The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  It was perhaps for that reason, reflected Lorena, that the prelate of San Marcos had been obliged to pick up the gauntlet a Franciscan monk had thrown down by publicly challenging him to immolate themselves together at the stake, in order to show the whole world that he was no prophet, but a liar. The prior of San Marcos had wisely decided to ignore the challenge. Brother Domenico, endowed with less shrewdness than his prior, had been unable to bear being made fun of and had proclaimed, during an emotional sermon, that they were willing to brave the flames of the bonfire in order for the flames to show who was right.

  After such an act of faith, Savonarola could not continue to ignore the challenge without losing prestige. Brother Domenico, the man who had thrown the first stone and then tried to hide the hand that had done it, was finally chosen unanimously by the monks of San Marcos to enter the flames and emerge unharmed.

  Lorena was sure that if the flames maintained their usual properties, once they had touched Friar Domenico, the next one to burn would be the prior of San Marcos. She would have liked her mother to witness such an exceptional ordeal. Flavia, however, making the most of the fact that the servants were all in the Piazza della Signoria, had stayed at home to enjoy the intimacy of being with Michel, without their prying eyes and ears.

  No one could bathe twice in the same river, but the flow of love that had sprung up again between her parents was as intense as the first time. Her mother was aglow with happiness and looking so beautiful that she seemed to have suddenly rejuvenated several years since Michel had found her in the chapel where she always went to pray. Lorena had not dared ask her mother if they were having an intimate relationship, as, after all, Michel was a priest. It was precisely because of his position that he was obliged to return to France in order to attend to his flock at the end of spring.

  The roar of the crowd interrupted Lorena’s thoughts. The Franciscans were entering the square. There must have been at least two hundred of them and as she observed their grey faces, the color reminded her of the habits they were wearing. Their heads hooded, they silently made their way until they reached the beautiful loggia of Lanzi, where they gathered under one of the three handsome vaulted arches and awaited the arrival of their rivals. They did not have to wait long. The Dominicans of San Marco arrived two by two in procession, accompanied by great pomp and ceremony. Last to arrive and bringing up the rear marched Friar Domenico, a crucifix held high, and the excommunicated Savonarola, holding a consecrated host, thus defying the pope. They were followed by an immense multitude, brandishing candles, torches, and singing psalms so loudly and with such passion that they gave Lorena the impression that the apocalypse was nigh. Domenico’s expression exuded determination. Savonarola, by his side, alternated gazing at the sky, then at the multitude, expressing in this way his privileged connection with the heavens. Among the fervent retinue, Lorena noticed Luca flanked by his children. She was extremely surprised, however, to notice that her sister Maria was not with them. Her brother-in-law disliked attending public functions without his wife and she deduced that something extraordinary must have happened to dissuade her sister from being at Luca’s side on such an important day. What could be the matter? Only a sudden illness or a serious argument could have explained such a noticeable absence, but both these causes seemed about as unlikely as Girolamo Savonarola emerging triumphant from the piazza.

  The sun at its height indicated that it was now noon, the moment the Dominicans had chosen to celebrate a sung mass from an improvised altar they had erected in a part of the loggia they were occupying. The piazza, which was completely packed, kept an expectant silence as the ceremony was being officiated. The silence was suddenly interrupted by whispering and expectation became nervous tension once mass was over and as the day went on without anyone taking the first step toward the pyre.

  Florentines were experts in arguing passionately for hours on end about questions of etiquette and before the imminent perspective of being reduced to ashes, the contenders had resorted to what they could do best: discuss endlessly without reaching any kind of agreement. Was it admissible for Friar Domenico to enter the bonfire without removing the golden cope with which he had officiated mass? Could it be tolerated that he took a crucifix with him? The Franciscans did not want the symbol of Christ to burn in the pyre and the Dominicans alleged that he would come through the flames as unharmed as the friar, whom Savonarola had appointed.

  Under pressure from the crowd, those of San Marcos had ended up conceding certain aspects of the protocol but had imposed a condition that their opponents found unacceptable: Friar Domenico would not move one step without taking the consecrated wafer with him.

  The tension reigning in the piazza was echoed up above when a great peal of thunder resounded. All morning the wind had been ushering in big black clouds and they now seemed to be waiting for a sign from the heavens to unleash all the water that had been accumulating. The deluge was both sudden and intense. The multitude became swamped, lost its spirit, and realized immediately that the spectacle was over: nobody was going to be burned at the stake today. Without the need for any bell to tell them, people started to quickly leave the piazza. Lorena stepped up her pace in a vain attempt to avoid the downpour. She was as soaked as if she had been swimming fully dressed in the River Arno. That was the nature of things, she reflected. One tries to accelerate one’s pace, but life proceeds at its own rhythm, oblivious of mere mortals’ urgent demands: if one got drenched to the skin one’s only freedom consisted in the attitude one had toward the elements. Her children were wiser than her and walked unhurriedly, demonstrating that they were worthy pupils of their much-admired tutor. Lorena remembered that Michel, showing his usual good judgment, had proposed an alternative challenge between Dominicans and Franciscans, consisting in attempting to swim across the River Arno without getting wet. The Signoria had not wanted to follow his advice and had gone ahead, whereas Flavia had followed it, wisely staying at home with Michel and avoiding getting soaked while watching the pantomime being enacted in the piazza. When spring was over, he would return to France and her mother would sorely miss him. So would Lorena, unless in some way she were able to keep him back in Florence.

  132

  Flavia sat next to her loved one under the shade of the almond tree, which illuminated the garden of the palazzo with its century-old presence. By a magical coincidence, she remembered that the first flower of her favorite tree had blossomed on the same day Michel had returned to Florence. Although only a few weeks had gone by since his return, the branches of the almond tree already displayed their pink and white petals like a song dedicated to life. Flavia thought she could see in that explosion of color, reborn every year, an allegory of her own feelings. Just like the old tree, she too had suffered a long winter, her passions sunk in lethargy and hardly believing they would ever return again with such an overflowing vitality. So many years had passed since her first meeting with Michel that everything should have changed, and yet the essential was still there, oblivious of the passing of time. Their bodies were maybe worn, but the invisible was more diaphanous, the untouchable more solid, and the love more real than anything Flavia could see, touch, or hear. And yet, the very cloud she was weightlessly floating upon contained the seed of her unhappiness. What would happen when her love left again? The world would be very different then, for she had become accustomed to her daily universe being made up of two. Losing one’s loved one was far more painful than never having known him at all.

  “What troubles you? You seem sad,” said Michel.

  “And you? Are you happy?”

  “Never have I ever been so contented,” he replied as he stroked her hand. “My life is filled with blessings. Your love is a cup overflowing with abundance, which, instead of diminishing, gets fuller with every sip. And if that were not enough, I live every day with our daughter and our grandchildren. For a man accustomed to solitude, who thought he had no children and had renounced living as part of a couple, this opportu
nity that destiny has given me has opened my eyes to a love I had never known. All through the years I have served, loved, and helped many people, but nothing can compare with this. I feel as if a part of my spirit resides in Lorena and small particles of our beings sparkle in different ways in each of our grandchildren. Is it not incredible that all these marvels are the fruit of our youthful madness? Certainly in our case the old adage that says God writes straight with crooked lines has come true.”

  “Perhaps, then, it might be wiser not to make amends for something that was wished by God. Are we not a family sharing the same flesh, heart, and blood? Was it not a miracle that we all came together again thanks to a precious stone that traveled from your ancestors to the hands of your daughter’s husband throughout centuries, wars, kingdoms, and treacheries? Perhaps it is God’s will that you should stay in Florence. And if it were not, I would appeal against His judgment because now I cannot risk losing you again, Michel. No one knows what they are missing until they have discovered it and no one knows what they possess until they have lost it. I know enough now and have no need to know more. I love you with all my being and I need you far more than the parishioners of Ornolac. The young priest you mentioned can take care of their souls, even though he has just left the seminary. But if you go, no one will ever be able to console me.”

  Once she had finished speaking, Flavia understood that she had at last been able to confess what had been making her so afraid. The weight of anguish, once expressed, was much easier to bear. She knew that she was asking a lot, but her heart would not allow her to ask for less, otherwise her present happiness would convert into a bitter fruit if there were to be no tomorrow with Michel. It was for her loved one to decide.

  “I have spent many days reflecting in silence on which course I should take and all paths constantly return to where my heart lies, beating strongly next to yours. It is foolish to swim against life’s current. These last two years, I have repaid the debt I had incurred with the caves of Ornolac. And although my parishioners await my return, I have full confidence that the new priest, to whom I entrusted the parish during spring, will continue taking good care of my flock. What really troubled me was whether I could betray the vows I took in my youth. I know that there are many cardinals who boast about their children and joke about how wonderful their sins are, but I am no prince of the church, only a mere infantry soldier. Therefore, to enable me to stay with you, I must continue concealing my condition as a priest and internally renounce my vows forevermore.”

  “Are you quite sure that you are ready to take that step?” enquired Flavia, gently taking his hand and looking at him tenderly. There was nothing she wanted more but she was afraid that Michel would make a decision he might later regret. If there were the slightest shadow of a doubt, their love could become a cause for reproach, and guilt becomes a ruthless judge with the passing of time.

  “I am absolutely sure,” affirmed Michel. “We must learn from nature, endlessly dying and then reviving, completely transformed. The old priest must die so that the man may live. The parishioners of Ornolac, realizing that I am not returning, will think that I died during the journey, and they will not be wrong, unless they think that it was as a result of the usual attacks by highwaymen. Therefore, the vows taken by a dead man do not apply to the new one who was born today. And this man who is now talking to you is also the troubadour who loved you from the very first day and who knows that the only true mortal sin is to betray the heart.”

  Flavia burst into tears of joy and would have immediately embraced Michel had she not heard the sound of footsteps behind her, on the stone pathway of the garden. Who could it be? All the servants were attending the ordeal and it was too early for it to have finished. Her surprise was immense when she saw Maria, dejected, with red eyes and a lost look.

  “What are you doing here, my girl?” she managed to ask.

  “Something terrible has happened to me, mother, and I have to tell someone.”

  133

  A cruel destiny patiently awaited Savonarola in the same piazza he had abandoned, soaked to the skin, the previous month. In its center stood a scaffold surrounded by brushwood that would in a few moments consume the bodies of the prior of San Marcos and the friars who were closest to him.

  Lorena thought it ironic that the same fire Savonarola had used to terrify the Florentines and destroy the works of art that were not to his liking was also about to devour his body. Life was rich in symbolic, conspiratorial winks, she reflected, as if the whole of existence communicated in a secret language made up of coincidences. For instance, the very day on which Savonarola had fallen into disgrace by not submitting to the ordeal, the king of France, frightened by a peal of thunder, died after being thrown from his horse. It seemed that the heavens had decided to rid themselves both of the prophet and his military wing, by using a clap of thunder that had resounded at the same moment both in France and in Florence.

  The voice of God, decided Lorena, was as mightily loud as it was inscrutable, as silent as it was full of interpretations. For this reason, many were the Florentines who still believed that a miracle might save Savonarola and his two companions from capital punishment. Luca and her sister Maria, whom she could see on the other side of the circular wooden platform on which the scaffold had been erected, were surely among them. Maria, following the sober fashion that so pleased the prior of San Marcos, had covered her figure from head to toe with a simple robe of grey wool. Luca was dressed in a black tunic, which struck Lorena as an omen of premature mourning. By contrast, his face was excessively pale, closer to the whitish color of a corpse than to the healthy pink color of Maria’s latest baby. The break in their relationship had gone so far that Lorena had not even gone to the christening of the new child, thus causing a great scandal in Florentine society.

  Their mother reproached herself for that absence of affection between her daughters and saw it as being her fault, but neither her sadness nor her protests had succeeded in achieving the slightest reconciliation. Occupying an equidistant position between the two, which might possibly have served in the future as a way of bridging the gap, Flavia tried hard not to make any gesture that might have been interpreted as favoritism. And so, faithful to her style, she had chosen to witness the execution of Savonarola in the company of her son, Alessandro.

  Lorena’s eyes went back to Maria. She was sure that something very serious had happened to her sister in order for her not to have attended the ordeal that Luca had come to, accompanied by all their children. Her mother had finally confessed that she knew the motive, although she would not reveal it, having promised her sister she would not do so. Lorena had respected her silence.

  There are silences that are areas of peace, she pondered, but the mute and invisible wall that separated her from her sister was gnawing at her from within. She tried without success to catch her eye. Her sister had probably seen her from the other side of the scaffold and had decided not to look at her until an angel was to descend from heaven and save Savonarola from martyrdom.

  Who could believe in a prophet who now denied that he had ever had visions? That was exactly what Savonarola had done when he testified under oath to a lawyer that he had never heard the voice of the Lord in his head, nor had ever had revelations, but had simply interpreted the signs of the times to the best of his abilities and had presented them in the form of prophecies, in order to gain recognition in the eyes of the people and in that way spread more effectively the virtues of heaven on earth. His desire to be admired and respected was so great that the glory of the world had dazzled him and made him blind. Finally, confronted by the ordeal by fire suggested by Domenico and unable to retract without losing face in the eyes of the Florentines, he decided to accept the challenge in the hope that the Franciscans would draw back at the last moment.

  Despite this, there were many who argued that the confession that had been extracted from Savonarola was worthless, having been obtained through torture using the strapp
ado. A chill ran down Lorena’s back as she recalled the torments inflicted by the strappado on her husband, whose damaged joints had still not completely recovered. She was sure that had such a persuasive method of interrogation been used on her, she would have been capable of saying anything they wanted to hear. However, one expected more from a prophet than from an ordinary woman.

  In any case, today the whole of Florence had congregated on the public square, not only the detractors, but also the most passionate supporters. A great majority of attendees considered public executions to be an irresistible spectacle. That day, however, people were hoping to see far more than bodies writhing in agony.

  It suddenly dawned on Lorena that the whole ceremony had been conceived not only in order to take the life of the three friars, but also to kill their spirit in the memory of all those present. Standing on the ringhiera were the Eight and the papal envoys, attired in all their majesty. The three friars presented themselves before them, and one by one were stripped of their vestments while being verbally degraded. Their faces and hands were then shaved and their bodies covered with patched, loose woolen cassocks.