The Girl in the Glass

by Susan Meissner

  “No. It’s not like that. I hear her when I am very close to the painting or statue. And only after I have stood there for a few moments. It is sort of like walking into a throne room and you wait for the king to notice you and extend his scepter toward you.”

  “So, like, she senses when you are near?” I found that notion a little creepy.

  “Noooo,” she said slowly. “I am just finally able to hear. It’s like this. Close your eyes.”

  I obeyed.

  “Tell me what you hear.”

  I heard the footsteps of shoes on ancient flooring. Low voices carried to the ceiling on a band of echoes as the tourists inside spoke quietly to one another. Someone coughed. A door far off to my right opened. I told Sofia all of this.

  “Anything else?”

  I strained to listen. The rest of the noise around me was just a soup of indiscriminate resonance. “No.”

  “Do you not hear the prayers of the woman sitting behind us?”

  I was about to open my eyes involuntarily, but Sofia put her hand on my arm. “Keep your eyes closed. Listen for her.”

  I screwed my eyes shut, thinking that would help, and Sofia whispered to me to relax and listen.

  So I did. I breathed in and out, deep cleansing breaths to calm me. It seemed as if many long minutes passed, and I would have grown restless if Sofia had not been at my side, coaxing me to tune everything else out.

  And then I seemed to hear the faintest of whispers, carried about as if on a ribbon of air, words that made no sense to me and which sounded only half-formed because of the distance between me and their source.

  But I could hear them. I felt a smile crack across my face.

  “I hear her!” I whispered.

  The moment I said this, the auditory connection was lost. I snapped my eyes open and turned to see the praying woman, and when I did, I nearly staggered. There was no one in the pew behind us. No one.

  I turned to see if she had somehow gotten up and walked away already, although I knew that was impossible. The nearest woman was twenty feet away from us.

  “I don’t understand.” I turned to Sofia.

  “Sound never disappears. It floats on the air on which it was born and swirls there for all eternity. The prayers you heard were spoken in another time. Maybe yesterday; maybe a hundred yesterdays ago.”

  “That’s not possible,” I breathed. “I heard her.”

  “Yes. You did. But the words were spoken at some time in the past. You heard the echo because I told you to listen for it. I was hearing it too. That’s how it is with Nora. What I hear her saying is what she has been saying for centuries. The air about us is woven with her words, the music of her dreams and wishes.”

  I needed time and space to decide if I had actually heard what I thought I heard or if I had let the power of suggestion woo me. For the sake of her book, I had to understand what she was suggesting so that we could find a way to rationalize it somehow. “Do you ever talk back to her?”

  The widening grin on her face suggested I had asked a naive question. “My papa told me that’s not what she is here for.”

  “What?”

  “That’s not what she is here for,” she repeated. “She is here to tutor me, not listen to me. She’s here to remind me that art is the artist giving voice to creation. Art speaks words for the heart. In our hearts we hear it.”

  The desire to see Andromeda was suddenly overpowering. I wanted to believe there was an echo swirling about her as well, an echo that I needed to hear because I had been drawn to her all my life. I didn’t want to wait until Sunday anymore.

  “Can we change our tickets for the Pitti Palace and go tomorrow?”

  “Of course.” Sofia neither smiled nor frowned; she just answered me as if I’d asked if there was a nice restaurant nearby for lunch.

  Which there was.

  When Sofia and I came back from Santa Croce after a leisurely afternoon window-shopping, cappuccino-sipping, and a wonderful meal, it was a little before seven. Sofia was eager to write another chapter, and I told her I was going to pop over to Lorenzo and Renata’s and say hello.

  I was hoping, of course, that Renata had heard something from Emilio, but that was only half of it. I liked the way Lorenzo made me feel when I was around him, and I wanted to tell him about my strange experience in the Santa Croce. It had floored me and thrilled me. I wanted his perspective, and I hungered for his nearness.

  But there was no answer when I knocked on their door.

  I went back to Sofia’s flat, and I could immediately sense that she was a bit disappointed I had returned so quickly. She probably liked solitude to write; I usually did. She was sitting on her couch with her laptop when I walked in, looking a tad crestfallen.

  “I think I will grab my laptop and go find a café with Wi-Fi,” I said.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said quickly.

  “I want to. You gave me a lot to think about today. And I won’t always have the opportunity to sit in a café in Florence on a lovely evening and watch the world go by.”

  She didn’t try to talk me out of it. Instead, she recommended a place two blocks away with great espresso and free Wi-Fi. And she gave me her door key so that I could get back into the building without having to buzz her.

  The evening was cloudy and breezy and smelled faintly of impending rain. I found the café Sofia had recommended and took a corner table near a window. I ordered an espresso, to which I added two packets of raw sugar. I had never tasted coffee that opinionated before.

  An e-mail from Beatriz told me she was okay with a July completion date for the rest of Sofia’s book, but June would be better. Geoffrey’s latest e-mail was a bulleted list of questions he had about other projects I had left in the lurch when I took off without notice. I then sent an e-mail to my mother about where Sofia and I had been today and what we had for dinner and that we’d be seeing the statue that inspired Nonna’s painting tomorrow.

  There was an e-mail from Gabe, too, about the inside design of a book we were getting ready to publish on road-tripping with dogs. I answered his question and then told him I had been to the Santa Croce and seen the frescoes.

  I knew he’d be glad I had found them so remarkable, and as I described my experience, I found myself spilling to him what had happened when Sofia asked me to close my eyes. Even as I wrote to Gabe about it, I could still hear the consonants of a prayer, in a language I didn’t understand, on the very air that I was breathing.

  I read what I had written to Gabe, and it sounded like I was high on something illegal. I nearly deleted it, but the fact was I had heard something. And I had to tell someone about it. I pressed Send before I could change my mind.

  It was too early to go back to the flat. I spent the next hour Googling Gian Gastone de’ Medici, the man whom Sofia believed was her direct ancestor.

  I came up with details of a sad life. He liked booze, gambling, and even other men. He had physical afflictions, didn’t take care of himself, and was known for excelling at crudeness. He was nothing at all like Sofia or what I knew of her father. And there was nothing on any of the biographical sites that suggested he had fathered a child.

  I was about to close the Google search engine when on impulse I Googled my dad’s name to see if it would pop up on a police report or some other kind of headline. I was both relieved and disappointed to get back nothing in the results but his high-school reunion page and the last company he had worked for. I packed up my laptop, paid my bill, and left the café.

  I walked for a few blocks just to clear my head, but keeping track of where I was. The last thing I wanted to do was get lost on Florence’s asymmetrical streets.

  When I got back to the building, I let myself in and climbed the stairs to the second floor. I heard voices from within Lorenzo and Renata’s flat.

  Good. They were home. Since I had been gone less than two hours, I knew Sofia would appreciate a little more quiet time.

  I knocked on th
e door, and within seconds Renata opened it.

  “Meg! Wonderful. Come in.”

  She pulled me into the flat and shut the door behind me.

  She said something in Italian, and I turned, expecting to see Lorenzo.

  But it wasn’t him. Instead, I was facing a man about Lorenzo’s height and build but with a full head of wavy hair that nibbled at his collar. He was quite handsome.

  Renata rattled off something else—I heard my name in the mix—and the man stepped forward and put out his right hand to shake mine.

  “This is Carlo,” she said to me.

  “Pleased to meet,” Carlo said. “Sorry, English is not so good.”

  I shook his hand. “My Italian is not so good either.”

  He laughed lightly. A gold incisor shone back at me.

  “Come have a drink with us.”

  Renata pulled me to the balcony, grabbing three wineglasses along the way. Outside on the balcony, candles were lit and a dark bottle was resting on a tipped apparatus that allowed the uncorked wine to breathe. The tableau looked very romantic.

  “I won’t stay,” I said.

  “Of course you will stay.” Renata patted a chair and I sat down. She and Carlo settled into chairs across from me, and Renata poured the wine.

  “Lorenzo isn’t here?” I felt out of place and hoped Renata would tell me he was just in the other room finishing up a phone call.

  “No. He had a date.” She handed me my glass.

  It should not have felt like a slap, not even a little one, but it did for some reason. Lorenzo had a date. He had a date. Four words that felt like a slap from myself to myself. I sipped the wine to quench the tiny sting.

  “So where did you go today?” Renata turned to Carlo, handed him a glass, and said something in Italian to him. Then she turned back to me. “I told him you work for my publisher here and are visiting Florence for the first time.”

  “Oh. We saw Santa Croce.” And I heard the prayers of a woman who wasn’t there.

  “Ah. Santa Croce is very old. Very beautiful. You saw the tomb of Michelangelo, yes?”

  I nodded and sipped.

  She said something to Carlo. I don’t think it was about Santa Croce. I didn’t think we’d be talking about it anymore. The Santa Croce to Renata was probably like the San Diego Zoo to me. Amazing place, all too familiar.

  I decided it was okay to change the subject.

  “Have you heard anything from Emilio?”

  She nodded while swallowing a sip of wine. “Yes. He texted me.”

  “He did?”

  Renata frowned a bit. “My message to him confused him a bit. He wants to talk to me on the phone, but he’s in Portugal for a business trip. He gets back Friday.”

  “Confused him?”

  “I don’t think he knows Sofia is writing a book. That part confused him, I think. He might be wondering what she will say. About him, maybe.”

  I felt a thread of regret weave through me. It had not occurred to me that Emilio wouldn’t know Sofia was writing a book. A memoir to be exact. It was stupid of me not to consider she would want to be in charge of him finding out.

  This was probably an additional reason Lorenzo had cautioned us about talking to Emilio without asking Sofia first.

  I groaned a little in remorse.

  “What?” Renata looked at me. “You don’t like the wine?”

  “I think maybe Lorenzo was right. We should’ve waited and asked Sofia if she minded us getting in touch with Emilio. Now he knows about the book.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Well, he’s probably concerned it’s a memoir about his family.”

  Renata shrugged. “But isn’t the book about Florence and the Medicis? They are all dead. Their ancestors are all dead. Who can she offend? They’re all dead.”

  I knew I wouldn’t win an argument with black-and-white Renata on this. I said a silent prayer that Emilio wouldn’t cause trouble for Sofia. And that Sofia wouldn’t be mad at me for very long. Beatriz was not going to like it if Sofia was angry with me.

  “It is not going to be a big thing,” Renata assured me. “Do not worry. Emilio and I will talk on Friday. I will set him straight. Do not worry.”

  I tried not to worry, but I did a little. We talked about other things for a while, Renata and I, and occasionally Carlo would toss in a comment or two in broken English. I was nearly done with my glass and ready to head back over to Sofia’s when we all heard the front door open. Lorenzo was home.

  And he had brought his date with him.

  I watched in what can only be described as junior-high jealousy as he came out onto the balcony with a lithe brunette on his arm. Her shining brown hair hung halfway down her back in thick, luxurious curls, and she wore a flowing, off-white dress that complemented her bronze skin. Gold jewelry sparkled in the moonlight.

  “Marguerite! How lovely you are here.” Lorenzo came toward me, date in tow. He bent down to kiss me on both cheeks, while the girl on his arm blinked languidly. Her eyelashes could shut a door with one swipe.

  When he stood back up, she leaned into him and said something. Her voice was velvet deep. She was definitely an alto. He said something back to her, and she laughed and kissed his cheek.

  I swallowed the last of my wine and held up my empty glass as I stood. “I was just leaving, actually.”

  “No, no!” Lorenzo said. “Stay!” He turned to his date. “Bianca, this is Marguerite. She is with my publisher.”

  Bianca smiled. Professionally whitened and perfectly straight teeth saluted me. “Hallo, Marguerite. Very nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too. But I really should be going.”

  I set the glass down on the little table between the chairs. “Wonderful to meet you, Carlo. Thanks for the wine, Renata.”

  “I will find you on Friday after I talk to Emilio.” Renata rose from her chair and kissed my cheek good night. “You look tired.”

  I never know what to say when someone says I look tired. Thank you? Sorry? Back atcha?

  I smiled and said good night to all of them, my gaze lingering on Lorenzo, who looked disappointed that I was leaving.

  “I will see you out,” he said. He brought Bianca’s hand to his lips, kissed it, and then peeled himself away from her.

  “I’m fine; you don’t have to,” I said, making my way through the open living room to the front door. But he was right behind me.

  He put his hand on my arm. “Is everything all right, cara? Did you hear something bad about your father?”

  “No. And yes, everything is all right.”

  Lorenzo frowned. “But you look sad.”

  “I am fine. Thanks.”

  Bianca poked her head through the open balcony doors and said something to Lorenzo.

  I turned the knob on the door.

  “Where are you going tomorrow?” he asked.

  To see if I can hear a statue. “The Pitti Palace.”

  “How about you and Sofia come for dinner here afterward?”

  “We have supper with Lauro and Pepe tomorrow!” Renata called from the balcony.

  “Certo!” Lorenzo tapped his forehead. “Friday? You and Sofia come Friday?”

  “Sure.”

  From the balcony I heard laughter. It was starting to rain. Renata, Carlo, and Bianca came inside, smiling and shaking rain out of their hair.

  “Buona notte.” Lorenzo leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Good night.” I stepped out into the foyer and closed the door behind me.

  I have long known that death is a robber. The statue of Adonis in torment, the many depictions of the suffering of the Christ, and the frescoes of the Last Judgment have long whispered to me that death steals, and not just a little here and there. It takes everything. And its sweeping hand is expertly skilled. It knows how to accomplish its task.

  But when you are five, death seems an ignorant brute who makes terrible mistakes.

  Some have wond
ered why my mother, so shrewd in other matters, did not see what was coming and why she did not flee to Livorno to board a ship for some safer place the minute she got word her sister-in-law Leonora was dead. That is easy. I can answer that in three words. Virginio and me. We were back in Florence. She wouldn’t leave Florence without us.

  I didn’t know for a very long time what happened after my parents left for the villa and Virginio and I returned to laughing as we splashed about in the fountain.

  All I knew then is that my parents went on a hunting trip into the country. Mama had kissed me good-bye, told me to mind Nurse and not to quarrel with Virginio and to dream of her while I slept. I did. I still do.

  My mother died at the villa. Unexpectedly, so the death notifications read, while washing her hair. Nurse, in tears, had to tell Virginio and me that our parents would not be returning to the palace after all. Papa had gone back to Rome. And Mama was in heaven with the angels.

  25

  We awoke to rain. Sofia said we could either take umbrellas with us on our half-mile walk to the Pitti Palace or she could call for a taxi, but I didn’t mind the gentle sprinkle that would fall on us as we walked the shining streets. I told her I was fine with walking.

  She showed me her latest pages as we ate yogurt and toast for breakfast. Sofia’s new chapter was about the four Medici popes. She had struggled with the writing of it. Some of them had not been particularly admirable holy fathers, she said.

  Lorenzo stopped over just before we left to tell us we could not have dinner together on Friday either. He had forgotten he had other plans. Could we come for breakfast on Saturday instead? Sofia offered him a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, but he had camera equipment strapped to his body and was clearly late for wherever it was he had to go.

  “It’s raining,” I told him.

  And he just smiled and said his camera bags had been rained on before.

  “Breakfast on Saturday!” he yelled as he took to the stairs.

  We watched him descend.

  “Shall we?” Sofia asked.