She had memories of big faces, red lips, and lots of talking teeth, all set against a backdrop of stark walls and black clothing. Here in Florence, no one dressed in black, at least not completely in black, but the cigarette smoke was the same, if not worse. Marina recalled her mother’s exasperation with her artists, all of whom, she said, seemed to feel the need to smoke and drink themselves to death. She had also complained bitterly about the unkempt appearance of some of her favorite protégés, and would have appreciated the fashionable crowd that now milled around her daughter.
Marina worked her way along one wall of large black-and-white portraits. It was an art form she appreciated. She had studied photography again in college and had seen more than her share of both good and bad over the years. This show was called
I Zingari
, a word she couldn’t pronounce or define. The subjects of the pictures looked like homeless people, but she had yet to see anyone sleeping in the streets here, unless the city confined them to certain areas. She’d have to ask Thomas. There were craggy-faced old men with missing teeth, dirty children, and women dressed in voluminous rags. The photographs themselves were beautiful, large and grainy, but something felt missing, a certain connection between the subject and the photographer. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. At first she thought it was because none of the subjects were looking at the camera, but she’d seen many portraits where the face was directed down or away from the camera without losing that feeling of collaboration. Then she saw what it was—only the subject was in focus; everything else was a blur. The pictures must have been taken from a distance, with a zoom lens. What she was looking at were “stolen moments.”
Intrigued, Marina turned away and considered the best way to navigate to the photos on the wall opposite. She looked toward the back of the room where, earlier, she’d seen Thomas talking to a tall, blond woman. He was still there, the woman at his side. She seemed to be entertaining the group gathered around them with an anecdote that involved touching Thomas every few words. Marina had a clear view for a moment and stood watching. The woman was as tall as Thomas and had long, ash-blond hair that fell in one sheer drop down her back, and while it was hard to judge her age from a distance, she had the sense that the woman was a number of years older than Thomas. Just then, he turned his head and she caught his eye for a moment before quickly turning her head away. She cursed herself. Couldn’t she have just smiled and waved like a grown-up instead of acting like a silly schoolgirl?
She scanned the other end of the room, where Sarah was at the door greeting new arrivals, directing them toward the bar set up in an alcove. As she watched, Antonella entered, looking svelte in a tight skirt and slinky blouse, although her makeup looked surprisingly heavy and overdone. But the two women who accompanied her had a similar look, so maybe it was just the fashion. What did she know; her expertise in that area went as far as mascara and lip gloss. Maybe it was part of letting loose, sloughing off the butcher’s shop, enjoying a little time with the girls. Marina didn’t see how she could possibly get through the crowd to Sarah’s post at the door, so she continued across the room to the grouping of smaller photographs.
Again, the photographs were black and white, but now she recognized the subject. They were gypsies.
Zingari.
She had seen them begging around town, mostly near tourist attractions. Walking slowly down the row, she examined the photographs of a gypsy girl in the process of picking pockets. At first glance, it looked like the girl was just begging, but closer inspection brought her true intent into focus. In some of the shots, she was holding what Marina assumed was a baby, but the infant itself was not visible; there might have been anything in the cloth sling she wore across her chest. One picture showed her bending over a young woman sitting on a bench, a map spread out on her lap, her day pack open on the bench beside her. The gypsy was pushing her baby bundle into the woman’s face, effectively pinning her to the seat while she pleaded her case and rummaged the woman’s pack for valuables. Obviously Thomas had followed the girl on more than one occasion. But why? How? How had he tracked her for hours, perhaps days, taking her picture without her knowing? Marina could tell he had not used a telephoto lens for these shots. Others were taken indoors. She recognized the interior of the central post office, the train station, and various galleries. It was uncanny how he had captured her, over and over again, in the act. In one picture, it almost seemed as if she was looking at the camera.
“I guess that’s what you’d call the light-fingered side of life.”
Marina turned at Thomas’s voice, accepted his embrace, and said, “I’m intrigued. It’s almost as if the two of you were in cahoots.”
Standing next to him, the blond woman blew a stream of smoke through her nostrils. “Ah, yes. Thomas. He takes a little walk on the dark side.”
Marina wasn’t sure what to make of the comment, and Thomas acted like he hadn’t heard her. Up close, the woman was clearly a good ten years older than Thomas, and her makeup, heavy black eyeliner and frosty pink lipstick, was about that many years behind the times. Still, she was striking in a white silk blouse, tight velvet jeans, and enough gold jewelry for three people.
Thomas turned to the woman and said, “Contessa, let me introduce our new friend, Marina, the one I was telling you about.”
“Yes, my dear.” The contessa spoke with the air of a mother whose child has just shown her his new toy. She flashed a row of tiny, pointed teeth. “You are the girl Thomas rescued in our Santa Croce.”
At least she hadn’t said “stepped on the face of a Medici.” Marina was trying to think of a clever response when Sarah appeared.
“Marina! How did you get in here without me seeing you? Have you been here long?”
“A while. I’ve been admiring the photographs and just enjoying the scene. This is quite a turnout. I saw Marcello’s mother come in with her girlfriends, but I haven’t seen him yet. Is he here? I’d like to thank him for his help with the apartment.”
The contessa said something to Thomas that made them both laugh, but Sarah was not amused.
She took Marina’s arm. “He’s here somewhere. We’ll find him later.” She turned to Thomas and the contessa. “You don’t mind if I steal her, do you?” And without waiting for a reply, she pulled Marina away. They had not gone more than a few steps when she said under her breath, “I can’t stand that woman.”
Marina said, “The contessa?” Although it was clear whom she meant.
“She’s the damn Ice Queen, but I’m not allowed to call her that in front of Thomas.”
They reached a pair of French doors that led onto a small balcony. The night was chilly, but Marina was relieved to be in the clear air, out of the smoke and noise. Sarah sat down on a stone bench and patted the space next to her.
“So what’s the deal?” Marina asked. “Does she own the gallery?”
“No, but she thinks she owns Thomas.”
“What do you mean? Is she a patron or something?”
“Something like that. She introduces Thomas to a lot of people and helps him with his career. Thomas has known her forever. When he and I first met, he took me to meet her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that nervous. You’d have thought he was taking me home to meet his parents.”
“Did she approve?”
“She was nice enough. Thomas said she thought I was ‘suitable.’ Whatever that means. But it’s clear she’s only interested in Thomas.”
Marina raised her eyebrows. “You mean romantically?”
“No, I don’t think so, but for a long time I did think that, and it drove me crazy. Thomas and I had big fights about it. In the end, I just let it go. It’s clear she’s in his life to stay, and she’s important. I don’t believe it’s just about his career, but I don’t know what it is. I try and ignore it.” Sarah stood up. “But I really didn’t come out here to talk about her. I just wanted to have a few minutes with you, and a break from my duties. Tell me you’ll stay and come to Anita’s for dinner with us after we’re done here.”
Marina hesitated. She wasn’t sure if she was prepared to sit down to dinner and make intelligent conversation with the gallery owner, patrons, and other cultural glitterati.
As if reading her mind, Sarah said, “It’ll just be Thomas and me. I know it goes against the tradition of dining with the patrons, but he’s always insisted on a quiet dinner after an opening. He can only take so much social stimulation.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“No, not at all. We both want you to come.”
Marina was flattered. “Of course, that sounds great.”
As they stepped back into the room, Marina pointed. “Look, there’s Antonella, but I don’t see Marcello.”
“That’s not his ...” Sarah hesitated, then smiled. “Come on, you’ll have to see for yourself.”
Marina couldn’t see Marcello, but she followed Sarah through the crowd toward where Antonella was laughing with her friends. As they closed in on the group, the women greeted Sarah with exclamations and embraces, then Sarah turned to Marina with a grin and said, “These are Marcello’s friends, Giorgio and Paolo.”
George? Paul? Marina looked from one to the other, speechless as she struggled to reconcile the masculine voices with the pretty faces of the women, no, men, she shook hands with. Transvestites! The makeup was a bit heavy, but the result was quite stunning. She checked the expression on her face to make sure her mouth wasn’t gaping or her eyes popping, then turned to Antonella, only to find herself staring into Marcello’s beautiful face.
Sarah was saying, “Marcello says that he’s happy he could be of help, and that his parents are pleased to have you in the apartment.”
“Why didn’t you tell me he was transvestite?” They had just ordered dinner at Anita’s, and Thomas and Sarah were laughing at her. Marina laughed along with them, happy to share in the joke, even if it had been at her expense.
“What if I’d made a fool of myself or embarrassed Marcello?” Marina’s attempt at indignation dissolved in her giggles.
“I know,” said Sarah, “but I had complete faith that you would carry it off as elegantly as you did. I meant to tell you at some point, I really did, it just never came up. Besides, Marcello likes it when people don’t know beforehand. He may be shy, but he has a flair for the dramatic.”
“Well, that was pretty dramatic.” Marina relaxed back in her chair, savoring the word “elegant.”
She and Sarah had slipped out of the reception when the crowd thinned, leaving Thomas to talk to the last few people. As they walked to Anita’s, Sarah explained that Florence was well known for its transvestites, that most of them took it very seriously, priding themselves on their ability to pass as women. Some were straight men, even married men, who got their kicks from dressing up, some were gay men who got a different kick, and some were men who lived as women and hoped some day to change gender. Sarah was not sure about his friends, but Marcello was bisexual, and it was anyone’s guess how things would turn out for him. Marina listened and nodded, afraid to let on how bewildered she felt. Of course she knew about gay men, the baths, drag queens. How could she not, growing up in Greenwich Village? But somehow the complex world of transvestites had escaped her notice.
Thomas had joined them a little while after they were seated, long enough for the two of them to put a significant dent in the bottle of wine. The food arrived as Sarah began to giggle again.
Marina smiled. “It’s not funny.”
“You’re right, it’s not. It’s hilarious!”
“Weird, is more like it.” Thomas poured them each a glass of wine.
“Oh, Thomas.” Sarah turned to Marina and whispered loud enough for Thomas to hear, “His masculinity is threatened.”
Thomas turned his attention to Marina and said, “A man is either into women or he’s not. All this in between, dressing-up stuff is just self-indulgent theatrics.”
After they had eaten in silence for a few minutes, Sarah leaned in to Thomas. “What do you say we take a walk when we’re finished and show Marina the ladies of the night?”
Thomas rolled his eyes and shrugged.
They strolled toward the Piazza della Signoria, where the Palazzo Vecchio functioned as the city hall, its turreted tower rising high above the square. In the restaurants and cafés along the perimeter of the piazza, waiters were putting chairs up on tables and calling
buona notte
to their departing clientele.
They crossed the piazza and headed down a dark side street, the damp, musty scent of centuries leading the way.
“There’s always someone along this stretch,” Thomas said in a low voice. “Look in the doorways.”
Sarah and Thomas chatted about the opening, the sales, the gossip, while Marina peered into the shadows. Sure enough, in the next block, she spotted a figure in a doorway, an attractive woman dressed in an elegant suit with a fur collar and cuffs. Her eyes flicked over Marina and then settled on Thomas. She called out something in a low singsong voice, to which Thomas responded in a gruff tone. The woman laughed.
“You are not going to tell me that was a man,” Marina said.