by Joanne Lewis
Filippa closed the book. “You would think if she had really existed someone would have found evidence of her by now.”
Carla tossed strips of fish into a frying pan. Olive oil sizzled and spit.
“You would think so,” Carla said.
The evening lingered in lovely slow motion. Dinner was delicious. Filippa often looked out across the Arno, the dome majestic in the distance. She envisioned the construction of the lantern and imagined Dolce Gaddi, Architetta roaming the streets.
“Hey,” Filippa remembered, “do you have a television? Or old newspapers?”
“No. Why?”
“I saw this girl being chased a few days ago and I wanted to see if there was a report on it.”
“Sorry. Can’t help you.”
Filippa slept on the small couch, on her side in a fetal position so her feet wouldn’t hang off the edge. She cuddled Ellie to her breasts. She was looking forward to the morning when she would be able to begin her research at the State Archives.
Filippa awoke to the sound of rustling. It was still dark out. Light from a sliver of the moon shone through the window revealing Carla bent over her duffel, rummaging through it. Filippa was about to say something but stopped. She felt for her money belt, which was around her waist. She watched Carla while pretending to be asleep. Finished, Carla zipped the bag but didn’t appear to have taken anything. Filippa held back tears. Her instincts had been correct. Be suspicious of Carla.
Chapter Forty-two
Located on Viale Giovine Italia 6, Filippa walked to the Archives, checking over her shoulder for Carla. She didn’t want to see her ever again.
The State Archive building resembled the side of a cruise ship with terraces jutting out and climbing up. Inside, finding the catasto, which was a large book, had been easy. Accessing the data, not so easy.
In the Inventories room, she was directed by a slight woman with black hair piled high on her head in a toppling bun to a Codebook that explained the multitude of charted information. She then went to the actual catasto itself, choosing the year 1436—the year of the lantern competition—to begin her search for Dolce.
Dust settled in Filippa’s nose. She sniffed, swallowed phlegm. Her eyes watered. She checked her pockets and hip sack for a tissue. None.
Four members of the Gaddi family were listed in the tax roll. Next to each name, a codebook was referenced that listed, among other items, the type of house they owned, how many animals were in the home, their marital status and their real estate holdings.
Agnolo Zanobi Gaddi.
Carlo Luigi Gaddi.
Nanna Bagno Gaddi.
Taddeo Zanobi Gaddi.
Nothing about a Gaddi named Dolce.
Filippa sneezed. Her allergies were acting up but she didn’t want to leave to get a tissue. She felt the closest ever to finding out about the girl. For the next three hours, she checked the other years of the catasto.
Still no record of a Dolce Gaddi owning any land or paying any taxes.
Maybe Dolce Gaddi wasn’t her Renaissance girl. Could the words Dolce Gaddi, Architetta scratched into the dome wall be a coincidence? Or nonexistent?
Filippa looked up her namesake, Filippo Brunelleschi. Maybe his records would offer some clue about the girl.
She sneezed again. And again. Her throat itched. She closed the tome and searched for a bathroom. It was time for a break anyway. On her way back, she rounded a corner and saw a large book on a stand, set apart from the others. Black and bound tight, the title was inlaid with gold, Filippo Brunelleschi, Architect, English Translation.
She looked around, unsure if she was permitted to remove the book from its throne. She took it anyway and sat at a cubicle. The opened book stretched across the entire top of the desk. Slowly, she browsed, page by page. The information was mammoth. Filippo was born in Florence and was the son of Ser Brunellescho di Lippo Lappi—a lawyer and notary—and a well-bred woman from the Spini family. Filippo started his apprenticeship as a goldsmith then turned to his love, architecture. He had designed the dome, San Lorenzo, the church of Santo Spirito, machines for construction and tools for war, and much more. He had invented perspective and adopted a boy named Andrea who became his only heir. He was called Pippo. Upon his death in 1446, he was buried in Santa Maria del Fiore until his bones were exhumed in 1972.
With all his achievements, with his history well chronicled, there was nothing, as far as Filippa could tell, about the girl who had dared to enter the lantern competition. Not amusement by Pippo that a girl in 1436 would attempt such a feat. Not disdain toward her either.
Filippa closed the book, feeling wounded, certain Dolce Gaddi had never existed. The name carved on the wall of the dome had to have been Filippa’s own invention. Wishful thinking. High hopes. The imagination of a fool.
Chapter Forty-three
Dejected, Filippa didn’t know where to look next. Or, if she should continue her search at all? Hadn’t other people already looked through the catasto and studied Brunelleschi to try to glean clues about the girl? After all, one million dollars was a lot of money. What made her think she could do what experts have failed to do? But she knew she had to keep looking. For Buddy.
She hadn’t spoken to Buddy since she arrived in Florence. She needed to hear his voice but was apprehensive. She didn’t want her own voice to give away her inability to find the Renaissance girl. Tears came to her eyes. She missed him so much. She had to keep searching. The writing on the wall couldn’t be a fluke.
She saw a man behind a reference desk. He was bent over a book. She wiped tears from her face then approached him. “Excuse me. Do you speak English?”
The man looked up. He tucked long curls behind his ears. Filippa felt a rush through her nervous system. It was the man from the dome.
His eyes widened. His smile was wide. “So nice to see you, signorina. Are you still in love? With Florence, I mean.”
She smiled. “Yes, I am. It’s a wondrous city.”
“Buono. Florence is in love with you too. I can tell by the way she gazes at you. You did not find what you are looking for at the dome, yes? I will help you find it in the archives.”
“I’ve looked but it’s not here.”
“Ahh, but I have not helped you. Marcello, at your service.” He bowed. “I am a professional archivist.”
“I’m afraid the information I want isn’t here.”
Marcello’s smile was wide. “Give me a try. Who is it you want?”
She smiled at his crooked English, or maybe it was his endearing grin that brought warmth to her heart. “I’m looking for a girl that lived in the 1400’s. I believe she entered the contest to build the lantern on top of Brunelleschi’s dome.”
“Ah,” he said, “you are another treasure hunter. Do you believe also she drew the first skyscraper?”
She cocked her head.
“You are not the first to try and find her. I have thought of looking for her myself.”
“Have a lot of people been looking for her?” Filippa’s heart sank. She had figured there were others trying to win the prize money but she had never heard of anyone else, until now.
“Oh, yes. I have seen news reports and articles, but not for some time. I think it goes in valleys.”
“Valleys?”
“Like this.” He motioned his hand up and down, as if it was a boat riding the surf.
Filippa laughed. “You mean it goes in waves.”
“Yes. Sometimes people are interested. Other times they are not.”
“Have you helped anyone else look for her?”
“No, signorina.”
“Why not?”
He lowered his voice. “I have been here short time.”
“You mean in Florence?”
“No, I have lived in Florence my whole life. I have worked at the archives for one week.”
“Oh,” she did not hide her disappointment.
“But that does not mean I cannot help. I have studied the arc
hive system at the university. I know much. Have you checked the tax rolls?”
“Yes. She’s not listed.”
“That’s not unusual. The rolls are not complete or property wasn’t put into women’s names back then. Some families, they preferred to place land in the name of an infant boy to a grown woman. Have you checked the archives? There are transcripts of trials, meetings, even sporting events. You might be able to cross reference her name.”
“Thank you.” She felt excited. Maybe the answer to finding Dolce was in this section of the archives she had yet to explore. She thought of Buddy again and touched his hospital band secured around her wrist. She wanted to speak to him, or at least to Julio. She needed to know Buddy was okay. “I don’t want to bother you anymore,” she spoke to Marcello. “Can you point me in the right direction?”
“This is my job to help without pointing. What is this girl’s name?”
“Dolce Gaddi.”
“There was a Gaddi family. They were very famous artists. Taddeo, Agnolo and Gaddo.”
“But no Dolce?”
“Not that I know of. There was also Bandino Gaddi who had three sons. Piero, Iacopo and I can’t remember the other boy’s name just that he was mean.”
“How do you know this?”
“It is my job, signorina. Want to know the members of the Buonarroti family? Michelangelo, his mother was Francesca, he had a brother named …”
“Where did you say those archives are?”
“Follow me.”
Marcello sat opposite Filippa at a large table. He looked at his watch, stretched his arms high over his head. “It is almost closing time. We’ve referenced and cross referenced and nothing. And you should get back to your hotel or wherever you are staying. Your eyes are red. We’ll look again tomorrow.”
“I really appreciate your efforts but I’m beginning to think I should look elsewhere.”
“The people of the Renaissance documented very much. That’s how we know so much about that time period. You said the Gaddi girl was mentioned by Vasari in his section on Brunelleschi and then you saw her name carved on the wall at Il Duomo.”
“Maybe I was hallucinating.”
“Impossible. Go back and look if you want but I bet it’s there. You are too smart …”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
He touched her hand. “Tomorrow morning, we open at nine. We have to be more creative. Think outside the box as you Americans say.”
“Why are you so interested?”
“It is a mystery and Italians love mystery, especially one that involves a beautiful woman.”
Filippa blushed then ridiculed herself silently. I’m a forty-three year old woman. I am too old to be charmed by this thirty-something year old man. And Buddy …
“I don’t have a lot of time to find her,” Filippa said.
“I see you speak with urgency. What else do you know about Dolce Gaddi?”
“Not much. Just that Vasari says she entered the contest. My grandfather believed the girl who entered the contest to build the lantern was the same to draw the first skyscraper. My grandfather was obsessed with her.”
“His very own Beatrice.”
“Carla’s scooter?” Filippa asked, then felt stupid. She knew whom he was speaking of. Beatrice had been Dante’s muse.
“Who is Carla?” Marcello asked.
“No one. A friend.”
“Beatrice led Dante to paradiso,” Marcello held her gaze.
She pulled her hand away.
“I am sorry,” Marcello said. “I am coming on too strong. I can’t help it. I’m Italian. I find you very attractive, Filippa, and I would like to know you. I mean, I would like to get to know you.”
“I appreciate that but I don’t have time. You seem like a nice man and …”
“There you are,” Carla said. “I thought I’d surprise you and give you a ride home. Who’s this?”
Marcello extended his hand. “Piacere di conoscerti.”
“Nice to meet you too.” Carla weakly took his hand. She looked at Filippa. “We should go. I’ve made dinner.”
“I’m not done here.”
“I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
Filippa looked at Marcello. “Can we have a few moments alone?”
“Of course. I need to close anyway.”
Marcello headed toward a stack of books piled on a rolling cart. He pushed it around a corner. Near Filippa and Carla, people were starting to check out books and gather their belongings.
Filippa spoke softly. “I’m not going home with you.”
“Why not?” Carla asked.
“I saw you looking through my bag this morning.”
Carla cast her eyes down. “I’m sorry. I know that was wrong of me. I couldn’t find my copy of Lives of the Artists. I wanted to read the section on Brunelleschi again. See if I could help you find this girl.”
Filippa eyed her, unsure if she was to be believed. “The book was by the couch, where I was sleeping.”
Carla smiled, touched her hand. “That’s all I was doing. I swear.”
“I don’t know …”
“I promise. My intentions are good. I’m just happy to have the company of an American and now the possibility of a little adventure.” She squeezed Filippa’s hand. “Let’s go home. I made chocolate chip cookies like they do in America. Well, almost. They’re not quite the same. Did you find anything about Dolce?”
“I need to come back tomorrow.”
Carla looked at Marcello who was rolling the cart of books past them. “Will he be here?”
“I hope so,” Filippa said.
Chapter Forty-four
Filippa was in front of the Archives building before nine the following morning. It took some convincing but Carla agreed not to go. Like a school girl, Filippa’s heart skipped a beat when she saw Marcello. A feeling she hadn’t had in a very long time. Marcello ushered her in. They sat at a cubicle in a semi private room. He suppressed a big smile.
“What?”
“I found her.”
“You did.”
“Well, not exactly but I’m on the trail. I was up much of the night on the Internet, trying all different searches. Nothing worked. No Dolce Gaddi.”
“Then why are you so excited?”
“Because we’re looking in the wrong place. We should be searching Filippo Brunelleschi. Did you know you have the same name as him?”
“My grandfather named me after him. I’ve already tried to find the girl through Brunelleschi. I read the chapter on him in Vasari’s book like fifty times.”
“No, more than that. I researched him all night. I read treatises, essays, excerpts, anything I could find on him.”
Filippa leaned forward. “And …?”
“Nothing about the girl.”
“Marcello …”
He held up his hand. “We need to search the archives here. If Brunelleschi had any run-ins with Dolce, we’ll have it. His life is well-documented.”
“Where do we begin?”
“With his birth, of course.”
Filippa and Marcello were seated at a large table, surrounded by Italian manuscripts from the fifteenth century.
An illuminated Book of Hours, a handwritten prayer book probably made for the wife of a wealthy merchant, was opened in front of them. The cover was inscribed with cherubs, kneeling maidens with their hands folded in prayer, bulls, lambs and crosses. The first letter of each page was colored brightly and gilded.
Il Fiore di Virtu, a book of fables created with thirty-eight woodcuts was also on the table. A Memorie, an account book, of hand scribed notations tracking the cost of construction of one of the Medici palaces was there too.
The volumes were splayed open and reclining on red cushioned book supports shaped like triangles. Snakes, chains covered in blue velvet, were gently draped over the corners of the manuscripts to keep the pages flat. Marcello and Filippa had been required to wash their hands befor
e handling the artifacts. No photographs were allowed.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Filippa asked.
“It’s my day off.”
“You came in on your day off? For me?”
“With pleasure.” He flipped open a book, read, then looked at her over wire rimmed glasses. “Did you know Brunelleschi adopted a son? Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti. I had forgotten that.”
“He adopted him from an orphanage in Buggiano, where Brunelleschi’s father owned property. He wanted an apprentice and an heir.”
“You have brains and beauty,” Marcello smiled. “What if …?”
“Andrea knew Dolce?” Filippa finished his sentence.
“I’ll be right back.” Marcello ran off and returned carrying another aged book.
The outside was vellum and the color of tan hide and stained with splotches of brown as if coffee had been spilled on it. The book was creased, grooved and bound with string. Three dark and corroded vellum strips were glued from the back around to the front. The outer strips ended in rusted buckles. The latches that the buckles had once hooked into were gone.
Marcello gingerly placed it on the red velvet triangles. Filippa touched the outside. It felt cold and wet. Carefully, she opened the cover.
The pages were made of parchment; thinner than the vellum, wavy like they had gotten wet then dried, puckered and frayed at the edges. The binding strung together. Some pages were whiter than others, some varying degrees of beige. The writing was flowery. The ink brown. The sheets crackled when she turned them.
“The pages are different colors depending on the part of the hide of the animal used and if all the hair and flesh were properly scraped off,” Marcello said. “And look closely, you see that?”
“What?”
“The pages were lined. It’s very faint. That way the writing was straight.”
“And what’s that?” She pointed to the top of the binding where it looked chewed.