Disposition of Remains Page 12

  CHAPTER 16

  Graziella led me back across the bridge to a Franciscan church called the Basilica of Santa Croce.

  “The neo-Gothic façade was designed by Niccolò Matas, a Jew. See the Star of David?” she asked as she pointed up toward the white marble façade.

  Plain as day, situated high and center, was a blue six-pointed star on the church’s exterior. I took a moment to appreciate the tolerance and unity it represented. That is, until Graziella explained that even though Matas requested to be buried in the church with his peers upon his death, he had never been allowed inside its four walls. Simply because he was Jewish, he’d been buried on the front porch instead.

  My newfound positivity was shattered by that revelation as we tiptoed over the remains of Matas to enter the church. Inside, Graziella introduced me to the funerary monuments to Galileo, Dante, and Michelangelo. Each of the ornate, marble tombs was uniquely enchanting. These men had made such an impact on the world that even hundreds of years after their deaths, people travel from far and wide to visit their graves. I certainly had not made that kind of impression on the world. I hadn’t made any impression at all.

  I became lost in thought, contemplating where my remains should reside. I came to the pitiful conclusion that a cardboard box labeled “Property of Evan Altman” would be the most appropriate resting place for me.

  “Where would you be buried, if you had the choice?” I asked Graziella, catching her off guard.

  She furrowed her delicate brow as she surveyed the area.

  “Over there, next to Michelangelo,” she laughed, pointing.

  She clearly did not consider it to be a serious question, although spending all of eternity interred beside the greatest of the great, truly wouldn’t be a bad choice. Spending it in a small inconspicuous urn stashed somewhere near Botticelli would be my dream come true.

  Minutes turned to hours and before I knew it, my tour had come to an end. School was out, and it was time for Graziella to change from docent to mother.

  As we arrived at their school’s front gate, Filipa and Bianca charged up the sidewalk toward us, grabbed my waist, and clung onto me as though I had candy in my pockets.

  “Children are very intuitive. They sense something about you,” Graziella said.

  Do they sense that I need a hug, or that I have a short shelf life? I thought to myself.

  The girls gave me a full-throttle recap of their day. A little girl named Adriana had peed her pants and become the laughing stalk of the school, they’d eaten zucchini risotto for lunch, and Filipa had scraped her elbow jumping off of a swing from some high altitude. Bianca, although not a big fan of math, had aced her test. That’s all I was able to ascertain from the fast-clipped, heavily accented monologues they fired at me in unison. Graziella had mastered the art of just calmly nodding her head, whether she’d caught it all or not. I wasn’t nearly as adept.

  Part of their daily routine was walking to the organic market to pick up fresh food for dinner. Graziella insisted that I dine with them once again. She promised to teach me how to make lasagne al forno the authentic way.

  “Should we get some more wine?” Graziella asked enthusiastically.

  Alcohol and I were on bad terms, but I didn’t want to rebuff that kid-in-a-candy-store look on her face.

  “Sure. Why don’t I get it?” I asked, hoping to contribute. I picked up a bottle, but she confiscated it, shoving it under the bread and pasta in her basket before the girls noticed.

  Apparently deeming it necessary to explain the clandestine nature of her behavior, Graziella said softly, “Michael’s abolition of alcohol is kind of a foreign concept here. In Italy, we give our children watered-down wine with dinner, beginning at a very early age. We don’t drink to ‘party’ like Americans do; it’s just a part of everyday life. When I met Michael he explained to me that he had been through the twelve-step program and that he couldn’t be around alcohol. I respect his wishes, but sometimes I miss my wine!”

  I smiled, then grabbed a second bottle and shoved it under the bread and pasta to keep the first one company. We finished shopping and strolled leisurely down the street. Filipa whispered something to Bianca and hysterical giggling ensued. Before I knew it we were standing in front of the Leonardo Hostel. I looked questioningly at Graziella.

  “I want you to get your things and stay with us.”

  “What? Really? Are you sure??” I asked with surprise and hesitation. Michael and I sleeping under the same roof?

  “Urrà!” the girls squealed in unison—the Italian version of “yay!”

  How could I resist that reception?

  I knew it was probably a bad decision, but I found the three of them very comforting. Somehow, being in their company felt like home. Graziella was a lot like me—or more what I aspired to be. We both loved Michael, so in an odd way it made sense that we would understand one another.

  CHAPTER 17

  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 i
ts 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?

  CHAPTER 18

  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 contains 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 hassa’ 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 response. “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.”