Ginerva wedged herself against the stone archway and the decrepit wooden door for a long while. She had been so sure that when she reached the door she loved so much that her father would coo away her pain and her mother would mend her wounds. Smoke sifted through the stench radiating from her. Chimneys burned into life along with the morning’s sun. The shroud of darkness that had engulfed her body and spirit slowly lifted. Ginerva could not remember the last time she saw such a glorious dance of color. Pale yellows and blues spun around their orange and violet partners. The girl staring up at the sunrise realized she had been struggling for the wrong reasons. Ginerva was fighting so hard to recover the life forced upon her, that she forgot to live for the life she had not been allowed to have.
Grasping the wall with moist fingers, she slid up the stone archway until she was standing. “Just a few houses away,” she told herself as the clang of pots and whines of children escaped from behind the houses she clung to. Every step was a marvelous feat. “Two more houses.”
When Ginerva reached the house, she tossed her body against the door, hoping that it would be enough. The window’s curtains peeled back revealing the sweetest of faces. Even if he did not open the door for her, it had all been worth it. The whole ordeal was made peaceful with one last glimpse of him. A door opened and she heard her name in the distance.
“Antonio,” she whimpered before she fell unconscious into her lover’s arms.
PART I
CHAPTER ONE
Happy Birthday
The despair I felt that night is as real now as it was on December 19, 1469. When you go through something so traumatic, the most frightening memory hides itself in an obscure corner of the mind. It likes to visit when you are most vulnerable. For me, it comes when it is cold outside—the wet kind that dampens your hair and makes your skin feel soggy. When I am lying on my bed exhausted but cannot sleep. If I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift, it comes.
I can feel the straw and linen beneath my bare neck. The smells of wood, rosemary, and sheep smother me. Slivers poke through my hair and cotton dress. I scratch at the phantom itch that comes from wearing rough wool stockings. The weight in my chest grows and expands until I feel like all the anxiety will burst from my body.
On that memorable night, the shock of losing myself 544 years in the past had finally worn off, and all the repercussions of it hit me in a single instant. Fears of never seeing my family, Louis Martin, the bright lights of New York City, or realizing my dream of becoming an artist flooded my mind. By the time I finally fell asleep, I had drowned in terror.
Prior to lying on a mattress of straw, that morning I had woken up in my very own bed. The sound of someone whistling an offbeat “happy birthday” melody in a volume that was much too loud for 7:00 A.M. forced my eyelids open.
“Happy birthday, my sweet Violet!” my dad sang from the kitchen. “It’s time to get up for your first breakfast as a fourteen-year-old young lady.”
Grudgingly, I managed to get my legs and arms out from beneath the warm nest of sheets I had worked so hard on all night. In one clumsy motion, I rolled out of bed and walked to the foot of the window. The day was struggling to decide whether it would be sunny or overcast. While the clouds were rushing across the skyline, the garden atop the building opposite mine was in danger of being swept away by the wind. It was the perfect weather for my birthday, an indecisive day for an indecisive girl.
Since the beginning of my birthdays I’ve always had a terrible time making decisions, especially in tight situations and where time was short. My appearance echoed my indecisive attitude. After only a few months in high school, I wasn’t the tallest or the shortest. The hair that fell past my shoulders was a color somewhere in between red and brown and was not curly or straight. For an extra boost of confidence, my dad liked to say that my hair looked cast from a Greek sculpture because of its wavy strands and bronze color. The parts of me I liked best were my mismatched eyes. My left blue eye was slightly bigger than the right brown eye.
Resigned to the idea that the day might be a stormy one, I changed for my first day as a “fourteen-year-old young lady.” After slipping a green sweater over my head, I secured my jeans with a neon orange belt I had got in Chinatown. With a quick glance at the mirror, I pulled my braided hair over my shoulder.
“Violet … your breakfast is getting cold!” hollered my dad as I snatched my silver locket from the dresser and walked down the hallway to the kitchen.
My mom was an orphan at only a few weeks old with nothing but a sad letter and a locket. She had given me the only clue to her past as a birthday present three years ago, and it was definitely my most prized possession.
My dad was reading some archaeological magazine when I sat down at our breakfast table. An assortment of French pastries from the bakery across the street waited on the table. My dad, Professor Menet, was tall and almost as skinny as me. Even though I jokingly asked him to let his hair grow, he kept his red hair and beard closely trimmed. He was sipping his—probably—fifth cup of coffee when he looked up at me from his large bifocal glasses.
“It’s about time, Violet. Your tea is cold now, but I can warm it up for you on the stove,” he said as he walked over with my favorite Amelia Earhart mug.
“Thanks, Dad!” was all I could manage as I stuffed a strawberry-filled pastry into my mouth. “So good …” I muttered, trying to wipe off the pastry flakes on my lips with the back of my hand.
My dad sat back down and placed my tea on the place mat. From underneath the table, he pulled out two parcels neatly wrapped in newspaper.
“Happy birthday, Violet,” he said as he leaned over and kissed the top of my head.
“Dad!” I beamed.
Hiding behind the sports section of the New York Times was a thoughtful assortment of new drawing pencils in a soft leather case.
“Oh, Dad, these are lovely! I really needed new ones.”
The second package was larger and contained a new pair of purple Converse sneakers. Looking down at my shoes, I realized I could use the new pair, but it was so hard to part with my old ones. They had endured many charcoal and paint stains, not to mention the grime of the city’s subway, sidewalks, and buses. My old ones almost felt like old friends. I don’t know what it felt like to have old friends, but if I did I was sure they would feel something like my faithful sneakers. It was kind of hard for me to make friends. It might have been a combination of how shy I was and plain luck. When I did make a friend, they moved away or changed schools.
The phone in the hallway rang loudly. “I think I know who that is.” My dad stood and walked out of the kitchen.
As I polished off the rest of the pastry and gulped my tea, I could hear my dad speaking in hushed Italian. Immediately, I knew who he was speaking to. Minutes later, my dad returned.
“It’s Clara,” he whispered as he held out the phone. I extended my long fingers to receive it.
“Hi, Clara,” I said, pressing the receiver to my ear.
“Happy birthday, Vivi!”
“Thanks, sissy.” I smiled, letting stray pastry flakes fall on my sweater.
“How many pastries have you had already?” she asked. I could almost see her grinning all the way in California.
“One and counting.”
“Amateur.”
“I just woke up!”
“That’s a sad start to your birthday,” she teased.
“Hey! Vacation’s just started … I deserve some rest after exams.”
“True … Well save some of the chocolate ones for me.”
“I can’t make any promises when it comes to anything with chocolate.”
“That’s my sister.” She laughed.
“You were supposed to be here for my birthday,” I complained before taking a sip of my breakfast tea.
“I know, love, I’m sorry. The twelve-hour shifts at the hospital have me dead on my feet. I can barely put a whole sentence together. I just needed to hibernate for a while before I can get back to my old self.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I get there Christmas Eve.”
“Lame,” I protested, grabbing a chocolate croissant from the stack. “You are going to ruin the few traditions we have left!”
“Come on, Vivi, don’t be hard—” She was interrupted by a beeping sound.
“Clara, can I call you back?” I asked, pulling apart the buttery crust. “Someone else is calling.”
“Fine. But don’t forget like you always do.”
“I won’t,” I assured her before I pressed a button to receive the incoming call.
“Ciao, sweet Viola!” cheered my mom. “Happy birthday, beautiful!” The sound of her voice stirred an overwhelming mixture of excitement and resentment, which were both competing fiercely with the strawberry pastry in my stomach.
“Hi, Mom … Thanks,” I said, frowning at the sudden loss in my appetite.
“Are you having a good day so far?”
In that moment I realized how much I really missed her. If only she could be here with us now. She would have been quick to point out that Italian pastries were much better than French ones, and she would be jabbering about the birthday traditions of ancient Romans. Instead, she had to call me on the phone from Naples, Italy. This must have been the fourth time she had missed my birthday. My mom was an Italian art conservator; she fixed art that was broken or falling apart. Dad was the best, but it has been hard not to have Mom around. I couldn’t tell my dad everything and my much older sister, Clara, was all the way in California, so it was hard to find someone to relate to.
“Oh, it’s been good. Dad got me some nice pencils and sneakers. We still haven’t talked about what we are doing today, but I think Dad already has a plan.”
“He told me about it already and it sounds fantastic! You must tell me every detail about it!”
“About what?”
“You will see! I don’t want to give it away because then it will ruin your Dad’s surprise.” She paused for a moment. “Viola?”
“Yes, Mama?”
“Dad and I were talking about another birthday present for you …” She paused again. “How would you like to come visit me at my work site?”
“You mean, come to Italy?” I asked, trying not to sound too excited.
“Well, to Herculaneum, Italy, to be more exact. You can read all about it in an article I sent to Dad … I hope you’ve been brushing up on your Italian?” she asked with an inquisitive tone.
All I could manage was a lame “Uh …” I glanced at my dad for help but he had re-buried himself in a stack of papers. “Well, a little,” I said with a twinge of guilt. Not wanting to ruin my chances at visiting Italy, I added, “I would love to visit you, Mama, and I’ll read your article at least twice before I do.”
“Viola, I think this will be great for both of us, because I can show you what I do away from home and you can learn more about your heritage. Language is an important part of preserving your culture, so it is very important that you practice Italian. You never know when it will come in handy. Plus, it would make your grandmother happy.”
“Okay, Mama, I understand.” She was really laying the guilt on thick. I mean, my Italian's pretty good considering I've never been to Italy. Plus, I had been too busy with other things, like drawing or staring at Louis Martin in A.P. English class.
“Well then, I’ll book your flight for after Christmas. Take care of your dad and I hope you both have a special day. I wish I could be there, Viola …” Her voice quivered. Sensing that she might cry, I told her that I loved her and not to worry. Once I hung up the phone, I noticed my dad had cleared his plate from the table. “Dad, I’m off the phone!” I hollered.
“Don’t yell, Violet,” he answered. “Get ready to go. We are leaving in five minutes.”
In my room I put on my new sneakers and my entire winter gear, hat, gloves, and scarf included. Before leaving I grabbed my mom’s tan leather satchel and placed my sketchbook and pencils inside.
While we descended the eight flights of stairs to the garage, Dad explained our plans for the day. “First, we have a surprise visit, and then I thought we could get some movie tickets for this evening,” he said as he opened the door to the garage.
Though we were below ground level, I felt the cold air immediately begin to press against my nose and search for crevices beneath the layers of clothing.
“Violet, don’t you feel so alive when the air is this cold?” my dad asked. Trying to conserve my dad’s good spirits and my own body warmth, I nodded in agreement as my dad fumbled for the keys to open up “Charlemagne.” That was his pet name for his beloved 1967 pale blue Volvo. Every time I suggested we buy a new car, he would launch into a long tale. It usually started with my grandparents, climaxed with a road trip to the Panama Canal, and ended with him driving my newborn-self home from the hospital. In short, Charlemagne was definitely a soft spot for Professor Menet.
The muddled sunlight and dust shined through the front window as we drove out onto Martense Street. It was 9:30 A.M. and the car chugged along while the speakers hummed one of dad’s obscure jazz tapes in the background. My curiosity got the better of me.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re heading to the swinging golden coast of Long Island,” My dad responded with a side glance and a wink.
His answer left me confused. What was there to do in Long Island? The only time I had been to Long Island was for a boring fourth grade field trip to English gardens outside a deserted mansion.
“Oh … what’s in Long Island?” I said, trying not to sound too skeptical. He gave me a sly look.
“It has something to do with your sketchbook. Other than that, you’ll just have to wait and see.”
“My sketchbook?” No one, apart from my immediate family, had seen my drawings. Instantly I felt disappointed and apprehensive about the “surprise visit.” Honestly, I’m not sure why I was so protective and private about it. Mostly, I didn’t know if the drawings were any good. What if they were terrible and I’m doing everything wrong? What if my drawings were mediocre and it might soon spread around the world that Violet Menet has no talent for art? One thing is for certain, it would crush me. My family only had words of kindness and encouragement. That was their job though, wasn’t it? I could make stick figures on a paper or handprints and they would still say, “Why, Violet, that’s wonderful!” They just wanted to make me happy and they knew that drawing made me happy. Shouldn’t that have been enough for me too?
I decided not to ask any more questions. The tape had stopped and I turned it over. The low rumble of jazz continued as we passed inlets of frozen water and towering trees. Charlemagne swept by long expanses of naked forests and occasional stretches of houses built close together. As the car ride wound down, the houses grew farther apart. Most of the time, all we could see of the great mansions were their endless metal fences.
“It should be here somewhere,” my dad mumbled as he consulted a small crumpled paper. He made a slight left onto a gravel road. After about a minute, we were at a colossal gate entrance.
“So! What do you think?” asked my dad with a curious look.
Gravity seemed to pry my lips apart. The gate was a masterpiece all by itself. The magnificent entrance was at least twenty feet high. Twisting bars made intricate flowers and vines that sprouted from the ground. It had a large triangular shape at its pinnacle where two golden horse heads faced each other. Some of the flowers were crowned with blue stones. Behind the web of vines and flowers was a long and curvy driveway that hid the house from view. The sight was truly impressive and on instinct I reache
d for my sketchbook so I could draw it. My dad patted my knee as if to say “hold on to that thought.” He rolled down the window and was about to press the button when an authoritative but kind voice spoke out. “Professor Menet! Is that you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Reed! And I’m here with my daughter, Violet.”
“Of course you are! I’ve been looking forward to seeing her all week! Mrs. Crawly will greet you at the main door, and I’ll be with your delightful company shortly.”
Once the gate opened, Charlemagne slowly chugged up the curvy road. The building and gardens that came into view were so grand that they made my fourth grade field trip look ridiculous. The red brick house was three stories and I counted twenty-three windows on its facade. The third floor had five beautiful gables and a tall tower that poked out from the top. Broad sandy fields of manicured grass and barren rose bushes wrapped around the mansion. We parked at the front entrance. A balcony hung over the entrance supported by large white columns on either side of the dark paneled door.
“You do the honor,” said my dad, pointing to the gold knocker in the shape of a running horse. Nervous, I reached for the handle and knocked twice.
CHAPTER TWO
Sketchbook
The elegant door immediately swung open to reveal an elderly woman who must have been Mrs. Crawly. She had pulled back her gray hair tightly, showing a good-hearted face with heavy lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes.
Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) Page 2