by Joanne Lewis
The skinner was still preoccupied with lashing flesh from the hides. Dolce backed toward the alleyway then turned to run. Her knee hit the side of a vat. She bit her tongue, willing herself not to scream. Her knee stung, blood oozed, the pain was stinging. Don’t cry. Don’t limp. Run, Dolce, run. She jumped forward and a piece of parchment fell off the top of the heap. She reached for it, couldn’t let it go. Don’t be greedy, she told herself. She bent over anyway, managed to juggle the stack on her forearm and in the crux of one elbow. She grabbed the other sheet from the ground and scooped it back on top. Secured, good. She turned into the alleyway and tripped on a vulture that had stolen a piece of flesh from a carcass. The bird squawked. Dolce clung tightly to the parchment, never let it go even when she rolled on the ground. She sprung to her feet as the skinner yelled, “Who’s there?”
Dolce bolted to the street, clutching the papers. The skinner behind her. His long legs taking one step to her many. She ran along the Arno, passed the banker’s store, toward her dome. No, she couldn’t go there. The skinner’s footsteps grew louder, faster. The two men from the store joined the chase behind him. The skinner’s words reverberated through the streets, among the merchants and pedestrians who stopped and cheered as if they lined a parade route.
“When I catch you,” the skinner screamed, “I am going to skin you alive.”
Chapter Ten
Andrea and Minuscolo strolled through the gardens behind Pippo’s house. It was a rare Sunday when Andrea didn’t have to work on the dome for Pippo. He had chores to do after church but he didn’t want to do them. He put Minuscolo in his stall, went inside and dressed in a short gown over a doublet. He pulled on hose. His sleeves were puffy. His shoes new, long and pointed; a recent gift from Pippo. It was not his best clothes since his fellow churchgoers would frown at his vanity if he dressed too fine. He would have preferred a sleeveless gown pleated to the bodice and a veil twisted into a turban but he saved that outfit for when he was alone.
The topic of the sermon was providence. God’s justice wrought on earth. The preacher explained divine intervention was the reason it hailed on crops, the cause of torrid rains and the Arno overflowing each fall and spring, the explanation for the earthquakes that often rocked Firenze.
“Virtue,” the humpbacked preacher shouted from the pulpit, “is rewarded with prosperity, abundance of grain, plump livestock and good health. Sin is punished with disaster on earth, damnation in hell and torturous death.”
Amens were murmured from the pews. Andrea wanted to go to heaven. He wanted his virtue to be rewarded.
Andrea left the church light-footed, looking forward to taking a long walk through the olive groves with Minuscolo and building an appetite for a banquet of meat, vegetables, grains and wine. He nodded at a fine looking boy, imagining him naked, their bodies entwined. He smiled at his secret thought and trod on. He passed a beggar and, with no coins in his pockets, looked away. He weaved through the streets, humming.
He peered down an alleyway and saw a woman struggling, two men yanking on her arms, lifting her skirt. He thought to move on, he didn’t want any trouble. The woman screamed. Andrea leaned into the alley. “Hello?”
One man was short and toothless, the other tall with a beard. The woman’s face was hidden in shadow. Her skirt was pulled up around her waist.
“Go away.” The short one held the woman by the arm.
Andrea did not move.
“Do as he says.” The tall one took a step toward Andrea.
The woman whimpered.
“Leave my sister alone.” Andrea deepened his voice.
“This wench is your sister?”
“Yes.”
“She disrespected us.”
“And pray tell, how did she do that?”
“When we asked her to curtsy at our feet, she refused.”
Andrea took a step toward them. “She is a stubborn one, alright. But that is my fault. I have taught her never to curtsy at the foot of a stranger.”
“And why would you do that?”
“I did not know she would meet such esteemed noble men as yourselves. Please forgive my ignorance.”
The men looked at the woman, then back at Andrea. The short one let go of her arm and advanced on Andrea until their noses almost touched.
“Teach her this. If she sees us again, she must curtsy. Tu hai capito?”
Andrea tried not to wince at the strong smell of alcohol from the short man’s tongue. “Si.” He bowed.
The men ran off, their laughter echoing down the narrow streets. Andrea helped the woman to her feet, pleased he had learned so much from Pippo and had used his tongue to save the woman.
“Grazie,” she said. “I have no money to pay you for your kindness.”
“That is not necessary, my lady.”
“I am no lady,” she said, “for I have committed the greatest sin.”
“There is still time to repent. Virtue will be rewarded.”
“It is too late for me.”
“What have you done?” Andrea asked.
“I raised a child from birth until she was four years old. Only three days after returning her to her father, I went to visit her as the lady of the house had promised I could. I was told by the father the child had died of malnutrition. I was her wet nurse. It was my job to care for her. I failed her. God has been punishing me ever since.”
“I am sorry. How long ago did she die?”
“It has been five Easters or more. I have lost track of time.” She grabbed his shirt sleeve. “I do not know how to ease my pain. How can I ease my pain?”
“I will pray for her soul that she may be in heaven and for you to join her one day. Tell me, what is your name?”
“I am Novella.”
“And the name of your child?”
“Dolce,” she said. “My sweet, beautiful Dolce.”
Chapter Eleven
Two weeks after first meeting Julio at the Fontainebleau Hotel, Filippa balanced on the sea wall behind Grandpa Raj’s house overlooking Biscayne Bay in Miami, the heel of one foot striking the toe of the other as if on a tightrope. It was late, after midnight sometime, and Grandpa Raj probably thought she was in bed. Or maybe he wasn’t thinking about her at all, too busy entertaining his friends.
Filippa was thinking about her mother. Her mind revved like a souped up motorcycle engine. She had studied photographs of her mother from her birth until just a few months before her death and tried to imagine what she would look like now, how she would act today. Would she have a few more lines around her eyes? Would she still dye her hair blond? Would she have had another child? Filippa would have liked to have had a younger brother or sister, someone who could look up to her, someone she could have taken care of, someone who would have helped her not feel so alone.
The house, packed with people, was lit like it was the middle of the day. Grandpa Raj’s friend, Bob, was singing, wanting to know how many roads must a man walk down before he becomes a man, or something like that. Clouds of sweet smoke hovered above opened windows. Even from the sea wall, she could feel the house vibrating.
She imagined herself on ice skates, gliding along the wall. She jumped, landed perfectly then twirled. The judges gave her a perfect score. The crowd applauded wildly, the clapping slowly dying until a single set of hands came together, then apart, together, and then apart.
“Bravo.” A thick clove cigarette hung out the side of Julio’s mouth. Smoke dawdled from his lips.
Filippa hated the smell of clove, preferred the scent of the sweet smelling joints with the paper rolled tight and the ends twisted closed. She had watched Grandpa Raj roll them many times.
Not wanting any trouble from Julio, she jumped off the wall, started for the house.
“Wait,” he said, “I’m sorry about what happened a couple of weeks ago. It was really nothing. My papi overreacted. But I shouldn’t have let you drink that rum. I’m older than you. I should have known better. Friends?” He held ou
t his hand.
She hesitated, looked toward the house.
“You don’t want to go in there. They’re a bunch of old fogies. Out here is where it’s happening. Come on.” He thrust his hand toward her. “Friends?”
She shook his hand. He took the cigarette from his mouth and held it out for her.
She scrunched her nose. “That stuff stinks.”
Julio dug into his pocket, pulled out the remnant of a joint with a clip at the end. “How ‘bout this? Ever smoke a joint?”
She shook her head, no.
He took out a lighter, put the stub in his mouth, lit it and inhaled sharply. He handed it to her, its end burning orange. She inhaled and coughed when the smoke crowded into her throat and dropped into her lungs. Julio laughed, hit her on the back.
“You okay?”
“It burns,” she said.
“That’s how you know the shit is good.” He inhaled again. “Here.”
This time, it went down more smoothly.
“The rum pumps you up. This is different. This makes you mellow. It’s real small now so be careful. Wait, let me hold it for you.”
He held the joint to her mouth. She put her lips around the end.
“Wanna’ try something cool?” Julio asked.
Filippa shrugged.
“Watch this.” Julio inhaled, held the smoke in his mouth. He leaned his face close to Filippa, put his lips on hers and forced her mouth open with his tongue. He blew smoke into her mouth. She coughed.
He laughed. “Groovy buzz.”
Her eyes watered. Her throat burned again. Her chest hurt.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” she said.
“Just a paranoia attack.”
“My chest feels tight.” She put her hands over her heart.
“Let me feel.” Julio put his hands on her chest, between her barely formed breasts. He held his hands there for a moment, looking Filippa in the eyes. “No,” he said, “definitely not a heart attack. You’re going to live.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m older than you. I know more stuff than you do.” He sucked on the roach. “Fuck. The shit’s gone.” He threw the charred paper to the ground and put the clip in his pocket.
Filippa was feeling relaxed, mellow like Julio had said. She preferred this feeling to how the rum had made her feel. After drinking the rum at the Fontainebleau, she had felt out of control and clumsy. Now, she felt calm and mature. It was a rare, serene moment when the ache of being motherless was dulled.
“Should we get more?” Julio asked.
Filippa looked toward the house. She knew where to get it.
Chapter Twelve
Deep throated screams soared through the air landing with sharp edges on the back of Dolce’s neck, arms and legs.
“Stop her.”
“Kill her.”
“Thief.”
Dolce clutched the stacks of paper close to her chest. The three men were getting nearer.
The skinner yelled for her to stop, gesturing, his arms moving as fast as his legs. Behind him, Gino was increasing his strides while Vincenzio was trying to keep up, stumbling as his breath raged like fire. Dolce tripped, her chin striking the hard ground, flew end over end. The skinner grabbed her before she came to rest, lifted her then threw her to the ground. Parchment launched into the air.
The skinner slapped her across the face, shook her hard. “You will die for this. Where are the polizia?”
Gino caught up, spit in her face. “No need for the police. We will execute her now.”
Dolce groaned, lashed out with her arms. Gino held her by the hair. The skinner placed a big hand over her face, his fingers gripping her cheeks and forehead, the palm of his hand covering her mouth and nose and cupping her chin. She kicked, swung her arms and tried to break free. But the men were too strong, too mean and ugly. Her neck was pulled to one side by her hair. She struggled but the more she pulled, the more excruciating the pain on the back of her head and the harder the hand on her face gripped and tightened until she could barely breath. She fell to her knees. Vincenzio finally caught up, sweaty and breathing heavy. He scampered to pickup the scattered pages.
On all fours, Dolce turned her head slightly, that was all she could manage with Gino still clutching her hair. Thankfully, the skinner had released her face.
She looked sideways and noticed a man and a boy standing a few feet away, staring. The boy had a surprised look on his face. The man had his arm around the boy.
It took only a moment for Dolce to recognize her idol. She had heard stories of how his looks could scare the most hideous of creatures from Dante’s Hell but even with skinned knees and her hair being yanked and the men standing over her with their rancid breaths bearing down, Pippo looked beautiful. Brilliant and beautiful.
She pleaded with her eyes. Please, help me.
“Let’s go, Andrea.” Pippo steered the boy away.
“Wait, Father,” Andrea said. “The girl needs us.”
“She is a thief, Il Buggiano. She doesn’t deserve Pippo’s assistance.”
Dolce struggled again, knowing Pippo and Andrea were her only hope of escape. The skinner pinned her arms behind her back. Gino let go of her hair and punched her in the stomach. Dolce threw up, on to Gino’s pointed shoes.
“Kill her,” Gino said.
“No.” The skinner lunged at Dolce. “Enjoy those stealing hands, you foolish child, in moments they will be chopped off. Then the world will know what happens to the dishonest. Where is my knife?”
Dolce tried to scream but no words came out.
Andrea tugged on Pippo’s garment. “Please, Father …”
Pippo pushed his hand away. “I have things to do. Let’s go.” He grabbed Andrea by the arm and dragged him away.
The skinner took a knife from his belt. “Gather her hands. Make her stop moving.”
Gino grabbed Dolce by the arms, braced her against his body so tight she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Vomit coated her lips. The skinner placed the knife against her wrist, sliced. Blood oozed.
Dolce’s mouth opened wide, into a silent scream.
“No, Father.” Andrea cried. “I can’t leave her.” He ran from Pippo and jumped on to the skinner’s back. “Leave her alone.”
The skinner threw Andrea to the ground, pounced on him, shoved his knife against Andrea’s throat.
Pippo pointed at the skinner. His voice boomed. “Let him go. Now.”
The skinner looked up. The recognition appeared sudden and fear coated his eyes. He stood. Andrea jumped up and ran behind Pippo.
The skinner bowed. “Friend to the Pope. Friend to the Medici. I did not know you were there. With the trouble from this girl, and then this boy, I did not see you.”
Pippo pointed at Gino and bellowed, “Let the girl go.”
Dolce’s eyes widened. Gino jumped aside and Dolce was free. She started to run, back toward the safety of her dome, but Pippo was too quick. He grabbed her around the waist, pulled her into his side like a sack of potatoes.
The skinner bowed at Pippo’s feet. “Noblest one. This girl has stolen from me and my brothers.”
“Return to your shop,” Pippo said. “I will see that she is punished. And tomorrow, I will be at your store to purchase paper for my drawings.”
“Grazie.” The skinner bowed again then helped his brothers pickup the remaining pages of parchment before they trotted away.
Pippo started to walk, pulled Dolce along with him. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Andrea asked.
“To the Bargello.”
“The prison?”
“She is a thief. She must be locked away.”
“But … I thought you were going to help her.”
“With my influence, she will be sentenced to hard labor instead of losing a limb or death as punishment.”
Dolce groaned, struggled.
“Please, Father, let her go. I couldn’t watch those men hurt he
r. It was like I was back in the orphanage. And she is so … frail. She will not steal again.” Andrea looked at Dolce. “Right?”
Dolce nodded vigorously.
Pippo frowned, dropped Dolce to the ground. “You can thank my son for this. I would have been happy to see you hung as an example to the people of Firenze.” He pushed her away. “I detest thieves. They are always trying to steal Pippo’s ideas and drawings. You are no different. Now, go. And if I ever see you again, I will personally make sure you are severely punished.”
Dolce looked at Andrea, then back at Pippo. She curtsied then limped away.
Chapter Thirteen
The sign for Jackson Memorial Hospital sparkled. Filippa had been walking for more than two hours, passing several taxis but electing not to flag a ride. It felt good to walk—even with her shoulders aching from carrying the duffel—to feel the concrete sidewalks and streets under her feet, to smell the mix of Gardenias and car exhaust, to watch the scenery change from neighborhoods lined with palm trees, to a business district, a warehouse area and then a business district again. She knew, more than anything at that moment, she would never be confined again. The Renaissance girl had taught her that.
The Renaissance girl. Her girl. Grandpa Raj’s girl. Filippa wondered about life in Florence in 1436, the year the competition to build the lantern was announced. The Board of the Duomo had awarded Brunelleschi the right to build the dome in 1419 due to his design, which laid bricks in a self-supporting pattern and required no center-supported scaffolding. Domes today are still constructed based on his design. This includes the dome at Vizcaya, the Miami home built in the early nineteen hundreds, which is reminiscent of an Italian palace. A place Filippa has visited often with Grandpa Raj.
But when it came time for the Board of the Duomo to choose someone to erect the lantern to sit atop the dome to allow for light, ventilation and visual pleasure—the ultimate insult to Brunelleschi required him to compete for the honor. And then insult on insult, a girl had dared to enter the competition too. The Renaissance girl who had refused to be confined. The Renaissance girl whose identity remained a mystery over 550 years later.
