Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death (7 page)

This stop was the one I had most looked forward to, since the one time I had visited Florence, long, long ago, San Marco had been closed for renovations, so I had never experienced the Fra Angelico frescos firsthand. As somebody in the group muttered as we roamed through the monastic hallways, it was like viewing every religious holiday card you’d ever seen, all in one place. I happily admitted that a lot of the images looked familiar, but that was fine with me. What I hadn’t realized was that each monk’s cell had its own small fresco, either by the hand of the master or overseen by him. I wondered if there had been any competition among novices for the “best” pictures—and then I wondered which one I would have schemed for. It was a pleasant way to pass the time, and luckily the place was not too crowded early in the day. It was beginning to fill with groups of students by the time we were ready to leave.

Then on to the Bargello, which housed a lot of sculptures by Big Names like Michelangelo. It was nice because the place wasn’t too huge—which I knew the next stop, the Uffizi, was. In the Bargello one could enjoy the artworks up close and personal: no Plexiglas or velvet ropes, and the guards didn’t appear terribly concerned that we were breathing on their precious marbles and bronzes. And breathe on them we could have, but we were appropriately respectful, as befit Wellesley Women. It was intriguing to learn that on one famous Michelangelo tondo the man himself had finished the face of the Virgin, leaving the surface so creamy that I wanted to reach out and touch it, while only roughing out the rest. That kind of detail never showed up in textbooks on art history. You had to be standing in front of it, at eye level, to grasp the nuances. When I’d been here all those years ago, had I done no more than run through the museum and tick off the Important Works on my checklist, without taking the time to really look at them? How sad for the earlier me.

I’ve always had a sneaking fondness for looking at famous works from unlikely angles (irreverently wondering, what did they do for underwear?). No, I was not searching for whatever hid behind the fig leaf (not that there were many fig leaves in the Renaissance, those came later), but I thought seeing a piece of sculpture from an unusual direction conveyed a lot about the artist. My brilliant observations: most sculptures with feet had a long middle toe, and the sandals they wore would have been useless on a long march; most of the armor depicted would have impeded engaging in a battle of any sort, or even movement. And I still loved the flowered hat on Donatello’s
David
,
which, the guidebook reminded me, the artist had modeled upon an antique sculpture of the emperor Hadrian’s pubescent male lover. Another note said that this had been the first free-standing bronze sculpture of the Renaissance. If that was true, then Donatello had done a damn fine job of it. Whatever the inspiration, the statue was a delight, and I spent quite a few minutes admiring the lovely young man from all sides, even taking note of a discovery made since my long-ago art historical days: David had tasteful golden highlights in his hair. Very nice.

Emerging from the relative cool and quiet of the Bargello, we were dismissed to find food and entertain ourselves until our scheduled tour of the Uffizi a couple of hours later. I looked at a pair of the nearest women, Christine and Rebecca, both of whom I’d known slightly in college. We’d spoken now and then at reunions on campus, and I said, “Food?”

They nodded vigorously, and then Rebecca, with a wicked gleam in her eye, replied, “Gelato.”

I grinned at her: a sister under the skin. The heck with art—we were hungry.

It was rapidly becoming clear that if you drop forty women of a certain age into one of the great cities of the world, they will shop—after they’ve found a bathroom. And they will eat, no matter how hard they might diet at home.

The three of us found a small hole-in-the-wall lunch place with no other Americans in it and ate salami sandwiches and scarfed down bottled water. Then we set off on a gelato quest, led in theory by Rebecca, who had fond memories of an incredible
gelateria
somewhere in the small streets to the east of the Duomo. Finding it proved to be a challenge. Let it be said that having a purpose, whether it is tracking down Michelangelo’s
David
or the perfect gelato, is a good thing, because often it takes you places you might not otherwise go (if you don’t get run down by a moped on the street). On the other hand, if you and your companions are directionally challenged, you may see the same place more than once as you wander through the twisting streets. Even asking for directions in our broken Italian didn’t help, and we kept finding ourselves going in circles when we tried to follow what we thought were the directions we’d been given. But in the end we found a magnificent
gelateria
called Vivoli, which lived up to its reputation. We spent an appropriate amount of time deciding how much to ask for and which flavors, then sat on a bench across the street from it and concentrated on the gelato. It was worth the hunt. And then it was time to go find our museum-bound group once again. At least now we knew the way.

Touring the Uffizi is like jumping into the ocean. You know there’s a lot there, but you also know you’re never going to see most of it—you’re only dipping a toe in. It is vast, but you can’t just hug the shore. There are incredible artworks clustered there, if you can find them. And if you can even focus your eyes after the first fifty or so rooms. The only moment that really stood out for me was finding an empty seat facing both
The Birth of Venus
and
Primavera
by Botticelli, and claiming it until the crowds of tourists parted long enough that I could actually see the paintings. I was glad I had waited. The famous Venus was a bit wispy, but Primavera was a babe to be reckoned with. I decided I liked Primavera better.

We shopped our way through the hordes of street vendors selling everything from knockoff suitcases to tomato seeds, back to the train station, collecting souvenir scarves and hats and postcards we’d never send, and then we gathered ourselves together inside the station, where jazz wafted from invisible speakers—or maybe from live musicians in a corner somewhere. We boarded our train without losing anyone. We were surfeited and sated by great art and bargains. All in all, a good day.

Dinner that evening was a somewhat subdued affair. We were, of course, all tired to some degree from trekking from one end of Florence to the other, plus the novelty of the trip had worn off and we were settling into our own rhythms. Happily the groupings kept shifting, so it was possible to spend time talking to people I didn’t know well. Cynthia rambled off to one end of the room and sat down at the long table there; I found a smaller table and sat and was quickly joined by two people I hadn’t spent any time with yet, Denise and Sharon, and then a couple more. We broke the ice by sharing our happy discoveries from the day and then speculating about what was to come.

“I’m glad tomorrow will be quieter,” Denise said. “I think we’re touring some local workshops, which should be fun.”

“More shopping?” I said. “Florence wasn’t enough? Oh, did anyone make it to the goldsmiths?” I felt a bit wistful: I’d been looking forward to seeing their wares, on the venerable Ponte Vecchio, even though I knew they were well beyond my budget.

“Hey,” Sharon protested, “all my family demanded that I bring them souvenirs—some even gave me specific orders. But I admit that once I got to the Ponte Vecchio, I had to indulge myself. See?” She reached under her collar and pulled out a lovely pendant on a gossamer gold chain, and I had to sit hard on my jealousy.

“What about the rest of you?” I countered. “What single thing would you like to take back to remind you of this trip and what you’ve seen?” I looked at my companions. “Don’t be shy.”

The other women tossed out suggestions and balked at the idea of “only
one
thing.” We weren’t even halfway through the trip; who knew what other wonders we would see and want to remember? And, of course, would spending money on souvenirs help us do that?

“We don’t have to decide right now, do we?” Denise said. “There’s plenty of time. I’m looking forward to a little downtime tomorrow afternoon. We have to pace ourselves, because there’s lots more coming.”

“Don’t forget the lecture at four, when we get back,” I reminded them.

“Oh. Right.” Denise was suddenly very busy cutting up her pasta.

Again, I sensed a curious hesitation. A couple of people at the table exchanged glances; others carefully avoided looking at anyone else. This was odd. “Did any of you take a course from Professor Gilbert?” I asked.

“One, my freshman year,” Sharon admitted. “Distribution requirements, remember? Besides, he was hot. Although that’s not the term we would have used then. Cute? Dishy?”

“You don’t remember him, Laura?” Denise asked. “He must have been in his thirties then, which was young for a professor. Tall, good-looking. And he had charm, however you define that.”

“What was his specialty?”

“Renaissance poetry, if I recall—it’s been a while. I think the course I took was on Dante. Wonder if he’ll be giving the same lecture? After all, this is Dante country, isn’t it?”

“My freshman roommate took a course from him, second semester,” Connie muttered. “He might have been a hunk, but he could be scathing with his criticism. She never took another humanities class after he ripped apart her term paper in front of the whole class.”

“I heard stories …” Sharon began. “No, I won’t go there. There were lots of stories floating around back in those days, and not all of them were true. It should be interesting to see him again. He must be, what, seventy-something by now?”

“Wonder if he’s an old or a young seventy-something?” Denise asked.

“Wonder if he’s got a wife, and if she’ll come along to keep an eye on him,” Sharon retorted, her eyes gleaming.

“A much younger wife?” Denise said, raising an eyebrow.

Interesting. Professor Gilbert hadn’t been on my radar, but then, I’d been kind of clueless when I was in college, and I’d never liked swapping gossip. No doubt plenty of stories had sprung up around an attractive young male teacher—presumably not gay—at a women’s college. I wondered briefly if Cynthia knew anything about him—she’d been much more tuned in to that kind of thing then. And since. Tomorrow’s lecture should prove interesting.

Dinner wound down and I connected with Cynthia once again as we trudged slowly up the hill, my calves feeling every inch of it. I took a moment to look up, with the flashlight off. There were so many stars! I lived too close to the city to see anywhere near this many. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, but otherwise it was silent. I could smell something sweet—lemon blossoms?—and rosemary.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Cynthia said softly. “Are you glad you came?”

“I am,” I replied in the same low tone. “I needed this.”

“Tough times?”

“Not so much tough as blah. Too much same old, same old. Being here is like a jump-start—a clean break. What about you?”

“I just wanted to get away, and to think. Gives you a different perspective, doesn’t it, to be surrounded by a couple of millennia of human history?”

“That it does. We should head up—I definitely want a shower.”

“It’s all yours.”

• • •

I managed to sleep a bit later the next morning, which was just as well since we weren’t scheduled to saddle up and ride out until nine thirty. Once dressed, I spent some time sitting on my patio watching the shifting light of sun and clouds sweep over the valleys below, and practicing just “being.”
Be in the moment, Laura. Smell the roses. Seize the day.
I thought it was beginning to work. When Cynthia was ready, we strolled down the hill to join our colleagues and find coffee, not necessarily in that order. No croissants since that first day, but there was plenty of bread with local honey, in addition to all that disgustingly healthy granola and yogurt. At about nine Jean stood up to give the morning announcements.

“We thought after yesterday we’d have a quieter day today, so we’ve arranged for a trip to a delightful leatherwork factory in a town near here called Scarperia. The term
factory
is probably an exaggeration—the whole place is not even as big as the room we’re in, but they produce some beautiful high-end leather goods there. Sadly, they’re one of the last of their kind in Italy. We hope you’ll enjoy the tour. Of course, there will be lunch. We’ll be back in good time for Professor Gilbert’s lecture at four, and he’ll be joining us for dinner.”

It was a short ride to the town of Scarperia, and we parked the vans next to a plain building on a nondescript fringe of the town. Inside we were met by the heady smell of leather, and we trooped through a small office to the open area where the goods were actually made. Jean had not been kidding: there was one room only, and every inch was occupied, with molds and patterns and hides and bottles of dye and cutting implements and any number of things I couldn’t begin to identify. There were a few machines, looking antiquated, but everything was done by hand. There were only four or five employees in the place, led by a charming man who Jane said was past eighty and who took delight in explaining exactly what they did and how they did it—in Italian. I could grasp most of what he said, and Jane translated, but mostly we watched as his skilled hands molded polished leather in rich colors around old wooden forms, or rolled patterns in gold leaf onto a finished product. It was like stepping into a medieval atelier—techniques hadn’t changed much in hundreds of years. A perfect time capsule.

And we were the perfect audience. A day before we hadn’t known this place existed; now everybody clamored to buy something, anything, which startled the craftspeople (they recovered quickly at the sight of all that currency), and then half of us queued up for the tiny bathroom in the corner, while others split off to find an ATM so they could buy more beautiful leather goods.

We walked to a restaurant a few blocks closer to the center of town, where we had reserved an entire room, and sat down to course after course of amazing food (pasta with three different sauces!). And more than one wine, wrapped up with a shot of intense Italian coffee in a tiny cup, and then we sat there like Christmas geese, stuffed and happy. It was past three o’clock—we’d spent over two hours eating and drinking and talking. I was beginning to get used to the Italian pace of things—and I liked it.