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Moon over the Mediterranean

Page 3

by Sheri Cobb South


  “Of course,” he said, accepting my refusal with a good grace. “You must by all means see the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, and be sure to visit the Galleria dell’Accademia for Michelangelo’s David.”

  “You seem to be well-acquainted with the sights of Florence.”

  “The crew takes turns having a few hours of leisure while the ship is in port.”

  “So that explains it. I thought perhaps you were Italian.”

  “In fact, I am Greek: Markos Rondo, at your service,” he said, sketching a little bow. “And you are Robin Fletcher, are you not? I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure, but if you expect me to be amazed that you know my name, I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment. I don’t doubt you heard Aunt Maggie introduce me only a few minutes ago.”

  He flashed that white smile at me again. “Actually, I looked you up on the ship’s manifest shortly after you boarded.” While I struggled not to appear surprised—much less flattered—he continued. “May I hope to show you about my own country when we dock in Piraeus?”

  I reminded myself sternly that my presence on this trip was supposed to be as company for Aunt Maggie. “I—I’ll have to see what my aunt has planned,” I answered vaguely, and turned my attention back to the group.

  “Why, Robin, it appears you’ve made a conquest,” Maggie observed, as Markos bore down on another cluster of passengers with camera at the ready.

  “Hardly that,” I protested.

  “You know, Robin, you may be engaged, but you’re not dead. It wouldn’t hurt Gene to suffer a few pangs of jealousy. In fact, it might light a fire under him.”

  I would be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Thankfully, Miss Duprée spared me the necessity of putting Aunt Maggie off with a blatant falsehood or, perhaps worse, offering her any encouragement.

  “Graham, darling, I have the most crushing headache!” Miss Duprée drooped against him like a wilting flower, the back of one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead. “If we are to go ashore tomorrow, I must go and lie down at once.”

  “Of course,” he said hastily, setting his empty champagne glass down on a side table. “If you will excuse us, ladies—Dr. Hurley—”

  We all murmured goodnight, and watched as Mr. Grimes led his “traveling companion” off in the direction of the stairs.

  “Now, there goes a man who’s firmly under a woman’s thumb,” remarked Aunt Maggie. “And if she’s only his ‘traveling companion,’ I’m Queen Elizabeth. You’d better watch yourself, Paul. She looked as if she wouldn’t mind trading in our friend Graham for a newer model.”

  “You terrify me!” the doctor said, making a big show of mopping his brow with his cocktail napkin. “But I think she’s probably right about turning in early. Shall we go up to our cabins for a good night’s sleep, and then meet in this same spot tomorrow morning at, say, eight o’clock? That should give us time for a quick breakfast on board ship before starting out.”

  Maggie readily agreed to this proposal—no one asked me, I noticed with some amusement—and the doctor bade us both goodnight as we crossed the still-crowded atrium and headed toward the aft stairs. It wasn’t until I was back in my stateroom that I recalled seeing Mr. Grimes leading Miss Duprée up the midships staircase and wondered fleetingly what sort of accommodations the Sugar Daddy had arranged for his Mistress—something more luxurious than my tiny compartment with its little round porthole, I was willing to bet. Still, the bed where I’d taken my nap was comfortable, and at the moment that was good enough for me. I kicked off my high-heeled shoes and padded in stocking feet to the closet to hang up my dress. Slip, stockings, and bra followed, then I pulled my nightgown over my head, turned out the light and finally, after a last look out the porthole at the ship’s lights reflecting off the dark waves, collapsed into bed.

  Unfortunately, my body was still several time zones behind; I awoke some time later to find my cabin still dark. I’d left the curtains open, and through the porthole I could see the moon rising just over the horizon, spreading a broken trail of silver across the water.

  “Oh!” I breathed, reaching for the camera I’d left on the nightstand. I framed the tranquil scene in the viewfinder, then pressed the button—and all but blinded myself when the flash reflected off the glass of the porthole.

  “Blast,” I muttered. If I wanted a picture, I would have to go up on deck, where I wouldn’t have to shoot through glass. I’d left my watch on the nightstand, and its glowing hands informed me that the time was almost three o’clock in the morning. I grabbed my robe for modesty’s sake—although I thought it unlikely that anyone would be lingering about at so late an hour—and left my cabin, locking the door securely behind me.

  All was still and quiet on deck. Even my footsteps on the bleached and sanded boards were drowned by the slap of water against the side of the ship as we plowed through the waves. I walked back toward the rear of the ship (“aft” toward the “stern,” I corrected myself mentally, thinking of Gene in the Navy) and drew up short as I realized I was not alone after all. A man stood at the taffrail holding something in his hands, and as I debated the wisdom of calling a friendly greeting to him, given the lateness of the hour and my own sketchy attire, he dropped his burden overboard and turned away from the railing. Instinctively, I drew back into the shadow of a lifeboat mounted overhead, holding my breath lest it betray my presence even as I scolded myself for my own foolishness.

  So deep were the shadows that he passed within four feet of me and never even suspected my presence. Consumed by curiosity, I waited only until I heard the door close behind him before I hurried to the spot where he’d stood, and leaned out over the taffrail. Far below, the ship’s propellers churned the water into frothing waves of gleaming luminescence. There was just light enough for me to make out the painted smile on the end of a Christmas log before it disappeared beneath the foaming surf.

  Chapter 3

  Lump the whole thing! say that the Creator made Italy

  from designs by Michael Angelo.

  MARK TWAIN, The Innocents Abroad

  I don’t remember returning to my stateroom, although I must have done so, for I awoke the next morning in my own bed. The curtain was open, just as I’d left it, and beyond the porthole, the sunlight sparkled on the water like diamonds. Closer at hand, Pedro grinned at me from the nightstand.

  “What do you think, old boy?” I asked him. “Was it only a dream? Who would buy you—well, one of your siblings, anyway—only to throw you overboard? I’ve heard of buyer’s remorse, but that’s ridiculous.”

  As usual, Pedro kept his opinions to himself, and a glance at my tiny travel alarm clock informed me that I didn’t have time to linger in one-sided conversation. I threw back the covers, then went through my morning beauty routine before donning a pink striped cotton sundress. I snatched up my big straw bag and wide-brimmed straw hat, then locked my stateroom behind me and rapped on Maggie’s door. She opened it at once, and it seemed to me that my always immaculate aunt had taken special pains with her appearance. Not that she was overdressed; Aunt Maggie would never commit such a sartorial sin. No, she was perfectly dressed for sightseeing in a full skirt and crisp short-sleeved blouse, both in a shade of green that just matched her eyes. Her bright hair was covered with a chiffon scarf in varying shades from peridot to emerald. Apparently she had high hopes for Dr. Paul Hurley; I made a mental note to leave them alone as much as possible.

  We made a quick breakfast at the buffet on the Firenze Deck, and tucked a couple of apples into my bag for a snack later in the morning before returning to the atrium, where we found Dr. Paul waiting for us. After a brief review to make sure we hadn’t forgotten anything important—Passport? Stateroom key? Camera? Extra film? Flash bulbs?—we made our way down the gangplank, and I set foot on Italian soil for the first time. Maggie and I waited while Paul approached the service counter, and soon returned with the key to his rented Fiat.

/>   “I apologize for its small size,” he said, opening the passenger’s-side door and raising the seat so I could climb into the back. “When I reserved it, I did not expect to have such charming passengers.”

  “Talk to us like that long enough, and we’ll soon be begging you for the privilege of folding ourselves in half,” Maggie assured him as he pushed the passenger’s seat back into place for her.

  “Still, if I had known I would have company, I would have arranged for something larger—a Ford, perhaps.”

  “We can ride in Fords any day,” I said, shifting on the back seat to smooth my skirt beneath me.

  “Exactly,” Maggie agreed. “If we’re going to see Italy, we might as well do it in an Italian car. ‘When in Rome’ and all that, you know.”

  Paul slid behind the wheel, turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life. Most of the cars we met on our way were no larger than our own little Fiat, and as we wound through the narrow streets of old Livorno, I no longer wondered at their small size: two of the tiny vehicles could barely meet to pass, and anything as large as a Ford would have taken up more than its fair share of the pavement.

  At last, we left the city behind us in favor of the open highway and my first look at the Italian countryside. I lost interest in Maggie and Paul’s conversation and pressed my nose to the window, mesmerized by the silver-green of olive trees that whizzed past and the hillsides striped with tiered rows of grapevines. Occasionally, we passed houses whose plaster had faded to soft yellow or cream, with red clay tiled roofs and, more often than not, a tall, narrow cypress tree planted by the door, thrusting its spear-pointed tip toward the sky. According to the guidebook I’d tucked into my bag, the cypress by the door denoted hospitality and a welcome to travelers.

  Recalling something else in my bag that needed my attention, I rooted out my billfold and counted the colorful lira notes, all printed in purple and green and orange, like Monopoly money. I reminded myself that just because they ranged in denomination from five hundred to five thousand didn’t mean they were worth that much in American dollars. I would have to be careful shopping—assuming, of course, that I found something I wanted to spend them on. If the Italians had any equivalent of the caga tió, I would give it a pass; besides taking up far too much room in my luggage, one nightmare-inducing souvenir was quite enough.

  An hour’s drive brought us to Florence, and I could tell when we approached the old section of the city by the narrowing of the streets. Paul found a place to park the little blue Fiat—although not without difficulty—and we all climbed out of the car, stretching arms and legs cramped from the tight squeeze.

  “Make a note of the location,” he cautioned us, pointing out various street signs and shops that might serve as landmarks. “We’ll meet back here at, shall we say, two o’clock? That should give you time to see the major sights of Florence before we head to Pisa.”

  If Aunt Maggie was disappointed that he hadn’t changed his mind and decided to accompany us, she never let on. She thanked him effusively for giving us a lift into town, and promised him we wouldn’t keep him waiting. “Now, Robin, which way do we go to get to the cathedral?” she asked when he’d gone on his way.

  I fumbled in my big straw bag for the guidebook, and opened it to the map of Florence. “Which cathedral?” I asked. “The city seems to be full of them.”

  After much discussion and consulting of maps, we decided to try and find “Florence’s Westminster Abbey,” the Basilica of Santa Croce. According to the guidebook, it was the final resting place of Michelangelo, Machiavelli, Rossini, and Galileo; more to the purpose, it appeared to be the nearest landmark to where we stood, which meant, at least in theory, that it should be the easiest to find. A ten-minute walk (during which we only had to retrace our steps twice) brought us to the Piazza Santa Croce, a large paved square dominated by the basilica on its western end. At least, the map said it was on the western end; I was so completely turned around by this time that I could hardly have said which end was up.

  After pausing to catch our breath and snap a photo, we crossed the square, and I became increasingly grateful for my rubber-soled espadrilles; Aunt Maggie had opted for high-heeled pumps, and consequently had a hard time navigating the uneven cobblestones. The slow pace gave me plenty of opportunity to survey the vendors’ stalls dotting the square. Besides the usual postcards, refrigerator magnets, and painted china plates, there were dozens of long-nosed wooden marionettes in red and white costumes and tall pointed hats, all dangling from hooks in the roofs of the stalls like so many executed felons. One vendor apparently noticed my interest, for he grabbed one of the puppets down from its hook and shook it in my direction, making its jointed arms and legs flail wildly as he shouted something to me in incomprehensible Italian. The only word I could understand was “Pinocchio,” but this one word was enough to make me realize that Florence had been the home of the wooden boy’s creator—not, as my students would have said, Walt Disney, but Carlo Collodi. I was sorely tempted—after all, I taught literature as well as grammar—but my thirteen-year-old students would have rolled their eyes at any suggestion they might enjoy so juvenile a teaching prop. I gave the vendor a regretful smile and shook my head, contenting myself with taking a quick photo before hurrying after Aunt Maggie.

  We paid our admission and entered the church, which seemed strangely quiet after the bustle of the square. Michelangelo’s tomb was on our immediate right, an immense marble structure topped with a bust of the deceased and fronted by a trio of depressed-looking women.

  “It says the three statues represent sculpture, architecture, and painting,” I said, consulting the guidebook. “Why do you suppose they were represented as women?”

  “Wishful thinking,” Aunt Maggie said. “What about these two?”

  She pointed across the nave to the tomb of Galileo, where a pair of marble ladies lounged against the scientist’s final resting place.

  I ran my finger down the page until I came to a description of the tomb. “One is astronomy, and the other is geometry. There was supposed to be a third, representing philosophy, but for some reason it was omitted. Apparently there’s some debate as to why.”

  “Now, that can’t be right!”

  “What can’t?” I scanned the page, looking for anything I might have misread.

  “I remember geometry very well from high school, and I’m quite certain it was male!”

  I laughed out loud, clapping a hand over my mouth as the irreverent sound echoed through the church. After looking our fill at the Gothic glories of Santa Croce, we exited the basilica and followed the map to the Arno River, strolling along it until we came to the Ponte Vecchio, the medieval bridge lined with shops that hung over the water seemingly in defiance of gravity.

  “Even the Nazis thought it was too beautiful to destroy,” I said, referring once more to the guidebook.

  “I remember hearing something about that at the time,” Maggie said. “I’ll bet it didn’t stop them for long, though.”

  “No. They just blew up the buildings on either end instead.”

  “It figures. But enough about the Nazis! While we’re this close, why don’t we wander through the Uffizi for an hour or so? We can satisfy our appetite for Renaissance art before we set out in search of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore.”

  “The what?” I asked, thumbing through the guidebook. I thought the name sounded familiar; Markos, the ship’s photographer, had recommended that we not miss it.

  “In English, the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flowers. Even the city’s name means ‘flower,’ which is why you see them everywhere—on its flag, its coat of arms—”

  “Oh, here it is! ‘The city’s most recognizable landmark, noted for its massive dome engineered by Filippo Brunelleschi,’ ” I read aloud.

  By this time my feet were beginning to ache in spite of my comfortable shoes, and I was all for visiting the Uffizi museum, especially if it offered a few benches where we could sit d
own. But one hour stretched into two as we surveyed works by Botticelli, Leonardo da Vinci, and the ubiquitous Michelangelo. As we exited the museum and headed northward toward the cathedral, Aunt Maggie noted that we were going to have to hurry if we wanted to see Michelangelo’s David before meeting Paul at two o’clock.

  We had no trouble finding the cathedral; even if we hadn’t had a map, we could have found it simply by following the other tourists. If I’d thought the Basilica of Santa Croce was impressive, it was only because I hadn’t yet seen the cathedral. An enormous building of white marble lavishly ornamented in pink and green, it looked like nothing so much as a giant wedding cake topped, not with a tiny ceramic bride and groom, but with a red brick dome so massive that the dome atop the U. S. Capitol—my only real point of reference—was dwarfed by comparison. Unfortunately, the line for climbing the stairs into the top of the dome was too long to be feasible, in the light of our promise to meet Paul back at the car at two. The line to climb the bell tower wasn’t much shorter, so I was forced to be content with taking photos of the cathedral’s elaborate exterior, or what I could of it: the whole thing was too large to fit into the frame, and the buildings across the street from it pressed too closely to allow me to back up far enough that the entire building would be visible. Aunt Maggie collared a fellow tourist—German, from the sound of his speech—and after much gesturing, gave him to understand that he was requested to take a picture of the two of us with the cathedral in the background. Smiling and nodding, he reached for my camera, and after pointing out the button he should press, I handed it over and took my place beside Aunt Maggie, both of us smiling brightly as the German tourist snapped away.

  From the cathedral, we bore northeastward until we reached the Galleria dell’Accademia, where David awaited us. By this time, I’d seen enough artwork to understand what made Michelangelo’s interpretation unique: the other representations we’d seen presented Goliath’s slayer in his moment of victory, holding the giant’s severed head aloft in triumph. Michelangelo’s David gazed pensively over the heads of his admirers, apparently focused on the task before him. Nor was he alone in his contemplation: I saw the same rapt concentration on the faces of the many art students seated around the statue with sketchpads on their laps, trying with varying degrees of success to reproduce the sculptor’s masterpiece in charcoal. With a start of recognition, I realized one of the aspiring artists was no stranger.

 

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