by Joanne Lewis
She bowed her head. “We cannot marry. I have no dowry and you are Jewish”
He placed his fingers to her lips. “I do not want money to marry you. And while I am Jewish, I am also human.”
She looked into his eyes, those kind eyes that loved her unconditionally. She let her tears course like soft, summer rain. He wiped them from her cheeks with a gentle thumb.
“I am sorry, Samuele. I love you but I am afraid.”
“I have proven over the years that I will never leave you. My loyalty for you flows thicker and faster than the Arno.”
“You are most loyal but I fear I can never love you more than my ambitions.”
“That is a lie, Dolce Gaddi. You love me more than any woman has ever loved a man. You love me more than any man deserves.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me the truth. Why will you not marry me?”
“Because,” she began, “I fear you will be taken from me. Like my mother. Like Novella. Like Tessa. Any one I have relied upon has been snatched from me.” She grabbed her things and ran, ignoring Samuele’s cries behind her.
She could never live with Samuele and Abramo. She wouldn’t know how to sleep on something soft. And what if—what if—they lost their fondness for her? Abramo like a father, Samuele her secret lover. No, she was set with her friends—the rats and the bats—and her makeshift desk, and the stillness of the night, and her books and drawings. She couldn’t get comfortable, not with Samuele, not with Abramo, not with anyone. They might turn on her—and bury her alive. Or worse, so much worse, be taken from her without warning.
It was March 25, 1436; ten years since Dolce had dug herself free from Bandino’s grip. When Dolce left Samuele that night and returned to the dome, a crowd surrounded it. Torch fire spat oranges and yellows and warmed her skin. Bats circled wildly overhead. Rats scurried on the ground. The handsome man with the curly hair—Andrea—stood next to Pippo. The two men looked up. Beautiful white lights beamed from their sparkling eyes.
The dome had been completed. Most of Dolce’s drawings for La Citta di Dolce, including the one that imagined a building so tall it grew into the clouds, were stuck—atop. She stepped into the shadows and walked around the side. If she could climb up, grab her drawings and—a strong hand wrapped around her arm, yanked her back, then pushed her to the ground. The flame from a torch cast him in silhouette. But it didn’t stop her from recognizing Bandino by the glare in the whites of his eyes and from the devil harbored deep in his soul.
Chapter Twenty
The Florentine government was convinced its ineptness in battle and a recent defeat in the wars with Lucca and Milan could be blamed on homosexuality.
Clergymen shouted from pulpits that Firenze was failing due to the crime of sodomy. Pressure built to solve this dilemma that ranked high among other predicaments of the time along with disease, natural disasters, street crimes and the wrath of God. In fact, according to some, all evil that lurked in Firenze could be traced to sodomites.
The Ufficiali di Notte—the Office of the Night—was established to identify and prosecute homosexuals. They worked in tandem with the Ufficiali dell’Onnesta, the Office of Decency, whose aim was to license public brothels to wean men from men. Prostitutes were easily recognized on the streets by their required uniforms of gloves, high-heeled shoes and bells on their heads. Sodomites were encouraged to visit brothels in order to be cured. Those that refused were tortured and hung in public spectacles.
Andrea and Zac kept their love hidden and saved their trysts for deep in the night. Sometimes, they lingered for days in a dream-like haze without touching the other, the memory of the time before their salvation, the anticipation of their next time together their ambrosia. Pippo knew nothing of their courtship for if he did, he too would be prosecuted for aiding a crime.
One Saturday late in the afternoon, Andrea and Zac walked along the Arno, Minuscolo trotting behind them. It was a chilly day but the heat from being so near kept them warm. They snapped their heads around when they heard the sinister laughs of three boys.
The boys linked arms, danced around them and sang, “Sodomites. Sodomites. Sodomites.”
Andrea wanted to fight but Zac grabbed his arm and pulled him away. Minuscolo trotted close behind.
Safe at Pippo’s home, Andrea’s face was red. “Why wouldn’t you let me fight?”
“There were three of them. We would have lost.”
“If I had my slingshot, I could have taken out their eyes from three fields away.”
Zac smiled. “You are a brave one. But one mark on your face is enough for a lifetime.”
Andrea’s hand flew to his cheek. He turned away.
“Sorry,” Zac said.
“If no one mentions it and if I do not look in a mirror, it’s like it is not there.”
Zac brushed his lips on his cheek then kissed every inch of the raised scar. And for the moment, Andrea was glad it was there.
Saturday night, Andrea was asleep in his quarters when a noise woke him. It seemed to come from the workshop where Zac slept. Outside, under a full moon, Minuscolo snorted and stamped his feet.
Andrea got out of bed and put on a nightshirt. He padded through the house, barefoot, careful not to wake Pippo. Perhaps Zac was surprising him with a late night rendezvous. Andrea stirred at the thought.
He entered the workshop, stealth like a mouse, ready to pounce like a tiger. He sprung into the small room and on to the bed, to find it—empty. He heard a noise and turned. He shot up and on to his feet.
“Stay back.” Zac’s face was swathed in shadow.
“But why?”
“We must end this behavior.”
“We must be true to ourselves.” Andrea stepped toward him. “You taught me that.”
Outside, Minuscolo snorted, then let out a high pitched shrill. The boys ran to him. Minuscolo was on his side, his eyes wide, panting. His legs hog-tied. Andrea grabbed a knife and cut the rope. The moonlight cast enough light for Andrea to see the cause of his pain. The letters SODOMITES were carved into his side, blood seeping from some of the cuts, oozing from others.
“How? Who?” Andrea looked at Zac, who turned away.
Andrea grabbed him, made him face him. On the right side of his face was a fresh, deep cut running from his cheekbone to his chin.
“Who did this?” Andrea asked.
“Those boys. From earlier today.”
Minuscolo cried. He tried to get up-right. Andrea ran inside and returned with Pippo’s gun. His hand shook but he knew what he had to do. He looked one last time in Minuscolo’s large black eyes then pulled the trigger. Minuscolo’s head gently fell and rested on a pillow of hay. Andrea closed his best friend’s eyes and kissed him good-bye.
Andrea heard a noise and popped his head up. It was dark but the moon was full. He saw movement in a bush. Andrea ran into the house then out again, fast and fleet, his slingshot in one hand, a large rock in the other. He waited a moment and saw the movement again, then the head and shoulders of a boy sprinting away. Andrea stood tall, closed his eyes and listened to his footsteps, the swish of leaves and limbs being pushed aside, the crush of the ground underfoot. He placed the rock in the sling and pulled it back until it was taut. One more crunch and Andrea let the rock propel into the air, into the back of the boy’s head with the force of a bullet. A single grunt and the boy fell face down into the dirt. Andrea knew he had killed the boy and was glad.
Chapter Twenty-one
Neon lights flashed on and off from Hot Legs, the strip joint behind Julio’s efficiency. Two thirty-foot yellowed legs wearing red high heels flickered, their lights beaming into his apartment through metal bars on the windows. A constant hum hung in the air like passed gas. Filippa no longer noticed the lights, or the bars, or the hum. But the stench of stale food and vomit was always fresh.
When she first started sneaking to Julio’s efficiency, she would clean the place. That’s what girlfriends were supposed to do. But boyfriends were supp
osed to be appreciative. And this one wasn’t. So she didn’t clean, or tidy, or add any touches to brighten the pallor of the institutional walls and linoleum floors. She did have sex with him and he kept a bong filled with fine ganja for her. Every now and then, he told her he loved her. She never said it back.
He still had his coveralls on when she got there. A black and white TV with a bent hanger on top filled the background with chatter.
“Mother fucker.” Julio slung a work boot against the wall.
“What did he do this time?”
“Had me changing oil all day. Like I’m some retard. I didn’t get my certificate in auto mechanics to change fucking oil.”
“Why don’t you tell him you can do more?”
“I did. He says I have to work my way up like everyone else.”
“Maybe he’s right.”
“Fuck you. He’s not fucking right. He’s fucking wrong. One day, he’s going to hand me a slip for another oil change on some fat dude’s Porsche or to rotate some fucking rich lady’s tires and you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to hit him over the head with a crowbar.”
“You’ll get fired and arrested.”
“Will be the best thing that ever happened to me.” He lit the bowl on a bong, inhaled, and then handed it to Filippa. He held a flame while she inhaled, then took the bong from her. “Mother fucker,” he said again.
“What now?” she asked.
She was glad—despite his chaos—that serenity was setting into her bones.
“Look.” He pointed to the TV.
A thick haired reporter was at the Port of Miami, reporting on the first day of the Mariel boatlift.
“Fucking Castro,” Julio said.
“You’re Cuban. This should make you happy.”
“Means I’ll be out of a job soon.”
“Why is that?”
“Those people landing here will need to work. And trust me, they’ll work for cheap and they won’t mind changing oil.”
“That won’t happen.”
“You’re a fucking child. You don’t know shit.”
She grabbed the bong from him, took another hit.
“Hey, try this.” He dug into his pocket and took out a tightly folded envelope. Carefully, he opened it and pulled out what looked like a postage stamp. He held it between the tips of his thumb and forefinger.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure except a friend of mine went to Plato’s Retreat in New York last week. He said you lick the back of this and fly. Said everyone’s doing it.”
“Not for me.”
“It cost me twenty dollars. You know how long it takes me to earn twenty dollars? While you’re being a princess at school and drawing and shit at home, I’m working my ass off to keep you happy.”
“I don’t want it.” She inhaled from the bong.
“Fine.” He looked out the back window. “Maybe one of those girls at the titty bar will enjoy this with me.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You know, everyone’s swinging these days. Maybe we should try it. You into a little girl-on-girl action?”
She stood up. “I gotta’ go.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, Grandpa Raj is expecting me.”
“Wait.” He took one of the stamps and put it on his tongue. The other he put in the envelope, folded it then stuffed it into the front pocket of Filippa’s jeans. “Suck me off before you go.”
“Gross.”
“Come on, you never suck my dick. Guess it’s true what they say about Jewish girls.”
She walked to the door. He jumped in front of her.
“I’m not playing. Suck my dick.”
“I have to go home.” She reached for the knob.
He swatted her hand away.
“Fuck you,” she said.
“No, fuck you.”
The last thing she remembered was her face smashed against the bars on the window, red high heels flashing in front of her, Julio hitting her, crying, calling her Papi.
Chapter Twenty-two
On March 25, 1436, the first day of the year according to the Tuscan calendar, Andrea and Pippo watched Pope Eugenius IV proceed east from the papal apartments in Santa Maria Novella to the center of Firenze. Seven cardinals, thirty-seven bishops and nine members of the Florentine government, including Cosimo de’ Medici, followed. Priests and monks draped in gold and silk chanted and splashed holy water. Church bells tolled and trumpets blared.
The Pope was raised on a wooden platform designed by Pippo that was one thousand paces long, six feet high, and adorned with flowers and herbs. As they passed, Andrea and Pippo joined the back of the procession.
The convoy turned onto Via de’Cerretiani and paraded toward the Piazza San Giovanni. A mumble of satisfaction rose from the marchers as they got the first glimpses of the dome in front of them. After one hundred and forty years of construction, Santa Maria del Fiore was finished.
Andrea ran ahead, into the church and up the winding stairs. He looked out over Firenze and thought of Zac and Minuscolo. They would be proud of him. He had helped build something of great magnitude. He moved with the grace of a dancer, deep breathing the crisp air, picking up a few pieces of wood and small tools left behind. Under a board resting on stones, he saw parchment. He was surprised Pippo would leave plans behind. He grabbed them and noticed unfamiliar scribble on the plans written in Latin and in Tuscan. He saw the title—La Citta di Dolce. He tucked it into his belt and scaled down, unsure what to do with his discovery.
Pippo was speaking with one of the members of the Board of the Duomo. He slapped him on the back then turned to Andrea.
“I found …” Andrea said.
Pippo pulled him aside. “I am sure to get the commission to build the lantern. Don’t you think, my son?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The Board has made me enter many competitions, but after this …” he swept his arms overhead, the dome majestic above them, “they must surely believe that no one in all of Italy can surpass Brunelleschi. And you were saying …?”
Andrea touched the parchment under his cloak. “I climbed to the top and found …”
“Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti?”
Andrea turned. A police officer stepped toward them.
“And what business is that of yours?” Pippo jumped in front of Andrea.
“We have an order for his arrest.” The policeman waved a rolled parchment.
“For what? This is a celebration.”
He opened the parchment, let the bottom of the scroll fall to the ground and read, “The city-state of Firenze hereby orders the arrest of one Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti for the crime against its people of sodomy.”
Chapter Twenty-three
In the torchlight, Bandino’s face was distorted and hideous like cragged stone with filth and waste seeping from its pores. It embarrassed Dolce that she was of the same blood, and not because he was ugly on the outside.
She yanked her arm from his grip and ran into the darkness, the bats circling ahead, the rats clearing her way. Behind her, a strange, deep and worrisome voice demanded more information, “what do you want with my son?” and comingled with Bandino’s thunderous demands for Dolce’s immediate capture, “get her, now.” The louder Bandino yelled, the faster she ran over cobblestones and through the maze of narrow streets that had become her home. She heard panting behind her, footsteps gaining. She smelled sweat. She braced herself, ready to be punished for disobeying Bandino. How could he run so fast anyway? She looked behind her and saw it wasn’t him. She slowed, stopped, put her hands on her hips and bent at the waist. Her breath was fast and sharp.
Andrea stopped next to her, panting. Their breaths curled like rings of smoke.
In the distance, more shouting penetrated the air. Find them. Hurry. Get the sodomite. Church bells rang. Warnings of damnation. The first high pitched clank to be followed by seven more. At the eighth ring, the gates w
ould be pulled shut. Curfew would be in effect.
“C’mon.” Andrea started to run.
“I don’t need your help.”
He turned toward her. “I am not running to help you but to help myself.”
“But, why?”
Dolce heard Bandino’s cry, other men with him too.
“I’ll explain later.”
Dolce followed Andrea, losing him around corners then seeing the kick of his heels, the flight of his hair before losing sight of him again. It didn’t matter. She knew where he was going.
She counted the chimes of the church bells. Number four. She picked up her pace, heard Bandino getting closer. She dared to turn, to look. Saw him. Polizia too. Why were the police after her? Her lungs burned. Her heart pounded. She thought of Po and Piero. She could go back to the farm and care for them. But then saw Nic’s heel smothering her city drawn in the dirt, Bandino burying her alive, Tessa gone. She felt her throat close. She wheezed. Andrea was out-of-sight, gone too.
The bells rang for the sixth time. She knew the turn up-ahead took her by the gypsy woman’s home. That felt like many lifetimes ago, like a different Dolce. She ran past the brothel then tripped. Arms outstretched, she skidded on her stomach along sharp-edged rocks, cutting her fingers and the soft parts of her palms, bruising her face.
“Don’t move,” Bandino yelled. “I demand you return to Il Poderino. You must restore the Gaddi name. I have arranged a marriage for you with nobility.”
He picked her up and dragged her along the streets. She struggled, fought hard, kicked and swung her fists. She wasn’t going back. She would rather die a fast death now than a slow one under Bandino’s rule, without Samuele and Abramo, without her drawings, in an arranged marriage.
The church bell chimed seven.
She looked up, saw wide, fear-filled eyes. It was Andrea who had been dragging her, not Bandino. But Bandino and the police were so close she could smell their glory at her imminent detention. Andrea pulled her along, whipping her around corners. As the church bells chimed eight, they slipped through the closing gate. Bandino and the police safe inside the city walls. Dolce and Andrea outside and alone in the dark, dark chill of a starless sky.