“Bless you, child,” she said in between puffs of breath. “It is one of life’s reminders of how swift it all can be.”
“Life?”
“Time,” she said, turning onto our street.
“I hope she is awake,” I said as we approached Giulia’s house.
The windows were still dark when we knocked on her door. Margherita was still sleeping but I could feel her squirming restlessly beneath the layers of fabric. It took a few moments before any signs of life came from the house. Above we could see Giulia’s long red hair peek out of the window. Soon the locks twisted open and we were ushered into the house.
“Are you both all right?” asked Giulia, surveying us.
It was clear we had woken her. The stamp of sheet folds still clung to her right cheek. Her eyes watered as they struggled to widen. Giulia’s house was warm even in the absence of a fire. Like Zia’s, the house was neat but her furnishings were finer. The polish of the wooden table and empty crib gleamed even in the low light. A tidy pile of clean kitchen towels waited on a nearby table. I instantly recalled the pristine towels piled in Margherita’s room before they dripped with blood.
“Yes. We are fine and so sorry to wake you,” said Zia. Giulia tightened the shawl around her shoulders and stifled a yawn.
“So tell me, what brings you and your niece—” Her words faltered when she noticed my bundle.
“My friend, she …” I tried. The lump in my throat swelled as I fought to find the words to explain what had happened only a few hours ago. How could I express the terrible evening and all the anguish it had brought? Zia saved me from relating the desperate circumstances that brought us to her doorstep.
“And so we were hoping that you would take this babe on for three days or so,” said Zia cautiously. “Just until we find the little girl a family.”
Giulia glanced at Margherita with a sad smile. She stepped back pulling nervously at her thick red hair. “I really cannot. I have a contract with a good family and my own little girl,” said Giulia. “If they found out …” Margherita’s movements became more restless. Her eyes blinked lazily as her mouth gaped at the sweet and sour milky scent that perfumed the room.
“Please, Giulia! We can pay you and it would only be for two days, not even three,” I begged. My arms felt tingly and sore under the weight of Margherita.
The cry started as a whimper then transcended into a high wail. I tried to rock her in my aching arms but the cry worsened. The baby’s red face was desperate. Giulia was looking around her cozy home, clearly conflicted. Without further hesitation she unbuttoned her nightgown and took Margherita from my arms. Zia left the bag of modest savings on the table and guided me towards the entrance. The bawling had stopped. Before the door closed behind us, I whispered my gratitude to her back while she fed Margherita. Zia fumbled with the key to open the front door.
“Why did you tell her two days when you really have no idea how long it will actually take?” asked Zia.
“Because I am taking her tomorrow or the day after to her new family,” I said, stepping through the front door.
“So what makes you think that this family you have in mind will take the baby?”
“Because of what I have been told about them … and I know they can’t have children of their own, so I’m sure one baby would be more welcome than none.”
Zia’s wrinkled frown and forehead told me she understood my plan. “And when were you going to share your plan with me?”
“After the baby was born?” I said, not even sure what the real answer was. The plan had sort of unraveled on its own.
“How do you expect to get to Vinci?” It was hard to say whether she was excited or anxious about my brilliant plan.
“I was going to ask Leonardo to take me, since he is from there,” I said, making up my mind as the conversation progressed. Zia did not respond to this. Instead, she stood with her hands on her hips, staring absently into the empty hearth.
“And what if they cannot afford a baby? I have no idea of how they are living in Vinci.” said Zia, keeping her eyes fixed on the ashes. Long silent minutes stretched by before the solution came to me.
“I’ll sell my dress.”
“The Medici gift?”
“Didn’t you say it was exceptionally fine?”
“I did.” She raised her eyebrows. “Get some sleep before Renzo comes. You will need it if you expect to travel.” Zia relinquished her resolute pose to resume her needlework. Halfway up the stairs it occurred to me that Zia had not really mentioned anything about my plan.
“Do you think she will take Margherita?” I asked.
“I couldn’t say,” she said, pulling the ebony thread through the taut linen. “I don’t really know who she is anymore.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
White
Soon after resting my head on the pillow, sleep came to visit me. It held my hand for a while and whispered comforting clichés. It told me how everything would turn out all right and how good time is at healing all wounds. As quickly as it had come, it left. Slumber abandoned me before I could argue and I awoke with a start. The terrible adrenaline that had kept me functional had now dulled to pain. If I closed my eyes and tried to identify the feeling it would slip away. Something else was lurking behind the ache. Was it fear?
“I think it is,” I said to the sweet portrait of the Virgin Mary and child that hung at the foot of my bed.
Perhaps the feeling was more tangible now that I knew that on top of my grief I was scared, too. But of what exactly? I wondered, pulling the darkest dress I had over my head. Once I had filled the basin with icy water, I grabbed the soap and worked it into a lather around my face and neck. The rooster crowed while I splashed water on my skin and watched bubbles form a film on the basin’s surface. Probably death, I thought, patting away the dampness with a dry cloth. It was an inevitable end that I always avoided thinking about.
When I was five I had a rollerblading accident. My older sister dared me to roll down a steep hill near my grandfather’s house. I didn’t want to do it, but I also didn’t want to lose my nerve in front of her crew of friends so I did it. The six wheels spun me down the hill at a frightening speed. Not really knowing how to use the rubber brake, I shut my eyelids tight and hoped for the best. The curb hurled my body across a summer green lawn. I walked away with only a few scratches on my knees and face. It was not until I was in the bathroom washing off the dry blood that I experienced the fear for the first time. I remember staring in the mirror and counting the years I might have left to live. For the first time, that naked, terrified five-year-old was coming to terms with her own mortality. By the time I got to the impressive number of ninety-three, I shrugged my shoulders and decided to worry about it later. Well, ten years had passed and it was “later.”
With time on my mind, I checked Idan’s countdown. “Four days,” I breathed. That was how many days I had left in Florence, and how few I had to find Margherita a family. Earlier, when I had closed the door of Giulia’s house behind me, I made a pact with myself. I would be strong until the baby was happy in the arms of her new mother. Then I could fall to pieces, but not before.
Not wanting to be alone anymore, I hid Idan under my dress and went downstairs to the kitchen. Zia had fallen asleep at the table. A fresh pang of sympathy struck me. Zia stirred at the squeak of my sneakers on the tile floor.
“Renzo will be here soon,” she said in a muffled voice.
“Why didn’t you go to your room to sleep?” I asked.
Zia ignored my question by posing one of her own. “Are you hungry?”
“Hungry?” The sound of the word triggered a groan from my insides. Zia moved to get up but I urged her to stay seated.
Four of Georgina’s eggs were frying in a pool of olive oil when Renzo knocked at the
door. He slumped into the house shielding his puffy eyes with his hat. He sat on the cool tile with his palms raised towards the oven’s fire.
“Would you like some too?” I asked the sad boy crumpled by the hot embers.
The sight of his wet face softened my resolve to be tough. Quickly looking away, I cracked two more eggs into the iron pan. We ate to satisfy our stomachs with only the snivels of Renzo’s runny nose for conversation. Once the breadcrumbs and dried yolk were cleaned up, we took up our march to the church where Margherita’s funeral would be held.
The sun warmed my back and my spirit despite my determination to be gloomy. It was only a few minutes before our path diverged from Via dei Benci. Our feet carried us across Santa Croce’s stone plaza. The echo of the giddy excitement I had felt just days ago recoiled off the phantom balconies surrounding the piazza. Families with cheerful smiles walked past us carrying trays laden with creamy pastries, and sausage links hung over their shoulders. The basilica’s jagged stone facade covered us in shadow as we climbed the low steps. Since the rough exterior was so similar to San Lorenzo’s, I almost expected the grandeur that waited for me within. The ceiling’s nest of painted beams momentarily relieved my misery. An ethereal light and air radiated from the lofty stained glass windows as we walked down the broad nave. The massive piers that flanked us supported the pointed arches that housed the side aisle’s chapels. While we made our way to the east end, my curiosity devoured the ornately painted niches.
“Oh my God!” I said, breaking the hazy fumes of incense.
“Shhh, Viola! How many times must I tell you not to take His name in vain?” warned Zia.
“It’s Christmas,” I said, staring at the nativity scene we were approaching.
“Of course … Yesterday was Christmas Eve, don’t you remember?” She stopped to feel my forehead.
“I forgot,” I said, gently removing her hand. It was true that I could be forgetful, but I had never forgotten Christmas. Finely carved statues played against a landscape of painted fabrics.
“It is a pretty scene,” she said, following my gaze. “Saint Francis of Assisi started this wonderful tradition … I suppose it is fitting that you see it in a Franciscan church,” she observed.
Before we could reach the figurines of Mary, Joseph, and the barn animals, Renzo veered towards the right. We followed him down the transept of the church until we reached the foot of a chapel.
Workshop boys flanked the few steps that fell from the jewel-like sanctuary. Their heads hung limp and their backs leaned against its painted walls. Feet huddled around the cold remains of the warm Margherita. She lay on a wooden slab with thick handles at each corner. Her long blonde hair brushed to her waist. It looked golden against the stark white dress that dropped off the sides of the stiff bed. I forced myself to look on her, and in turn, on death. I had not known Margherita for long, but my affection for her ran deep. My sadness sprung from knowing that such a sweet soul had been ripped so violently from this world.
Although I did not know every boy’s name that stood around me, I recognized their faces and the sound of their voices. It only took me a quick glance around at the brilliant walls to see that everyone was there, except Salai. Rage rose from the surface of my thoughts while the same young priest from the night before preached words of forgiveness. No longer being able to look on Margherita’s ashen skin, I searched the painted walls that surrounded us.
The narrow colored glass behind the priest had been masterfully pieced together to form portraits of holy figures. The blue backdrop of the saintly strangers dimmed the sunshine that lit the chapel. Every surface and crevice of its walls was richly painted. The ribbed ceiling that stretched above us shone with constellations of lead white stars against a lapis lazuli sky. Vines of flowers sprawled from the center of the ceiling and down the vault’s skeleton. The divided walls told stories through their painted frescoes.
Normally, I would have asked Leonardo to satisfy my curiosity but he was standing next to Verrocchio near the priest. What brought all these portraits, paintings, and stained glass together under one altar? I wondered.
When I looked at a painting where the Virgin Mary was presenting Jesus to the shepherds, it dawned on me that all the images appeared to relate to Mary’s life. I was admiring the softness of the figures’ bodies and drapery when the sound of a beautiful instrument brought me back to the funeral. Leonardo was playing something that looked like a violin but was wider at the top where his fingers pressed at the seven strings. A soprano’s voice sung from within the crowded chapel. Renzo’s song cracked among the beautiful words that rang from his lips.
To the low light and the ring of shade
I have come, and to the snowing hills.
There is where we see the colorless meadow.
Nevertheless, my longing remains green as
It has taken root in the heart of stone.
Wholly frozen is this blossoming lady,
Even as the white that lies within the dark.
For she is no more alive than is the stone
By the sweet spring which warms the hills
And paints them anew from white to jade
Casing their sides once more with flowers and grass.
When on her mane she sets a crown of leaves
The mind has no spare thoughts for another lady,
Because she weaves the sunshine with the grass.
How does that lady love lie down there in the dark–
Love has imprisoned me within those low hills.
She is brighter than the most precious gem
And the wounds she left behind may not be healed.
I therefore have fled far from prairies and mounds
But from her brightness nothing may hide–
Not behind any peak, nor barrier, nor spring-green.
When the song had finished, I peered around at the new crowd that had gathered on the outskirts of the chapel. From their looks I could tell that the choice of song was peculiar, but for those that remembered her it was perfect. Boys began to shove each other for the honor of lifting Margherita’s corpse out of Santa Croce. They carried her with great pride while they navigated the mass of people trying to see if they knew the girl whose hair and dress flowed gracefully out into the air. I fell to the back of the procession that moved up one of the side aisles.
Before I was able to step out into the afternoon, a hand grasped my shoulder and pulled me into the shadow. Startled, I tried to scream but a hand anticipated it and hushed me. The ringed fingers that waved in front of me belonged to Lorenzo de’ Medici. Terror coursed through me.
“No need to be frightened, Viola,” said Lorenzo with such sincerity that my limbs stopped shaking. He straightened his red hat before he politely said, “I am sorry for your loss. She must have been quite a lovely girl to deserve a funeral like that.”
“She was,” I replied.
“I do not mean to interfere with your mourning, but I am going away today for a few days and this was my only chance to … talk to you.” It was then that I noticed his unusually humble traveling cloak. “I came to extend an invitation to you,” he said kindly.
“I’m sorry, Signore Medici, but I don’t think—” I started. The rubbing sound of leather that came from his clenching fists signaled the dramatic change in his demeanor.
“How do I put this?” he said, taking a step back to collect his composure. “Let us be honest with each other … you know what I want,” his eyes clung to the chain around my neck. “I am a persistent man, and I am aware of the fact that you are attached to your heirloom. But I assure you I intend to use it for purely academic purposes.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I need it to—”
“Go back home?” He snickered. I struggled to hide my shock. The curl of his mouth confessed he knew my secret. The letters’ warnings echoed in my mind. �
��How about we try again?” He paused to scratch his crooked nose. “I would be most pleased if you could grace me with your presence at the Signoria at sunset three days hence.” The sarcasm that played in his invitation made it clear this was an order and not an invitation. “I will expect you in the entrance hall,” he said, moving out of the shadows. “I forgot to mention, in the unlikely event that you do not show up or have another chamber pot emergency … Well, let us just say it would be best for everyone if that were not to happen,” he said before stepping beyond Santa Croce’s threshold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Charm
Minutes passed as I stood at the basilica’s entrance feeling the frosty breeze numb my ears. What was I going to do? I panicked against the murmured psalms.
“Viola?”
“Yes?” I broke my concentration.
“Are you all right?” asked Leonardo.
“No.” I looked down at my dirty sneakers, wishing I could click them together and miraculously fly home.
“I just saw Lorenzo leave and I thought something happened.” After I reenacted the entire conversation, Leonardo shook his head. “He must have heard our conversation and believed the part when you rambled something about time travel.”
“If only he thought I was as crazy as you do.”
“Not crazy … just lost. We will come up with something. In the meantime, do not trouble yourself until we cross that bridge.”
“Aren’t we already standing in front of it? It’s not an ordinary bridge. But the hanging kind that ropes together to mountaintops with a deadly drop in between,” I said, trying to get a grip on my hysteria.
“You forgot to tell me about your plan to go to Vinci.” Leonardo crossed his arms. In my desperate search for a plan, I had forgotten to tell the only person who could help me with it. “Zia just told me and I pretended as if you and I had plotted it together.”
Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) Page 24
