by Joanne Lewis
Alone, Filippa heard the beating of her heart, felt her blood pumping through her veins. She laid on the floor and spread her arms and legs as if making a snow angel. She giggled, joyous chuckles from the depths of her gut. It felt good to laugh.
She stood and looked out the sides of the lantern. Lights twinkled back at her. The air was cold and fresh. So content, she slid her back against a wall, sat and closed her eyes. She hugged Ellie to her chest and clearly saw Buddy when he was six years old sitting on her lap and asking her to read to him again; Grandpa Raj examining a Renaissance manuscript and making notes with a fountain pen; little Roman playing in a car seat. But she had no picture of the Gaddi girl. What had she looked like? What had life been like for a girl in the fifteenth century?
But there was one question Filippa had to answer before any others. She touched noses with Ellie and asked “Had the Renaissance girl really existed or was she a creation of Vasari’s imagination?”
By wandering Florence during the days and returning to the dome right before closing each night, Filippa learned to time things perfectly. First, she studied the sporadic hours of the dome, which closed at five p.m. Mondays through Wednesdays and Fridays; 3:30 p.m. on Thursdays; 4:45 p.m. on weekends; and was closed Easter, Christmas Day and other holy days. When the final closing announcement was made, she had a short window of time to climb the spiral stairway without being noticed. She had found a hiding place under the stairs for the duffel bag so she didn’t have to lug it around with her.
During the day, she explored bridges, churches, museums, buildings and squares. She learned the different parts of the city including San Marco, the area around the Duomo, Piazza della Signoria, Piazza della Repubblica, San Lorenzo, and more. Cautious about spending money, she discovered things to do that were free, ate where locals ate and indulged, occasionally, in a gelato. Stracchiatella, her favorite flavor. She allowed herself one big indulgence – a tour of the Uffizi museum. Although the admission was pricey she determined it was worth it. She also explored Santa Croce, walked across the Ponte Vecchio and visited any other place where she thought she could find information about the Gaddi family. Everywhere she went, she looked for signs of the Gaddi girl. The Gaddi family was well represented in Florence, but no mention of a girl. It was on her mind to visit the Galleria dell’Accademia to see Michelangelo’s David. Even though Michelangelo had no connection to the Renaissance girl, Filippa didn’t want to leave Florence without visiting his king.
Filippa washed her hands and face in cold fountains when no one was looking, slept in bathroom stalls if she got too tired during the day, washed herself in bathroom sinks. She had a toothbrush and toothpaste and kept her mouth clean, brushing several times a day. She knew she had enough money for a hostel, even a hotel if she wanted to splurge, but slipping in and out of the dome each evening felt right. In the night air, with the bats becoming her friends, and the rats staying out of her way, she felt close to the Renaissance girl. She wasn’t planning on staying in the dome much longer anyway. She had already been in Florence three days and had made no headway on finding the girl. She had to get more aggressive. She had to find her fast, win the contest and get home to Buddy. She also couldn’t miss her meeting with her parole officer.
It was nearing five o’clock and she had to get back to the dome. Tomorrow, she would search for evidence of the Gaddi girl by going to a library, or maybe a government building to see if they had records from almost six hundred years ago.
She turned the corner on to Via Del Proconsolo then walked through the Piazza Del Duomo. She was a little early so she looked at the Campanile. Giotto’s bell tower was shorter than Brunelleschi’s dome but magnificent on its own. Reliefs on the first level depicted the creation of man, and the Arts and Industries. She looked up, saw scenes representing hunting and weaving. And another of a man high on a bench with an orator below. This panel was lawyering.
“It’s really awesome,” a woman said. “I’ve been studying the Italian Renaissance for as long as I can remember.”
Filippa turned. The woman held a pink motorcycle helmet. Her chin was angled sharply, her skin soft and pale, her eyes piercing blue.
“It is spectacular.” Filippa studied the woman for a moment. She was barely five feet tall with hair white like snow and a youthful face. Mid forties, Filippa guessed. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“I saw you a couple of days ago. I was on my Vespa.”
“Oh right. Are you American?”
“Born and bred. From Brooklyn. You?”
“Miami.”
The bells on top of the Campanile chimed.
“Those bells have been ringing for over six hundred years.”
Filippa looked toward the entrance to the church, then back at the woman. “I have to go.”
“Wait.” The woman scribbled on a piece of paper then shoved it into Filippa’s hand. “I know how lonely it can get in a strange city. I’m Carla.”
Filippa ran off. The dome was closing. Her bag was up there along with most of her money and Ellie. She ran through the side entrance and sprinted for the stairway. Too late. It was chained off. She stopped and pretended to look at Vasari’s drawings on the underbelly of the dome, then bent under the chain and ran up the stairs. She heard yelling behind her in Italian. She sprinted, her chest tight, her breathing rapid. Footsteps followed, faster, closer, more yelling.
“Stop.”
She pumped her arms. Her quads burned. Spiraling round and round up the stairs. Leveling off, spiraling again. Finally at the top, she dove for the duffel.
“Polizia. Stop.”
With the duffel pressed to her chest, she hid in a corner. Her face smashed against the wall. She tried to steady her breathing and to quiet herself. She noticed his pot belly first. Then the big, black shoes, laced tight. Her eyes traveled up his body. He wore dark blue pants pressed with a perfect seam and a red stripe up each pant leg. His shirt was light blue and short sleeved. A white strap was angled across his chest. His cap was blue. A carabinieri, Italy’s police. He stepped in front of her. She tried to make herself small, so small she would disappear. And then she saw writing on the wall. She leaned closer to get a better look then traced it with her fingers.
Dolce Gaddi, Architetta.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Officer Franco pulled Filippa out of the cathedral. The duffel hung by one strap on her shoulder.
“I do not want to arrest you. Italian jail is no place for a lady. Explain to me what you were doing in there.”
“I forgot my bag.”
“That is not good enough.”
“I, um,” she hesitated, determining if she should tell him about the contest.
“If you do not have explanation for being in Florence’s cathedral after she has closed, I must take you to jail.”
“I’m sorry, Officer. I lost track of time. I am trying to discover this girl from the fifteenth century who entered the competition to build the lantern on top of the dome.”
Franco leaned toward her. “I hear you. Continue.”
Filippa sighed, and then spewed her story starting with Grandpa Raj and his obsession with the Renaissance girl, moving on to Buddy and the money needed to save his life, and ending with this very moment. She looked up at the dome. Despite the sliver of light that shone down from the lantern and cast a soft beam around her, she felt embarrassed. Why had she just told all of that to a stranger? And then she remembered. She didn’t want to be put in an Italian jail.
“Where are you staying?” Franco asked.
Filippa hesitated. “With a friend.”
“Let me see your passport.”
She dug her passport out of the duffel and handed it to the officer. He studied it and made notes on a small pad. He handed the passport back to Filippa.
“Call this friend and I will not take you to jail.”
Filippa dug into her pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. Written on it was, Carla Moskowitz, followed b
y her phone number.
“Call her.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
Franco reached for his hip and unclipped his cell. “Call or go to jail. You Americans do everything fast but make decisions.” Officer Franco held out his phone. “Call.”
Filippa dialed the number. Unsure if the two was a three or the six was an eight. She guessed the best she could. One ring, she pressed end.
“She’s not home,” Filippa said.
“That was too quick. Try again.” He lowered his voice. “You were in a very sacred place. I’m going you to jail unless you go with someone else. Capite?”
Filippa dialed the number again. On the third ring, Carla answered. Filippa hesitated. She didn’t know anything about this woman except she had appeared twice in only three days. Was she stalking her? Had it been coincidence?
“Hi, Carla,” Filippa injected false energy into the greeting. “It’s Filippa. Your friend from Miami. I know I told you I would be home later tonight but I’m going to come now. Okay?”
Officer Franco grabbed the phone and spoke in Italian. Filippa considered running. Carla had to be telling him she had no idea who Filippa was. Filippa’s other option was jail. American or Italian, she wasn’t going back to jail. She was ready to run.
The officer clipped the phone on his belt. He scowled, his eyes narrow. He rested his hands on his waist, near his gun. Filippa took a step back.
“Your friend will be here soon. I’ll be watching. You are no longer invited to Il Duomo.” He walked into the piazza.
Filippa stood near the bell tower, waiting, deciding what to do. She looked over her shoulder. The officer was watching. She wondered if Carla was really coming to get her, if she should go with her. If she ran, where would she go? The officer had her information from her passport. Would he check all the hotels to see if she was staying in one? Could she hide under the Ponte Vecchio? She had to stay on task. She was in Florence for Buddy.
A hand on her shoulder. The officer? Filippa turned.
“You okay?” Carla asked.
Filippa nodded. Her eyes filled with tears. Grateful tears for the kindness of a stranger.
“Good. Let’s go.” Carla pulled Filippa toward the white scooter.
The seat was long and black. A plastic windshield was attached to the handlebars. Carla grabbed a purple helmet from the back and gave it to Filippa.
“Just watch the muffler,” Carla said. “It gets really hot. Lay the duffel over your lap.”
Carla gunned the engine and they darted down the street.
Chapter Forty
The Vespa’s engine buzzed and propelled them through the streets of Florence like a wayward lawn mower. Carla adroitly steered in and out of traffic, around pedestrians, other scooters, a couple of tourists on Segways, and bicycles. Filippa held the duffel with one hand, wrapped her other hand around Carla’s waist. The purple helmet was too big so when Filippa turned her head to one side, the helmet went the other way. She closed her eyes and held on to Carla as they jostled, bucked and zoomed.
Filippa opened her eyes when the scooter slid to a stop. She adjusted the helmet so she could see. Traffic was at a standstill.
Carla revved the engine. “This is so Florence.”
Up ahead, two cab drivers got out of their cars and, using hands more than words, pointed at each other and threw their arms in the air.
“This is so Italian,” Carla said. “They’ll argue like it’s to the death but they’ll never touch each other and as soon as traffic starts moving, they’ll get in the cabs like nothing happened.”
Ten minutes later, traffic began to move. Carla turned the throttle on the Vespa as forward as possible. Filippa grabbed Carla again. Her stomach rolled. Her head felt queasy.
Less than one mile later, after zipping over a bridge to the Oltrarno and on to Lungarno Serristori, Carla steered up a grey brick path and halted behind a salmon colored two story apartment building. Windows were sandwiched by wood shutters. A wrought iron fence was graced with ivy. A white and a black cat peered out between the bars. Chiesa Luterana, a Lutheran Church, was next door.
They took off their helmets. Filippa’s hair was wet with sweat, plastered against the top of her head. Filippa looked over her shoulder. The tips of the dome and Palazzo Vecchio rose across the river.
Carla’s cheeks were red. “That was fun. I don’t get to take Beatrice out as much as I’d like.” She patted the scooter. “One thing about Florence, it’s always quicker to walk than to drive, unless you have one of these.”
“Thank you.” Filippa reached for her money belt. “I’d like to pay you for your kindness.”
“Are you crazy? You’re not paying me. Let’s get you a shower.”
“I’m not staying,” Filippa said. “I don’t want to burden you.”
“Listen,” Carla put her hand on Filippa’s arm. “I know you don’t know me and I’m sure it’s strange to you that I kept popping up. But I believe in Karma. And I kept seeing you around the city. I promise, I’m not crazy. Just a little nuts.”
Filippa smiled.
“A shower and a hot meal. Maybe some conversation. I miss speaking to an American. And then you can take off. Okay?”
Filippa looked again at the dome in the distance. A shower would do her good. Then, back to her quest.
Carla unlocked a wood door under the ivy with a key, let Filippa in then closed and locked the door behind them. They walked through the courtyard. Cats scattered. They took the steps up to Carla’s tiny one-room flat. It was decorated in consignment shop chic, a mish-mash of fabrics, colors and styles. The flat smelled of olive oil, rosemary and cheap strawberry scented candles.
Filippa put the duffel down. Carla pointed to a high backed, red imitation leather chair and Filippa sat. Carla took a seat on a small, pink couch. Their knees almost touching. A few black and white photos on the walls, and books. Lots of books. Everywhere. On shelves, on the floor, on the windowsills. Textbooks, hard cover novels, paperbacks and journals.
Filippa peered out the window. She looked out over the city and felt she understood the transplanted American instantly—Carla had a spectacular view of the center of Florence. The dome. The Palazzo Vecchio. The top of the Bargello. The past in its ancient buildings and streets. The present in the rapid pace and chaos of its citizens and tourists.
“It’s much quieter on this side of the river,” Carla said. “Material things don’t seem to matter with that view outside my window,” Carla pointed, “and these in here.” She motioned toward the books.
Filippa studied them closely. Hard covers and soft covers. Most in English, some in Italian. Some small, others large. Most of them seemed to be about art and the Italian Renaissance.
“Now, what brings you to Italy?” Carla asked.
Filippa took her time, wanted to formulate the answer as accurately as possible. The initial answer was simple. To find the girl. To save Buddy. But as she mulled her response, she realized the reasons she was in Florence were more complicated. To fulfill Grandpa Raj’s dream. To escape Julio. To steer clear of the life she had known. To avoid Roman’s memory. But the answer she gave was none of these; or all of them wrapped into one word. Unexpected, three syllables soared over her tongue and out of her mouth like a seagull over Biscayne Bay.
“Redemption,” she said.
And then Filippa forgot to be suspicious about Carla and told her all about the Renaissance girl, all about Buddy.
Chapter Forty-one
The stall was small, the water spray weak, and the temperature tepid. And it was the best shower Filippa had ever had. She lingered until the water turned cold then wrapped her hair in a towel and her body in one of Carla’s bathrobes.
Carla was in the kitchen—large enough for one person only—preparing dinner. Filippa sat on a wobbly wooden chair at a round table. Despite the worn fabrics and scuffed furniture, Filippa felt bathed in luxury.
Filippa got up, rummaged through the duffel an
d took out the tattered copy of Vasari’s biographies. She turned to page 136.
“See,” Filippa tapped the page, “even a girl entered the contest.”
Carla dipped fish in egg and milk then rolled it in panko. “You know Vasari took liberties.”
Filippa put the book down. “You think he made up this girl from the Gaddi family?”
“Maybe.”
“What about the writing on the wall at the dome? Dolce Gaddi, Architetta. That’s Italian for architect, right?”
“Yes. That would be amazing if she had really existed. It’s odd I haven’t heard about her before or about her name on the wall. I feel like I’ve read every book about the Renaissance ever written.” She waved a panko crusted hand toward toppled stacks.
“My grandfather was positive.”
“Well, then, you have to prove it. You can start by looking for the girl in the catasto records.”
“What’s that?”
“Information about Florentine households from 1427 until 1478. Like a census. Gender, age, property holdings, assets, debts.”
“They really have that information?”
“Florentines are very serious about their history. You’ll find the catasto at the Archivio di Stato. The State Archives. They also have other records that date from 726 to the twentieth century.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I am a perpetual student. Plus, I’ve lived here for twelve years. Sorry I don’t have Internet. You can go to an Internet Café if you want and start your research now. There might be some information online.”
“That’s okay.” She was comfortable in Carla’s apartment. Clean and warm. No bats or rats. And the smell of good food.
Filippa skimmed the chapter on the life of Filippo Brunelleschi, and studied the sentence about the girl who had entered the contest to build the lantern. She liked touching books, especially Grandpa Raj’s book. To uncover the world of Dolce Gaddi—if she were real—on a computer felt artificial. She wanted to search the actual archives. She wanted to feel the past on her fingertips.