The Gilder (24 page)

As she walked along the river in the direction of the Cascina Park, familiar landmarks drifted peripherally in and out. Across the river, the small cupola of Santo Spirito was just visible over the rooftops, the tower of Bellosguardo on the hill beyond that, and just up ahead, the Stars and Stripes fluttered above the entrance to the embassy. Memories assailed her, and she felt herself in a sort of purgatory, no longer belonging to the past but not yet fully in the present. In front of the Grand Hotel, a group of well-heeled tourists boarded a luxury sightseeing bus, and she had the sudden urge to climb aboard and join their adventure, one she imagined might be far simpler and much less stressful than hers promised to be.

When she reached the gates of the Cascina, Marina stopped and looked down the majestic, tree-lined avenue that led into the heart of the park, once a vast Medici estate and game reserve. On their first outing together, Sarah had brought her here to experience the Festival of the Cricket. It had been an inordinately beautiful spring day and the park had been overflowing with families who’d come to enjoy the festivities that marked the celebration of Ascension Day. The avenue had been lined with stalls selling food and sweets, and Marina had heard music coming from some other part of the park. Sarah had taken her hand as if Marina were one of the children begging for a cricket, and pulled her to a display of small, brightly painted cages, each housing a chirping cricket. Sarah had explained that thousands of “lucky crickets” were sold on that day and were believed to bring good fortune to anyone who received one. Marina now wondered if she should have accepted Sarah’s offer to buy her one that day, but at the time, with her new life in Florence stretched out before her, she could not have imagined feeling any luckier.

Marina found her way to the conference site at the Palazzo Vecchio, in the Salone dei Cinquecento, on the second floor. It was an enormous room, and forty rows of twenty chairs across barely covered a third of the vast floor space. Marina settled into the last row of chairs and looked up at the coffered ceiling some thirty feet above her head. It was made up of panels painted by Giorgio Vasari that depicted significant events in Florentine history. On the walls to her left and right, colossal paintings, again by Vasari, illustrated the wars against Siena and Pisa, while marble statues of naked Greek wrestlers lined the wall below them. On the dais in front of her, Josh sat with other dignitaries at a long table covered in red damask. Just behind them, a row of men in red and white medieval tunics, tights, and stocking caps lifted their trumpets, signaling the arrival of the mayor, who sported a green, red, and white sash across his chest.

Marina was surprised by the sense of pride that welled up in her and filled her eyes. Perhaps she had done some things in her life that were worthy of commendation rather than condemnation. Up until that moment, with all the chaos of the past weeks, she hadn’t allowed herself to fully absorb the honor implicit in the invitation to participate in an event of this caliber. But her moment of self-congratulation was short-lived as a wave of panic washed over her at the thought of the speech she would be giving on the last day of the conference. Just the idea of standing at the podium and looking out on this great hall made her doubt that she had anything of value to share. She had the camouflage of technical language to hide behind when she talked about her craft, but would anyone be interested in the evolution of one woman’s career? Josh had specifically asked her to talk about her work and life as encouragement for the neophytes in the audience, but looking around now, she wasn’t so sure. The audience seemed to be made up of mostly middle-aged people who were probably well established in their careers and not in need of inspiration.

At the end of the morning, she tried to get Josh’s attention, but he was whisked off to an anteroom from where he would most likely go on to a VIP luncheon, so she didn’t linger. She headed toward Santa Croce, taking Via de’ Neri, the street where Amir had had his apartment, at number fifteen, if she remembered correctly, but standing across from it, she couldn’t be sure if it was the right doorway or not. She had often wondered what had become of him after the expulsion of the Shah and the rise of the ayatollahs. She didn’t imagine he’d fled the country, since he’d only just returned to care for his aging parents, but neither could she envision him living under such an oppressive regime.

It was just before noon when Marina stepped inside the church of Santa Croce, the vast interior opening before her, its graceful Gothic arches reaching heavenward. In contrast to the mild day outside, the church was icy cold and damp. She hesitated, then moved forward, stopping at the first supine figure in the floor. Her breath came in frosty puffs. She stared down at the form pushing up through the marble floor until the memory of milky water against her skin made her shiver. She moved on toward the front of the church, past Michelangelo’s tomb, then Galileo’s, carefully watching where she stepped. The altar had not changed, although a more substantial wooden barrier now stood in place of the velvet ropes—perhaps an effort to keep greasy fingerprints off the gilding. While Florence had much grander, more ornate examples of gilding, this one held a special place in her heart. She stood for a moment recalling that early morning, stocking-footed visit, the cool gilded patina beneath her fingers, the beating of her heart, and for the second time that day, her pride swelled and she allowed herself a moment of recognition for all her hard work. Today, however, she wanted to see the Cimabue crucifix, which had finally been restored and reinstalled in the church museum in her absence. She’d first seen it at age fourteen in two photographs—one of six mud-covered men carrying it from the church, and another showing it receiving a blessing from the Pope after it had been all but destroyed by the flood.

She found the massive crucifix in the last gallery of the museum, where it hung suspended from cables that she assumed could raise it up in the event of flooding. While the concept of sin and redemption as handed down by the Church in the name of an almighty male entity kept her from identifying herself as a Christian, she was drawn in by the rounded hips and belly of this Christ, the feminine, almost coy, positioning of the legs, and the subdued coloring and spare gilding. It appealed to her sense of simplicity. She stood admiring the work, then, remembering why she was there, hurried back through the church.

Standing at the top of the steps, Marina looked across to the piazza, its stone surface pitted and polished from centuries of footsteps, her own included. A group of ragtag boys in dirty sweatshirts played soccer, scattering pigeons as they ran. Marina surveyed the piazza, her hand shading her eyes against the midday sun. Then she saw her.

Sarah sat on a stone bench at the edge of the square, her hair brilliant against the bright green of a small three-wheeled truck parked behind her. If it hadn’t been for the red hair, Marina might have missed her in the quiet beige coat and leather boots. She was talking to an elderly man, who, with his neatly clipped goatee, tweed jacket, and felt hat, looked like a character from a Bertolucci film. Stooped by age or in an effort to hear her, he leaned with both hands on a cane, nodding his head at Sarah’s words. She sat with her back erect, one hand on the old man’s arm. Even from a distance, Marina sensed something different about her friend, something beyond the surprisingly staid ensemble or the elegant handbag on the bench beside her. Apprehension uncoiled in her belly, at first hot, then cold, as the Sarah she’d held in her mind for so long, the Sarah of carefree colors and bright baubles and beads, disintegrated. How could she not have anticipated this? After all, Sarah was a woman whose world had been shattered, who had had to create a new life for herself, and evidently, a new image. But rather than compassion, Marina felt outrage. Was she supposed to expose herself, her shame, her regret to this stranger—this middle-aged, middle-class woman?

Marina turned back toward the church, looking for a place to hide. Wasn’t there a rear exit through the gift shop? She couldn’t remember. She glanced back just as Sarah shook her head in that old, familiar, futile attempt to rearrange her hair. Marina froze, one foot in the past, one in the future. The old man turned and moved slowly away as Sarah waved to him in that funny, beckoning gesture that had once so confounded Marina. Then, as if she sensed Marina’s presence, Sarah turned and looked directly at her.

Marina was never able to say how she made it down the steps and across the square into Sarah’s arms.

“My God, you smell exactly the same!” she exclaimed with some relief into Sarah’s tangle of hair as they hugged.

Sarah held her at arm’s length. “And you
look
exactly the same. I can’t believe it.” She pulled Marina over to the bench. “Come, sit for a moment.”

Marina sat down beside her and found herself suddenly at a loss for words. Her heart squeezed. It seemed only yesterday that they had sat in this spot deciding where to go for lunch, inevitably ending up at Anita’s. But within that compression of time lay an expanse Marina was not sure how to cross.

“Look at you. All grown up but without a wrinkle in sight.” Sarah laughed the familiar, throaty laugh that had always seemed to belong to a person much older, more serious, but which now seemed, finally, to fit. At fifty, she was as beautiful as ever in spite of, or perhaps because of, the lines around her mouth and eyes that in sixteen years had matured from finely etched to engraved. Sitting next to her, Marina felt very young, and any illusions she might have had about this meeting, about her ability to control its outcome, faded into uncertainty.

“Are you hungry?” Sarah asked.

Marina nodded.

“Shall we go to Anita’s? She’s excited to see you.”

Marina knew she’d end up at Anita’s sooner or later but wasn’t ready for it quite so soon. “Do you mind if we don’t just yet. I mean, I want to, but ...” She wasn’t sure how to put it, not knowing exactly what her reluctance was.

“Too much, too soon?”

“Maybe. It just feels so strange to be here. Everything looks the same, but I’m ... not.” She smiled. “Not that I want to be twenty-three again.”

“It
must
be strange after all this time. Now you’re an adult, a mother, a successful businesswoman.” Sarah paused and looked out across the piazza. “I know what you mean about Anita’s. After Thomas was killed, I didn’t go back there either, not for a long time. But Anita’s like family to me, and in the end, I had to, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It was sad, of course, but comforting, too. You may feel the same way.”

Marina wasn’t too sure about finding it comforting, but replied, “Of course I want to go. Maybe tomorrow.”

Sarah stood up. “Okay, it’s a date. Right now, how about we grab a
panino
and go for a walk.”

After choosing mozzarella and tomato sandwiches from a nearby bar, Marina suggested they walk by Sauro’s old workshop even though it no longer existed. She knew from Josh, who still consulted with Sauro from time to time, that he’d moved his workshop to the suburbs after his father and grandfather died. Sarah confirmed that rents had gone up astronomically and the new traffic regulations that restricted access to the historic center made it difficult for artisans who needed to move furniture or worked with bulky supplies.

They turned down the street Marina had walked daily during her apprenticeship, but after a few yards, she stopped. “Wait a minute.” She looked at Sarah. “Wasn’t it right here?”

Sarah nodded.

Marina stared at the sign that filled the space above the door. Stylized soap bubbles foamed up around the name Wash and Dri. At least, she thought, they could have given it some snappy Italian name, one they could spell correctly.

She peered in the window at the rows of shiny washers and dryers. “Wow, I used to have to drag my bag of clothes to the
lavanderia
around the corner from Via Luna and pray that those old ladies wouldn’t shrink the hell out of everything.”

“These Laundromats have sprouted up all over town in the last year or so. It’s actually a good thing. We needed them.”

Marina stood for another minute, her mind in another time, the scent of wood shavings, lacquer, and wax filling her nostrils, the light percussion of a hammer and chisel echoing through the workshop, Sauro’s reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Sarah interrupted her reminiscence. “Do you want to go by Via Luna?”

Marina had imagined she might go by the apartment at some point, if time permitted, but it was the place that held the most memories, and she wasn’t sure she wanted Sarah with her. “Who’s living there?” she asked in an effort to avoid the question.

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. Marcella’s parents sold it a number of years ago.”

“How is Marcello?” Marina asked, following Sarah down the street.

“Well, he’s a she, and her name is now Marcella, with an
A
.”

“Oh my God, he went through with it?”

“No, not exactly, not all the way. He was going to though. He did the hormone therapy and the psychotherapy in preparation for a complete sexual makeover, but Carlo, the man he’s involved with, didn’t want him to go through with the operation. And really, you’d never know he wasn’t a woman. He has breasts and soft skin. I don’t know the intimate details of their relationship, but he’s very happy, and I’m happy for him ... her. She has a thriving business as a seamstress/ dress designer. She made this.”

Sarah indicated her elegant outfit, beautifully draped trousers and a matching topcoat the color of sand, with cream trim and buttons.

“What’s the fabric? It’s beautiful,” said Marina, rubbing it between her fingers.

“Silk and cashmere, I think. I don’t ask. She makes it, I wear it.”

Sarah recounted how it was Marcella who finally rousted her out of her mourning bed in the months after Thomas’s death, and how when she’d refused to get dressed, complaining that all her clothes were too wild and colorful and made her feel crazy, it was Marcella who created a wardrobe of loose-fitting pants and tunic tops in a muted palette of solid colors. This uniform had served her well in her mourning period, providing a soothing cocoon in which to come back to life. To a new life.