The Gilder (32 page)

Marina followed their route up to San Miniato, and once she’d caught her breath, entered the intimate interior where she easily located the pulpit at the entrance to the choir enclosure. Thomas had all but strained his back trying to get just the right shot of the dwarf-like figure with an eagle on his head that held up the lectern, their laughter earning them a reprimand from an elderly priest. She stepped into the choir enclosure, which was empty save her memory of sitting with Thomas as wave after wave of glorious chanting washed over them. Perhaps someday she’d sit here with Zoe and tell her how Thomas had first brought her there, but for the time being, these pleasant memories were the gift she would bring her daughter.

Her next stop was the Loggia della Signoria, but its proximity to the Palazzo Vecchio and the conference made it a little risky. She’d hate to get caught loitering outside instead of listening attentively from her seat in the audience, but the loggia had been a pivotal location when she’d worked on the show with Thomas and a happy time for her, a time she could share with Zoe. Marina skirted the piazza, staying in the shadows as much as possible as she approached the loggia. Many of the photographs in the show had originated there, where plenty of flesh was in evidence, many of the figures wearing little more than a helmet.
The Rape of the Sabine Women
was probably the most famous sculpture in the loggia, but the most beautiful was
The Rape of Polyxena,
and Marina surprised herself by remembering its name. She recalled Thomas telling her the history of each sculpture, but she hadn’t remembered the extent of the violence they depicted. In addition to the two rapes, there was Perseus holding a severed head, Hercules clubbing a centaur, and a Greek soldier holding a dead comrade. Marina stood for a long time studying
The Rape of Polyxena,
wondering how an act so ugly could be portrayed in so beautiful a piece of art, or conversely, how so beautiful a piece of art could depict such an awful crime without losing its beauty. A naked soldier (Roman, she surmised by the look of his helmet) held a struggling woman in one arm and a lance in the other while a second woman knelt at his feet imploring him to release his prey, while yet a third female lay dead at his feet. The unity of the women depicted in the flow of the figures struck Marina as beautiful and hopeful as it was tragic.

It was close to noon by the time she left Piazza della Signoria. Once again the sky was clear and the sun filled the square with heat more reminiscent of early fall than December. The cafés on the sunny side of the square had set out tables and chairs, and although she was hungry, she didn’t want to risk running into Josh, who would be leaving the conference momentarily in search of his own lunch.

A group of Japanese tourists laden with shopping bags snaked past her as they followed a small orange flag on a stick. She had been warned that Florence had become increasingly touristy, but she hadn’t anticipated seeing so many at this time of the year, nor had she expected to see the wide cross-section of countries represented. She couldn’t remember ever seeing even one Asian tourist when she worked on the leather stall all those years ago. Up ahead, a cluster of people, including shop girls in tight skirts and leather boots and workmen still wearing their
grembiulini,
stood patiently in front of a tripe cart waiting their turn to order. As she always had, Marina held her breath as she passed by, wondering what made people want to eat a sandwich filled with an animal’s stomach lining.

The hotel lobby was busy with people checking in, and she had to wait to retrieve her key. This time when she looked to the far corner, an elderly man in an elegant black overcoat was sitting in the armchair under the palm, and she felt a pang of guilt about skipping the conference, especially after Josh had gone to so much trouble to see that her presentation would be well attended.

The receptionist greeted Marina and slid an envelope across the counter with her room key. The envelope was white with her name written in blue ink. There was no mistaking Sarah’s handwriting. Marina stepped into the elevator, her eyes fixed on her name. How could six plump letters look so accusatory? She carried the envelope gingerly down the hall to her room and set it carefully on the end of the bed. Eyeing it as if it might explode, she changed from her boots into loafers. Her desire to see Sarah no longer felt as urgent as it had the night before, and she took a long time washing her hands and face before sitting down with the envelope. She turned it over in her hands as she considered her choices. She could read it now, read it later, or never read it. No, she owed Sarah the courtesy of reading it even if the note contained the harshest recriminations. Marina opened it quickly before she could change her mind and was relieved to see that it was short.

Marina, We need to talk. Come to my apartment at 6:00. S.

Marina flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She’d been summoned. But for what purpose? It could only mean more shame and humiliation. Any hope of forgiveness had been incinerated in the glare of Sarah’s hurt and anger. The one thing she’d always feared happening was coming to fruition. Her friendship with Sarah was over. Marina didn’t even try to hold back her tears. She rolled onto her stomach and let the sobs shake her into stillness.

Some time later, Marina woke to the sound of a siren in the street. She made her way to the bathroom and washed her face, removing smeared mascara from under her eyes.

She looked at herself in the mirror. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have things to do.”

Marina found sustenance at a small
vinaio
that was barely more than a hole in the wall with a counter. She ordered a glass of red wine and two
crostini Toscani
. It was cold standing in the shadow of the narrow street, but Marina was transported by the thick slabs of Tuscan bread spread with hot chicken liver paste. Feeling revived, she licked her fingers and made her way toward Piazzale Donatello.

The English Cemetery sat high on an oval-shaped island in the middle of the Piazzale Donatello, encircled by a wide and busy boulevard. Although Marina had never visited the cemetery, she remembered Thomas speaking of its beauty and its legendary residents, the most famous of which was Elizabeth Barrett Browning. When at last the traffic thinned enough for Marina to safely cross three lanes, she followed the iron fence that cinched the cemetery’s circumference until she found the gatehouse. A wide path bordered by a low hedge bisected the half-acre plot of land that held close to a thousand white marble monuments of every shape and size. Narrow, mostly overgrown paths diverged from the main artery into the shadows cast by a perimeter planting of cypress trees. The sun was still warm but a breeze had come up, pushing leaves along the ground and rustling overgrown rosebushes and patches of nettles. Many if not most of the tombstones were in a surprising state of disrepair, along with broken fencing and bushes in need of pruning. Browning’s grave, when Marina found it near the center of the burial ground, was no exception, its beautiful marble vault at risk of tumbling from crumbling pillars. In front of the tomb, a single red rose bloomed on a leggy rosebush, defying nature and neglect.

Marina followed the paths at random, imagining Sarah with her bag of ashes laying Thomas to rest amongst the great artists, writers, and statesmen. All in all, the cemetery had the age-worn loveliness of a grande dame whose beauty was faded but not erased by time. She had remembered her camera, stuffing it in her coat pocket as she left the hotel room, and now tried to decide on a few shots for Zoe that might capture the charm of Thomas’s final resting place. She knew he was “resting” in a few other places, but there was no need for Zoe to know that parts of him were sprinkled around the city. She snapped a few shots of Browning’s tomb before following the narrow gravel path toward the far end of the oval, where she came upon the life-sized sculpture of a woman atop a roughly hewn tomb. The figure knelt at a prayer desk, her head in her hands, and while Marina couldn’t ascertain who was buried there, something in the utter despair of the woman’s posture suggested a child’s death rather than a lover’s. A little farther on, she encountered an unusual subject for a monument. This was a life-sized skeleton swathed in a hooded cloak and carrying a long walking staff. The skull was gruesome. It reminded her of something from
Night of the Living Dead
, and she could only imagine the uproar it must have caused at its unveiling.

On her way out, Marina heard the sound of someone or something scratching in the dirt just behind a low boxwood hedge. Curious to see another sign of life, she skirted the hedge and nearly fell over an elderly man bent over tidying the area around a simple column topped with a marble urn. He reached out to steady her, then tipped his hat and returned to his job. He wasn’t a custodian, dressed as he was in a woolen coat and felt hat. Fine, black leather gloves lay on the ground next to him beside a vase of fresh irises. Odd, thought Marina, moving on toward the gatehouse; the cemetery had been closed to burials since the mid-1800s, so he couldn’t possibly be visiting the grave of anyone he knew. But it made her think about bringing Zoe here one day to walk the ground where Thomas lay.

Marina arrived back at the hotel with an hour to spare before her appointment with Sarah, enough time to freshen up and call Zoe, who must surely be home from her sleepover. But to her disappointment, Lydia was again the only one home. Marina sat heavily on the edge of the bed and listened while Lydia explained that the girls had called to ask permission to stay at their friend’s until evening.

“I’m sorry she’s not here, but I’m glad you called. I felt bad that I never asked how things were going for you with Sarah. I shouldn’t have been so pushy about Peter. Have I scared you off?”

“No, it’s fine, really. I have so much on my mind here, I don’t have time to worry about anything else.”

“I was sort of hoping that you wouldn’t worry about this, that you’d just keep an open mind and see how things unfold.”

Marina clenched her jaw. Lydia was like a bulldog when she got her teeth into something.
She
was the one who would worry it to death.

“Lydia, listen.” Marina kicked off her loafers and swung her feet onto the bed. “I told Sarah about Zoe.”

“When? How did she take it?”

“I didn’t exactly tell her. It’s more like we stumbled into it together.” Marina gave Lydia a quick sketch of their confrontation the day before, her subsequent search for Sarah, and the note the desk clerk had given her.

“It’s good that she wants to talk, don’t you think?” Lydia asked. “I mean, she was probably in shock and now she’s had some time to think.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yesterday, at the studio, we really only talked about ... you know ... what happened with Thomas.”

There was a pause before Lydia responded. Her tone was gentle. “I’ve never said this to you before, Marina, but don’t you think that what Thomas did could be considered ... rape?”

“Oh, my God, Lydia! No! It wasn’t like that. Why would you say that?”

“It’s always been at the back of my mind, Marina, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear it. You’ve always been so intent on excusing Thomas.”

“I do
not
excuse him. But I’d never say that he raped me. Why would you think that?”

“What do you call it when an older man gives a young woman too much to drink and then forces himself on her sexually?”

“Lydia, I never said there was force involved.”

Again, Lydia’s tone was gentle. “I thought you didn’t remember.”

“I’d certainly remember if he’d used force. Why are you being so horrible?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be horrible, but when you talk to Sarah, don’t let him off so easily. Sarah’s instinct is going to be to blame you anyway.”

“I am to blame.”

“You are only partly to blame. Don’t you think she might feel differently about the whole thing if she knew he’d coerced you?”

“I think she already has that impression. But I’m not going to say he used force when he didn’t. I’ve lied enough already.”

“I’m not suggesting you lie.” Lydia sounded exasperated. “I just think your view of what happened is naïve.”

Marina sighed. This was not the conversation she wanted to be having. “Maybe it is, but can we just agree to disagree for now? What I really need right now is some support for the next go-round.”

Lydia was all business. “Okay, shoot.”

Marina took a breath and gathered her thoughts. “Now that she’s had time to think about it, I can only imagine that she’ll want to know why I never told her, why I’ve let her believe that Zoe belonged to someone else. She’s got to be feeling completely betrayed.”

“You’re right, she probably is, but I’m sure you can make her see your dilemma.”

“I’m just afraid that when I see her, I’m going to forget everything I want to say, everything I want to make her understand.” Marina knew she sounded whiny, infantile, but she couldn’t help it.

“I think you need to let go of making her understand anything. She’s going to process all this information in her own way, at her own pace.”

“I know, but ...”

“It’s not reasonable to expect resolution in two conversations for something that’s been going on for fifteen years. All you can do is tell her the truth as you know it.”

“My truth is so ugly.”

“It’s still the truth.”

“I’m scared. I’m afraid I’ll lie.”

“It’s a scary thing you’re doing, to face your mistakes, to admit you’ve done wrong, to take responsibility. But it’s also incredibly brave, Marina.”

Marina put her feet on the floor and fished around for her shoes. “Christ, I feel like I’m twenty-three again.”

“Well, you aren’t. You are a grown-up, successful woman, and a wonderful mother. You have to hold on to that and stick to the truth as if your life depended on it.”

After she hung up, Marina stood by the window watching the lights come on as dusk fell over the city. Lives—her life, Zoe’s life, and their life together—did depend on her telling the truth, of finally doing the honorable thing.