The Lantern, a Renaissance Mystery

by Joanne Lewis

  “She lived over five hundred and fifty years ago. It must have been a hard life,” Buddy said. “Do you think people got cancer back then?”

  “I don’t know. Many people died of the plague all over Europe during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.”

  “The plague was their cancer.”

  “Yes,” Filippa said, “it was.”

  The next day, Filippa held a basin under his chin while he threw up. As she wiped his mouth, he said, “when I get better, we’ll go to Florence and find the Renaissance girl together and we’ll win that contest.”

  She kissed his forehead. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”

  “What do you think she was like?”

  Filippa didn’t need to give this much thought, having spent hours in prison considering this very question. “She was smart and talented and determined and brave. She didn’t give up, no matter the odds against her.”

  Buddy closed his eyes. “Lippa, can you read to me again what Vasari said about her?”

  Filippa reached for Grandpa Raj’s copy of Lives of the Artists. Written by Vasari during the 1500’s, he had chronicled the lives of pre-Renaissance and Renaissance artists including Cimabue (1240–1302?), Titian (1487/90–1576), Michelangelo (1475–1564) and Donatello (1386–1466), Brunelleschi’s best friend.

  In Filippa’s hands, the paperback opened easily to page 136. The section on the life of Filippo Brunelleschi, Sculptor and Architect (1377–1446), comprised pages 110–146 of the English edition. Filippa already knew the significance of page 136 having read it and reread it hundreds of times since she was a child. Vasari was describing the competition Brunelleschi had been forced to enter to design the lantern even after he had revolutionized architecture by building the dome without scaffolding and in self-supporting layers of brick.

  Filippa cleared her throat and read out loud, “With his own hands, Filippo also made a model for the lantern with eight sides based upon the proportions of the dome, which to tell the truth, turned out very well because of its inventiveness, variety and decoration. He included in the model a stairway for climbing up to the ball (on the lantern), which was a marvelous thing indeed, but because he had plugged up the entrance with a piece of wood inserted from underneath, no one but Filippo knew it existed. Although he was now highly praised and had already triumphed over the envy and arrogance of many, he was not able to prevent all the masters in Florence from setting out to produce various models of their own, once they had seen what he had done, and even a girl from the Gaddi family, dared to enter the competition with Filippo’s design!”

  “One more time, Lippa. Just the last part.”

  “Even a girl from the Gaddi family dared to enter the competition with Filippo’s design!”

  “Do you really think she stole Filippo’s design?”

  Filippa put the book down and tucked the blanket tightly around Buddy until he was safely cocooned. “No way.” She kissed his forehead.

  “She’d never do that. Where’s Ellie?”

  “Oh, sorry.” She took Ellie from a side table, pulled Buddy’s blanket back and tucked the grey elephant in next to him.

  “We’re going to find our Renaissance girl and win that contest,” Buddy said. “And then we’ll build Filippa Village and cure cancer and buy an elephant …” his words trailed off as he fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  As the sun rose, Dolce sat in a corner of the Gypsy woman’s home with her knees pulled into her chest and her arms wrapped around her shins. Her eyes were dry. Her spirit nearly broken. Andrea slept next to her on the hard floor. His long hair covered his face.

  The church bells chimed six times and Dolce heard a knock. She bent over, grimaced from the shock of pain that shot throughout her body like an electrical charge, and looked toward the opened door. From her vantage, she couldn’t see much. Just the back of the gypsy woman. Her hands were planted on her hips. The back of her wide calves and fat ankles were flea bitten.

  “They are not here.” The gypsy woman’s voice was soft but stern.

  “Matelda, if you are hiding them you will be hung too.” The voice was deep, practiced. The man stepped into the home. Dolce recognized his blue shoes and leotards, the uniform of the polizia.

  Matelda blocked his way. “Franco, you have been my customer for many Easter Sundays. I have always treated you well and have never lied to you.”

  “You treat me well because I have florins to spare and you have never lied to me because I have never caught you in that lie.”

  “So be it. I suggest you leave and come back when the girls are ready.”

  “I have orders to bring Dolce Gaddi and Andrea Cavalcanti to the gallows immediately. If they are here …”

  “I swear to God.”

  “You do not believe in God.”

  “But I do like to swear,” she laughed. “Come back after the gates have closed. I will save the prettiest wench for you. She is hardly soiled and has few bugs.” Matelda started to close the door and to push the officer out. Dolce saw her hesitate then heard her ask, “What are they accused of?”

  “The man has committed the crime of sodomy.”

  “Glory be, Franco, all of la polizia have committed that crime in my very home.”

  “Do not let those words pass your lips again.”

  “And the girl, what do you want with her?”

  “She is wanted for murder. A man was killed just inside the gates last night. A single blow to his neck felled him. His friend Evanko was a witness. He said the girl did it.”

  “Are you sure it happened inside the gates?” Matelda asked.

  “According to the witness, yes. If it happened outside the gates after curfew, we would have no jurisdiction.”

  “And you know the girl did it?”

  “Evanko swears to it.”

  “I do not know those men well but they have frequented my home and I am certain they are of questionable character. They start fights and ridicule my girls. No jury will believe them.”

  “Normally, I would agree. But not this time.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The dead man’s name is Giuliano.”

  “So?”

  “Giuliano de’ Medici. He is Cosimo’s nephew.”

  Matelda gasped.

  “Has the stone faced Matelda finally been left speechless?” Franco asked.

  “Uh, no,” she said. “Not at all.”

  “Good. When you see this girl, you will tell me at once, capite? And if I find out you are hiding her, I will have you strung up in the public square.” Franco turned smartly and walked away.

  Dolce heard the click-clack of his heels on the cobblestones grow fainter. Matelda remained in the doorway, speechless.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Dolce was tired, so tired. Nausea overcame her like she was being tossed among waves. Behind closed eyes, she saw a hoist, like the way water and supplies were lifted by oxen to the top of the cathedral to build Brunelleschi’s dome. Only this hoist would lift people to the top of the building in the center of La Citta di Dolce. The rope would have to be long enough to drop from heaven and the oxen strong enough to lift a hundred loads into the clouds as angels on the balconies cheered. And on the very top floor, blurred by beams of refractory lights in shimmering shades flashing from white-blue to purple-blue to black-blue, Novella would sit on a throne. Cosimo de’ Medici, her servant.

  Dolce’s nose pulsated. Was it broken? Then pain, like a lightning strike, jarred her spine.

  “Get up. Now, Dolce Gaddi. Or else you will know hell for real.”

  She opened her eyes. Andrea gripped her shoulder and shook her forcefully.

  “Come on.”

  She asked no questions but followed him out the back of the gypsy woman’s home and down an alley cluttered with rats eating the eyes of dead chickens. She felt queasy and attributed her uneasiness to the recollection of Franco speaking to Matelda and accusing Dolce of murdering a membe
r of the powerful and cruel Medici family.

  “Stop,” a familiar voice called.

  She looked back then was propelled forward. Andrea dragged her through the streets, a police officer in pursuit.

  “What have I done?” She asked the wind, which didn’t answer.

  They ran over cobblestones, turned corners, pivoted and pummeled through dense crowds.

  “Faster,” Andrea said.

  “Turn there,” she cried.

  “No,” Andrea said, “this way. To Pippo’s house.”

  “They will look for you there. I know someone who will help us. The bank clerk, Abramo. He is my friend. Go that way.”

  And Samuele, she thought. My sweet, sweet Samuele. She feared she would never see him again. She should have trusted her instincts and never allowed herself to get close to him. Hadn’t anyone she ever loved been harmed, or deserted her?

  Andrea ran around a corner. He grabbed Dolce firmly on her arm and whipped her around behind him. She looked back, at the sound of the voice, calling them, demanding they stop running. Then, she ran into him, bounced off his back, ricochet into a wall and fell to the ground. Dazed, she shook her head then looked up. Andrea stared, his eyes wide. He took small steps back, his arms stretched out in front. Dolce followed the path of his hands. More polizia. Many more.

  Dolce stood. “Run, Andrea. I have done no wrong. I will go with them.”

  “No,” he said. “You go. I am the innocent one.”

  “I refuse.” She stepped in front of him.

  Andrea grabbed her by the shoulders and flung her around, behind him.

  “Run now,” he screamed and catapulted himself into the arms of seven polizia who surrounded him and beat on him with fists and feet. “Go,” he yelled.

  As Dolce took off, Andrea’s blood splattered across her face.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Filippa cringed as black puffs of air sprang from Dr. Manuel Lopez’s tongue. “There is nothing else we can do for Buddy.” The pediatric oncologist’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a ventilator’s pump. His grey hair stood at attention on top of his head, the devil’s disciples welcoming a new soul to hell. “Do you want the number for hospice?”

  A lump lodged in Filippa’s throat. Her stomach tightened. She looked at Julio who stood next to her in the hospital hallway. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn. He smelled of stale cigarettes and beer. His body, usually straight and secure like a Royal Palm, sagged.

  “Hospice?” Filippa said.

  The doctor spoke again. The vibrations of his voice were deep and grating. Filippa grew agitated by the staccato delivery and the rhythm of his well-rehearsed words. Had he delivered dire reports to patients and their families so many times he was emotionless? Didn’t he know Buddy was different than the others? Wasn’t he aware the diagnosis had to be wrong? That there was no way Buddy was going to die?

  Dr. Lopez stopped speaking. “Filippa, are you listening?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, yes, now I am.”

  “Should I continue? Are you understanding what I’m telling you? I know it’s difficult but you need to concentrate.”

  She swallowed the fear in her throat and felt the bile drop into her stomach.

  “What have I said?” the doctor asked.

  “You’re sending Buddy home.” Filippa hesitated to continue, to send her own words, her own vibrations, into the universe. Her body was shaking. She felt as if she couldn’t stand on her own. She reached to Julio for support but his own frame was wilting. She braced herself against the wall. She spoke softly, slowly. “Buddy is going home to die.”

  Dr. Lopez pulled a pager out of his lab coat pocket, looked at it, then slipped it back in. “There are experiments being done in Norway with ultrasound and light. It was first tested by NASA and the Russians in outer space. It’s really amazing.” The doctor’s face brightened. “They’re showing positive results for shrinking tumors in the brain. It hasn’t come to America yet so you’d have to go there.”

  “How do we sign Buddy up?” Julio asked.

  “I can make all the arrangements. But there’s something you need to know,” he looked at his pager again, “you have to make a donation to be accepted into the trials. It’s how labs like this one get their funding. I wasn’t going to mention it but just in case you could come up with the money …”

  “How much?” Filippa asked.

  “A lot.” He dropped the pager back in his pocket. “Half a million dollars. You make a donation to the lab and they’ll enter Buddy in the trials. With Buddy’s young age and his determination, he might have a chance. His only chance.”

  “Half a million dollars?” Julio gasped. “We don’t have that kind of money. God must want Buddy. Dios is calling. We must let Buddy go.”

  “Why would God want Buddy now?” Filippa said. “He’s a kid. Why not me? Why not you?” Filippa’s heart pounded fiercely. Julio could hide behind religion or alcohol or anything else he chose but she wasn’t giving up. “We can get the money.”

  “How?” Julio asked.

  “The Renaissance girl.”

  The doctor grabbed his pager again.

  “Remember that contest Grandpa Raj always wanted to enter? The one to find the girl who drew the skyscraper and who had entered the competition to design the lantern on top of Brunelleschi’s dome?”

  “I thought he was stoned anytime he talked about that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Lopez held up his pager. “They won’t leave me alone. I’m being called to surgery. I have to go, but listen, the chemotherapy and radiation aren’t working. I’m getting a lot of pressure to discharge Buddy.”

  “You can’t go,” Filippa insisted. “Where do we get the information about the trials? Is there a website?”

  “You can’t send him home. His headaches are getting worse,” Julio said.

  “I’ll give you the website when I get back to my office. We can manage his pain with morphine. Hospice can keep him comfortable at home.” The doctor turned to walk away.

  “Wait,” Filippa said. “We have questions.”

  The doctor rotated toward her, folded his arms across his chest, waited.

  Filippa released a deep breath. “When will Buddy be discharged?”

  “I’ll delay it as long as I can but they need to free up his bed for someone who can benefit from the Public Trust. Three days tops.”

  “Half a million dollars, Doc?” Julio looked dazed.

  “Don’t worry,” Filippa said, “we’ll get it.”

  “Are you on crack again?” Julio spat.

  Filippa looked at him, then away. She felt the disgust for Julio rise into the back of her throat. Regardless of Julio and how he repulsed her, she had to stay focused on Buddy. She still had most of the ten thousand dollars tucked in the bottom of her duffel bag. Not nearly enough to assist Buddy. But Filippa knew she could get the money for the experimental treatment—she just needed a little help from the Renaissance girl.

  With her eyes closed, seventeen-year-old Filippa tossed her head side-to-side, following her own rhythm. Long red hair swung in front of her face. With her knees slightly bent, her body swayed and her hips shook. Grandpa Raj took her hands and led her through the dining room and into the living room. Together, they danced. Grandpa Raj leading her under his arm, into a dip, out again. Filippa bending into him then releasing into a freestyle of twirling, swirling, her arms flowing like soft ocean waves. The reds, blues, yellows and greens of her gauze top billowing. Her bare feet kicked aside eviction notices, bills from Chase Bank, late notices from utility companies, and stern letters from Flamingo College and the community college. Filippa sweated. The air conditioning, the electricity, the phone, the water had been shut off how long ago now? Had it been weeks? Months? Could it have been years?

  Filippa twisted, leaped and turned midair, fell, giggling. Grandpa Raj laughed too, held out his hand for her. She let him pull her up then lead her back into the dining room where E
llie the Elephant lay trunk down on the table. Filippa and Grandpa Raj were out-of-breath, sweaty, and happy.

  “I want to show you something.” Grandpa Raj reached into a cupboard and retrieved a thick envelope, which he tossed onto the table.

  She opened the envelope and gasped. “Where did you get this?”

  “No matter,” he waved his hand.

  She took out the thick stack of cash and ran her fingers over it, fanning it like a deck of cards. She studied a one hundred dollar bill—were they all hundreds? Filippa whooped with joy and hugged Grandpa Raj.

  “Why don’t you use this money to pay the bills?” she asked.

  “Because it’s for you. For something really important.”

  “Getting the house out of foreclosure and turning the air conditioning back on isn’t important?”

  “Those are material things. Vanities. We’ll find someplace else to live. And going without AC in South Florida builds character.”

  She hugged the envelope to her chest. “I’m never going to spend it.”

  “Don’t say that, Lippa. One day, you’re going to need it for something special.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You’ll know,” he said. “Trust me.”

  “Do you want me to tell Buddy that we’re sending him home?” Dr. Lopez looked at Filippa and Julio.

  Rattling grew closer as a nurse pushing an emergency crash cart ran past them and down the hallway. Filippa watched her rush by, then turn and disappear into a room. A doctor and nurses followed.