The Girl in the Glass

by Susan Meissner

  The only cool place to be in August in Florence is inside one of its many churches. And that is where we went, he and I, to beseech heaven for comfort.

  My favorite place of solace in those days was the Church of Santa Trinita, just one block from the river. Nora often went to Mass at this church with her mother. When I walk its floor, I am mindful that her feet also brushed the stones more than four hundred years before.

  As the heat of that awful summer pressed me to my knees beneath the painting of Saint Francis renouncing all worldly joys, Nora assured me my shattered heart would not be my undoing. I felt her very breath on my neck, as I bent my head in prayer, reminding me that Medici women are resilient. I had only to look backward to see that the Medici passion for beauty stemmed from their passion for life.

  Were it not for Nora’s whispers reminding me of this day after day after day, I surely would have disappeared into my grief. Grief is a river like the Arno, the depths of its dark bed you cannot see. To swim in it is to tire in it and sink in it and be lost forever in it.

  My father, Angelo Borelli III, is an accomplished artist. The walls of our flat are covered with his canvases. He loves trees; there is always a tree in his paintings.

  There have always been many talented artists in Florence, from the daybreak of its existence. To this day, countless artists line the piazzas with their creations, selling them to tourists for a handful of euros. Florence has always been a magnet for those who itch to paint, to sculpt, to bestow beauty on a world in need of it.

  The concentration of such genius during the Italian Renaissance is staggering. The greatest works of art since ancient times were left to us during the three hundred years of Medici rule. Such talent was absent during the Dark Ages, and its zenith seems to have come and gone in Florence, in the span of three centuries.

  A French author who went by the name Stendhal visited Florence in 1817 and was so awestruck at the immense beauty of Florence’s art that he suffered heart palpitations and feared he would faint dead away. He was not the first to feel this way, but the first, perhaps, to write of it. Stendahl Syndrome, sometimes called Florence Syndrome, became a byword, and two centuries later, scientists are still curious to know if what Stendahl wrote is true. They ponder his claims with studies and projects. Is the vastness of what the Renaissance artists left to Florence too great for the human soul to fully grasp? Is it truly like a crippling encounter with the Divine?

  Doubters call it a psychosomatic illness, this racing heart, dizziness, and confusion in people who’ve beheld such astonishing artistic achievement, and yet I see it on my tours all the time. The staff at Santa Maria Nuova hospital is accustomed to treating woozy and disoriented tourists after they’ve seen the David. He takes your breath away. Literally. And David is just one of thousands of artistic treasures to woo you, though he is the most spectacular. They are everywhere. To have one’s breath stolen at every turn is what makes a person swoon. It’s that simple.

  I can tell you what makes the tourists totter and sway, what makes them grab for tissues and handkerchiefs as unbidden tears begin to flow, what makes them stagger as if struck. Their souls hear the music, the tunes and whispers that Medicis like me can hear, but their ears tell them they hear nothing. The tug of war inside them is what makes them lurch for a handhold, gasping for air. I tell my guests to sit for a moment, to put their heads between their knees, to breathe slowly, in and out, deep cleansing breaths. And while they close their eyes to concentrate on my instructions, I raise my eyes to the statues and faces that stare down at us from the walls, and I press a finger to my lips. Sometimes Nora will agree to my request, but not always.

  Bells are for ringing; that’s what she says.

  Of my mother’s brothers, her favorite was Giovanni. Nurse tells me my mother and Giovanni were like my brother, Virginio, and me, so close in age. They were always together, like kindred friends. My mother and Giovanni hunted together, played card games, and spent long summers at the villas, and it was Giovanni who worried over my mother when her pregnancies ended in empty bassinets.

  And because Giovanni was a cardinal, he was the all-important Medici representative in the Vatican. My grandfather favored him as well.

  When Giovanni fell ill and died when my mother was twenty, Nurse told me it was as if the sun stopped shining in Florence. And while the family still grieved, a younger brother, Garzia, also fell ill to the same fever and died just three weeks later.

  The losses of these sons, together with the previous losses of my mother’s sisters, proved too much for my grandmother. Five days after Garzia died, Eleonora, the duchess for whom I was named, flew to heaven too.

  10

  Three good things happened in the days immediately following the meeting with Devon at the coffee shop.

  Lorenzo e-mailed me back and said he and Renata would find a way to be around whenever my dad settled on the dates. He asked if we knew where we’d be staying or if we needed help with that. I wondered if that meant would Dad and I like to stay with them, which I thought was a great idea, considering my dad’s finances. I e-mailed him back and said I didn’t think my dad had made any plans yet, hoping Lorenzo would reply with what he had in mind for “help.”

  The second good thing was Dad called to tell me he was getting close to finalizing the dates and that he’d be checking on those tickets I had found. I asked him how many days he thought we’d be staying. That didn’t seem to matter much to him, which was weird since he would be paying for it. I suggested maybe eight to ten days. He said fine and asked me if I could get a ride to LAX. It was nice to be able to say I already had that. We didn’t talk long; he said he was driving without his Bluetooth. He sounded like he was on his way somewhere and was late.

  The third good thing was that I mentioned to Beatriz that I’d read some interesting chapters of a travel memoir written by a friend of Lorenzo and Renata’s and that I thought the writer had some potential. She said I could tell her more about it at the next idea meeting.

  Three not-so-good things also happened.

  In his phone call, Dad had said nothing about the missing painting. I figured he hadn’t had much luck with his sisters and stalled on asking any of his cousins. But I rationalized that we would be spending time together in Florence looking for the statue that inspired it. I could then ask him how the search was going, and he’d be reminded that he had promised to find it. It was surprising how much I wanted the painting now that he’d promised he’d get it for me.

  Second, the idea of introducing Sofia Borelli’s book at the next idea meeting was a little intimidating. Her manuscript pulled me as if magnetized, but the voice of reason kept reminding me that statues and paintings don’t actually talk. Would Geoffrey and Beatriz think I was insane for even suggesting we look at it? Quite possibly. Was Sofia’s the best book to launch a memoir line? It didn’t seem like a safe pick in so many ways, but her chapters fascinated me, as a good memoir should.

  Third, I couldn’t squash the blossoming jealousy I had toward my mother’s and Devon’s newfound happiness in each other. The envy, though somewhat flimsy, nevertheless made me feel ugly inside. Gabe caught on that something distracted me beyond the details of the Florence trip and Sofia’s odd memoir. He asked what was bothering me, and I couldn’t tell him.

  I didn’t want to tell anyone what was bothering me, but it flopped out of my mouth a week after the coffee shop incident when Kara and I were catching a movie on a girls’ night out. Before the previews started, she asked me how my mom was, and the next thing I knew, I was confessing to her that my mom had a new boyfriend and I was practically wishing he was mine, instead of hers. Like I was infatuated with him. With the idea of him.

  “That’s probably not what it is,” she said, when I came up for air.

  I was very quick to tell her that’s exactly what it was.

  And she said, “I’m thinking infatuation is what it feels like, but that’s probably not what it is.”

  I
told her that was not helpful. If it feels like it is, it may as well be. But then the previews started. Two hours later, when we were headed out of the theater, she asked if I wanted to talk about it.

  No, I didn’t. I just wanted to stop thinking about it.

  She looked at me sympathetically. She didn’t say “Good luck with that,” because she’s too good a friend. But I could see she was thinking it’d be a lot easier to figure out my feelings for my mother’s boyfriend if I talked the matter over with someone who had nothing to lose by my being completely honest.

  Don’t ever reveal the confounding mysteries of your soul to a friend who was a psych major unless you are prepared for a look like that.

  “Be good to keep some distance between you and him,” she said softly, and before I could tell her I had no plans to see him at all, she suggested we go to the cupcake place near her house for a snack.

  My mother hadn’t asked for a minute-by-minute play-by-play of coffee night; it had been enough for her that Devon told her our visit had gone very well. He apparently hadn’t told her I had left in a casual rush five seconds after we started talking about Florence. And why would he? My mom was pleased there was nothing awkward between Devon and me anymore. That’s exactly how she said it. And since she now had a new focus for her evenings, her calls to me were fewer and didn’t last as long.

  Hearing her sound so happy poked at me. Of course she was happy. She had Devon.

  I distracted myself with making elaborate plans for every day that my dad and I would be in Florence, heartily assuming that we were, in fact, going. I e-mailed Sofia Borelli and told her I had tentative plans to be in Florence in late May and asked her if she’d consider being our guide for a few of those days, hoping she wasn’t out of my price range. I knew from Lorenzo and Renata’s first book on Florence how much to expect to pay for a basic, private tour guide. I didn’t get the impression Sofia was a guide only for the rich. And since I told her we’d be able to talk more about her book while I was there, I hoped she would perhaps be our guide for a reduced rate.

  She e-mailed me back within the day, telling me she would be happy to show us all of Florence and we weren’t to think of giving her so much as a euro for it. It would be her gift to us, and I would not be obligated in any way with regard to her book. She just wanted to show me her beautiful city. She asked if I had enjoyed the other two chapters she’d sent, and in my reply, I told her they intrigued me very much. I didn’t tell her I planned to soft pitch her idea to Geoffrey and Beatriz later that day.

  I hadn’t heard from Dad since the day he called and said I could decide how many days we’d be gone. So I called him to tell him we had a free tour guide for our trip as a way of nailing him down. He didn’t answer, and I had to leave him a message.

  I lunched with Gabe outside overlooking the cove before the idea meeting. As we ate, I let him skim Sofia’s chapters, which I had e-mailed the day before to the other editorial staff, interested to hear what an artistic man would think of them.

  I watched his face as he moved through the pages, noticing when he smiled or raised an eyebrow, wondering if he found her amazingly interesting or plainly unhinged.

  When he was done, he handed the pages back to me. “Well, it’s certainly not like anything else we’ve ever done.”

  “You think she’s crazy.”

  “She doesn’t write like she’s crazy. It’s very interesting, inventive even. Travelers may not get into her style, but artists will. I’ve heard of Stendhal Syndrome. She’s not making that up. We studied it in art history.”

  I frowned. “That probably won’t be good enough for Geoffrey. He won’t care if artists will like it. He’ll say that’s not our market.”

  Gabe tossed the fragmented remains of his sandwich into the trash can next to our bench. “It’s not, technically.”

  “But can’t you see this appealing to the traveler who has been to Florence before? The one who loves it, and loves going back because the way Sofia writes about it is the same way they feel about it? Or, think of this. What if it’s for those who’ve never been and will probably never get to go, even though they want to very much? A book like this will make them feel like they’ve been there. What other kind of travel book is like that? For the person who will never go but wishes they could?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “So you want to make it up to them by giving it to them in a book?”

  “Sometimes that’s as real as it’s going to get. And that has to be enough.”

  He stood up and reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet. “Then that’s what you’ll tell Geoffrey and Beatriz.”

  Half an hour later, I felt confident when I walked into the meeting and saw that Geoffrey and Beatriz had Sofia’s pages in front of them. The two other editors did too.

  As soon as Gabe and I sat down, Geoffrey poked the pages. “So what exactly are you thinking with this?”

  I told him and everyone else around the table what I’d told Gabe—Sofia’s memoir was for the traveler who is more than just a tourist; we’d be expanding our audience as opposed to shrinking it because we would be offering something not only for the person who was planning a trip to Florence, but also for the person who had already been and fallen in love with it; and more important, for the thousands upon thousands who will never be able to go and who would feel like they had been after reading Sofia’s book.

  Gabe, sitting at the end of the table, smiled kindheartedly when I was done. It was not a smile of triumph. He knew before I did that Geoffrey hadn’t thought much of it.

  “The paintings and statues tell her things? Come on,” Geoffrey said.

  Beatriz, resplendent in a fuchsia suit, tapped the tabletop with manicured fingernails. “Can she prove she is a Medici descendent?” Her accent clipped her words short, as did her tone.

  “What difference does that make? She’s a nut!” Geoffrey pushed the pages back to me.

  “But if she could prove she is Medici”—Beatriz’s tone was softer than it had been a minute ago—“and we get her to take out the talking statues …”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “I’m not interested in working with a writer who is delusional.”

  “We do it all the time. They all start out thinking they can buy a vacation home with their first book’s royalties,” Beatriz quipped. Gentle laughter rippled across the table.

  “Okay, fine,” Geoffrey said. “I’m not interested in working with a writer who sees dead people.”

  “Hears them,” I said. More laughter.

  “But you know, if we take the crazy out, maybe she has a good book inside her. I like her style,” Beatriz said. Then she turned to me. “How much does she have finished?”

  “I’m going to see her when my dad and I go to Florence next month,” I said. “I think after I’ve met her and have seen the rest of the manuscript, I will have a better idea of what we’re working with.”

  “We’re working with a nut job,” Geoffrey mumbled.

  “She has a nice way with words, Geoff,” Beatriz said.

  No one else calls Geoffrey that. It amazes me how they get along as business partners even though they are divorced.

  She continued, “I think we should see if Meg can authenticate Ms. Borelli’s ancestral claims and then convince her to downplay the voice. Then Meg can bring the manuscript back to us, and we can talk about it again.”

  “I would never buy a book like this.” Geoffrey waved his hand across Sofia’s pages.

  “You wouldn’t buy a book on destination weddings in Italy either, and we’re publishing one,” I said quickly, and Beatriz, who hardly ever laughs, guffawed loudly.

  “I think it’s got a whole new vibe to it,” Gabe said from the far end of the table. “Meg’s right. We’ll be expanding our readership not only to people who like memoirs but also to those who wish they could see Florence but probably won’t have the opportunity.”

  Beatriz turned to me. “When are you going?”

 
“Um. Maybe next month.” I hesitated. “My dad and I are finalizing the details.”

  “Next month is in a couple weeks,” Geoffrey said. “You’re still finalizing the dates?”

  “End of the month.” I forced myself to sound resolute.

  “Don’t promise Ms. Borelli anything, but do see if you can authenticate this claim, hmm?” Beatriz placed the chapters I had given her in her folio, and Geoffrey sighed loudly and retrieved his. “And see if she has more chapters ready to send.”

  Feeling rather triumphant, I headed back to my office after thanking Gabe for sticking up for me. I wanted to e-mail Sofia to ask for additional chapters while Beatriz was still interested. When I got back to my desk, I saw that I had two missed calls on my cell phone. One from my mother and one from Dad’s phone at home, not his cell phone. I quickly sent Sofia an e-mail asking for two more chapters, and then I punched the button on my phone to call my father on his landline.

  On the fourth ring, the call was picked up. I was so certain it would be him who answered, I nearly said “Dad” before realizing it was a woman’s voice who’d answered on the other end. Allison.