The Lantern, a Renaissance Mystery

by Joanne Lewis

  Chapter Seven

  While Donatello was sculpting the prophet Jeremiah for Santa Maria del Fiore and Pippo was excelling as the builder of the dome, Andrea was assisting Pippo in the most mundane chores—fetching water, scrubbing muck off stones, and making sure the workers did not get too drunk. Pippo had won all the competitions to build the dome to date, including the most recent one to create a wooden chain to tie the sandstone beams together.

  On a break, Andrea sat next to Pippo. He twisted straw in his hands. “Donatello says I can help him sculpt.”

  Pippo did not look at him. “You don’t have time.”

  “Please, Papa. It is my dream to be a sculptor.”

  Pippo waved toward the top of the slowly forming dome. “And this is my dream. Now, count the wood beams.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. Again.” Pippo stood and began directing a pair of oxen who walked forward, pulling on winches and a pulley system, which then lifted bricks to the top level. Another one of his inventions.

  Andrea watched, wondering when he too could make wondrous inventions like Pippo and carve beautiful statues like the sculptor Donatello. Andrea walked to the wood beams and began to count. Two workers, covered in grime and rot, were seated nearby watching the oxen. They poured wine into their wood cups and hungrily drank. They wiped their mouths with the back of their hands, burped and laughed.

  “Lorenzo would have designed a better system,” one said.

  “I heard the ox hoist was his idea but Pippo stole it,” added the other.

  “Hey, lazy ones,” Andrea called. “Get back to work or else you will not have jobs come morning.”

  The men slowly rose, glaring at Andrea. They headed toward him, their fists clenched. Andrea was small, only as tall as the oxen’s yoke, but stood his ground. After all, he was the son of the great Pippo. This was a moment that could define him. He stared at them, braced himself for the attack when one of the oxen let out a bellow. The two men changed direction, running off, forgetting Andrea was their target.

  Knowing this was his chance to convince Pippo he was worthy of his own commission, he ran to him. “Papa, the workers are saying Lorenzo would have designed a better hoist system.”

  “Impossible.” He patted Andrea on his shoulder. “Good job, my son. You will be rewarded.”

  “Then I may apprentice with Donatello?”

  Pippo laughed. “Of course not. But you may take the rest of the day off to pursue whatever pleases you.”

  The next morning, when Andrea awoke, Pippo—who was normally out of bed before him—rested like one of the dead boys from the orphanage. The bed sheet was pulled under Pippo’s chin.

  Andrea’s heart pounded quickly, loudly. “Pippo?” he whispered.

  No answer. No movement.

  “Pippo?” He asked, louder.

  The old man didn’t stir. This had happened a couple of times before after Pippo had spent a rare evening away from work and enjoying drink. Andrea caressed the silence. He walked around the large house located in the San Giovanni district and just west of the cathedral. He ran his fingers over a finely crafted wooden desk, touched a credenza, examined tempera on wood, leaned on an ornate table and sat in several high backed chairs made from walnut trees. He picked up a scaled down replica of a wooden cross. He looked at a small model of the dome Pippo had made before designing the twelve-foot high, six-foot wide brick model he had submitted to win the competition. He examined parchment covered with cryptic symbols and Arabic numerals that Pippo had found in Rome. He turned a wood panel upside down and upright again, looking through a hole in the middle of the panel in the first study of perspective. He marveled at sketches of Baptistery doors, ran his fingers through jewels like they were the softest silk, held coins and paper money like he was a rich man. He went into the small kitchen and treated himself to sweet cakes, feeling liberated and fortunate. What had he done to deserve such a blessing?

  Andrea looked at Pippo again, the bed sheet still pulled up under his chin. He made noise, stomped around the house, clanked metal pots and drinking cups like he was a one-man band. Pippo did not rise. Finally, he inched toward him and slowly reached out. Pippo opened an eye. Andrea recoiled.

  “Tell them I am ill,” Pippo bellowed.

  “How will construction proceed when the designs are in your head?” Andrea asked.

  “Tell them to ask Lorenzo, let him do something.”

  Pippo refused to say anything more.

  The following day, Donatello and Andrea sat at Pippo’s bedside. Donatello sank to his knees and folded his hands in prayer. “Please recover, il mio amico. Life is mundane without you. Who am I to get in trouble with?”

  “Please, Papa Pippo, rise from the bed.” Andrea peered out the window at the dome. Work was at a standstill.

  “The dome will never be finished without you,” Donatello looked toward the heavens. “Lorenzo is …”

  Pippo shot up. “Un idioto.”

  Donatello fell back.

  “The world must learn great art is not only created in Rome.” Pippo looked out the window. His voice was strong. “That is Brunelleschi’s dome.”

  “Then why not share your design?” Andrea asked.

  Pippo grabbed him by the ear and pulled him close. “Listen carefully, my son. Do not share your inventions with many persons. Share them only with men who understand and love science. If you disclose too much about your inventions and achievements you give away the fruit of your genius.”

  “And is faking your illness part of your genius?” Andrea asked.

  Pippo smiled. “You are a quick study.”

  Days later, Pippo sprightly returned to work. Not wanting to risk another rebellion by their master architect, the Board of the Duomo tripled Pippo’s salary. And, although Lorenzo was still paid a small wage, Pippo was revered as the official capo maestro of the dome. He still forbade Andrea from working with Donatello.

  Chapter Eight

  In bed early in the evening after seven-year-old Filippa had first encountered Julio at the Fontainebleau Hotel, Filippa’s head was screaming. It felt like one of the eggs Grandpa Raj cracks for her each morning with a shriek of pretend pain as the yoke and egg white spill into a bowl. And then when he takes a fork and whips it hard, he makes a whirring sound like a blender. As he pours the beaten egg into the pan of sizzling butter, he shrieks again. Filippa felt like a scrambled egg.

  She didn’t know how long she lay in bed with her eyes shut as if by needle and thread. She slept some then woke with a start. Her head throbbed, her stomach was topsy-turvy and she was hot, then cold, then hot again. Finally, she rubbed crust from her eyes and opened them. At first, he was a red bearded blur but then Grandpa Raj came into focus.

  He smiled weakly, the way he does when his thoughts are full and his words are empty. He held Ellie, her stuffed grey elephant, on his lap. Filippa sat up. He smoothed the Barbie blanket around her, placed Ellie under her arm then reached to her nightstand and put a silver tray on her lap. He poured hot water into two cups. One cup for her, one for Ellie. Grandpa Raj often spent their tea time trying to distract Filippa so he could drink Ellie’s tea then swear the stuffed elephant had actually drank the steaming elixir. It reminded Filippa of how he secretly drank from Elijah’s cup each Passover then vowed the Prophet had appeared when Filippa was looking for the Affikomen.

  Tea and cookies were Grandpa Raj’s remedy for all ailments—physical, mental, real and imagined. Filippa wished her stomach wasn’t upset so she could eat the freshly baked cookies.

  “Am I sick?” Her mouth was dry. Her tongue thick.

  She recalled Julio’s tongue touching hers and wondered why he would have done that. She wanted to ask Grandpa Raj but a twist of her gut told her no. That, and the sad, forced smile that crossed his lips like whenever he spoke of her mother.

  “You’re fine,” he whispered.

  “Why do I hurt—down there?” she asked.

  “You had an accident
. You don’t remember. You were riding your bicycle and you hit the curb and fell onto the bar.”

  “And that’s how I hurt my pee-pee?”

  “Yes.”

  She sipped the tea then tilted a cup under Ellie’s trunk. It was Grandpa’s famous concoction of ginger, ginseng and chamomile. He grew most of the herbs himself. He purchased the ones that wouldn’t thrive in the Florida heat at a local Japanese market.

  “Why are you crying?” she asked.

  He wiped his eyes and shrugged.

  “Are you sad?”

  He nodded.

  She pulled the stuffed elephant closer to her. “Is it Ellie and Dr. Rajah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.” she said.

  Grandpa Raj cleared his throat. He spoke with a South African accent. It was the voice of Dr. Rajah.

  Cold rain fell from the sky like a million tiny icicles, hitting Ellie and Mr. Tiger as they ran through the forest. Mousey Mouse held on to Mr. Tiger’s whiskers. Mousey’s legs and tail whipped through the air. The tribe of silly monkeys screeched and chattered as they swung from tree to tree. Mr. Tiger leaped over a limb as it crashed to the ground, causing Mousey Mouse to lose his grip. Ellie caught him with her trunk. Up ahead, Ellie and Mr. Tiger dove into a cave as lightning flashed across the sky. The tribe of silly monkeys followed.

  Mr. Tiger shook water off his orange and white fur. The silly monkeys hissed and spit in protest of the spray that stung their eyes.

  “Everyone accounted for?” Mr. Tiger asked.

  Ellie popped Mousey Mouse on to her head. “We’re here,” she said.

  “All monkeys present,” King Silly Monkey said, and the tribe of silly monkeys agreed.

  “Good. Wait,” Mr. Tiger scampered around the cave, sniffing the ground, growling. Monkeys jumped out of the way. Some sprung up and hung from Ellie’s ears.

  “Where’s Linda the Lioness and her cubs?” Mr. Tiger asked.

  A hush fell over the cave.

  “We have to find them.” Mr. Tiger looked out, into the jungle. The falling rain was a wall he couldn’t see through. “I’ll go.”

  “No,” said King Silly Monkey. “You can’t go. You’re our leader. We need you. One of the silly monkeys will go. Who will volunteer?”

  As expected, no silly monkey stepped forward. Everyone knows silly monkeys are cowards.

  “I’ll go,” Ellie said.

  “And me too,” Mousey Mouse puffed out his tiny grey chest.

  Mr. Tiger bowed at Ellie’s feet. Mousey Mouse was perched between her ears.

  “You are both brave and noble. Godspeed.”

  With that, Ellie ran into the forest, her big floppy ears waving in the wind and rain. Mousey Mouse was tucked in one ear, yelling directions and warnings to avoid fallen branches and lightning strikes.

  After running for what felt like a very very long time, Ellie heard crying. She followed the sound to a large, hollow log and looked inside. Linda and her cubs were huddled close. Their eyes were wide with fear. Ellie followed their line of sight and saw what frightened them. Hanging on a nearby tree was …

  “Hey,” Filippa said, “Ellie drank her tea.”

  Grandpa Raj looked at the empty cup. “And so she did.”

  Filippa giggled. “Are Ellie and Mousey Mouse going to save Linda and her cubs?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  “What is Dr. Rajah doing right now?”

  “He’s hiding under a canopy, trying to stay out of the rain.”

  “That’s smart,” Filippa yawned.

  Grandpa Raj took the tray and helped her lay down. He tucked the blanket around her until she was a Barbie cocoon.

  “What about Ellie?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” He lifted the blanket and put Ellie next to her. He kissed Filippa on the forehead, then Ellie too. “Sleep tight, my silly monkeys.”

  He tiptoed out of the room and closed the door.

  In the darkness, Filippa picked up Ellie and touched her nose to the elephant’s trunk. “What Julio did was wrong, Ellie. We’ll keep it our secret. Grandpa doesn’t need to know.”

  Chapter Nine

  Perched under the wood beams atop Brunelleschi’s dome, Dolce hugged herself to rid the damp chill from her bones. Dusk was turning dark. Flaming lights dotted the city.

  The Campanile bells chimed, indicating curfew had arrived and the city gates were closing. All who were behind the walls would be protected. Those on the outside without family and without a safe haven would have their prayers to keep them safe until morning. Most who failed to make curfew perished at the hands of Satan’s disciples—the hungry, the drunk, the morose and the insane.

  Dolce looked into her city and saw Santa Maria Novella, the San Marco monastery, the Piazza della Signoria, Palazzo Vecchio and the unfinished church of Santa Croce. She pivoted and into the northern distance on the other side of the city wall saw flickering lights from Il Poderino. She stole a moment to feel if remorse overtook her—an ache in her heart, a longing in her gut—but felt none of those things. Yes, she missed Bartolommeo, Mea, Po and Piero, but she had made a new home for herself where the bats and rats never judged or criticized.

  Spending her days foraging for food, begging for florins and stealing was better than living with Bandino and Nic. And the nights were bliss when she was lucky during the light hours to obtain parchment or vellum or paper and an instrument to write with. As long as she could sketch La Citta di Dolce, she was content.

  Dolce swung her arms and swatted bats away. They liked to nestle in her hair, especially while she slept. She didn’t mind them as much as the rats who nibbled her food, when she had some. She preferred the bats and the rats to the mountebanks and their phony cures, the fortune tellers and their useless predictions and the polizia and their arbitrary enforcement of laws.

  She weaved around piles of bricks and stones and stacks of logs and rope. For the past few months, she had climbed the side of the cathedral using hoists and whatever had been left behind by workers and had made Brunelleschi’s dome her nighttime residence; scurrying away before daybreak. Progress on the dome was inching along, slowed since most of the construction funds had been diverted to the wars with Lucca and Milan.

  Daily, Dolce intentionally passed the parchment seller’s shop located between a banker’s store and an illuminator’s shop across from the Arno. She peered in often to watch a slight man they called Gino trim sheets into rectangles while another, hefty man named Vicenzio rubbed them down with chalk. Through the window, she checked the inventory. Packets of ready folded sheets lined shelves, along with rolls and other tools of the trade such as styluses, pencils, quill pens, knives and compasses. Ink sold in small, hand blown glass containers were lined up like delicate soldiers. Black, sepia, reddish-orange, green and blue. Slats of wood cut into different sizes—some to bind books the size of a girl’s hand, others to bind large volumes that took two men to carry and were meant to rest open on pulpits—were arranged in rows along the walls.

  On this day, she snuck along the back of the parchment seller’s shop, hoping to find throw aways and scraps. One man’s waste could be this girl’s dream. She shooed several vultures away by kicking out her feet. They scooted, mildly impressed by the little girl’s actions but not enough to fly away.

  She crept along a side alley, around a corner then crawled along wooden vats. A repulsive smell grew stronger. Her stomach churned. But she was determined. Like behind the butcher shop where she could sometimes find not too spoiled meat in the garbage bins. Or in the back of the vegetable stand where she could usually uncover discarded delicacies that were luscious once she shooed the vermin away and picked the bugs off. She was sure she would find something to draw on.

  The ground was wet, soiling her dress around the knees, and getting wetter the closer she got to the back of the store. The rancid smell was deepening and catching in her throat. She looked around a bin, stretching her neck and leaning forward like a
dog about to pounce. But instead of swooping down on her prey, she gagged.

  Sheep and cow skins were draped over a beam behind the store, the hot sun beating down on them. Water dripped from the skins. A third very tall man—one she hadn’t seen before—scraped hair from the hides with a long, curved knife that had wooden handles on both ends. The bare skin under where the hair was removed was pink on some, brown on others. The man finished a batch of eight then flipped them over. With the curved knife, he pared down the remaining, clinging flesh.

  Behind him, skin was pulled taut on wooden frames to dry. And still further back, Dolce saw goats and sheep and calves. Headless and hung from their hooves, their blood drained into a tunnel, which took the waste in the direction of the Arno.

  Finished paring, the skinner removed dried parchment from a rack and placed the pieces in a pile on a bench. Dolce watched and salivated as if waiting for a hot meal. She counted one, two, three … twenty-four, twenty-five … thirty pieces of parchment only a few feet away. Only a few feet away. The skinner straightened the stack then turned to grab new skins and begin the process again. Dolce didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward and grabbed the heap, amazed when the skinner didn’t seem to notice.

  Arms filled, she backed slowly away. Her heart pounded like the waves that hit the edge of the Arno during a summer storm. She had enough parchment to draw on for the rest of her life, she was sure of it. The stack was heavy, but not too heavy she couldn’t get it to the dome and heave it up the sides. Maybe she’d have to make several trips but it didn’t matter, this was the greatest gift of her life.