by Joanne Lewis
Fourteen-year-old Filippa and Grandpa Raj were seated at the dining room table. Mortgage and utility bills, opened textbooks, unfolded newspapers, sketchpads, colored pencils and rulers were scattered on the table. Grandpa Raj was thumbing through a worn paperback, Giorgio Vasari’s sixteenth century text, Lives of the Artists. He sighed, pushed the book away and reached for the pile of bills.
Filippa had her head bent over a textbook. She closed the book. A rush of air reverberated like a deep sigh.
“I can’t do this.”
Grandpa Raj looked up from his checkbook. “What?”
“I hate math. The numbers get all jumbled in my brain.”
“I know what you mean.”
Filippa picked up a colored pencil. She turned her attention to the sketchpad and the city she was creating. She called it Filippa Village and was drawing a wall around it to keep bad people out, good people in.
Grandpa Raj watched her and smiled. “We’re more romantic than practical.” He opened Vasari’s book again.
“You’ve read that book like a million times. Don’t you get tired of it?” she asked.
“Never. That would be like me getting tired of you.” He looked into the air, then at Filippa. “In Florence, Italy in the fourteen hundreds, some historians believe there was a sketch of the first skyscraper ever. It was even designed with cantilevers.”
“Cantiwhaters?”
“Cantilevers. They’re like shelves that jut out. It makes the building or the bridge or whatever look prettier. Frank Lloyd Wright built a high-rise with cantilevers and used them for other structures too. Remember, I read that book about him to you? Wait.” He jumped up and ran into his study. He returned with a large coffee table book, opened it in front of her and tapped on a photo of a home built over a waterfall. “This is Fallingwater. Wright designed this home in Pennsylvania using cantilevers to form large balconies. This was in 1935. Almost five hundred years later. Amazing.”
She looked at the sketches of Filippa Village. “I think I’ll make some of my buildings with cantilevers.” She picked up a pink pencil with her left hand and scooted on to her knees on the chair. She curled over the large sketchpad, her hand bent like the top of a question mark, her eyebrows furrowed, and drew a building so tall it disappeared into the clouds. She tilted her head toward Grandpa Raj. “So what’s the big deal about this skyscraper from Italy?”
“No one’s actually seen it. Antonio Manetti knew Brunelleschi and wrote a biography about him. Manetti claimed Brunelleschi told him he had sketched a tall building with cantilevers but not all experts believe that happened.”
“Why would Manetti lie?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t lying. Maybe he was stretching the truth.”
Filippa chewed on the end of her pencil. “Did Vasari know Brunelleschi too?” Filippa pointed at the book, Lives of the Artists.
“No. Brunelleschi died sixty-five years before Vasari was even born.”
“So if that other guy—what was his name?”
“Manetti.”
“Yeah. If he said Brunelleschi told him he drew the tall building but one of them wasn’t telling the truth, who thought of the skyscraper and cantilevers?”
“It’s one of the biggest architectural mysteries, at least to me. I first read about it when I was your age. It’s what got me interested in architecture.” He picked up the Lives of the Artists. “I don’t think Brunelleschi thought of the skyscraper with cantilevers. I have a theory about who might have thought of it but I haven’t been able to prove it. I think it was the same person who entered the competition to build the lantern on top of Brunelleschi’s dome.”
“He must have been really smart.”
Grandpa Raj brought the paperback to his face and inhaled deeply. His eyes fluttered. He put the book down. “She must have been really smart.”
Filippa jolted upright. “It was a woman? Back then?”
“Not a woman,” Grandpa Raj said, “a girl. And she wasn’t much older than you are now.”
Chapter Fourteen
The day after helping the waifish girl escape the parchment makers, Andrea walked home from the dome alone. The sun was setting and he was eager to get to the safety of Pippo’s home before thieves revealed themselves from shadowy doorways. He increased his steps. He was getting closer to home, closer to Minuscolo. He was pleased that his new shoes were not too dirty. He knew he shouldn’t have worn them to work on the dome but he enjoyed them so much, he thought it okay to give himself this pleasure. He slowed his steps when he saw the two men who had attacked Novella coming toward him. One held a club. The other a knife. Andrea felt his heart race. He looked around. They were alone. He wished he had his slingshot.
“You are Pippo’s boy,” the tall one said.
The short one circled behind Andrea.
“We asked people in the Piazza San Giovanni if you have a sister. Imagine our surprise when we were told you are Pippo’s only child.”
“They are mistaken,” Andrea said.
“No, you are mistaken. Mistaken for dishonoring us. Do you know our names?” The short one pinned his arms behind his back.
The tall one grabbed him by the ear and yanked his head. “I am Purgatory and this is my brother, Hell.” He ran the knife along one side of Andrea’s face from his cheek down to his chin.
Pain blasted through his face.
“You tell anyone we did this and we will cut your hands off. You dishonor us again and we will cut your throat.” He kneed Andrea in the gut.
Andrea doubled over, fell against the wall and vomited on his new shoes.
In a back room cluttered with paintings, busts and tools, where Pippo’s assistants labored, Andrea looked in a mirror and dabbed salve on his face, flinching every time the cloth touched the deep gash. Minuscolo wasn’t allowed in the house but this was an exception. He needed his best friend.
Andrea heard Pippo and Donatello walk in the front door.
“There is nothing more false,” Donatello said.
“It is true. I can make an egg stand on end on a flat piece of marble.”
“Prove it.”
“You first,” Pippo said.
Andrea heard the cold box open then close, followed by mumbling and cursing from Donatello. “It cannot be done.”
“I will show you.”
A quick crack sounded.
“That is cheating,” Donatello said. “You can’t break the shell to make it stand on end.”
“Says who, my friend?”
The men laughed.
“Andrea,” Pippo called, “come share wine with us.”
“Soon,” Andrea said.
“It is Sunday. We must drink together.” Pippo was silent, then he said, “That horse better not be in the house. I smell him from here.”
Andrea heard footsteps then, through the mirror, saw Pippo behind him. Andrea leaned until his disfigured face was no longer illuminated by light but hidden in shadow.
“Son, I know he is small like a dog but he must stay outside.”
Andrea did not move.
“Look at me when I address you.”
Slowly, Andrea turned.
Pippo gasped. “What …?” He grabbed him, pulled him into his chest.
“Ow,” Andrea sprung back.
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
Donatello entered the room, his eyes wide at the sight of Andrea. “What? Who?” He clenched his fists. “Someone is going to die tonight. Who did this to you?”
Andrea hung his head.
Gently, Pippo placed two fingers under his chin and lifted his face into the light. “You need a doctor. The wound needs to be sewn shut. Who defaced my son?”
“Speak, Andrea, now,” Donatello said. “Who scarred you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nonsense,” Donatello’s voice bellowed. “You must know who did this.”
“We shall call the polizia.”
“No. I will take care o
f this.” Donatello examined the deep, long cut. “Names. Give me their names.”
Andrea hesitated. “I don’t know their names.”
“You must know something about them.”
“No, Papa. Nothing.”
“How many were there?”
“Two.”
“And why would they do such a thing?”
“They said I dishonored them.”
“Foolishness.” Donatello paced.
Minuscolo shied away, buried his nose in Andrea’s hip.
“You don’t know anything about them?” Pippo asked.
“They called themselves Purgatory and Hell.”
Donatello stopped. Pippo dropped his hand from Andrea’s chin.
“It was the devil?” Donatello asked.
“Yes,” Andrea spoke softly.
“But why? What have you done?” Pippo shook him.
“I wanted to rest today and do no chores.”
“Slothful,” Pippo said.
“I wanted to eat a big meal.”
“Glutton,” Donatello said.
“I had … thoughts.”
“Lust.”
Andrea shied away. He didn’t want Pippo and Donatello to read his eyes, to see that the lust he felt was for other boys. If his father and Donatello knew of his homosexuality, they too could be hung.
“What other sins have befell you recently?” Donatello asked.
“I passed a beggar and had no offerings. But I saved a woman from invasion.”
“It must have been too late.” Pippo turned away.
Andrea looked in the mirror. Blood caked around the wound. Blisters filled with pus. Skin around the cut was darkening. One eye was bruising. And he knew for certain that no man would ever love him.
“And now,” Andrea said, “I must live in hell.”
Chapter Fifteen
With spring rain relentlessly pouring into her dome—Dolce couldn’t believe she had been living there for three Easters—she leaned against a wall and flipped to the backside of a poster that announced a tax for the citizens of Florence. She dipped the stub of a feather pen into an ink well. She rattled the sharpened tip of the feather, slowly at first, then frenetically until panic overcame her. The ink was dry. Earlier that day, she had searched rancid garbage bins and rat infested sewers and finally discovered the stub of the pen and the small well. And for what? She shook the ink well then spit in it to try and salvage one drop of ink. Nothing. Her efforts had been for nothing.
It hadn’t been easy to get the poster board either—having been chased through the winding streets by the polizia wearing blue leotards and couplets and capes that fluttered behind them like they could fly. Dolce had narrowly avoided their capture. Again.
In the dome, she ran her fingers over the edges of the poster, stinging the hardened pads of her fingertips. She brought the small, glass-blown jar to her nose and inhaled the alcohol and plant dye, the quick rush to her head a welcomed jolt.
It was her last sheet of paper. And she had no more ink.
How could she create without paper, without pen? Her mortar. The only constant in her life that she desired. Dolce looked at the stonewall on the underbelly of the dome, refusing to be silenced. She grabbed the stub of the pen, turned toward the wall and carved. Slowly, methodically, she chipped at the wall, blew dust away with her breath, reminding her of the time she had chiseled Il Gigante on Bandino’s farm. Another lifetime ago. Sweat dotted her forehead, tears dripped down her cheeks. She may not speak but she would never allow herself to be silenced again.
One final whoosh of her breath and she leaned back. The pen was a nub, the tips of her fingers raw with blood.
Dolce Gaddi, Architetta.
Admiring the carving, she thought, how can I be an architect like Filippo Brunelleschi without the proper tools?
She had to earn florins so she could pursue her craft. She thought back to the farm when Bandino had asked her why she wasn’t working right before he buried her alive. “You need to make money for this farm,” he had said. “What can you do? You can be a wet nurse. No, too young. Can you sew, mend, cook, clean? What can you do? You don’t even speak. You probably couldn’t earn even a single florin as a whore.”
Dolce knew what she had to do.
Dolce scurried down the sides of the cathedral. Even with the curfew and the risk that she might get caught roaming the city after the gates had been shut and thrown in jail, nighttime was the best time, the only time. Quiet like the mice that scattered in the streets and on top of the dome when she stomped her feet, slick like the bats that thrived in the shadows of Firenze, she ran. Along the narrow and winding stone streets, she passed homes secured with iron rails across the windows and wooden doors bolted closed. The flicker from oil lamps lit her way.
The rain pelted her as she slowed then stopped as the din of deep voices carried through the labyrinth. Smoke from burning embers caught in her throat. Soft flames danced on the walls around her. She coughed, patted down her hair, rubbed her fingers over her teeth and marched forward.
She stepped into the doorway of a stone house tucked near the guard gate at the edge of the city. A tall, neatly dressed man cast his eyes to the floor and ran out the door. An olivewood fire warmed the parlor. A soft light dulled the hard faces. Dolce looked down so no glimmer of recognition would cross her face. Polizia, politicos, un medico, kin of the Medici, some men she didn’t know—they stared at her and appeared stunned. But only for a moment. A small, thick necked and toothless man slapped his tall, bearded friend on the back and cheered. Metal cups clanked, laughter resumed, bravado returned.
A gypsy woman, with thick black whiskers jutting from her chin and an enormous bosom that tumbled out of a red, torn velvet dress, took Dolce’s hand and led her to a back room where an infant slept in the opened, top drawer of a dresser. The woman undressed Dolce, guided her into a metal tub and bathed her. She gave her mint leaves to suck and wrapped her in a silk robe.
“Are you hungry?” the woman asked.
Dolce nodded.
The woman reached into her dress and took out her breast. Dolce closed her eyes and pretended to be reunited with Novella.
When it was nearly light outside, the gypsy woman made sure Dolce’s belly was full of sustenance and her pockets full of florins.
“Here.”
Dolce hesitated to touch the dirty rag.
The woman shoved it into her hand. “You will need this.”
With the men gone, the tables upended, garbage littered about and the stale smell of ale in Dolce’s brain and all over her clothes, she stepped into the daylight. Her body ached. She was exhausted. She considered where to go, what to do. With the gates opening for commerce, the shops starting business shortly and the winding streets soon to be crowded, she couldn’t return to the cupola. She would go to her hiding place under the Ponte Vecchio. The old bridge designed by Taddeo Gaddi, her great grandfather.
Dolce walked slowly, feeling the coins weighing down her pockets, gently thumping against her legs with each step. She held the dirty rag, thought about tossing it aside but remembered the gypsy woman’s words. You will need this.
Dolce took a coin out of her pocket and rolled it between her fingers. She would get some sleep curled under the bridge, then buy a pen and ink and paper, and return to the dome as soon as the day ended. The excitement filled her heart. Yes, it had been worth it. Definitely worth it.
She turned a corner and felt a hand on her shoulder. She whipped around. It took just a moment for her to recognize him from the brothel. He was small, thick necked and toothless. He smelled like her.
“Give me the money,” he held out his hand.
Dolce turned to run back to the gypsy woman. She took a step and was stopped by the tall, bearded one who jammed his knee into her stomach. She crumbled to the ground, the coins flying out of her pockets, scattering. She looked up at the grinning bearded one who stood over her like a sadistic prison guard as the toothless man ga
thered the coins then ran away.
Dolce sat up, holding the coin she had been rolling between her fingers. She felt a sudden pain between her legs, a flow, and knew why the gypsy woman had given her the dirty rag.
With one florin remaining, Dolce still had enough to buy pen and ink. She would get the parchment some other way. She walked more slowly now, the rag shoved between her legs to catch the dripping blood. The Ponte Vecchio was ahead. It didn’t matter her bed was made of stone, her mattress a heap of garbage or her pillow her own arms. She would sleep. And she would forget what she had done. Forever.
“Do you have any coins? I haven’t eaten in so very long.”
The bent woman’s back curved like the metal that held together the barrels Dolce used to play with on Il Poderino. She was so hunched, Dolce couldn’t see her face. Just a mass of dirty, tangled grey hair and large, shapeless and hanging breasts.
“What did you say?” Dolce asked.
The woman feebly extended her hand, palm up.
Dolce gave Novella her last coin.
Chapter Sixteen
The teenage boy was one of Pippo’s apprentices and he called himself Zac, short for Zaccheri di Pietro. Andrea thought he was beautiful like the softest curves of milk pouring from a superbly crafted vase. They were both seventeen years old. Andrea coveted Zac, finding reasons to enter the workshop to see him shirtless, chipping at stone, his muscles tight and hard. Three times one day, Andrea slid into the shop, skimming the outer wall with his body, showing his left side only, and hiding the hideous scar on the right side of his face.
Where Purgatory and Hell had slashed him was now a raised and red bulbous mark on the side of Andrea’s face. Sometimes it oozed, often it throbbed, and always it made Andrea feel shame.
Zac put down the pick he had been holding and wiped his hand across his brow, leaving a white line of stone ash on his face. “I have already given you a chisel and a hammer. Pray tell, what else are you missing?”
Andrea blushed and laughed.
