A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  She blinked at him and, suddenly, he released her hand and stepped back.

  “You do like!” the vendor gushed again, interrupting the oddly charged moment between Emerson and her.

  And Gwen, to her own surprise, caught herself nodding in agreement with the older Italian. “I do,” she added unnecessarily. The man had already pulled out his calculator to compute the cost for her in U.S. dollars versus euros.

  After some quick haggling between Emerson and the man, during which Gwen ignored the bargaining and, instead, imagined a universe of required candor, her tour mate whispered that the agreed-upon price was fair. “If you really do wish to get it,” Emerson told her. “Otherwise, you still are free to walk away, but I believe it will be a great keepsake from this trip. And, you know, I’m holding out hope that it will really have trustworthy and honest oraclelike qualities.”

  She chuckled briefly as she paid the vendor, who shook her hands with such zeal he got the blood flowing through her shocked fingers again. But the rest of her still felt enchanted by Emerson’s presence, and more than slightly unstable. Being around him was like what she’d always envisioned it would be like to be under a spell or in some kind of trance. She still considered herself fully conscious, but she also found herself acting in ways that were not—at least not for her—typical.

  Kind of like sleepwalking, she mused, where everything you’re doing is part of a dream. It feels real and you really ARE moving. Just not for the reasons you think.

  As they headed back across the bridge to the street where they’d started, Emerson nudged her and said, “You’ll be wearing the necklace for the rest of the day, correct?”

  She ran the pad of her thumb over the face of the golden Bocca. The feel of it made her emboldened with a kind of courage. “Yes. So?”

  “So, you are now bound by the Roman deities and, indeed, by all the gods of Italy to speak the truth.” He caught her eye and with a smirk added, “You have to tell me what you and my brother were talking about on the bus this morning—or else.” He mimed getting a hand chopped off.

  She burst with laughter at this, an overly free, nearly giddy eruption that sounded more like her teaching partner Kathy’s laugh than her own. “Nice try, wise guy,” she told him, in much the same amused-but-firm tone she’d use with a classroom of squirrely eighth graders.

  He shrugged. “Well, I had to give it my very best effort, didn’t I?” He pointed down the Via Por Santa Maria, a cross street of Lungarno degli Acciaiuoli. “I’m famished. How about we get some food now?”

  “Lead the way,” she said.

  And he did.

  Under his guidance, they strode with unerring precision through the twisty walkways of downtown Florence, reaching San Lorenzo’s vast market, next to the church of the same name, and stopping by the well-known Mercato Centrale for prosciutto and provolone sandwiches, Italian lemon-lime sodas and a paper sack filled with small, sweet oranges.

  They sat on a bench at the edge of the market and began devouring their late lunch, watching the passersby with curiosity and, on occasion, even commenting on the bustling, colorful scene before them. The day remained bright. Mother Nature and Italian Commerce mingled cheerfully in the square.

  Gwen hadn’t really taken the time to do this in Rome, as she’d been so focused on seeing the hot tourist spots. But her out-in-nature experience in Capri gave her a taste for more than mere guidebook interactions and an appreciation for the sights and sounds of a local’s Italy. A reaction, she had to admit, she hadn’t really had until she’d raced down those stairs. Perhaps her aunt had been right at the start of the trip. Maybe she’d been “missing everything good” after all.

  Well, not anymore.

  After they finished eating, they meandered back and forth, weaving through a flock of leather stalls, packed souvenir carts and potential pickpockets. (Emerson steered her away from a handful of very tactile children that, he later explained, were trained thieves.) Vendors hawked their wares, wanting to sell Gwen everything from a smartly crafted leather purse to a Swiss Army knife to a portrait of herself in watercolor.

  She said, “No, thank you” to each of them—she already had a golden Mouth of Truth hanging around her neck after all—and if she wanted to buy additional souvenirs, she’d get them later when she could be sure that they would be meaningful to her.

  She sighed, thinking of Richard, though. She had no idea what to bring back for him from Italy. Not that he deserved any special gifts at the moment. She remained puzzled by his lack of communication and, if truth be told (which it must be ... she was wearing the necklace), she was also tremendously hurt that he hadn’t responded.

  As they walked nearer to the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, with its famous Duomo—the enormous cupola that defined the Florentine skyline—and reached the Piazza della Signoria, there were still more leather goods to be found, including belts, sandals, wallets. This time she studied them with a bit more care and with Richard in mind.

  Emerson, it turned out, was rather tempted by these manly items himself.

  “What do you think of this?” he asked her, trying on a finely tooled brown leather belt with a gold-plated buckle that was shaped to resemble the mouth and tongue of a cobra.

  “Uh ...” she began, surprised to see him lifting his shirt so he could slip the belt around his waist. He had a very fit waist, she noticed. And just the lightest dusting of hair on his lower abdominals. Not that she stared at it for long. He pulled the shirt down again so very quickly, but—

  “Gwen?”

  “Right. The belt,” she mumbled. “Were you, by chance, born in the Year of the Snake?”

  He shook his head. “Year of the Tiger. Or so say the place mats at my favorite Chinese takeaway spot in London.”

  “Oh. Well, you’re definitely making a ... slithering statement with that one.”

  His hips were kind of lean, too. And the way he draped the belt around them was ... huh. She tried not to dwell on this, but the phrase “undeniably sexy” flashed through her mind more than once. More than twice, if she were to be honest. (Again, a requirement of the necklace.)

  “Hmm. Perhaps not, then.” He put it back and, for a moment, she was relieved. But a minute later he reached for another brown belt, this one featuring a leopard or some kind of mountain cat.

  “Yes! That one,” she said, before he could even put it on. Close enough to a tiger for her! “I think that one will look great. Really. Just get it.”

  He squinted at her. “Let’s not run astray, darling. I appreciate how you’ve embraced Florentine shopping so very enthusiastically, but I need to make sure this fits my body.”

  The way he drew attention to his body gave her an unwelcome shiver. She was altogether too aware of it already. Uncomfortably so. To distract herself, she averted her glance and looked, instead, at her watch—4:36. Oh, jeez. They had less than twenty-five minutes to hike up to the Accademia Gallery to meet their group for the tour.

  “We’re cutting it close on time, Emerson,” she said, projecting a sense of urgency as she spoke, “if we’re going to get to the David by five.”

  “Oh, right.” He slid the new belt through the loops of his khaki slacks and fastened it. “Take a look-see. Yes?”

  “Absolutely!” she said with a zealousness that was almost feverish. She barely allowed her gaze to rest on any part of his lower body. “It’s perfect. And ... and it even matches what you’re wearing. So, buy it and let’s go! It’s Michelangelo time.”

  He stared at her. “Remind me never to give you an entire soda again. You’re overactive from all the sugar, I think.” Nevertheless, he paid for his purchase and they made quick work of hoofing it to the gallery.

  Hans-Josef and their tour group were already at the entrance, just waiting for the exact time of their reservation to be let into the building. As she and Emerson approached them, Gwen could hardly escape the raised eyebrows of interest from many of the tour members (particularly Aunt Bea),
the squint of shared disapproval from Cynthia, Louisa and even their tour guide and, finally, the twist of amusement on Thoreau’s lips.

  Emerson, either for reasons of fairness and a desire not to budge in line or because he wished to avoid his brother—Gwen wasn’t sure which—marched them to the very end of the line and, after a brief wave at Thoreau and the Britsicles, literally turned his back on them and continued his conversation with Gwen.

  “So, what did you think of Michelangelo’s other sculptures? The Pietà and the Moses in Rome?” he asked.

  “Mmm. Nice,” she murmured while, inwardly, she groaned. Half the planet seemed to be caught up in a love affair with Michelangelo Buonarroti. She knew she’d have to see his famous David, of course—it was an expectation in Florence—and she’d been feigning delight at the prospect for days. Certainly she was curious, but it wasn’t as though she was a big art fan. If she couldn’t get excited by either the Pietà or the Sistine Chapel, that proved there was a major artistic disconnect somewhere within her, right?

  Emerson cocked his sandy head to one side and said, “Nice?” He opened his mouth to say something else, but the clock struck five and, so, they were all ushered into the Accademia.

  The gallery was smaller than Gwen had expected. There was a section for paintings off to one side and there were some other sculptures lying about, but just about everyone’s attention was drawn to the tribune at the far end of a long hallway.

  Was it really the David?

  Yep. There it was.

  An unmistakable figure carved out of marble. Lean and ... beautiful. Gwen caught her breath. Now this ... this was different. She tried to understand what, specifically, made her have a reaction to the statue. Perhaps the enormity of it? The remarkable condition it was in? The intriguing look on David’s marble face, which made him seem so very real? That body of his—so muscular, sinewy, fit?

  Or maybe it was that Emerson kept nudging her, spoon-feeding her new facts about the sculpture and sending her pulse scurrying on a wild footrace whenever he touched her. Maybe it was natural to react strongly to art of any kind when the piece in question reminded the viewer of someone in real life.

  She was standing in a small gallery between two tall and powerful men. One made of flesh, blood and bone, the other made of marble. One clothed in cotton and khaki, the other naked. Yet, they both had a simultaneous pull on her. Their natural charisma forced a divide in her attention. She compared them. Contrasted. Found there was more of an overlap than not. Both possessed blatant magnetism, although only one of them was fully unaware of the depth of his charm.

  “He started it in 1501,” Emerson jabbered, “and finished it in 1504, when he was only twenty-nine. Remarkable work, is it not?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And, as you probably already know, Michelangelo believed the images of his sculptures already existed in the slab of stone. His job was merely to free it. To chip away at the superfluous material until the image emerged,” he said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He was fond of the concept of disegno, too,” Emerson continued, chattering blithely, “which involves some tricky witchcraft and the lighting of small rodents on fire.”

  Gwen began to nod, but his words struck an odd chord. “What?”

  He laughed. “Just checking to see if you were listening. With all those American ‘yeah’s’ and ‘uh-huh’s,’ I couldn’t be sure.”

  “Sorry, I’m just—just new to this,” she admitted, feeling the warm blush of embarrassment sweep up her neck. “I don’t know what that Italian word meant. The one you just said.”

  “Disegno,” he repeated. “And don’t feel bad about your lack of familiarity. It is hardly common knowledge. It’s Italian for fine-art drawing, but it refers to more than just literally sketching something. It is what elevates visual arts like sculpture, painting or architecture from a simple craft to a truly fine art, making the art equivalent to literature or music.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, it was initially a Florentine thing. Artists like Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli and Michelangelo embraced the concept. Take a look at the incredible attention Michelangelo paid to David’s muscles, especially in his limbs and his neck.” He pointed at the imposing statue, his palms sweeping the air as if sliding along the marble.

  Gwen nodded. “It’s very realistic,” she agreed. Although David wasn’t exactly, how should she put it? Well-endowed ... Particularly for a man who had such large hands and feet. She did not mention this to Emerson.

  “Yes. It’s highly realistic because Michelangelo was a disegno follower,” he said. “Artists like him felt it was the key intellectual element in art. That the use of careful drawings was the cornerstone of a good painting or sculpture. This contrasts to the Venetian School and their preference for colore.”

  She squinted at him. “I don’t know that term, either.”

  “No worries,” he said. “One of the reasons I love coming to Italy is because, with every trip, I learn just a little more. Titian, for instance, whose work we’ll see at the Uffizi and in Venice, has these bloody gorgeous reds. Breathtaking colors and so natural. He, Rubens and others followed the colore philosophy and directly applied color to a canvas without drawing the picture first. I love that, too, but to sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Italians that was considered merely a painting technique, rather than a well-thought-out artistic creation. Colore is much more spontaneous, of course, but it’s also dependent upon the model being right there in front of the artist.”

  She eyed Emerson curiously. Sure, he’d visited Italy a number of times but still ... how did he know all of this? He was a physicist. Why did he care so much about artistic techniques? “Do you draw or paint?” she asked him.

  He shook his head. “Not me. My mum. She’s always really enjoyed it—both the studio-art skills and the philosophic component. She gravitates much more toward disegno. She prefers it herself because she’s very much a planner and thinker, and the preliminary sketches disegno followers use are so studied and complete, the artist is able to work without models at all. As a result, they can be more imaginative in their creations.” He grinned at her. “Even though she’s not an artistic genius like Michelangelo was, Mum plans out her projects just as carefully, incorporating her skill in having learned to draw from life, but also being able to design much more intellectually and inventively on the canvas. Renaissance-era Italians considered this the highest form of art.”

  Gwen grinned back at him, even though a sadness she couldn’t name filled her heart. Her mother had enjoyed artistic things, too. Not to the same extent as Emerson and Thoreau’s mom, but Gwen would have loved to have been able to tell her mom about these different art styles. To share what she’d learned on this trip with her.

  She sighed. “Thanks for explaining all of that to me,” she told Emerson.

  He shrugged. “I suspect I really was nattering on this time and boring you. But it was either painting philosophies or talking about David’s tiny willy. I made a choice.”

  She laughed aloud then quickly covered her mouth with her hand when a few tourists shot her strange looks. Her blush returned full force, making not just her neck but her entire head feel very hot.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice,” Emerson continued. “That poor, poor man. Good thing the gent had such great aim with a rock or, really, he would’ve been shamed in every way.”

  “Shh!” she said. “That’s terrible of you.”

  Emerson ignored her. “In a competition, Priapus would win every round against David,” he said, referring to the god of sex and fertility that they’d seen painted in Pompeii. “And I’d be willing to challenge them both in a—”

  “Is my brother boasting again?” Thoreau broke in, having managed to disentangle himself from Cynthia and Louisa for a few moments. He rolled his eyes at Gwen and smirked at Emerson. “Really, if Mum could hear the way you go on in public.” He shoved his brother out of the way and took a ste
p toward Gwen. “So, what do you think of the David—his expression in particular? We’ve been having a bit of a debate with the curator over there.” He pointed to the middle-aged Italian man in the process of being accosted by the Britsicles and their slew of questions. “Do you think Michelangelo depicted David in the moment just before his battle with Goliath or in the moment just after?”

  “You cannot budge in here and make such a nuisance of yourself, Thor—” Emerson began.

  “Would you hush up for two minutes and let her answer a simple question?” Thoreau replied calmly. “Gwen?”

  She studied the famous marble face, noting the pensiveness of David’s expression. He didn’t take this battle lightly. He was serious and determined, qualities she could appreciate in somebody challenged to tackle something (or someone) much larger and more fierce than himself. He was holding the rock, so she supposed it could be that he’d picked it up again after having thrown it ... or that he hadn’t yet released it. In either instance, she felt for him and the magnitude of his task. In recognizing the extent of her own empathy, she couldn’t help but realize what a masterpiece Michelangelo had created. She was feeling sorry for a man carved out of marble!

  She glanced at Thoreau. “I don’t know for sure. I think good arguments could be made for either view, but ...”

  “But?” Thoreau prompted.

  “But, to me, he still seems really tense. As though he’s made the decision but hasn’t yet acted.”

  Thoreau pumped his fist. “Yes!” He motioned between him and his brother. “We were always taught that the sculpture represents ‘the moment between conscious choice and conscious action’ for David.” He bobbed his head toward the curator. “The lackwit over there keeps telling us it’s after the fact. I don’t believe it.” He bowed slightly. “Thank you, Gwen, for your fresh perspective.” Then, to Emerson, “Try not to brag too much and annoy her.” Over his shoulder he added, “And you don’t stand a chance against Priapus.”

  “Bugger off,” Emerson called cheerfully after his brother.