"Yes, I know it."
"And you also know this train wreck has been waiting to happen for years. For generations." His voice was strained, and cracked a little at the end.
"Yes, Jacopo. We all know that. It's not your fault."
Guillermo sniffed and rubbed his nose.
Jacopo shot him a look, as if to ask, What?
What? Guillermo shot back his own frown of incomprehension. Jacopo was going to be impossible to live with now, carrying this new burden of guilt around on his shoulders, instead of the old one of responsibility, history and debt.
He sighed heavily, stretching his shoulders back, trying to release some of the tension that was building up in his chest. He glanced at his watch.
Bianca slouched sullenly, texting on her phone. She didn't look up. Guillermo was pretty sure she would have refused to come if he had not talked to her, made her understand that her signature was not necessary on the sale documents, but that he felt it was important that they do it together. That Jacopo needed their tacit approval, and that they all needed to move forward together.
"It's not like we're the first family to give up an old place," Guillermo said. "It happens all the time these days. People move on." The words came out flat, without feeling. Just the way he felt them. He felt his pulse thud dully in his chest, as though it struggled to beat. He rubbed his chest, trying stimulate blood flow with the encouragement, but even his arm felt too heavy.
"Si, Memmo. You're right. Modern life doesn't make it easy. We are holding on to ghosts. And no one has time or money to take care of old properties," Pia said. He gave her a tiny smile of thanks. She tried so hard to be nurturing. He appreciated it, even though it was a lost cause.
The door opened.
"Scusami, scusami. I talked to him. He will be here any moment. He is very sorry for the delay."
It was as if the fates had designed this miserable meeting to take the maximum emotional toll on them all. There would be no easy, quick in and out. No way to avoid the full impact of the villa's sale on each of them. This way, they had to take away their own suffering, and also share in their siblings' pain. Cazzo. He'd had enough.
And then Mad Richie and QTip were entering in a whirlwind of black leather and bling, and introductions were being made all around.
"Yo. Bon journey," boomed Mad Richie. When Andreas introduced Jacopo, Richie attempted to give him a hip hop handshake, but he didn't get very far. After the first bit, Jacopo just stared at his hand, blinking, and Richie turned away, in search of a better foil.
"There's my man, Mista D," he said, his white teeth flashing when he recognized Guillermo. This time Guillermo made it all the way through the handshake, Richie's chains clinking. Then had to repeat the entire process with Slim.
He clenched his jaw, forcing a smile. How had he become the hero here?
Guillermo observed Jacopo take it all in, his eyes scanning Richie and Slim's flashy, rapper wardrobe, sliding over Slim's elaborate blue graffiti'd skin like he'd never seen a tattoo up close before. He would have laughed at Jacopo's stiffness, if he weren't feeling like his face, his limbs, his heart were made of lead. Pia handled it better. A little. At least she didn't have to contend with the handshake.
Bibi lifted her eyes from her phone, narrowed them at the two Americans, and returned to her texting. Guillermo gently kicked her under the table. She was old enough to put on a good face, no matter how she was feeling. Their eyes met, he squinted at her in warning, and she shrugged with her sandy brows. He sighed. How could he scold her when he felt the same way. But there was nothing to be done about it.
Andreas deposited a stack of papers onto the table and began to sort through them.
"This will not take very long at all." He explained what the papers were, and where everyone had to sign and initial. The papers were slid from person to person, pens tossed and passed as needed. The four d' Aldobrandins signed their ancestral home away.
Then Mad Richie cleared his throat.
QTip straightened. "Mad Masta Richie don't wanna mess up dis deal, yeah? He respect yo all. But he gotta axe fo one more thang, before we sign these papers. We got one more condition we gotta add to dis here sale before we sign."
Andreas paused mid-sentence, his hand pinching a stack of papers, and the room went so quiet and still that Guillermo could hear the voices of people talking through the walls. He glanced at Jacopo, and when their eyes met, Guillermo saw the fear there: Don't let the deal fall through. We need this.
He spoke up. "What's the matter, Richie? What's on your mind?"
"It's like dis, Mista D. We been talkin' to our lawyers and accountants and such. And the consensus is dat we need some details before the deal close."
Jacopo drew in a long slow breath through his hands that were folded in front of his mouth, and apparently held it.
Guillermo seemed to be the designated negotiator, if only because Mad Richie was addressing him directly and ignoring everyone else. His chair squeaked as he sat upright, his muscles tense. Andreas sat silently waiting, and Guillermo could almost hear his silent prayers drifting heavenward. "What sort of details, Richie. I'm sure between us we can answer any questions you have."
"We already talked about what we need, yo? Dat old villa's kickin' already, but we gotta change it up a little," Richie said.
"I got a list of thangs we need right here." QTip pulled out a stack of his own papers, handing it over to Andreas, whose eyes went wide as he took it in, and Guillermo could see that it was more than a casually written list. They'd clearly been consulting with some experts and prepared for today's meeting.
QTip explained, "If dis is gonna happen, den the crib gotta have these changes, but Masta Richie, he gotta know about the costs, and the technical re-quirements."
Guillermo nodded, frowning.
"I got to be able to visualize it, see? An' who got the expertise to figure all dat out? Who the man with the reputation around here that gonna give us the bes' service?"
"So, we axe around town. An' even though we got a few names, Masta Richie, he–
Seeing where this was going, Guillermo jumped in. "There are many qualified architects in Tuscany who could advise you. I don't think–"
Richie cut him off. "Don't be worryin', Mista D. We gonna figure it out. It's only that I gotta see the possibilities before it's settled, yeah? So, I says to Slim, Slim? The bes' way we gonna get all these ideas crammed into that old villa is if we get Mista D doin' it hisself."
Guillermo sat back in his chair. A hard knot was forming in his stomach. They couldn't be saying what he thought they were saying. God couldn't be that cruel. He could feel his brother's and sisters' eyes on him, questioning.
Richie continued. "You met my family, yo? I feel dat you know me, man. You the top dog in Florence. Dis kinda thang be yo specialty. And even more than that, you got the inside track, yeah? So you're the man I want to realize all the possibilities of dis villa. No body gonna know dis villa like you do, Mista D. No one! Ain't dat right?"
Guillermo swallowed, trying to take in more air, but his lungs felt suddenly too small, and his breath too shallow to dislodge the tension twisting his gut. He swung his head back and forth slowly, trying desperately to come up with arguments.
"Dis be a good thang for all of us, yeah? You and your family gonna be a lot happier knowing you be the man dat advising me how to take good care of your place. You the man dat knows about the leaking roof and the experts we be needing fo the frescos." Richie looked around the table, as though convincing Guillermo's family was the key to getting him on board.
"I respect your person, Mista D. You be the man fo the job, I jus' know it. This hasta happen. I mean we gonna figure it out together. Yo, Slim?"
QTip nodded, his lips thinned in determination, backing up the boss. "We jus' can't sign the papers until you agree, Mista D. Mad Masta Richie always get what he want, see?"
Guillermo felt a tingling sensation in his fingers, and a restless twitch
ing energy in his legs. He cleared his throat, trying to focus his mind on a response. The room was so stuffy and hot, he found it harder and harder to find air. Beads of sweat broke out on his upper lip, and he wiped it away. No, no!
"Don't leave me hangin', Mista D. Say you'll do it."
Guillermo pushed back from the table and slowly stood up. "Scusami. No, scusami." He strode to the door. "I can't do that." And he was running.
Chapter 19
Guillermo didn't run past the exit door to Andreas' building, but he didn't stop there either. Frustrated that he didn't have his Ducati, he came out onto the street and hesitated. He didn't want to go back to his office. He found himself pacing briskly toward the historic centre of Firenze, winding his way on a familiar route, to the Duomo, past the Uffizi, over the Ponte Vecchio, his stride long and agitated.
Is this it then? Is this my duty? Does my family really expect me to do this horrible thing to save us?
He stopped for a quick espresso, tossing it back, and crossed back over the bridge, working his way across the piazza and through the empty market streets to the Ospidali degli Innocenti and the Palazzo Vecchio.
Does God really ask this of me– when it feels so wrong? Is this my personal punishment for all my selfishness and hedonism?
He didn't have to stop and study any of the beautiful historic monuments around his city. They were as familiar to him as the feel of his Ducati's leather seat between his legs. And it was as comforting as sensing the surrounding countryside as he whizzed past on his bike. It was always magical to see the faces of the tourists that thronged in the piazzas and lanes. He never resented the crowds during the summer. Instead he felt pride in his cultural heritage.
Stopping on via del Pucci, he stared at the ground. He was torn. In one direction lay Michelangelo's Laurentian Medici Library on Piazza San Lorenzo, where he'd been headed. One of his favorite places and one he often went back to when he needed to think. In the other direction, not far away, l'Accademia di Belle Arti on via Ricasoli.
And Clio.
She pulled him like a powerful talisman. Why he should feel the need to find her and talk to her now, he didn't know. Only that somehow she would bring him comfort, and help to settle his mind.
Scowling, even knowing that he wouldn't like the reception he would receive, he turned in the direction of l'Accademia and walked quickly, listening to the rhythm of his shoes on the pavement, a man possessed. When he arrived, he burst in and strode past reception, ignoring the protests of the woman sitting there.
Clio's head came up, her shock at seeing him standing in her office doorway obvious.
"Bella."
"What are you doing here?" She scanned his face, frowning and turned her gaze away.
"Clio. Per favore."
She turned back, and their eyes met. A silent moment passed. "What is it?"
"Come with me?" He reached out a hand, palm up. "I know you don't want to see me. But… I need you. Per favor. I'll explain if you let me."
She frowned. "Uh… I'm working." She stood and came toward him, glancing sidelong down the corridor past his shoulder, and his heart betrayed him, leaping in his chest with joy at her proximity.
He felt dizzy with the familiar old-fashioned floral scent of her skin and hair. All that spectacular Titian hair ruthlessly pulled back and plaited tightly. It made him smile, and then remember images of her hair loose, flowing over his arms as she went wild, and then spilling over her pillow as he left her there, spent and unconscious. Heat rippled through his limbs, bringing his libido suddenly to life. His Clio. Beautiful, passionate. His. "Come!"
"Where?"
"Don't ask. Trust me." He continued to hold open his hand, and she stared at it, deliberating. Please, cara. Don't think, just do it. Fly with me.
She frowned a little, and pursed her lips, ignoring his outstretched hand. She blinked and picked up her handbag, lifting her brows at him in question.
Si! "Grazie, Bella. Grazie." Whatever embarrassment she was feeling on Sunday, she was willing to move past it. To trust him. And at the very least to spend a little time with him, to indulge him.
He led the way out, walking quickly. Once on the street, he kept up the fast pace, refusing to answer her stammered questions. "Wait, just wait." After a few blocks, she gave up trying, sensing that he had a plan and a purpose, and they walked in silence.
At last they arrived at the Library and he led her in.
"The Laurentian? What's up?"
At the desk, he flashed his pass and a smile at the guard. This time he took Clio's hand and she didn't resist while he practically dragged her into the famous stair vestibule. Pulling her over to the far wall, he slumped back and gazed up at the classical staircase in all its mysterious glory, the paneled walls, the clerestory windows high above, bright beams of light cutting through the softer interior twilight.
"Ahhh." He released a breath, but kept a tight hold on her hand. This was good. Very good.
"Guillermo?" There was a hint of worry in her voice.
His eyelids burned, and he felt wetness gather on his lashes. Without letting her go, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eye sockets, rocking forward and back, compulsive laughter welling out of him. He suppressed it, resulting in shaking shoulders and a muffled giggling in his throat.
"Bella, Bella."
"What is wrong with you? What are we doing here?"
It was several more minutes before he was able to calm down and control himself.
He filled his lungs with air and released a huge breath, and with it some of his pent up emotional tension. "Let's go up." He took her hand again and led her up Michelangelo's magnificent Mannerist staircase, entering the stately library hall, and pausing again. It took his breath away, as it always did, and he stood a long while drinking in the exquisite proportions of the room, the regular rhythm of the fifteen bays and coffered ceiling, the repeating patterns on the inlaid red and white marble floor. This was a kind of bliss for him, and it brought him a measure of peace that could override anything life threw at him. This was something universal and lasting and profound and mysterious.
And it was somehow made immeasurably better knowing Clio was at his side.
What was going on with him? His entire life was turning upside down and inside out. He didn't recognize his life, and he could hardly recognize himself.
They slid into one of the reading benches and sat down side by side. It felt very like a pew in church, and in a way, though he still attended church, this was a place of more profound worship for him.
"Do you believe in God, Clio?"
She hesitated, drawing back. "I don't know. I was raised by godless heathens. I don't know what to think."
"You don't contemplate… oh, I don't know. The hows? The whys?"
She nodded. "Sure. Doesn't everyone?"
"I am Catholic, of course."
She nodded, a question in her eyes, and he scrambled to explain himself. What was he trying to say? And why was he compelled to speak to her this way? He'd never spoken to anyone, least of all a woman he desired, about these ideas and feelings.
"I believe in God, and I even attend mass, now and then."
She waited, focused intently on his face. Guillermo struggled to find words to explain the connection - between God and his world. Between faith and form.
"But for me, God is experienced in… in my work, and in the works of Michelangelo, of da Vinci, of Bernini. In beauty, in form, in mathematical proportions that somehow stir the soul. My attempt at practicing faith is to work in this medium, always searching for ways to express that intangible, unknown, immeasurable connection with… God, I guess."
She listened intently, and he sensed that his ideas resonated with her on some level. That she was taking his words and translating them somehow into terms that made sense for her. He'd seen her exquisite drawings and photographs. He'd heard her speak of her thesis, and so he knew, he knew she felt something similar, even though she would like
ly never express it in these terms.
"I understand. I feel something… something like that when I experience the art that I love. The Bernini sculptures, the Brunelli's, the Caravaggio's. A…" she took a deep breath, "…force. A force that moves me… here." She pulled a fist to her center.
He made a sound in his throat. His stomach tightened in sympathy. That ball of fire, yes!
"I also feel God when I drive."
She frowned.
He forced air through his nose, a small laugh. Okay so that she didn't get. "When I drive all night on my Ducati, or race through the country in my Alpha." Guillermo lifted both hands up, open but clenched into passionate claws, straining to help her see. "It's like a meditation. The speed…erases human thought, and raises me up, or breaks me down to the level of the atom. God's building blocks, si?"
She kept her gaze pinned to him, her eyes glistening, her head tilted slightly, her brow furrowed. His blood stirred, and his fingers tingled with the desire to grab hold of her and pull her to him.
"In those moments, I am one."
"Mmm." Her eyes narrowed slightly, processing his words.
"There is no separation, of 'I' from everything. You know?"
She pondered a moment. "There is also the connection that happens with another human being. Isn't that the same?"
He searched her aquatic eyes for understanding. A kind of electrical current flowed between them. He felt physical desire, yes. But more than that, a burning desire to merge with her, spiritually as well as physically. He needed to bury himself within her, for comfort and protection, but also to cover her, hold her, wrap her up in himself. He wanted to be both inside her and all around her, and his blood pulsed with his need. I know why she moves me so. She understands me.
She dipped her head, then looked at him again. "That's why I feel that we cannot escape the circumstances of our idiosyncratic existence. Who are we to say that these random events we face day to day are not… significant? Perhaps it is simply being in the moment and engaging fully with whatever comes our way that is the measure of… or the manifestation of…" She lifted a hand, palm up.
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 16