Disposition of Remains (12 page)

The
days that followed contained much of the same. There were an endless number of places to discover in Florence, and Graziella seemed determined to show me every single one in a short period of time.

During the
day we would take in the sights of the city, then pick up the girls when school let out. At night, Graziella would teach me how to prepare gourmet Italian dinners. My appetite had returned with a ferocious enthusiasm. Sometimes the neighbors would come over to dine with us. Italians have such a passionate way of embracing life; I tried to emulate them at every turn. This newfound alternate reality kept me—at least temporarily—from feeling angry about my impending doom.

I could tell that Michael was put off by the arrangement, even a bit jealous of my relationship with his family. I yearned so desperately to be a part of it all that I just pretended not to notice. I wanted to be close to Michael again, not on any kind of romantic or sexual level—I just missed my friend. But it seemed he had barricaded himself behind
a wall of thick ice that I couldn’t find a way to defrost.

When Michael returned home from work each evening, he would routinely busy his nose in the newspaper or grade his students’ homework
assignments. I would catch him peering at me over his reading glasses with what had become his signature accusatory glare. He was so much quieter than I had remembered, even somber. Graziella didn’t seem fazed at all by his behavior, as if it were par for the course. I wondered what had changed so dramatically in him, and if I were somehow to blame.

While
Graziella didn’t earn a paycheck, she worked very hard toward the preservation of art and architecture in Florence, and of the environment. She was born and raised a Florentine and believed strongly that it was her duty to give back to the city. 

I, on the other hand, felt like a nomad. I had lived in Los Angeles, but it had never really felt like home. Las Vegas was where I
had grown up, but other than Misty, I didn’t really know anyone in Sin City. Havasupai was the home of my people, and yet I was a virtual stranger there. I felt more at home in Florence than I had anywhere before.

Graziella and Michael shared a simple existence, not because they were poor, but because they
had made a conscious decision to do so. They recycled everything and shopped primarily at second-hand stores. Graziella didn’t want to further pollute the world, especially the city she loved, with unnecessary junk. She didn’t see the need for designer clothes, fancy cars, and gourmet meals in swanky restaurants. In her mind, clothes were meant to conceal our nudity, feet were the primary mode of transportation, and meals were an occasion to enjoy friends and family.

On
the weekends Graziella and the kids would help clean up the streets of Florence. The girls would become as excited about this task as the average American kid would about a trip to Disneyland. They couldn’t wait to sprint from their front door and join their fellow Florentine do-gooders.

Sometimes they would embark upon family
day outings to other areas in Tuscany. On one such occasion, we took a bus to the Tuscan hilltop town of Siena and the smaller, quaint town of San Gimignano, which is known for its succulent olive oil. Though he clearly didn’t want to, Michael joined us at Graziella’s insistence. His sullen, brooding demeanor never changed, even in the midst of the incredible Tuscan splendor. I had a strong urge to slap him and scream, “
Dude, you have EVERYTHING! What is your damn problem?
” Eventually, it dawned on me that he was not just having another bad day, but rather, this quiet, gloomy creature was simply who he had become.

Graziella made up for Michael’s flaws tenfold. She was such a doting, loving mother. The girls were tremendously well rounded, and yet they possessed very few toys and other belongings. I would catch myself, from time to time, pondering what kind of mother I would have been. But ultimately, my familiar pessimism kicked in and I
grew relieved I’d never had children. After I was gone, they would have become Evan’s prisoners, just like I had been.

I spent at least part of every
day with Botticelli in the Ognissanti. I loved the way the light filtered into the church as I sat silently by the side of The Master. I wished I could travel back in time to the late 1400s and excavate every detail of his life and magnificent mind. I dreamed of sitting in his workshop, in my corset and petticoats with my face propped up on my hands, watching him create.

Some
days when I entered the Ognissanti, I was greeted by Sister Josephine, a stringently devout nun in her seventies. She possessed a pleasant enough demeanor, but I found myself trying to avoid her. I preferred the more laissez-faire company of Sister Constance.

Sister Constance would sit with me in the courtyard and explain the God of the Bible to me. She had a gentle way of instructing without insisting that I adopt her each and every belief. I wanted my soul to be cared for in the afterlife, to spend all eternity free from fear and pain, but I just couldn’t accept that her version of Heaven was anything more than a fairytale destination. Besides, what kind of hypocrite would I have become if I had chosen to accept Catholicism, Jesus, and the afterlife simply because my time was running out?

After weeks of sightseeing, exploring, and learning, and just after I had come to believe I had left no stone unturned in Florence, Graziella took me to the Basilica di San Lorenzo. The large Florentine church houses the remains of all the principal members of the Medici family. The chapels and the library were designed and constructed especially for the Medicis, along with almost everything else in Florence. The Medici family was largely responsible for commissioning most of the city’s timeless culture.

The New Sacristy contain
s the tombs of Lorenzo the Magnificent and his brother, Giuliano de’ Medici. Both tombs have marble caskets in the front, each topped with a reclining male and female figure carved in marble by Michelangelo.

The tombs were exquisite, but I couldn’t help but notice that although the women’s bodies looked somewhat masculine, their breasts were like modern-
day boob jobs gone horribly wrong. They were a little too round and far apart, and they hung rather unnaturally to the sides.

“Why do their breasts look so weird?” I asked Graziella.

Graziella laughed.

“Michelangelo, it is said, only employed male models. He had an attraction to the male form, both aesthetically and emotionally, and had no personal experience with women’s breasts.”

“Oh,” I replied simply.

I decided that I would not take my time machine to the past in hopes of cozying up with Michelangelo. I would save that journey for Botticelli.

“I think you’ve seen it all now,” Graziella said as we began the trek back to her house.

A knot of disappointment formed in my stomach. I knew I couldn’t just hang around forever like a fifth member of the family, but every moment I had spent with them was a moment that was not consumed with gloom and doom, but rather one of joy and enlightenment. I was actually happy. I was
living
. At times I would fantasize about being reincarnated as one of Graziella’s children. They were so perfectly adorable—so smart, beautiful, and curious about life. The only drawback was that Michael would then be my father, which, of course, was just creepy and wrong.

On our route back from San Lorenzo, we passed by the Ognissanti, as we frequently did.

“I’ll meet you at the house, Graziella. I just want to run into the church for a minute,” I said.

She gave me an understanding nod, and carried on her way. She had become accustomed to my odd habit.

I paid my usual visit to Botticelli, and then began a visual search for Sister Constance. I was startled when I turned around and found her directly behind me.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, and instantly covered my foul mouth with both hands.

“I don’t a’ know wassa’ holy about that, but we have a’ holy water over there,” she replied as she chuckled her cute little chuckle, and smiled her kind, toothless smile.

If I
had to swear in front of a nun, I was glad it was her rather than the pure, devout Sister Josephine.

“I’m
so
sorry!” I agonized. “Will you please still take me back to the Uffizi? I didn’t see that Giotto painting you were telling me about the first time around.”

“Of
a’course,” she said. “We go tomorrow.”

I met Sister Constance at the Ognissanti at the appointed time. Together, we made the short walk along the Arno River to the Uffizi. Shivers of excitement ran down my spine at the prospect of seeing  Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus
again, despite the gigantic line of tourists we encountered under the Vasari Corridor.

“Being an old nun has
sa’ some advantages,” Sister Constance said with a crinkle of her shriveled face. “I’ll be right a’ back.”

She made her way to the desk just inside the gallery and within minutes, returned with a ticket for me.

“God works in mysterious ways? You get to skip the line at the Uffizi?” I wondered aloud.

“Actually, I have an annual a’ membership,” she laughed in re
sponse. “But watcha’ heem part da’ Red Sea,” she said as she smiled and raised her eyebrows.

As we entered the gallery and made our way to the first painting, one by one, the tourists stepped aside after spotting Sister Constance. At every work of art we approached, people would back away as though she were spiritually entitled to view the painting before they were. I suddenly realized the fringe benefits of being a nun.

Sister Constance wasted no time putting her teacher’s hat back on and promptly began my lesson.

“
Da’ term
La Uffizi
trans-a’-lates in Een-glish as a’ ‘the offices.’ It wassa’ designed by Vasari to house da’ major offices of a’ state,” she explained.

“Vasari? The architect who designed the corridor across the river?”

“Yessa’, one and da’ same. We will visit a’ Vasari’s corridor eenside a’ the gallery. Itta’ now houses self-portraits of a’ artists from alla’ periods and a number of a’ countries. Vasari issa’ also well known forra’ having written a biography of da’ Florentine artists of a’ heez day. Much of whatta’ we know about them issa’ from Vasari.”

“Wow,” I replied, feigning enthusiasm.

“Included in hissa’ biography issa’ mucha’
informazione
about a’ Botticelli.”

I almost soiled myself with excitement. I wanted to buy the book straightaway. I wondered why I’d always had this profound attraction to Botticelli. Maybe it was the connection I had with Michael so long ago when I first laid eyes on a photograph of
Botticelli’s’
Birth of Venus.
Once upon a time, Michael had made me feel as though I were a perfect mythological creature. Or perhaps it was hearing about the fairytale love Botticelli maintained for Simonetta Vespucci—the kind of love that marriage, time, and even death could not conquer.

“Does Botticelli have a self-portrait?” I asked, mortified that I knew so little about an artist who moved me so deeply.

“Yes, but notta’ een da’ corridor. He included a self a’ portrait inna’
Adorazione dei Magi
. It’s inna’ da’ Botticelli Room,” Sister Constance explained, then went on with her lecture. “Theessa’ gallery wassa’ founded in 1581 by Francisco I de’ Medici, and issa’ da’ oldest a’gallery een da’ Western world.”

Sister Constance seemed to lose her train of thought as we approached the
thirteenth-century Giotto that had been taken from the Ognissanti—the focus of our trip to the Uffizi. She stared longingly at the golden painting, as if she were willing it back to its original home. She then glanced over each shoulder as if she were considering snatching it off the wall and sprinting back to the Ognissanti before security could stop her. She slowly shook her head and began to lecture once again.

“Giotto’s
Madonna in Trono
or assa’ I prefer to call it, ‘The Ognissanti Madonna,’
issa’ considered by a’ many to be da’ first painting of a’
Il Rinascimento,
…da’ Renaissance.”

She sighed as she took in the radiance of the portrait. It was truly amazing to think about how long Giotto’s painting had inhabited this wondrous city.

I listened in silent fascination as she narrated our way though several more rooms. Then we arrived at room eight, where I spotted a beautiful painting on the wall across the room. 

“Is that painting a Botticelli?”

“No, butta’ good eye. That issa’ Filippo Lippi. Botticelli wassa’ heez pupil.”

We walked closer to Lippi’s
Madonna and Child with Angels.
It was adorned with the same lines, colors, and beautiful faces as Botticelli’s paintings. He was the genius who had taught Botticelli.

“He wassa’ actually Fra Filippo di Tommaso Lippi, a Carmelite monk.
Da’ woman inna’ da’ painting representing Madonna issa’ Lucrezia Buti. She wassa’ novice.”

“A novice what?” I asked.

Sister Constance replied with a chuckle, “A novice issa’ a young nun. One who hassa’ not completed her vows.”

“Oh. O
kay.”

“Lippi kidnapped a’ her under
da’ pretense of a’ using her assa’ model for a’ deefereent painting, and then had a’…how you say…? Relations weeth a’ her. He refused to return her onna’ several occasions when da’ nuns tried to reclaim a’ her. Lippi and Lucrezia were a’ released of a’ their vows to da’ Church weeth da’ help of a’ da’ powerful Medici family, and were a’ married. Da’ result wassa’ their son Filippino Lippi, who issa’ also pictured as da’ infant een da’ painting. Lippi died before he could teach hissa’ son to paint, so it wassa’ Botticelli who taught Filippino. He hassa’ painting over here, een da’ Botticelli room.”

Sister Constance seemed to get such a kick out of telling
the stories of those with less than virtuous morals. It made me wonder how she came to take the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.

“Did you always want to become a nun?”

“No, no!” she laughed. “I am a old lady and a’ theengs are much deefferent than when I wassa’ young. When I wassa’ just a girl, I wassa’ een love weeth a boy—a poor boy. I came from a very poor family myself. My parents wanted me to a’ be taken care of, so they inseested that I become a novice, and become a ward of a’ da’ Church.”

“Things aren’t that much different. My story is almost the
same, except you married Christ and I married the Antichrist.”

She shot me a look of horror, and then, after a tremendously tense moment, burst into laughter. Sister Constance was so outgoing and comfortable to be around that I often forgot she was a woman of the cloth. I resolved to choose my words more wisely.

“I must a’ tell you that I’m a’ very happy theessa’ life wassa’ chosen for me. Da’ love of God hassa’ blessed my soul.”

“What happened to the boy?”

She hesitated before answering.

“Thatta’ is
sa’ story for another time.”

My curiosity was burning. How could she just forget about the boy—her love? How did she so graciously embrace a life she didn’t choose? I tried to squelch my curiosity so I could continue my lesson.

She showed me Filippino Lippi’s painting in
his
room. Ah, the Botticelli room, another good place to stash my urn. In my rare moments of euphoria, it was tempting to just lie down and die in front of the
Birth of Venus.
But even if I could pick the exact time and place of my death, I figured it probably would have caused a scene. Instead, I settled for just staring at its beauty once again.

Sister Constance then pointed out Botticelli’s self-portrait in his
Adoration of the Magi.
Botticelli was a handsome man, exactly my type: dark, wavy hair and large, soft eyes. I wished at that moment that I could be reincarnated back in time as Simonetta Vespucci, the object of his affection—although I would have preferred to avoid that whole death-by-tuberculosis part.

“It i
ssa’ recorded inna’ Vasari’s biography thatta’ Botticelli told people of a horrible nighta’mare he once had. Da’ nighta’mare, he said, wassa’ thatta’ he became married. He wassa’ so disturbed by da’ dream thatta’ he got up and walked da’ streets for da’ rest of a’ da’ night. He died atta’ sixty-five, wheech wassa’ a ripe, old age for da’ 1400s, but he never married.”

If Botticelli weren’t already my hero, he certainly would have become it after hearing that. He was a genius on every level. To think how much I could have learned from him—how much unnecessary pain I could have avoided. Instead, Botticelli’s nightmare had become my waking reality.

Sister Constance showed me everything in the gallery: Titian, Raphael, Michelangelo, Caravaggio, Rembrandt, and more. Finally, she took me through the Vasari Corridor, now discouragingly blocked at the end of the museum. We left the Uffizi, but not before stopping by the gift shop to pick up a copy of Vasari’s biography. It was a perfect day.