The district of Oltrarno, on the other side of the river, was the borderline of another Florence, resembling more a large town than the sophisticated city of the Medici, artists, and magnates. Here, the laundry was hung up to dry between the trees, hens pecked in front of the hovels, and the clothes people wore were all patched and mended. Contrary to the privileged area where he lived and worked, outbreaks of the plague were more frequent in Oltrarno. Aware that anyone who had survived the plague would be unable to catch the terrible disease again, Mauricio continued walking. The smell of cow dung and damp clay rising from some kilns mingled with the fresh morning air.
The vast bulk of the palace that Luca Pitti was building contrasted with the shacks surrounding it, where many women were busy spinning and weaving clothes commissioned by wealthy merchants while their half-naked children romped among the puddles left by the rain.
Mauricio went into the church of Santo Spirito, the first one he had ever prayed in when he had arrived in Florence two years before. Afterward, he continued walking, leaving Oltrarno behind him. Further on he could see the countryside and trees scattered with small houses separated from one another. Mauricio took deep breaths and continued walking until he reached a verdant meadow, from where he could see the surrounding hills in all their splendor. As he admired the beauty of it all, something ineffable took place.
Mauricio began to feel aware that something was happening deep inside him. Even while he had been walking he had undergone a sensation of waking up from a long dream. Now, he felt that the veils that had been dimming his vision all his life were starting to fall away. It was impossible to describe this process, in which a part of him seemed to be divinity itself, filled with light, knowledge, love, and power. It was like a circle of light hanging from another dimension and he was that very circle.
In some way, Mauricio was a character in a play, but he was also an actor who was learning through the performance. It had been like that since the day he was born. What was incredible was that he had identified so completely with his own character that he had completely forgotten the actor who was playing him.
In fact, the entire world was one enormous stage in which thousands of actors performed tragedies and comedies. Humans took their roles so seriously that they really thought they were only those people. That was the way it had been planned from on high, for otherwise it would be impossible for men and women to fight so hard for something that was, after all, nothing more than fiction. It was precisely in that blend of joy, pain, hope, and fears that valuable experiences could be learned. For instance, to maintain one’s faith in the midst of darkness was an admirable virtue, as was fighting in the name of truth at the cost of losing one’s life. Or to continue striving in spite of the fears and doubts assailing the character. Also to make mistakes and discover those decisions that brought pain to oneself and to others. All that man underwent was useful to this circle of superior light, which absorbed all human experiences. And within the wonder of this was yet another great surprise. This center of light was not moving forward in its infinite voyage; happy and fortunate, but ground to a halt, without knowing how to continue its voyage toward God. And it was through its worldly experiences that it aspired to take a step forward and continue to advance.
Mauricio remembered the discussion he had heard in the Villa Medici about the allegory of Plato’s cave. It certainly contained many analogies with what he was experiencing now. “What we consider real is nothing but a shadow reflecting a superior reality.” He also remembered that in the same passage, the Greek philosopher remarked that to see too much light suddenly could cause blindness in someone who was only accustomed to the dark.
The sun was starting to set. Mauricio had lost count of how long he had spent in the countryside. It was time to return to the city. His ecstatic experience was over. The contact with the divine had filled him with happiness, but he had now lost the connection with that fount of wisdom, love, and power.
With growing confusion caused by such a disconcerting experience, he reached the shanty houses showing him that he was once again entering Oltrarno. Feeling afraid, he hastened his step. He did not want to be there when night fell. It might be dangerous. Furthermore, he had arranged to meet Lorenzo that very same afternoon. However much he hurried, he would arrive late for his appointment. A sudden thought leapt to mind: what if he were going mad? Maybe his mind was becoming delirious. A moment later he was filled with intense hatred. Mauricio was surprised when he realized that the feeling of hatred was directed toward himself.
65
“So I am not mad after all?” asked Mauricio.
“Of course not,” answered Elias Levi. “What you told us about is what your ancestor Abraham Abulafia would have described as an ecstatic experience.”
Mauricio was not sure whether that connection with his Jewish ancestors was a good or a bad sign.
“The fact that Abraham Abulafia described something similar to what happened to me does not mean that it is normal.”
“It is simply something that does not happen to most other people,” observed Lorenzo, “nor are the majority of people capable of expressing beauty through painting or sculpture, only a few are endowed with that very special gift.”
Mauricio felt reassured that he had explained to Lorenzo and Elias what had occurred. Both had heard him out without accusing him of having had hallucinations. Yet he was still uneasy.
“But, why do you think something like this happened to me?” he asked.
“According to Abraham Abulafia there are many circumstances that can bring on ecstatic experiences,” explained Elias. “They include the observation of Hebrew letters in a particular way, as well as simple things such as the contemplation of nature, music, dance, and even making love to the person you cherish most.”
Mauricio became thoughtful. The day before Marsilio and Leonardo had played music that had induced in him a sweet feeling of calm. That same night, Lorena and he had felt a sublime closeness in their lovemaking that they had never experienced before. And he had spent this morning contemplating nature. By sheer coincidence he had practiced various techniques recommended by his ancestor. Or maybe it wasn’t pure chance?
Mauricio’s gaze wandered around the luxurious room they were sitting in. On the ceiling a vividly colored fresco depicted angels and mythological figures strolling through clouds and gardens. The walls, which were lined with red tapestry, boasted splendid paintings in gold frames. Various Medici coats of arms hung from the ceiling, harmonically placed at different heights. Then suddenly Mauricio noticed the geometry concealed by the six balls on the Medici shield.
“If you link the six balls, the Jewish star suddenly appears,” he exclaimed without thinking.
“Some say that the six balls represent the six dents left in the shield of one of our ancestors when fighting against Charlemagne,” Lorenzo pointed out. “Others argue that they are nothing but medicinal pills, a souvenir of our origins as apothecaries. And some maintain that they are bezants, Byzantine currency, which would link us to the guild of moneychangers. But it is the first time I have heard that the balls form the Star of David.”
“Yet they do,” Mauricio replied. “One only has to join the lines this way,” he added, tracing imaginary lines with his fingers.
“True,” admitted Lorenzo, “although, for me, the Star of David is not an exclusively Jewish symbol. It is the geometrical representation of the equilibrium between the divine and the human, between high and low. Notice that there are two triangles that are superimposed. The triangle, with its three sides, represents the number three. Two triangles, two threes, number 33. And 33 is a key number for all of humanity, not only for the Hebrews.”
Mauricio looked at Il Magnifico. This man knew more than he let on. Despite this, he considered it unwise to ask any more, for under no circumstances would Lorenzo add anything to a conversation that he did not find fit to continue. He came toward Mauricio and took him affectionately by the shoul
der.
“As I told you some time ago, I am convinced that destiny brought you here for a very special reason: we have put our faith in you.”
Mauricio felt both pleased and overwhelmed to receive such friendly, sincere praise. “This is why I believe,” continued Lorenzo, “that you will eventually understand the hidden meaning of this ring.”
Mauricio admired anew the jewel he had sold to Lorenzo: “Luz, luz, más luz” … Light, light, more light.
“I find it hard to believe that I could solve something like this, however much an ancestor of mine could have been a custodian of the ring.”
“Give it time,” said Lorenzo. “Everything has its time and its place under the sun.”
“There is something else worrying me,” confessed Mauricio.
“Concerning what?”
“I am troubled at having felt an intense sensation of hate toward myself just after having gone through what Elias describes as an ecstatic experience. If I really had made contact with the divine, surely I should have only felt love, not hate?”
“This can be explained,” Elias hastened to say. “Having an experience of communication with the divine does not imply that one has developed within one’s own personality all the virtues inherent in a great master. This is something that happens occasionally to certain people who, as in your case, had been very near death because of illness. However, what you experienced was very intense and has inevitably brought light to your consciousness. The fact that afterward you felt hate toward yourself is due to the contempt that already existed within you. The only difference is that before, you were not aware of it. Now, you have been able to see it. Do not lose sight of it, for there is no worse enemy than that which is ignored, nor a rival more dangerous than hate directed toward oneself. If you are not capable of confronting this face-to-face and overcoming it, then it will destroy you when you least expect it. Always keep in mind the old adage: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”
Mauricio reflected on his behavior after his wife’s childbirth. He had certainly skirted disaster. Was Elias perhaps right? If so, what should he learn about himself?
“Alchemists,” explained Elias, “talk of transforming lead into gold as a metaphor for the difficult process of shedding light on the dark areas within us: the Opus Nigrum. This is the task you ought to undertake over the years to come, because it is not something that can be achieved from one day to another.”
“That is right,” confirmed Lorenzo. “Only those who have been able to achieve this can be in constant communion with the spirit of God. The rest of us can have enlightened experiences at certain moments in time but all too often we just stumble around in confusion.”
Mauricio was listening but found it hard to assimilate the information they were sharing with him.
“Just one more thing,” Il Magnifico warned him without even giving him time to catch his breath, “do not talk to anybody about what you experienced. They could not only take you for a madman, but something even worse: you could be accused of heresy.”
Mauricio remembered again the story about the cave they had talked about sometime before. Plato warned he who had seen the light of the consequences of returning into the cave to explain the truth to the companions who remained there in chains. According to Plato, those who remained in the cave would all mock him. And if he dared to try and release them in order to lead them outside, his former prison mates would not hesitate to kill him with their own hands.
“We have faith in you, Mauricio, we have faith in you,” Il Magnifico said again as he slapped him affectionately on the back.
66
Piazza Santa Croce was overflowing with people on that first Sunday of the month of September. Lorenzo had wanted to maintain the state of euphoria that had broken out after his triumphant return from Naples by putting on numerous free spectacles for the populace. His eagerness to satisfy the popolo minutto had gone as far as organizing, for the first time, public matches of calcio, a sport that Luca was passionate about but which, in his opinion, should have been reserved for the recreation of the upper classes in their gardens. To allow the ragamuffins from the poorer neighborhoods to play in those magnificent surroundings was really going too far. The area delineated as a playing field had been covered with sand from the River Arno and on either side wooden stands had been constructed. Luca Albizzi and Maria Ginori were occupying one of the boxes from where the more privileged families could enjoy the match comfortably seated.
A player from Santa Croce kicked the ball, which came flying over the court until a fellow player caught it after a hard struggle with the opponents. However, he was immediately seized upon by two opponents from Santo Spirito, while a third member of the team kicked him hard in the stomach. The ball dropped limply from the man’s hands before he collapsed on the ground. The public broke into a roar: some applauding the move and others booing in disapproval.
“Isn’t this game a bit rough?” asked Maria Ginori.
“Let me enjoy it and stop distracting me,” Luca reproached her. “I have already explained it all to you before. There are so few rules that it is impossible not to remember them. There are twenty-seven players on each team and they have to try, by all the means at their disposal, to take the ball up to a spot marked on the opposing side. Only punching and kicking below the belt are prohibited.”
In some ways, Maria was insufferable, thought Luca. However, at least she was obedient and never contradicted him.
The referee had whistled a foul and the player from Santa Croce had to be substituted.
If only it were that easy to make changes in real life, reflected Luca. Often it all depended on luck. Lorenzo de Medici was without doubt the child who had been blessed with good fortune. After the treaty with Naples, the pope was also willing to reconcile with him in exchange for some minimal concessions. The Turks were to blame for this surrender, as they had achieved the impossible with their great advances: the Italian peninsula had been forced to put aside its internal wars in order to unite against a common foe. Exactly what Lorenzo had always suggested. Now it was pointless waiting for a change of regime. All that remained for him to do was to continue getting prosperous and adulate the Medici to obtain their favors.
A player from Santo Spirito was running with the ball in his hands when suddenly a gigantic player from Santa Croce grabbed him from behind, sweeping him off his feet by brutally tripping him up. Once he was on the ground, he stamped on his ankle. The public screamed excitedly as five teammates from Santo Spirito threw themselves onto the attacker. In seconds a massive scrum had formed.
“This is horrible!” exclaimed Maria.
“Stop being such a nuisance!” shouted Luca, beside himself with anger. “I brought you here to enjoy the spectacle, not to listen to your complaints and laments.”
Maria really was unbearable at times … Luca went back to concentrating on the game. Those from Santo Spirito numbered wool carders and beaters among their team: they were not very technical, but were certainly the most violent, irresponsible, and savage players. In other words, a faithful reflection of their daily life represented on a playing field. Luca did not support either of these two teams; he supported San Giovanni, from his part of town, who would play against the winner of the game they were now watching. As far as this match was concerned, he only desired one thing: for as many players as possible to get injured. He looked down at the sandy court with satisfaction.
The referee had been incapable of restoring order and the two teams were coming to blows. The match had barely started, but things looked promising. Luca looked at the silent and resigned face of his wife and sighed. Although he enjoyed showing off his wife in their box, bedecked in her finest clothes, if she kept up this stupid behavior he would have to threaten her with staying at home.
67
The sun was slowly setting ov
er the horizon on that first Sunday in September and the celebration was about to begin. Lorena was walking hand-in-hand with Mauricio through the gardens of the Villa Careggi, Lorenzo Medici’s magnificent villa, which was strategically placed on the nearby hill of Monterivecchi.
During the summer season Lorena and her husband had become habitual guests at the celebrations held in the villa, a fact that had undoubtedly raised their social standing. Even her family now looked at Mauricio with different eyes! Lorena did not come solely for the prestige of mingling among the favorites of Il Magnifico, but because she also took immense pleasure in these gatherings.
The garden was usually filled with torches illuminating the guests’ tables. The food was invariably delicious and the weather seemed to encourage conversation. Nights were warm and star-lit, which helped to create the dreamlike atmosphere that permeated those gatherings. Once dinner was over, a few lines of verse would often be read out, some even written by Lorenzo himself, who was not only the perfect host but also a great poet. The guests would then comment upon the poems. This was one of Lorena’s favorite moments, as the orators would be in the habit of expounding ideas that were often as beautiful as they were original. Adding to the fun, acrobats, jugglers, tumblers, and fire eaters were regularly contracted by Lorenzo. And on every occasion, a group of musicians, ready to play whenever the guests wished to dance, rounded off the evening perfectly.
The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring Page 23