This odd version of my Michael seemed to even have antipathy for his own mother.
“She sounded fine... Michael, I know it’s been a long time, but I’ve always wanted to talk to you…you know…about the way things ended. I’ve wanted to apologize.”
“Don’t be silly; we were kids. You really did me a big favor anyway. I have an incredible life here.”
“Your place is lovely.”
“And so are they,” he replied, motioning to a photograph of people who I could only assume were his wife and kids: a beautiful brunette and two precious little girls.
“This is my wife, Graziella, and these are my daughters, Filipa and Bianca.”
“They’re beautiful, Michael. I’m really happy for you,” I effused uncomfortably.
“So how long have you been in Italy?”
“Not very long, actually.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Not far. The Leonardo Hostel.”
“The rooms are nice enough there, but I’d skip the breakfast. I could tell you stories. Anyway, how long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure yet. I thought I’d see how things go and—”
“Well, I hate to do this to you,” he said, cutting me off, “but I have to run out now. It was nice to see you.”
Michael walked over to the door and opened it for me. I had no choice but to walk through it. I could barely hold back the tears until he closed the door behind me.
I stood there stunned for a moment, alone on his front porch. I walked around the corner and hid until I was sure that he was gone. I had come so far to see him and he’d barely even acknowledged my presence. It was hardly the tearful Nicholas Sparks-style reunion I had imagined, as I was the only one crying—and they were anything but tears of joy. I guess I had selfishly imagined him pining away for me all of those years. I had spent the last seventeen years feeling guilty for hurting him and wishing I had chosen him over Evan, during which time Michael had clearly remained unaffected. We were supposed to grow old together, but he had moved on with his life, and I wasn’t going to grow old at all.
I wandered aimlessly down the street as the torrent of tears continued unabatedly. I didn’t know or care where I was going. At that moment I wanted to be lost; instead, I was forgotten. I turned corner after corner, traversing this alleyway and that one, when I found myself standing in front of a little church called The Ognissanti. I had never been a religious person but the idea of a church sounded somewhat comforting at that moment. Beside the fact that I recognized the name from my days of studying Renaissance art.
A traditionally dressed nun was sitting out front as I approached the ornate façade.
“Hello,” I said to the nun, attempting to maintain my composure.
She had shriveled dark skin and was missing a few teeth, but she had a kind face. She smiled and held out an offering bowl with one hand; with the other she presented me with a small silver charm. It was engraved with the face of the Virgin Mary on one side and a cross entwined with a letter “M” on the other.
“A geeft forra’ you,” she said with a thick Italian accent.
She clearly expected an offering in return.
I handed her a few of the Euros that I had exchanged at the airport, took the charm, and said, “Thank you.”
“It issa’ Medaglia Miracolosa, a Miraculous Medal.”
I gazed down at the charm, unimpressed.
“Eef a’ worn weeth faith and devotion, it will breeng you a’ special graces through da’ intercession of our mother Mary atta’ your hour of a’ death.”
I’d barely even met the woman and she’d already mentioned death.
“Are you a’ all right?” she asked in response to my red, puffy, wet face.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I mumbled as I pushed against the heavy wooden door and crossed the threshold into the ancient church. The detailed, arched structure stood in stark contrast to any church I had visited in the States—which admittedly, were few. At first glance, I found the church to be dismal and somewhat foreboding, except for the light that filtered in through the narrow windows just below the vaulted ceiling, but the art and the architecture had the power to transport me into the Renaissance. Still I bypassed the experience to simply plop into a pew and have a good cry. I was fully engrossed in my self-pity when suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. My self-defense mode took over and I almost laid out the owner of the hand before I noticed that it belonged to the kind, old nun.
“What issa’ troubling you, my child?”
“I’m sorry—I’m not Catholic. Am I supposed to confess?”
The toothless, shriveled nun chuckled.
“No, you a’ suppose’ to confess to da’ priest, but you canna’ talk to me.”
I lost the composure I had managed to muster only moments before and the words came flooding out.
“My whole life has been a disaster. I’m going to die and I don’t have anyone in this world that gives a shit…I mean…truly loves me.”
“God loves a’ you.”
I made a conscious effort not to roll my eyes at the cliché. I had no idea how to respond. The truth is, I’d never given God a second thought. I realized that ultimately, there is really no way for anyone to slowly perish without at least examining his position on God and the afterlife. My position was that if God did exist, I was pissed off at him too.
“I am a’ Suora Constanza. May I show you our treasures?”
“Treasures? What do you mean?” I sniffled.
“We have a’ many importante works of a’ art here including a’ frescos by Ghirlandaio and a’ Botticelli.”
Suora Constanza, or Sister Constance, instantly became my hero.
“You have a Botticelli here?” I asked, incredulous.
“We also have da’ painter heemself.”
I turned off the water works and instantly forgot my woes. Gambling had been my mother’s cure-all vice; this was the beginning of my realization that Sandro Botticelli would be mine. I eagerly followed Sister Constance down the aisle.
“Theessa’ two frescoes were commissioned een a’ 1480 by da’ Vespucci family. Botticelli grew up assa’ neighbor to da’ Vespuccis. Do you know of a’ them?”
“Sure, the ‘Wasps of Florence.’ I’ve heard of them. I studied once about Florentine Renaissance art, but it’s been twenty years.”
“Amerigo Vespucci wassa’ born and raised een a’ Firenze, yes, but he issa’ more famous for a’ sometheeng else. He issa’ said to have a’ made da’ first accurate method of a’ determining longitudine. How you a’ say…”
“Longitude?”
“Sì, sì. And he wassa’ among da’ first discoverers of da’ Americas. Heez a’ first name een Latin is Americus, and it issa’ said that da’ Americas were a’ named after heem.”
“Huh. I didn’t know that.”
“Theessa’ first fresco here issa’ Botticelli’s Sant’Agostino nello Studio, or Saint Augustine in His Study. Da’ other issa’ Ghirlandaio’s Saint Jerome in His Study. Both competed against each other to create da best a’ portrayal. They both appear to be religious a’ paintings but are more representative of da’ precursors to a’ humanism.”
I was a little surprised that a nun was telling me that the paintings in her church were not really religious, but it was fascinating to me just the same. Sister Constance clearly wasn’t trying to convert me; she was trying to educate me—or to distract me, perhaps to comfort me in a way she sensed I could relate to. I was on her heels to the next attraction, walking so closely that I accidentally stepped on her habit and nearly tore it from her frail body.
“Here a’ he is,” she said as she pointed to down to the floor in one of the chapels.
There in the brick floor was a circular marble gravestone. It was white with a blue coat of arms. The detail of the family crest contained a golden lion that was standing with its claws extended, and holding what looked like horns in one of its paws. The Latin insc
ription read “Sepulcrum Filipepi 1510.”
“What does that mean?” I inquired of my new teacher.
“Da’ grave of a’ Filipepi. Filipepi wassa’ heez family name, Botticelli wassa’ only a nickname.”
“He looks so…small,” I remarked as I marveled at the gravestone. It was only about the size of a manhole cover.
She chuckled again.
“Do you know how he came a’ to be here?”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“Atta’ first Botticelli became a’ famous for heez paintings here.”
“Really?”
“But that’s notta’ why,” Sister Constance said, amused with herself. “He wassa’ commissioned by da’ great Medici family of a’ Firenze to paint two paintings that were a’ mythological een nature: Primavera, and Nascita di Venere, otherwise known as da’ Birth of Venus. Are you familiar with a’ them?”
I stifled a laugh. It was like me asking her if she was familiar with a crucifix or holy water.
“Yes, definitely. His Birth of Venus is my favorite.”
“Botticelli used a model for a’ both by da’ name of a’ Simonetta Vespucci. She wassa’ relative of Amerigo Vespucci. Simonetta issa’ said to have been a great beauty of a’ her time. She wassa’ married eento da’ Vespucci family atta’ da’ age of feefteen, but Botticelli issa’ said to have been in a’ love weeth her. She died atta’ age of a’ twenty-two of a’ consumo…how you say? Consumption?” Sister Constance asked as she coughed to demonstrate a symptom of Simonetta’s demise.
“Oh, you mean tuberculosis?”
“Sì. She wassa’ buried here weeth da’ other Vespuccis. Botticelli lived another thirty-four years after she died, but he asked to be buried atta’ her feet.”
As my eyes traveled to the right, sure enough, there lay the much larger gravestone of Simonetta Vespucci. Botticelli asked and was granted the right to be buried at the feet of someone else’s wife during a period of religious awakening, in a church no less. Not only that, but his small, seemingly insignificant gravestone at Simonetta’s feet, to me represented his humble reverence for the woman he loved. I was in awe.
“So you see a’ Simonetta may have never known thatta’ Botticelli wassa’ een love weeth her, just as I am sure that you are not aware atta’ thees’ moment of da’ people that love a’ you.”
I didn’t entirely get the connection, but I appreciated what Sister Constance was trying to do. As I looked at her, I realized that I would never have the wisdom that the deep lines in her face represented. I supposed that in return, I would make a better-looking corpse.
We walked a bit to the refectory, which housed the famous Ghirlandaio version of The Last Supper. I liked it, just as I appreciated most Renaissance art, but it was no Birth of Venus.
Moving on, Sister Constance showed me Ghirlandaio’s Madonna della Misericordia, which contains a depiction of Amerigo Vespucci as a child. Sister Constance must have noticed my riveted attention to her every word because she then began a whole history lesson on the church itself.
“Da’ Ognissanti wassa’ built in da’ 1250s and issa’ among da’ first examples of Baroque architecture. Over here issa’ where Giotto’s famous Madonna and Child with Angels once a’ hung. Itta’ has since been a’ moved to La Galleria degli Uffizi.”
“I was just in the Uffizi today, but I didn’t see it.”
“Perhaps I should take a’ you back.”
“I would love that. Are you sure you have the time? Don’t you have…Jesus stuff to do?”
“Even Jesus hadda’ day of a’ rest.”
My feeling was that Sister Constance should have been a curator rather than a nun, but I looked forward to my next lesson.
She finished my Ognissanti tour and said simply, “You a’ know where to find me.”
CHAPTER 13
I spent several more hours taking in the sights of Florence before making my way back to the Leonardo Hostel. I realized at that point, that if you are an ignorant American who is also a basket case, it is quite possible to become lost in Florence despite my near proximity to the Duomo. I noticed a street vendor near the enormous church selling umbrellas and trinkets, cleverly attached to an apron that adorned his scrawny little body. I attempted to ask the little man for directions, but he spoke first as I approached him.
“Signora bella ciao. Vi placerebbe un sovenir?”
“No, no souvenir, please. I’m lost and need directions. Do you speak English?”
He began to extract umbrellas and other items from his apron and shove them toward me one by one in rapid succession, all the while squawking a mile a minute in Italian.
“Souvenir? Ombrello?”
“No, I don’t need a souvenir; I need to find my hotel! The Leonardo Hostel?” I practically shouted, and to which I received no comprehensible response.
The vendor simply stared at me blankly. Growing more agitated and impatient by the second, I finally just walked away. To my surprise, the little man began to chase me, flailing his arms and hollering in Italian.
At my wits’ end, I finally turned around and yelled, “I don’t need a goddamn souvenir because I have no place to live, my money will run out, and I’m gonna fucking die, okay?!”
I must have frightened the little man enough that he finally scurried off, just in time for me to realize that I was standing right in front of my hostel. I sighed as I looked up at the sign for the Leonardo Hostel, then I heard another voice.
“I usually just say ‘No, grazie.’”
I turned my head to see Michael sitting on the steps outside the hostel.
“That stuff you said, is it true?”
I hesitated.
“I just wanted to get rid of him,” I fibbed with a conjured smile. “Michael, what are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
It was music to my ears.
“Listen, Stacia, I’m sorry about the way I treated you before. It’s just, your being here…it caught me off guard. I wanted to hurt you, the way you hurt me. I know it was immature after all this time.”
“I really thought you didn’t remember me.”
“How could I forget you? You were my first love. It destroyed me when you ran off with that other guy.”
“I left Evan.”
“So it’s true what you said? You really don’t have a place to live?”
“No, actually I don’t.”
“I’d like to say I’m sorry, but I never thought much of the guy.”
“No, I’m sorry Michael. I made a huge mistake. It was just that...when my mother got sick, I didn’t know who I was anymore. Now I see the life I could have had…and I’m just…I’m really sorry.”
“You never told me how you came to be in Florence.”
“I came looking for you.”
“Wow. That’s a lot to handle,” he said, scratching his head through his floppy hair. “I came here because of you, really despite you. While I was finishing school I didn’t want to get involved again so I became a bit of a philanderer, I guess. I got so disgusted with myself that I started to drink…a lot. It wasn’t until I came here and met Graziella that I got my shit together. She wants to meet you by the way.”
“Your wife? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. She knows all about you. Come by the house tomorrow night for dinner, around seven o’clock?”
I hesitated, but ultimately agreed. I didn’t want to meet the beautiful woman that Michael had married instead of me, but I was so happy that Michael was there, I would have probably agreed to help knock over a liquor store.
CHAPTER 14
The idea of meeting Michael’s wife was a bizarre concept. I wasn’t sure I was ready to handle it. Since I had come to Italy with basically the clothes on my back and a few hippie garments donated by Misty, I did what any woman in my situation would: I went shopping. Normally, I disliked shopping tremendously, except I wasn’t just shopping any old place. I was shopping in Italy! Dying or
not, a girl does not meet the wife of her ex without looking fabulous.
I knew my Vegas winnings weren’t going to last forever, but I had to have an Italian leather jacket. I came across a cute little mom-and-pop store and proceeded to try on everything they had. Every single last color and style had made contact with my body before I was finished. The twenty-something-year-old salesman, who I assumed to be the son of the owner, flirted with me while he helped me try on every jacket, grazing my bosom on more than one occasion. Then I found the one: a black mid-length jacket that fit to perfection and smelled like a new Mercedes.
My awesome jacket procured, I then sought out the perfect black, flowing dress, a pair of couture shoes, and some much-needed cosmetics. The hostile side of me figured it might really irritate his wife if her daughters liked me, so, of course, I purchased each of them a toy.
As I knocked again on Michael’s door, I had no idea what to expect other than complete awkwardness and tension. I smoothed my dress, and gave my hair one final fluffing while I waited for someone to answer. Finally, the door swung open, and there stood Michael flanked by his two little girls.
“Ciao,” he said, smiling as he gave me one of those European double air kisses. “Come on in. This is Filipa and Bianca.”
I flashed what I hoped would appear to be a youthful smile, turning on the charm to my fullest capacity.
“Hello, girls! So nice to meet you! These are for you,” I gushed as I handed them each a furry stuffed kitten. The girls giggled and ran to show their mother.
“Mamma! Mamma!” the girls squealed as Michael’s wife appeared from around the corner. She approached me with a smile and an outreached hand.
“I am Graziella. Welcome!” she said with only a hint of an Italian accent.
“Thank you so much. It’s so nice to meet you!”
Graziella’s picture hadn’t done her justice. She was not particularly well dressed or groomed, just a natural, willowy beauty with the face of an angel and a contagious smile. So, naturally, I wanted to rip her hair out.
“This is for you,” I uttered demurely as I handed Graziella a bottle of wine recommended to me by the owner of a small enoteca I’d stumbled upon on my way over.
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