Disposition of Remains (10 page)

“Theessa’ two frescoes were commissioned een a’ 1480 by da’ Vespucci family. Botticelli grew up assa’ neighbor to da’ Vespuccis. Do you know of a’ them?”

“
Sure, the ‘Wasps of Florence.’ I’ve heard of them. I studied once about Florentine Renaissance art, but it’s been twenty years.”

“Amerigo Vespucci
wassa’ born and raised een a’ Firenze, yes, but he issa’ more famous for a’ sometheeng else. He issa’ said to have a’ made da’ first accurate method of a’ determining
longitudine
. How you a’ say…”

“Longitude?”

“
Sì, sì.
And he wassa’ among da’ first discoverers of da’ Americas. Heez a’ first name een Latin is Americus, and it issa’ said that da’ Americas were a’ named after heem.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that.”

“Theessa’ first fresco here issa’ Botticelli’s
Sant’Agostino nello Studio,
or
Saint Augustine in His Study.
Da’ other issa’ Ghirlandaio’s
Saint Jerome in His Study.
Both competed against each other to create da best a’ portrayal. They both appear to be religious a’ paintings but are more representative of da’ precursors to a’ humanism.”

I was a little surprised that a nun was telling me that the paintings in her church were not really religious, but it was fascinating to me just the same. Sister Constance clearly wasn’t trying to convert me; she was trying to educate me—or to distract me, perhaps to comfort me in a way she sensed I could relate to. I was on her heels to the next attraction, walking so closely that I accidentally stepped on her habit and nearly tore it from her frail body. 

“Here a’ he is,” she said as she pointed to down to the floor in one of the chapels.

There in the brick floor was a circular marble gravestone. It was white with a blue coat of arms. The detail of the family crest contained a golden lion that was standing with its claws extended, and holding what looked like horns in one of its paws. The Latin inscription read
“Sepulcrum Filipepi 1510.”

“What does that mean?” I inquired of my new teacher.

“Da’ grave of a’ Filipepi. Filipepi wassa’ heez family name, Botticelli wassa’ only a nickname.”

“He looks so…small,” I remarked as I marveled at the gravestone. It was only about the size of a manhole cover.

She chuckled again.

“Do you know how he came
a’ to be here?”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“Atta’ first Botticelli became a’ famous for heez paintings here.”

“Really?”

“But that’s notta’ why,” Sister Constance said, amused with herself. “He wassa’ commissioned by da’ great Medici family of a’ Firenze to paint two paintings that were a’ mythological een nature:
Primavera,
and
Nascita di Venere,
otherwise known as da’
Birth of Venus.
Are you familiar with a’ them?”

I stifled a laugh. It was like me asking her if she was familiar with a crucifix or holy water.

“Yes, definitely. His
Birth of Venus
is my favorite.”

“Botticelli used a model for a’ both by
da’ name of a’ Simonetta Vespucci. She wassa’ relative of Amerigo Vespucci. Simonetta issa’ said to have been a great beauty of a’ her time. She wassa’ married eento da’ Vespucci family atta’ da’ age of feefteen, but Botticelli issa’ said to have been in a’ love weeth her. She died atta’ age of a’ twenty-two of a’
consumo
…how you say? Consumption?” Sister Constance asked as she coughed to demonstrate a symptom of Simonetta’s demise.

“Oh, you mean tuberculosis?”

“
Sì
. She wassa’ buried here weeth da’ other Vespuccis. Botticelli lived another thirty-four years after she died, but he asked to be buried atta’ her feet.”

As my eyes traveled to the right, sure enough, there lay the much larger gravestone of Simonetta Vespucci. Botticelli asked and was granted the right to be buried at the feet of someone else’s wife during a period of religious awakening, in a church no less. Not only that, but his small, seemingly insignificant gravestone at Simonetta’s feet, to me represented his humble reverence for the woman he loved. I was in awe.

“So you see a’ Simonetta may have never known thatta’ Botticelli wassa’ een love weeth her, just as I am sure that you are not aware atta’ thees’ moment of da’ people that love a’ you.”

I didn’t entirely get the connection, but I appreciated what Sister Constance was trying to do. As I looked at her, I realized that I would never have the wisdom that the deep lines in her face represented. I supposed that in return, I would make a better-looking corpse.

We walked a bit to the refectory, which housed the famous Ghirlandaio version of
The Last Supper.
I liked it, just as I appreciated most Renaissance art, but it was no
Birth of Venus.

Moving on, Sister Constance showed me Ghirlan
daio’s
Madonna della Misericordia,
which contains a depiction of Amerigo Vespucci as a child. Sister Constance must have noticed my riveted attention to her every word because she then began a whole history lesson on the church itself.

“
Da’ Ognissanti wassa’ built in da’ 1250s and issa’ among da’ first examples of Baroque architecture. Over here issa’ where Giotto’s famous
Madonna and Child with Angels
once a’ hung. Itta’ has since been a’ moved to La Galleria degli Uffizi.”

“I was just in the Uffizi to
day, but I didn’t see it.”

“Perhaps I should take a’ you back.”

“I would love that. Are you sure you have the time? Don’t you have…Jesus stuff to do?”

“Even Jesus had
da’ day of a’ rest.”

My feeling was that Sister Constance should have been a curator rather than a nun, but I looked forward to my next lesson.

She finished my Ognissanti tour and said simply, “You a’ know where to find me.”

I spent several more hours taking in the sights of Florence before making my way back to the Leonardo Hostel. I realized at that point, that if you are an ignorant American who is also a basket case, it is quite possible to become lost in Florence
despite my near proximity to the Duomo. I noticed a street vendor near the enormous church selling umbrellas and trinkets, cleverly attached to an apron that adorned his scrawny little body. I attempted to ask the little man for directions, but he spoke first as I approached him.

“Signora bella ciao. Vi placerebbe un sovenir?”

“No, no souvenir, please. I’m lost and need directions. Do you speak English?”

He began to extract umbrellas and other items from his apron and shove them toward me one
by one in rapid succession, all the while squawking a mile a minute in Italian.

“
Souvenir
?
Ombrello?
”

“No, I don’t need a souvenir; I need to find my hotel! The Leonardo Hostel?” I practically shouted, and to which I received no comprehensible response.

The vendor simply stared at me blankly. Growing more agitated and impatient by the second, I finally just walked away. To my surprise, the little man began to chase me, flailing his arms and hollering in Italian.

At my wits’ end, I finally turned around and
yelled, “I don’t need a goddamn souvenir because I have no place to live, my money will run out, and I’m gonna fucking die, okay?!”

I must have frightened the little man enough that he finally scurried off, just in time for me to realize that I was standing right in front of my hostel. I sighed as I looked up at the sign for the Leonardo Hostel, then I heard another voice.

“I usually just say
‘No, grazie.’”

I turned my head to see Michael sitting on the steps outside the hostel.

“That stuff you said, is it true?”

I hesitated.

“I just wanted to get rid of him,” I fibbed with a conjured smile. “Michael, what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

It was music to my ears.

“Listen, Stacia, I’m sorry about the way I treated you before. It’s just, your being here…it caught me off guard. I wanted to hurt you, the way you hurt me. I know it was immature after all this time.”

“I really thought you didn’t remember me.”

“How could I forget you? You were my first love. It destroyed me when you ran off with that other guy.”

“I left Evan.”

“So it’s true what you said? You really don’t have a place to live?”

“No, actually I don’t.”

“I’d like to say I’m sorry, but I never thought much of the guy.”

“No,
I’m
sorry Michael. I made a huge mistake. It was just that
...
when my mother got sick, I didn’t know who I was anymore. Now I see the life I could have had…and I’m just…I’m really sorry.”

“You never told me how you came to be in Florence.”

“I came looking for you.”

“Wow. That’s a lot to handle,” he said, scratching his head through his floppy hair. “I came here because of you, really
despite
you. While I was finishing school I didn’t want to get involved again so I became a bit of a philanderer, I guess. I got so disgusted with myself that I started to drink…a lot. It wasn’t until I came here and met Graziella that I got my shit together. She wants to meet you by the way.”

“Your wife? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. She knows all about you. Come by the house tomorrow night for dinner, around seven o’clock?”

I hesitated, but ultimately agreed. I didn’t want to meet the beautiful woman that Michael had married instead of me, but I was so happy that Michael was there, I would have probably agreed to help knock over a liquor store.

The idea of meeting Michael’s wife was a bizarre concept. I wasn’t sure I was ready to handle it. Since I had come to Italy with basically the clothes on my back and a few hippie garments donated by Misty, I did what any woman in my situation would: I went shopping. Normally, I disliked shopping tremendously, except I wasn’t just shopping any old place. I was shopping in Italy! Dying or not, a girl does not meet the wife of her ex without looking fabulous.

I knew my Vegas winnings weren’t going to last forever, but I had to have an Italian leather jacket. I came across a cute little mom-and-pop store and proceeded to try on everything they had. Every single last color and style had made contact with my body before I was finished. The
twenty-something-year-old salesman, who I assumed to be the son of the owner, flirted with me while he helped me try on every jacket, grazing my bosom on more than one occasion. Then I found
the one:
a black mid-length jacket that fit to perfection and smelled like a new Mercedes.

My awesome jacket procured, I then sought out the perfect black, flowing dress, a pair of couture shoes, and some much-needed cosmetics. The hostile side of me figured it might really irritate his wife if her
daughters liked me, so, of course, I purchased each of them a toy.

As I knocked again on Michael’s door, I had no idea what to expect other than complete awkwardness and tension. I smoothed my dress, and gave my hair one final fluffing while I waited for someone to answer. Finally, the door swung open, and there stood Michael flanked by his two little girls.

“
Ciao,
” he said, smiling as he gave me one of those European double air kisses. “Come on in. This is Filipa and Bianca.”

I flashed what I hoped would appear to be a youthful smile
, turning on the charm to my fullest capacity.

“Hello, girls! So nice to meet you! These are for you,” I gushed as I handed them each a furry stuffed kitten. The girls giggled and ran to show their mother.

“Mamma! Mamma!”
the girls squealed as Michael’s wife appeared from around the corner. She approached me with a smile and an outreached hand.

“I am Graziella. Welcome!” she said with only a hint of an Italian accent.

“Thank you so much. It’s so nice to meet you!”

Graziella’s picture hadn’t done her justice. She was not particularly well dressed or groomed, just a natural, willowy beauty with the face of an angel and a contagious smile. So, naturally, I wanted to rip her hair out.

“This is for you,” I uttered demurely as I handed Graziella a bottle of wine recommended to me by the owner of a small
enoteca
I’d stumbled upon on my way over.

“Thank you,” she replied graciously,
instantly stashing the bottle under her apron.

“This is an alcohol-free zone, you know…because of Michael,” Graziella whispered as she glanced over at Michael who was busily admiring his
daughters’ new gifts.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…,” I whispered back as I fantasized about cracking it open and guzzling the whole bottle on the spot.

I felt incredibly stupid. Michael had mentioned that he felt he drank too much, but I hadn’t put it together. I’d just been so anxious to make a good impression that I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.

“Would you like some tea?” Graziella asked as she gave me a mischievous smile and a silent signal for me to follow her to the kitchen.

Tea
again?
Another strike against her.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I haven’t had a glass in ages,” Graziella said with a smirk.

Instead of giving me tea, Graziella opened the wine, poured it into two teacups, and then crammed the rest of the bottle behind some pasta in the cupboard.

I suppose I should have protested
but something about her demeanor put me completely at ease. I was already starting to regret the fantasies I’d had about her stroking out into her salad at dinner. I could relate to any woman who rebelled against her husband in any small way, even if that husband was Michael.

Within moments of seating myself upon the couch, I had a little girl plunked down on either side of me. Graziella seemed pleased rather than threatened.

“You are very pretty,” Bianca said to me in perfect English.

“Thank you! So are you,” I replied.

“Are you a model?” Filipa then asked.

I made a mental note to spend as much time as possible with Michael’s little flatterers. Filipa and Bianca asked me a thousand questions over the next half hour, and I loved answering every one. I hadn’t had much experience with the innocence of children. They were so curious and pure; they weren’t going to inquire about my marriage woes, my illness, or my fury with the world at large. They weren’t going to flatter me with artifice to try to obtain something in return. It was refreshing. Yet still, they made me thankful that I never had a child of my own—one who would watch me suffer and die, as I had my own mother. As far as that was concerned, everything had worked out for the best.

We gathered for dinner at the dining room table where Michael detailed his job as an English Professor at the local university. It seemed as though he were gloating about the fact that he had followed through with our plans without me. After a delicious crème brûlée dessert, the little girls retired to their room, but not before Graziella refilled my “tea.”

“So, what is your occupation, Stacia?” Graziella asked, pointedly.

I was caught off guard by the question. My own acquaintances had long ago stopped assuming I had any sort of career ambition. In my world, I was viewed merely as Evan’s loyal wife. For a brief moment, my mind raced, trying to invent a way that I could spin my meager accomplishments:
I’m a busy executive. I’m a successful cog in a corporate wheel. I’m the entire support system for a burgeoning medical group.
But as I looked into Graziella’s soft gray eyes, I realized that I was well past the need to impress those who would inevitably survive me.

“At the moment
, I’m unemployed,” I confessed. “Up until a couple of weeks ago, I was working at my husband’s law firm. But I left for lunch one day, and I never went back. My guess is that I’ve probably been fired.”

I’d had slightly more wine than I’d intended. Michael and Graziella exchanged confused looks.

“So…it sounds like you may be staying in Florence for a while…,” Graziella finally offered. “Michael and the girls will be going to school tomorrow, but I would love to show you around our beautiful city.”

Although second to a nun, the wife of my ex was the most unlikely Italian tour guide I could have imagined. I could see why Michael had married her. As much as the unreasonable, angry part of me wanted to dislike her, it was virtually impossible. She was charming and seemed to genuinely like me—which was especially strange since most of the time I didn’t like myself very much.

“Sure, that would be amazing!” I agreed as I arose from my seat. “It’s late, and I’m still a little jet-lagged. But I’ll see you tomorrow”

“Why don’t we say 10:30?” Graziella suggested.

“Perfect. Thank you for everything. Both of you.”

“Michael, you should walk her back,” suggested Graziella.

Michael nodded, silently peeled his slouched frame from the chair, and met me at the door, which he followed with an “after you” gesture.

The
wonderful thing about Florence, was that there were very few cars and most destinations were within walking distance. As I walked alongside Michael through the moonlit, cobblestone streets, I scoured my brain for something to say. I had spent the past seventeen years trying to formulate the right words to express my feelings to him if I ever got the chance. And  there he was, walking within inches of me, and my mind was an empty slate.

“It was great of Graziella to offer to show me around...”

“Oh, she loves to do that. She’s very proud of our city. Graziella knows every minute detail about every building here. Not just the easy-to-find historical stuff. She knows the scuttlebutt.”

“What about you?”

“I’m still partial to the paintings and sculptures.” Michael said with a shrug.

“The more things change,…
”

“T
he more things stay the same.”

Michael
completed my sentence, and we both chuckled.

“You used to say that all the time. Honestly, I’ve never really understood what it meant until now,” I said.

Michael switched on his intellectual voice.

“It’s a French proverb implying that turbulent changes do not affect reality on a deeper level other than to reinforce the status quo.”

He paused, then added, “I really didn’t get it either. I used to say all of that proverbial shit just hoping you would sleep with me.”

“I guess it worked,” I admitted
with a smile.

“Got me through the rest of college,” he said with a cocky smirk.

He then gave me another cheek-to-cheek air kiss. It reminded me of something snobby teenage American girls do—the ones that don’t really like each other very much. However, this time there was a slight hesitation between cheeks—just nanosecond where our eyes met and I thought he might go in for the real thing.

Something was missing in Michael; I could see it in his deep-set eyes. I wondered if I w
as somehow responsible, but I was through thinking I had that kind of power over anyone. He wasn’t the Michael I’d remembered, but perhaps my memory was deceiving me. I had put him on a pedestal almost as high as I’d placed Botticelli, perhaps because Evan had failed so completely by comparison. I watched Michael stroll away, tossing his head to the side in order to flop his hair out of his eyes.

Back in the safety of my room, I snuggled into the hard, cold bed in a feeble attempt to empty my still jet-lagged mind. Unfortunately, insomnia kicked jet lag’s ass and it was raining men in my head. I’d always had embarrassing private little fantasies of Michael and I crossing paths again one
day and running off into the proverbial sunset. Reality can be a bitch. He was happily married to a woman who, frankly, was superior to me in every possible way. Even if I were to prevail in stealing him back, I’d be nothing more than an evil home-wrecker, and Graziella would still be better than me. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted him back, or if I merely wanted the
time
with him back. I was just resentful that I had lost both.

What I’d won instead of Michael was an egomaniacal control freak. According to Evan, there was a specific way that everything in life needed to be done and I always got it wrong. He had a way of making me feel so inadequate just trying to live my life. After a while, bit by bit, I’d bought into it. I had become increasingly angry with myself for always making the wrong life choices.

As I pushed the thoughts of Michael versus Evan to the back of my brain, Wilbur reappeared in the foreground. My original assumption was that because he was so incredible on the outside, he must be ugly on the inside, just like Evan. He seemed anything but, and yet I was so quick to dismiss him. If a genie were to magically appear, I would wish to journey back in time and meet Wilbur instead of Evan—maybe even instead of Michael. Of course, I would prioritize that wish, right after the genie was done granting it, so that I wouldn’t be destined to kick the bucket at thirty-eight.