by Joanne Lewis
“Probably rats got to it. Here,” he pushed the triangles toward her. “Smell it.”
She bent over the book, whiffed big and slow as if evaluating a fine wine. “It smells … old.”
“Go beyond that. Try again.”
She closed her eyes and moved past the must and the dust until it was clear, so clear. She was home.
“Where are you?” Marcello’s voice landed soft and tender on her ears.
She closed her eyes more tightly, as if to see clearer. “I’m in Grandpa Raj’s backyard. It’s hot. A summer shower is passing through. The wind bends the palm trees and the water in Biscayne Bay kicks up.”
“Go on.”
“The rain stops. It smells fresh, like the world is pure and free.” She opened her eyes.
“How do you feel?”
“Amazing.”
“Whatever you do,” Marcello winked, “don’t remove this from the building. I will see you another time, pretty lady. I am no longer in the clock, as you Americans say.”
“On the clock,” she smiled.
“Yes,” he said and walked away.
Chapter Forty-five
Filippa brought the manuscript to her nose and tried hard, so hard, to collect clues from the past through the must. She smelled the stench of the Arno River and the sweet scent of the Iris Florentia. Familiar, somehow. Her eyes watered and her lips throbbed. She sniffed. Her mouth filled with phlegm. She swallowed the lump.
The writing on the cover page was smeared, the letters had faded. It was written in Italian. Like deciphering a riddle, she tried to figure out what it said. What was this manuscript Marcello had placed in front of her before leaving? Would it take her to Dolce?
She turned the page and studied the black ink, slanted to the right, flowing grandly from line to line, page to page. The manuscript looked to be about fifty pages long. She blinked when she recognized several names—Andrea. Pippo. Donatello.
The structure was familiar. A name was followed by a colon and then a phrase or phrases. It appeared to be a play.
She closed the manuscript and looked again at the smeared ink on the cover. Slowly, she was able to fill in worn letters.
Il Processo di Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti
Por Ser Zanobi Ambrosini, Notaio
She shifted in her chair, looked over her shoulder. She was exhausted. Marcello had gone home. No one else seemed interested in her. Good. She wanted to read the play now. She flipped the manuscript and opened it from the back to look for an English translation. There wasn’t any. She wished she had Grandpa Raj’s Italian dictionary with her. It was at Carla’s home.
Someone sat in the next cubicle, separated from her by a partition. Filippa turned the pages slowly as if she understood Italian. Almost six hundred years billowed like steam from the pages. She didn’t want to have to come back with a translator to find out what this play was about. She wanted to know now. The manuscript belonged to her. It was her past, her journey, her discovery to make. And if she found Dolce, wouldn’t that make history? Wouldn’t the people of Florence, lovers of their own past, be thrilled?
She stuck the manuscript under her sweater.
“It’s not a play,” Carla sat on the small, pink couch, Filippa’s bed, and sipped cappuccino from a cracked demitasse cup. “It’s a transcript.”
Filippa nodded, scratched her stomach. She had hives from where she had hid the manuscript. She blew her nose and wondered if a modern day allergy pill could suppress Renaissance aged allergens?
Carla put the cup down on a stained Oriental rug then carefully thumbed through the manuscript on her lap. “You sure you’re supposed to have this? I thought you weren’t allowed to remove anything from the Archives.”
“Can you read it?” Filippa pointed her chin toward Carla’s lap. “I think it will be too hard for me to decipher with a dictionary.”
“Impossible, I’d say. It’s written in Dante’s Italian. The dialect he used in The Divine Comedy became standard Italian during medieval and Renaissance times.”
“You’re an expert on Dante too?”
“I have a Ph.D. in Italian Literature from Columbia. My thesis was on The Divine Comedy. It’s been a long time but I’m sure it’s like riding a bike.” Carla turned to the first page and began to read. Filippa leaned back. Carla’s voice floated around the small apartment like the soft, stunning notes of a concerto.
Chapter Forty-six
I, Ser Zanobi Ambrosini, Notaio Official of the glorious city-state of Firenze, hereby take this oath before God that the following is a true rendition of the court proceedings henceforth on the 25th day of July 1436:
Messer Nanni della Porta di Novara (Il Podesta, the presiding Judge): I preside here on the throne of justice. Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti, you are charged as a sodomite having committed crimes against our beloved Firenze. Are you ready to proceed?
Messer Stefano di Francesco di Prato (Il Procurator, on behalf of the accused sodomite): Ready.
Il Podesta: Procurator di Prato has submitted an affidavit of questions for each witness on behalf of the accused as required by this Court. I will add my own questions as is my providence. All who testify will be placed under oath and must be aware of the importance of this vow before God and the grave danger to body and soul for false testimony.
At which time, a commotion was heard in the streets outside the courtroom.
Il Podesta (quite perturbed): Call the first witness.
Guard (booming voice): Zaccheri di Pietro.
A young, handsome man sits before the Court.
Il Notaio: Are you Zaccheri di Pietro?
Pietro: I am.
Il Notaio: Do you swear before God that you will speak the truth?
Pietro: I so swear.
Il Notaio: Do you know the sodomite, Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti?
Pietro: Yes.
Il Notaio: How do you know him?
Pietro: I was an apprentice to Filippo Brunelleschi. Andrea is his son. That is how I know him.
Il Notaio: Do you know Andrea to be a sodomite?
Pietro: I do.
Il Notaio: How do you know this?
Pietro: He made many advances on me. He would come into the studio without a shirt while I was carving. He would bat his eyes like a girl. He would try and entice me to go on long walks through gardens with him and his small horse. He would look at me in a way that suggested longing.
Il Notaio: Describe that look.
Pietro: He would only show one side of his face and keep the other side against the wall. Like he was hiding something.
Il Notaio: Did you accept his advances?
Pietro: No. I am engaged to be married to a beautiful woman.
Il Notaio: And now I will ask you questions prepared by the sodomite’s procurator. Do you have reason to lie?
Pietro: No.
Il Notaio: You are excused.
Il Procurator (jumping up): I have listed many more questions of this witness.
Il Podesta: I have instructed the notaio to summarize your laborious questions into one, which he has done quite well. Master Pietro, you are excused.
As such, the handsome boy left the courtroom.
Il Podesta: Next witness.
“That’s it?” Filippa asked. “Those are all the questions asked of that witness?”
“I’ve read it all,” Carla said.
“Talk about a kangaroo court. Why did they bother having a trial? They’ve already decided he’s guilty.”
“Why are you so interested in him?”
“He was adopted by Pippo. Maybe something in there will lead us to Dolce. Marcello must have shown me this manuscript for a reason.”
“Marcello? Is he that guy from the archives? I don’t trust him.”
“How come?”
“He’s Italian. And he’s a man.”
Filippa smiled. “Please keep reading.”
In a voice that flowed like calligraphy, Carla read the testimony of
three boys who had wanted to fight Andrea. They swore Andrea had propositioned them outside a church.
A hunchbacked preacher testified next that during a sermon that Andrea had attended he had felt the presence of the devil “in my blood, in the air, among the congregation” and knew a sodomite was near.
Il Notaio: How did you know the accused was the sodomite in your congregation?
Preacher: He had red horns on top of his head.
Neighbors of Brunelleschi swore they saw Andrea on many occasions frolicking through fields of flowers “as only a girl in love would do”; with a small horse trotting behind him. “And who,” they asked, “but an effeminate would have a miniature horse as his constant companion?”
Two laborers who had worked on the dome testified against Andrea, stating he had called them lazy and said he would get them fired if they did not have conjugal relations with them.
And each time the notaio or the podesta questioned a witness on behalf of Andrea, it was the same question: “Do you have a reason to lie?”
And each time, the procurator would jump up and protest.
And each time, the podesta would admonish him until Andrea’s legal counsel was dragged from the courtroom in chains and to a cell where he was given only water for seven days.
Carla was halfway through the transcript when she placed it on her lap.
“Don’t stop,” Filippa said.
“It’s the end of the city-state’s case against Andrea. I need to take a break.” Carla wiped her eyes.
“Are you crying?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I’m okay. Never mind. I’ll be right back.” She went to the bathroom.
Filippa heard Carla’s bathroom sounds—urinating, the toilet flushing, running water and sniffles. Filippa went to the window and looked at the lantern on top of the dome and asked, “Who are you, Dolce Gaddi? When will you show yourself?”
Carla stood outside the bathroom door. Her eyes were red.
Filippa turned from the window. “Why are you crying?”
“My brother Darren died of AIDS. It was a long time ago. In the eighties. Before the cocktail. Andrea’s struggle reminds me of him.”
“I’m sorry.” Filippa tugged on Buddy’s hospital band.
Carla nodded, sat again. “Let’s find out how this story ends.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Il Podesta: Call your first witness.
The sodomite stands.
Il Sodomite: I have no legal counsel. You had him dragged away in chains.
Filippo Brunelleschi, architetto and father of the sodomite, stands.
Sodomite’s Father: He is entitled to a procurator.
Donatello, master sculptor, friend to the sodomite and to the sodomite’s Father, stands.
Donatello: This is not justice.
Il Podesta: Your procurator has been held in contempt of court. You must proceed as your own counsel.
Il Sodomite: But I know nothing of the law.
Sodomite’s Father: That is outrageous.
Donatello runs to the front of the courtroom.
Il Podesta: Guard, restrain Donatello.
At which time, Donatello was restrained.
Sodomite’s Father: We demand a recess to hire new counsel.
Il Podesta: The trial is midway. Proceed or I will make my ruling with what evidence I have.
Il Sodomite’s Father: That is unfair.
Il Podesta: Call your first witness.
“That’s crazy,” Filippa said.
Carla nodded then continued to translate the manuscript. Filippa closed her eyes and listened.
After more protests from Andrea, Brunelleschi and Donatello, and threats from the podesta that Brunelleschi and Donatello would be arrested and he would render his ruling without Andrea presenting a case, Andrea called his witnesses. Brunelleschi was first, then Donatello. Both denied Andrea was a sodomite, stating they had spent substantial time with him at home and at work and would surely have noticed this about him. No, he never had a female lover as he was more interested in work than anything else. Sculpting was his lover. But Brunelleschi and Donatello were so angry at how the trial was proceeding, they made poor witnesses.
A neighbor testified that Andrea was a sweet boy who was strong and able to lift heavy things and therefore he could not be a sodomite.
Another neighbor swore that when Andrea sang he sounded like a braying mule and therefore he could not be a sodomite.
A worker on the dome said he saw Andrea running with a girl who was surely his lover and therefore he could not be a sodomite.
Il Podesta: Next witness.
Il Sodomite: I have no more. Except myself.
Il Podesta: Do you deny taking part in the act of sodomy?
Il Sodomite: I do.
Il. Podesta: Duly noted. I am ready to pronounce my ruling. This Court finds the sodomite…
Filippa opened her eyes. “Why did you stop reading?”
“There isn’t any more. It just ends. It looks like an entire section is missing.” Carla hugged the transcript to her chest.
Filippa scratched a hive on her belly.
Chapter Forty-eight
The following morning, with the sun starting to cast its beams on the day, Filippa awoke, coughing, her throat closing. She had been in Florence for six days and, despite finding the transcript, she was no closer to discovering the Renaissance girl than the day she had first arrived. She wheezed and felt Carla’s hands on her shoulders.
“Are you okay?”
Filippa pointed at her throat, tried to inhale deep into her lungs, wheezing, choking.
“Your face. It’s red and blotchy. Are you having an allergy attack?”
Filippa couldn’t speak. She nodded, tears in her eyes. Was she going to die without ever seeing Buddy again? Without saving him? She saw Buddy at three years old, four years old, five years old, until he was at least seven, with croup, stricken with asthma. She recalled how she and Julio used to rush him to the bathroom, turn on the hot water in the shower and wait for the steam to open his airways.
Filippa staggered to Carla’s bathroom and turned the shower knob. She sat on the toilet, her lungs expanding and contracting rapidly, her breath raspy, her hands on her knees. Carla walked in and closed the door.
“We used to do this for Darren. The steam would help him breathe.”
As the vapor filled the bathroom, Filippa nodded, more tears in her eyes, tears on her cheeks.
Carla bent over, pushed wet hair from Filippa’s face. “You need to go to the hospital. You have hives all over. You must be having an allergic reaction to that manuscript.”
Filippa shook her head, inhaled deeply, a little easier. She wiped her eyes, tried to steady her breathing. This had never happened to her before. Why now? She didn’t want to go to the hospital. Not here. Not when she needed to be investigating the girl and helping Buddy. She had no time to be sick. She shook her head again.
“Fine.” Carla rummaged under the sink and pulled out a bottle. She shook two pills into her hand and gave them to Filippa. Carla ran the water in the sink and filled a small, paper cup.
Without asking what they were, Filippa threw the pills into the back of her throat and downed the water. She closed her eyes and saw Buddy again. He had been such a cute, sweet little boy. Filippa had always felt bad that his mother had abandoned him after she and Julio had divorced. Buddy had been only two years old when Filippa got back with Julio and took over the role as Buddy’s mother. She had always loved him like he was her own child. In fact, he was more her child than anyone else’s. More than Julio who would rather lecture as if he was on a pulpit than listen. More than Buddy’s mother, that was for sure. Thinking of Buddy made her sad. She missed him. She mouthed a prayer for him under her breath. Her heart hurt. Her breathing grew troubled again.
“Think happy thoughts,” Carla said. “You’re upsetting yourself.”
Filippa pictured the sea wall behind Grandpa Raj’s house and se
agulls soaring over Biscayne Bay. She felt the cool spray of the water and the hot sun. She heard the caw-caw of the seagulls and the rush of water hitting the wall then splashing back into the purple-black bay. Even though Buddy had never been to Grandpa Raj’s home, she imagined the two of them sitting on the sea wall and watching a dolphin playing in the bay.
“Good,” Carla knelt next to her. There was sweat on her forehead. The small bathroom was filled with steam. The mirror was fogged. “Gentle thoughts only. Excellent.” Carla reached into the shower and turned off the water. She put her hands on Filippa’s knees.
Filippa drew breath into the deepest parts of her lungs. She laid her hands over Carla’s.
Carla drew herself up and looked into Filippa’s eyes. “You scared me. I’m glad you’re alright.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Carla hesitated. “I need to tell you something.”
Filippa pulled her hands away. “What?”
“I, um, it wasn’t an accident that I stopped and spoke to you when you were walking from the train station.”
“You mean when I first got to Florence?”
“Yes. I want you to know I’m not some freak, okay. I mean, I’ve been in Florence for twelve years and I haven’t made any real friends. I’ve thought about going back to the States but I really love it here. I haven’t met anyone that, well, you know … I saw you walking from the station and you had American written all over you and I was feeling lonely and I thought you were pretty so I stopped to speak to you and … oh, hell …” Carla leaned in and brushed her lips against Filippa’s.