Chapter 2
At last it was morning. The sun’s rays filtered through the slats in the shutters, projecting a beam of light across the room to the foot of the bed. It was all a nightmare, he reflected, stretching his body until he felt that light and pleasant morning sensation of relief, but he quickly realized that he was still in that old house and his body trembled with rage again when he remembered what had happened. He could not think about giving in, everything had been done. He had a few days to enjoy himself and relax; nobody would succeed in ruining that. For the moment, he was thinking about visiting what he had so admired as a child and what had channeled his life towards a new and marvelous understanding of art: Michelangelo’s David.
The old house was situated in a clearing next to a river, and was surrounded by a big wooden fence that restricted outside access. It was very airy, and the light managed to penetrate the deepest corner of the house thanks to its enormous windows. It was a two-storey house, with dark wooden floorboards that had cracked and rotten with the passage of time, and which creaked lightly with any human steps. The living room had been remodeled; two black leather sofas together with a huge oak table occupied virtually all the space. At either side of the front door were two sets of shelves with piles of old books, the majority of which written in Latin. Just to the side of them, although hidden upon first glance, was an old clock on the wall. Whenever its bells chimed, it was yet another headache for the young academic.
Some old wooden stairs led to the upper floor which was split into three rooms, two of which were empty, and a small bathroom. They were shadowy and looked totally neglected; in one of them a thin layer of mildew even extended from the upper corner in the ceiling all the way down to the floor. The third bedroom was decorated with fifteenth century furniture but until yesterday, it looked as if it hadn’t been used for a very long time. The bathroom, which, although cramped, seemed to be the cleanest area of the house despite lacking one small detail: a mirror.
The sound of a loud horn broke the silence in the house. A taxi was waiting outside. Twenty minutes had gone by and still nobody had deigned to come out, not even to ask him to wait a few minutes. Tired, he had lowered the handbrake to leave when a man of around thirty-eight, well-built and smart-looking, strode down the hall steps while he smoothed his mane of hair down to his shoulders.
“Good morning. Sorry about the delay but there was no hot water.”
James’ face looked honest. The long periods of time he had spent in the country, studying art and the architecture of its churches, meant he had picked up some Italian, although he spoke with a strong North American accent. He quickly opened the rear door and collapsed onto one of the seats.
Without taking his eyes off the rear-view mirror, the taxi driver replied aggressively. “I have been waiting for you for twenty minutes and I’m thinking about adding it to the fare, whether you like it or not.”
“Don’t worry. I want to go to the Gallerie dell’Accademia in Florence. I’d like to see - “
“Michelangelo’s David,” interrupted the taxi driver again. When faced with the foreigner’s surprise, he tried to explain. “Almost half of the tourists who book a taxi want to visit David, but the vast majority aren’t capable of appreciating the great complexity of the work, or feeling what the artist was trying to convey.”
“I see that you understand art.”
“More than that, sir. You could say I am a true aesthete.”
James couldn’t stifle a grin. It had been a while since he had heard that expression, employed by all those who love art and consider it of essential value. However, judging by his scruffy appearance, his coarse vocabulary and his crude manners, he asked himself whether the driver was aware of another meaning of that word, one which would certainly be unfitting for him: an effeminate male.
“I’ve visited the vast majority of Italian museums,” he continued. “Many of them when I was young and studied Fine Art, but when I realized how hard it was to find a good job, I went into the same business as my father.”
“So I see,” said the academic, not mentioning his job for fear of starting a never ending conversation. Obviously, the taxi driver was annoyed by the wait. Even so, he seemed to want to engage James in conversation - something that didn’t appeal to him at the moment. Besides, the taxi driver was the one who had arrived before the agreed time and hadn’t given James enough time to shave; he sported a five-day old beard, which lent him an air of mystery. He reclined in the back seat and closed his eyes in the hope of finding a moment of peace.
James was an attractive man. His classes at the university were always full of people. Not just for his way with words and the ease with which he explained the most important ideas, but because three-quarters of those who attended the class were girls who could not take their eyes off him. He had sometimes told his closest friends how he felt as if some of his female students were undressing him with their eyes, and on more than one occasion he had had problems with some indecent proposal they had made to him.
He had an enviable body, rare for somebody approaching their forties. His eyes were brown but in summer they lightened to a honey color, his brows very thick and his styled shoulder-length locks made him seem several years younger. He was rather tall, around six feet, with a strong but well-defined build. He loved any kind of sport, especially basketball, which he had played since he was a boy and which had turned him into an extremely competitive person.
A traffic jam in the city center had had a massive impact on nearby traffic, to the extent that the taxi did not move but jump in fits and starts through the streets of Florence. A young woman had run a red light and two cars had collided into her from the side, one of which had then ricocheted off a fire hydrant from which copious amounts of water flowed down the road. Meanwhile, the other cars did not stop beeping, adding to the chaos of the situation.
“Sir, it looks as if the road is blocked. Do you want me to make a detour and drop you off at the back?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll get out here.” He opened the back door after giving the taxi driver a fifty euro bill. “Keep the change. I hope it makes up for the twenty minutes I kept you waiting.”
The taxi driver seemed to catch on to the subtle sarcasm in James’ voice and he started the car, cursing repeatedly at the stupid Yankee.
The street brought back old memories of one of his trips to Venice in the rainy season. On that occasion, he had been unable to leave the hotel for two days due to a flood that had devastated the city. Fortunately, the hotel did not charge for the extra nights he had to stay there.
The museum could be seen in the distance. There didn’t seem to be many people waiting, so he took advantage and quickly moved behind a small group of primary school children who were carefully listening to the instructions of a young tour guide. He was probably a university student making a bit of extra cash between exams. It reminded him of his own university years, that rare energy which pulsed through his body and that unquenchable desire to share what he had learned, making people see the grandeur of architecture and ancient art. He would gladly tell the young tour guide just how difficult that job was, though he thought it best not to disillusion him.
“Good morning. How many tickets would you like?”
“One, please.” James couldn’t suppress a giggle as he mused how he was the last in the queue, so it wouldn’t take the sharpest tool in the box to realize that he was alone. However, he knew that he had to be polite and perhaps his sneering laughter had been uncalled for.
The Gallerie dell’Accademia was practically the same as when James had last visited. It is undoubtedly one of the premier sights in Florence to appreciate pre-Renaissance art, and especially the sculptures of Michelangelo. The collection is displayed across eight different rooms: the first room corresponds to the fourteenth century Florentine school; the second, third and fourth rooms are dedicated to Renaissance art; whereas the fifth, sixth and seventh rooms are devoted t
o all those artists who produced most of their work during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries; in the final room, the eighth, are pieces from the mid-sixteenth century. After those, visitors move onto the Prisoners’ Gallery, in which are gathered all the works of sculpture which Michelangelo left unfinished between 1521 and 1523, and which were destined for the tomb of Pope Julius II. However, the most momentous and significant point of the visit is without question the majestic David. Originally intended for the Piazza della Signoria, it was later substituted for the replica which can be seen today.
A visit to the museum usually lasts about one and a half hours which allows sufficient time, more than enough, to take in the magnificence of the works on display. And although James had come with the express purpose of visiting David, he paused in some areas to appreciate canvases or sculptures which filled him with emotion. When he entered the Prisoners’ Gallery, his heart felt as if it had been set alight. Both sides were lined with a series of unfinished sculptures and, in a tribune right at the back, was the gigantic sculpture. This mass of marble was the main reason for the devotion which James felt towards art. He had been about eighteen years old when he saw it for the first time, and although he did not fully grasp the great majesty of the piece, he had been truly dumbfounded. Finally, after long years of study they had come face to face again, and now he understood everything. He saw its great anatomical perfection, its strength, vitality and beauty.
“And finally, the great masterpiece of the gallery: Michelangelo’s David,” boomed a voice right behind him, shattering the beautiful atmosphere which had developed between them both.
When he turned around, he found a group of tourists who were paying attention to a tour guide’s explanations. He had a disheveled appearance, probably another student.
Generally speaking, the tourists didn’t usually pay much attention to what the guide had to say and they simply wanted to look at the works of art, but it was always the same in this part of the gallery. The people stood perplexed before the statue, which was some thirteen feet in height, while they listened attentively to the guide’s explanations.
“For his modeling, Michelangelo made use of a block of marble which had lain exposed to the elements in the yard of the Cathedral workshop for over forty years. This factor is now thought to be one of the main reasons for the severe deterioration which it displays.” The guide glimpsed for the first time what he took to be enthusiasm on the faces of the people who were gathering around to listen to his explanations. “David fixes us with a defiant facial expression and never reveals the terror he must have felt when he saw Goliath approach. Michelangelo succeeded in creating a masterpiece, fusing classical beauty and harmony with expression, meaning and feeling. In order to achieve all that, observe the oversized head and how it turns slightly, avoiding frontality, lending the body a subtle contrapposto or sense of movement, while keeping the gaze fixed on one point. If you look at his hands, you will realize that they are gigantic and emanate strength. The work,” concluded the guide, “has passed into posterity as the aesthetic patron of anatomy and model of beauty.”
“So… is this the David who threw the stone at the giant?” asked an Irishman in the group.
The guide blinked in disbelief and couldn’t help but smile. “Yes. David is a biblical character. He was the shepherd of his father’s flock and after defeating the Philistine Goliath, he was proclaimed king of the people of Israel. The piece was initially intended for the facade of Florence Cathedral. However, when they saw the result, the merchants decided that it deserved to be placed somewhere more visible: opposite the seat of government, thus transforming it into a symbol of the Republic. In a later rebellion, it was damaged by a piece of furniture thrown from a window of the building, supposedly by a madman, which managed to break it into several pieces. Luckily they were all salvaged by a fellow Florentine artist and the sculpture was restored under the rule of Cosimo I de Medici. Many specialists consider it to perfectly represent the ideal proportions of man, since the head measures one-eighth of the rest of the body and the sculpture achieves total balance overall. However, that is not completely true, as the artist sacrificed this harmony for the sake of expressivity. As I told you earlier, you only have to look at the hands to see how they are extremely large and strong.”
There was nothing more to say. The student had impressed the professor not only with how well he knew the work, but with his way of explaining ideas. He seemed to be another devotee of the works of Michelangelo. He furtively moved closer to the group and listened carefully to the other ideas being shared with the tourists.
“Look, the figure is in tension!” The young man did not even detect the presence of a new member of the group. “The left leg moves towards the right, his right arm hangs next to the thigh, unlike the left which is raised until the hand is almost touching the shoulder. The torso bends slightly towards the right, with one hip higher than the other. The head looks towards the left, he seems to be taking a step with his brow furrowed and his eyes fixed ahead. The face shows us that repressed tension with an expression of hate, and the nostrils splayed. After all, this is the first time David is depicted as a man instead of a boy.”
The contrapposto! he thought while he appreciated the competent yet lacking explanation given by the young man.
The Irishman had another question. “Did Michelangelo just do painting and sculpture?”
James could not believe what he was hearing. The Irishman seemed to know nothing about Michelangelo, and the very thought of that made his stomach churn.
“He was also a great architect and poet,” politely replied the guide. “There are even rumors in Florence that Michelangelo also undertook some carpentry work, but there is no evidence to confirm this, only a myriad of stories. They tell of how, at the request of certain people, he himself made and decorated some furniture and strange objects.”
The guide once again noticed the glint in the eyes of the crowd.
Another tourist had a different question. “Excuse me. Did you say there are some stories? Could you tell us more about them?”
“Well, there are several stories about Michelangelo, but two in particular are the most interesting. The first suggests that David is not a unique sculpture, but that the artist secretly created another piece of art of the same proportions but with the body of a woman, so that together they formed a couple. Many think that the statue did not get lost in time, but instead remains hidden somewhere in the world, revered by a chosen few who are aware of its existence. Meanwhile, the second tale refers to a great massacre which took place at a nearby monastery, and how one of the monks subsequently managed to escape with an object of unimaginable value.”
“An object? What kind of object?” asked the Irishman again, as he exchanged a knowing look with his wife.
“Nobody knows anything whatsoever, except that a strange person hired Michelangelo after the killing spree. He wanted to decorate his home with some sculptures and canvases by the young artist. Of all his requests, two are particularly mysterious: a marble mantelpiece with a small compartment on the rear side which was to be hidden from view, and a wooden chest which was to be made following some very precise instructions. Michelangelo accepted, but he was surprised at how he was never allowed to take measurements of the room in which the two objects would be housed. It was as if they didn’t want anybody to know where they lived. The job was commissioned via written letter, with payment upfront, and briefly detailed the physical dimensions that the objects should have. The delivery was stranger still, since Michelangelo had to hand the pieces to an old beggar on an abandoned road on the outskirts of the city. It is now thought that the monk is the strange person who hired his services, and that the object has remained hidden in his house ever since.”
“But how do we know all this?”
“Legend has it that Michelangelo had been arguing one summer night with his lover, some handsome young man, and he sought comfort in alcohol. After several gla
sses of wine, he told the innkeeper that he was working on something very odd and that he didn’t understand anything at all, but that he was being paid very well. He spoke of an essential requirement that the pieces be marked with a seal, perhaps the coat of arms of a powerful family, a kind of triangle with a circle inside. Anyway, it is an old story which doesn’t make much sense and whose credibility has yet to be proven.”
Up until that moment James had been enthralled, and he could see his younger self in the tour guide and identified with him. He fully understood the enormous desire he had to pass on his knowledge. Nevertheless, he had never believed those kinds of stories. The vast majority had been invented by people who lived in huge cities to attract naive tourists, because those stories stick well among young people, and many people make a living from tourism.
His hands really do convey a great feeling of strength, pondered James while he contemplated the statue one last time before leaving the gallery. It was time for lunch.
Chapter 3
The taxi dropped him at the door of the house at four in the afternoon. Exhausted, he climbed the stairs, opened the door and made his way to the living room where he collapsed on the biggest sofa. It didn’t take him long to close his eyes, switch off his mind and find an agreeable position in which his stomach, battered by the amount of food he had ingested, wouldn’t suffer any more than necessary.
I’ll have to go for a run later, he thought as he draped a blanket over himself.
The room was much colder than before. A strange dampness hung in the air, as if the windows had been left open all night. Unable to sleep, he went down to the cellar where he found the old boiler. The red pilot light was on, so it should have been working, but for some reason it was not giving out heat.
Wow, this is nice! A few days in this old house and without heating. This isn’t fair, he grumbled over and over again.
The only option he had left was to use the huge chimney in the room. To do so, he would have to go to the forest to collect branches for a fire. He would be sure to call repairman to come out to fix the boiler later.
Trifariam, The Lost Codex (2012) Page 2