,” Signora Farnese told him. “You have the eye, and I benefit from your exceptional taste.” Do Italians always flatter one another? Willa wondered.

  “What brings you to Firenze?” Mr. Bradshaw asked Willa. He was a large, broad-shouldered man, solid like a plank, pale and blond, with a flat, squarish face and eyes so pale that he appeared farther away than he was. He looked prosperous, yet out of place.

  “I’m studying art,” Willa replied, wondering how he fit with the other guests.

  Bradshaw took the prosciutto-and-fig appetizer from a tray that Antonio was holding and bit into it. “That so?” Willa nodded, watching as the prosciutto came apart and hung down over Bradshaw’s chin. He grabbed the morsel with his fingers and pushed it back into his mouth. “Maybe you’d be interested in working for us,” he said. He looked at the front of her dress. “I’m looking for an assistant to help me with clients.”

  Willa understood Bradshaw’s gaze and his gambit. “I’m planning to be an artist, so I’m here to study,” she said.

  Bradshaw grunted and chuckled. “Fine by me.”

  Signora Farnese seated them around a large refectory table. Pierluigi Flavi held Willa’s chair for her and then sat down to her right next to Signora Farnese, with Mr. Bradshaw to her left. “Pierluigi has agreed to take us to the Boboli Gardens next week,” Signora Farnese told Willa with obvious pleasure.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” Willa said to him. She unfolded her napkin, noting its elaborate cutwork and embroidery. Antonio filled her wine glass. Willa joined the others, answering their “chin, chin” with her own. This is exactly where I belong and where I want to be.

  “How long will you be staying in Firenze?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Several years, I think,” she said, noting the antique Italian landscape depicted in muted tones of sepia on her plate. Possibly forever.

  Pierluigi Flavi held a plate of antipasti for her. She noticed his slim, smooth hands and manicured fingernails and forgot her conversation with Mr. Bradshaw. Pierluigi Flavi was a study in subtle contrasts of color: dark hair and profoundly blue eyes, light blue shirt and dark blue jacket against khaki slacks, and a single stroke of brilliant violet in the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. The colors played in her imagination: cobalt blue, khaki, ultramarine, umber—each violated by that line of violet. “My father tells me that you’ve agreed to submit to the tyranny of L’Accademia,” he said. “I’m surprised an American would do that.”

  Willa felt a movement on her left. Mr. Bradshaw thrust his business card in front of her. “In case you change your mind, here’s where you can contact me.” He pointed to his name: Edward C. Bradshaw, Import, Export and Customs. “Most people call me Ted.”

  “Thank you, Ted.” Willa put the card on the table next to her plate and returned her attention to Pierluigi Flavi. “Yes, I want to improve my work.”

  Pierluigi Flavi nodded toward his father on the other side of the table. “You know, don’t you,” he said in voice loud enough for all to hear, “that at my father’s academy you’ll learn to draw like Michaelangelo, but you’ll never again have an original idea of your own?” The heavy gold watch on his wrist seemed to underscore his authority on the certainty of this outcome.

  Willa took a sip of wine. “So you think that classical training is a waste of time?”

  Pierluigi Flavi laughed. “No. I simply mean that L’Accademia turns promising artists into the circus dogs of the old masters. You’ll strut prettily with your bag of used tricks, but you’ll forget why you wanted to be an artist in the first place and what it was you wanted to say. Ask my father whether that’s not so. He’ll tell you the same thing—at least he will if he’s honest.”

  Willa’s confidence vanished. Could it be that Pierluigi Flavi was right? “How can you be sure that will happen?” she said, trying to hold her voice steady.

  “Real creativity threatens my father,” he continued. “He will pull your originality out of you like weeds out of a garden and replace it with something that can never be yours because it’s everyone’s.” Uneasy, Willa took several bruschetta and some additional prosciutto and fig and put them on her plate, and began to eat. “If you don’t believe me, ask my father right now,” Pierluigi Flavi said.

  “Is that true?” Willa said to Stefano Flavi with a smile that failed to disguise her uncertainty.

  “Mio Dio! Do you hear how my own son slanders me?” Stefano Flavi said to Signora Farnese. “Why are the young so ungrateful?”

  Signora Farnese threw up her hands. “Mah! You would think a father and son would do something besides insult each other at my table and in front of my guests, too!”

  Pierluigi Flavi laughed. “Signora, I’m merely warning your lovely guest of the risk that her drawings will be charming, but entirely generic, like putti.” He held the platter of antipasti. “Will you have some more?” Willa declined. She had lost her appetite.

  “If this gal has as much talent as she does looks, she’ll be famous the day after tomorrow.” Bradshaw’s hearty baritone filled the room and was seconded amid general agreement and laughter. Embarrassed, Willa blushed.

  Stefano Flavi cleared his throat. “Nonsense. There is nothing wrong with beauty,” he said, smiling at Willa. “Don’t take seriously what my son says. He can’t draw. He refused to learn the skills of the masters.” He held out his hands, turning them skyward. “Now, he realizes that I was right. This is why he takes every opportunity to tell everyone who will listen that I am wrong.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Signora Farnese, “he has exquisite taste.” She gestured toward the loggia where the new paintings and sculpture were. “You cannot doubt that.”

  “Yes, that I will admit,” said Stefano Flavi, “and in that sense he is original and creative. I admire his extraordinary success.”

  “Art isn’t merely a matter of good taste,” Pierluigi Flavi said to Willa. “In fact, good taste can be the enemy of the truly great artist. I don’t believe good taste necessarily leads to originality or creativity. Do you?”

  “Everyone knows that!” Stefano Flavi interrupted. Willa had never thought about the relationship between taste and originality. In fact, she had never heard the subject discussed. Such questions were obviously important. What other questions might there be? Questions she didn’t know to ask.

  “What is your opinion, signorina?” Stefano Flavi said to Willa. “Does good taste destroy originality or enhance it?”

  “I want to introduce you to the artists whose work no one collects yet,” Pierluigi Flavi said to Willa before she could answer, “artists my father doesn’t necessarily approve of or know. You’ll see that they think very differently about art than he does. They don’t worry about taste. They have new ideas about what art can be.”

  Antonio came in and whispered something to Signora Farnese.

  “What do you mean?” Willa asked, excited at the prospect of meeting other artists.

  “For them, art isn’t merely the mastery of traditional techniques. Art is the act of creation itself,” Pierluigi Flavi said. Willa had never considered this distinction before. Hadn’t Maestro
Ottaviani said they were the same? Could he have been mistaken? What else had he been mistaken about? It occurred to her that perhaps she knew nothing at all about art and that Maestro Ottaviani didn’t either. Perhaps she didn’t even know what art was. Perhaps her ideas had nothing to do with real art. This troubling possibility led her to take another sip of wine.

  “…on Thursday afternoon, then?” Pierluigi Flavi was saying to her.

  Before she could respond, Signora Farnese appeared at her side. “You have a caller,” she whispered.

  “But I don’t know anyone here.”

  “Antonio says his name is Gabriele Marcheschi. I believe he’s the soldier from the train.”

  “The one with the medal?”

  Signora Farnese nodded. “Antonio says he won’t be put off. He says he has come from Orvieto and insists that he must see you.”

  Startled, Willa excused herself and stood up. “I’ll tell him to leave,” she said to Signora Farnese just as Gabriele blew into the dining room, like wind ahead of a storm.

  “Eccoti!” Gabriele said with an exuberance that brought all conversations to a stop. “There you are! I was waiting for you in there”—he pointed toward the salotto—“but you were in here.”

  “You must excuse me. We were just discussing plans to visit some artists,” Willa told him. She was embarrassed, of course. What would Signora Farnese think? Pierluigi Flavi? It was a terrible mistake to tell Gabriele Marcheschi where I live. Gabriele advanced into the dining room and rested his hand on the high, carved back of Signora Farnese’s chair.

  “This is most unexpected,” said Signora Farnese. “May I present Gabriele Marcheschi who has come from Orvieto, I believe.”

  Gabriele nodded and gestured toward Willa. “She’s a true artist,” he said as if he were privy to their earlier conversation. “Did she show you her portrait of me?” He looked at each of the guests. They shook their heads, murmuring “No.”