by Joanne Lewis
Filippa pulled away.
“I thought …” Carla stammered. “You’re not …?”
“No,” Filippa said.
“I’m sorry.” Carla sat on the tiled floor, her back against the bathtub. “I’m so embarrassed. I thought … it’s been so long I guess my gaydar is broken.” She laughed weakly. “Can we still be friends?”
Filippa smiled. “Of course.”
“You sure you’re not interested in women.”
“I’m positive.”
Carla sighed. “At least the hives on your face are going away. Guess those allergy pills are helping.”
“That was weird. I’ve never had any allergies that I can remember.”
“You’re okay now. Just stay away from six hundred year old manuscripts. And I’m sorry if I crossed any lines. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable with me.”
“I think you saved my life.” Filippa stood. She felt dizzy and leaned on the sink.
“Those pills make you sleepy.” Carla led her to the couch. She covered her with a blanket and kissed her on the forehead. She sat in a chair. “I’m going to stay here and watch you for awhile. Make sure you’re okay. I used to be a nurse.”
“What else don’t I know about you?” Filippa mumbled. Her eyes were heavy. Her body weak and exhausted. Behind closed lids, she saw Buddy and Roman playing on Grandpa Raj’s seawall.
“I’m in love with you, Filippa George,” she thought she heard Carla say.
Chapter Forty-nine
The following day in Carla’s apartment, Filippa and Carla were seated on the couch. Marcello was on the floor, bent over his laptop. Filippa felt tired but otherwise okay.
“Let me try again,” Filippa said.
Carla handed her the cell phone. Filippa pressed redial. After five attempts, still no answer.
“I don’t know why Julio’s not picking up. One of them should be answering the phone.”
“Maybe Buddy’s sleeping,” Carla said.
Filippa flipped Carla’s cell phone over and over in her hand then tried Julio’s number one more time.
“Why won’t he answer?” It was her seventh day in Florence and still she hadn’t spoken to Julio or Buddy. “Are you sure the email went through?” she asked Marcello.
“Positive.”
“I don’t know why I even tried to send him an email. Julio never checks it,” Filippa said. “And he won’t let Buddy have an email address. What if Buddy is …” She dialed the number again, listened to the rings then pressed end and dropped the phone into her lap. She released a long, frustrated breath. “I have to go home. I have to be with Buddy. I’m no closer to finding the Renaissance girl. Who am I fooling? If experts on the Renaissance haven’t been able to find her since the contest started thirteen years ago, what makes me think I can do it?”
“They don’t have us,” Marcello typed on the keyboard. “Don’t give up.”
“I’m not giving up. I’m here to find her. But I can’t stand being away from Buddy any longer. What if he needs me? I never should have left him.”
“You did what you thought you needed to do,” Carla said.
“And now I need to go home.”
Marcello typed. “I can’t find anything about the rest of the transcript at the Archives. And there’s nothing on the Internet about the notary or Andrea’s trial. Maybe the notary never finished the transcription.”
“Or maybe it was sealed,” Carla said.
“Don’t tell me you were also a lawyer,” Filippa said.
“A paralegal.”
Filippa smiled. “Why would it have been sealed?”
“Political reasons probably.” Marcello said. “Renaissance Florence was ruled by men with money who held the highest political offices. All decisions were based on patronage. Do something for me and I’ll do something for you. If someone wanted a transcript sealed or destroyed and he knew the right people, gave the right presents, made the right donations, it would be done.”
“Like the Medici,” Carla said.
Marcello nodded. “Things changed some with the rise of the theory of humanism and after The Day Before Massacre but money, artwork and favors got more done than good deeds.”
“What was The Day Before Massacre?” Filippa asked. “I don’t remember learning about that in school.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It was a major embarrassment to the rulers of Florence. Anyone who spoke or wrote about it was threatened with death. The struggle between the ruling class and the working class had been building for years. One day, the militia slaughtered some of the working population who had been demonstrating and demanding the right to trade freely and not pay such high taxes. It happened right under the bell tower. The following day, Pippo’s son, Andrea, led the surviving members of the working class in a revolt against the rulers. After the bloodshed ended, the working class was triumphant. This resulted in a lot of change for the workers of Florence, including getting their own guild. A few journal entries from that time exist that mention an uprising but modern day historians question if the massacre really happened. I think it was real.”
“Then Andrea was a hero?”
“A reluctant one. The people called him their savior. They looked to him to lead them.”
“Why him?”
“One theory is that since Andrea stood up to his persecutors in court he became a symbol of hope against prejudice and discrimination.”
“Maybe the court transcript will tell us more about The Day Before Massacre,” Filippa said. “But if there is more to the transcript, how do we find records that might not exist from almost six hundred years ago? And even if we do find them, what makes us think they’re going to lead to Dolce?”
“We won’t know until we look,” Marcello said.
“Where do we start?” Carla asked.
Filippa reached under the couch and pulled out Lives of the Artists. “With Vasari. He’s the only one who mentions the girl and the competition. Maybe he writes about Andrea’s trial in here or The Day Before Massacre.” She held up the worn paperback. “Maybe he mentions Dolce somewhere.”
“Wait. Let me see.” Marcello typed, sat back and waited. “No,” he said after a few minutes. “I pulled up the book online and searched Andrea’s name. He’s only mentioned in Brunelleschi’s section as his adopted son. And when I searched the entire book for Dolce’s name, also nothing. The only place her name appears is where you saw it at Il Duomo.”
“If I saw it,” Filippa said. She didn’t want to tell them about the woman in the Jackson Memorial Hospital chapel whom Filippa had imagined. Or about the Renaissance girl who had helped her all those years while she was in prison. Or about the make believe world of Ellie the Elephant and the Silly Monkeys. Filippa had been imagining people and animals her entire life. She was sure the carving on the dome wall was also part of her imagination.
Marcello closed the laptop. “I have to confess. I went to the basilica before I came here. I climbed the stairs to the dome and the lantern. I looked where you told me. I didn’t see her name carved on the wall but the lighting was bad and there were a lot of people around. I couldn’t crawl under the stairs and get a really good look.”
“Wait,” Carla jumped up. She rummaged through shelves and finally pulled a book down from the top. It was a biography on Vasari. She sat cross-legged on the floor and searched the index. “Let’s see.” She flipped the pages. “Vasari was born in Arezzo, Tuscany but spent a lot of time in Florence. He died here. He was a painter and an architect. He met Michelangelo and idolized him. He designed Michelangelo’s tomb. What else? He was employed by the Medici. A lot of his paintings still exist like the ceiling paintings in the Palazzo Vecchio and the frescoes in the Duomo, which he never finished. He also renovated the churches Santa Maria Novella and Santa Croce. And, of course, he wrote Lives of the Artists, which this book calls the first biography of artists. They also say Vasari coined the term Renaissance.”
“It’s Rinascimento, in It
alian,” Marcello said.
“And he built the Vasari Corridor.”
“Anything about Dolce?” Filippa asked.
Carla shuffled through a few pages, turned back to the index. “Nothing.”
Filippa picked up the phone and dialed Miami again. No answer. “That’s it. I’m going home.”
“You’re giving up?” Marcello asked.
“I’m not giving up but Buddy needs me. I’m not doing him any good here.”
“We can find her. I know we can.” Carla said.
“Look, I appreciate you both very much.” She looked at Carla. “I’ve only known you for one week and you,” she turned to Marcello, “for less than that. But I feel closer to both of you than to almost anyone I’ve ever known. I can’t tell you how much everything you’ve done for me, all you’ve done to help Buddy, means to me. But it’s obvious I have to be with him. Maybe I can continue my search from home on the Internet.” Tears came to Filippa’s eyes. “I don’t know what’s worse. Not being able to save Buddy or not being there for him when he needs me the most. Plus, there’s something else.” She looked at them, and then let the words shoot from her mouth before she could stop them. “I have to report in with my parole officer in Miami in person.”
“What is a parole officer?” Marcello sat next to her on the couch.
Filippa’s tears flowed as she gave her confession. She cried for Buddy. She cried for Roman. She cried for herself. She cried for her two new friends, possibly the first real friends she has ever had. She wondered if she would ever see them again.
The following day, on the plane ride to Miami, Filippa couldn’t stop thinking about Buddy. His hospital band had become tattered and torn but she still wore it with as much pride as if it were a diamond bracelet.
Like a retrospective black and white photography exhibit, images of Buddy projected behind her closed eyes. Buddy as a toddler. Buddy with his dog, Benbo. Buddy playing t-ball. Buddy, Buddy, Buddy. Throughout the years. Until she went to prison. Then, she saw Buddy and Roman, as if they had been friends. Buddy and Roman as toddlers. Buddy and Roman playing with Benbo. Buddy and Roman throwing a football. Buddy and Roman, Buddy Roman, BuddyRoman, Budroman.
She had ruined the life of one little boy. Was it too much to ask for her to be able to save the life of another?
Chapter Fifty
Filippa sat on the side of Buddy’s bed, relieved, so relieved to be with him. Julio had lost his cell phone, which explains why he never answered it. The landline was still disconnected.
“Tell me about Florence.” Buddy’s voice was weak. His face was pale and sunken. He looked worse than when he was discharged from the hospital.
When Filippa arrived at the house, she had told the hospice nurse to take the evening off. Julio was at church and she wanted Buddy all to herself.
“Did you find the Renaissance girl?” Buddy asked.
“Not yet. But we’re close.”
“We?”
“I met some really nice people there. They’re helping us.”
“Awesome. Thanks for coming home, Lippa. I really missed you. And I wanted to see you before I died.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“It’s okay. I can handle it. I didn’t know you could get cancer so young. I thought it was for old people and smokers. I’m not scared, you know.”
She took his hand. “I am.”
“You know what I learned? Being sick is easier for the sick person than for the other people. I think that with you and dad crying and stuff, it makes me stronger. Isn’t that kind of strange? You being scared makes me feel braver. Tell me about the people you met in Florence. Is the city like what we read about? Did you climb Brunelleschi’s dome?”
“Whoa, slow down. You need to rest.” She tucked the blanket around him, just like how Grandpa Raj used to tuck the blanket around her when she was young.
“Please, Lippa.”
“Okay. The city is magnificent. It’s just like the guidebooks say. And when I climbed the dome, I felt like I was back in the fifteenth century. I met some really nice people. Their names are Carla and Marcello. Carla is from New York and Marcello is from Florence.”
“Were they friends?”
“No. I met them separately.”
“Are they friends now?”
She thought about that for a moment. “I think so.”
“Good. Why does a New Yorker want to live in Florence?”
“She loves the city, I think.”
“Do you think you’ll live in Florence one day?”
“Only if you come with me.”
“Lippa, what do you think it’s like to be dead?”
“We don’t need to talk about that right now.”
“I do. I try to talk to dad about it but he just starts crying. I mean, he talks about God so much I figured he’d know what it feels like to be dead. Do you think it hurts?”
“No.”
“I think it will hurt you more than me.”
“Definitely.”
“People say they see a light when they die. Do you think I’ll see a light?”
“Maybe.”
“You think I’ll find my mom?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, since I’ve never seen her, she has to be dead. That’s the only reason she wouldn’t be with me.”
Filippa thought of so many things to say but realized there was only one response that Buddy deserved. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll see her.”
“You know what,” Buddy’s eyes brightened, “when I’m in heaven I bet I can meet the Renaissance girl and ask her to tell me how to find the proof that she entered the lantern competition. And then I can get a message to you and you can win the prize money.”
Tears streamed down Filippa’s cheeks. “That would be good.”
“Yeah,” he closed his eyes, “that’s our plan. I’ll probably get to meet Brunelleschi too. And Dante. Do you think they’re in heaven?”
“Definitely.”
“And one day, Lippa, we’ll be together again. I can’t wait to introduce you to my mom.”
Filippa checked her email daily for news from Carla and Marcello. The first day in Miami she was disappointed when she didn’t hear from them. The second day, she felt sad. The third day, angry. After a couple of weeks when they hadn’t sent even one email to her and they hadn’t responded to any that she sent them, she knew they were liars. They weren’t searching for the proof needed to win the contest. After awhile, Filippa wondered if they had really existed or were they too figments of her imagination.
Filippa changed her focus. She researched on line, still trying to find proof that Dolce Gaddi had entered the lantern contest. But she also knew her life was here, in Miami, with Buddy.
Julio’s behavior was getting more and more strange. He was speaking to himself often. The words she could decipher usually being God, the devil and sin. As far as Filippa could tell, he had stopped drinking, he wasn’t taking drugs and he was going quietly mad. She didn’t ask him about Marta because she didn’t care. If not for Buddy, she wouldn’t be in Julio’s home. Once Buddy was well enough to go back to school, she would move out. She wouldn’t go too far in case Buddy needed her but far enough away to no longer be in Julio’s clutches.
She reread Grandpa Raj’s letters and journal entries to Buddy, continued reading even after he fell asleep. Somewhere in his slumber she knew he heard her. She showed him more drawings of Filippa Village. She read from Vasari’s Lives of the Artists until Buddy fell asleep with Ellie the elephant tucked under his arm. And when he awoke, he would ask her to tell him more about Brunelleschi’s dome and the lantern and the girl who had entered the competition. As hard as Filippa tried to forget Florence, to forget Marcello and Carla, and to stay in the moment, Buddy wouldn’t let her. Filippa checked her email less and less. But still, she continued to search on line without success for some clue to the Renaissance girl.
Buddy was getting weaker. She emptied
his bedpan. She held a pail for his vomit. She applied cold compresses to his head when he sweated, covered him with extra blankets when he shivered. The hospice nurses told her and Julio to get ready as Buddy’s end was near, probably hours away.
When Filippa went to read to Buddy, she realized all of the books on Florence were gone. Grandpa Raj’s journals, letters and notes had disappeared too. The English to Italian, Italian to English dictionary was missing. Her drawings of Filippa Village, gone. Even Ellie the Elephant, gone.
She inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly. She held the pail and caught Buddy’s grey bile and wiped his forehead while he dry heaved. She didn’t tell Buddy what had been taken but she did ask Julio where her most valuable possessions were. With a wild look in his eyes, he said they were the writings of the devil and had to be destroyed. There was so much Filippa wanted to say to Julio, to release all the anger she held inside for him pent up since she was seven years old. But Buddy was dying and she wanted to keep this about him. She would deal with Julio another time. Besides, she had hid Vasari’s Lives of the Artists and never removed Buddy’s hospital bracelet from her wrist so Julio couldn’t take those from her. As for Grandpa’s journals, she had read them so many times, she had them memorized.
Chapter Fifty-one
Filippa and Julio each stood on one side of Buddy’s bed. He was unconscious. His breathing was soft and slow. The hospice nurse waited respectfully in another room. Surprisingly, Filippa felt peace among her panic. Buddy was right. This was harder for her and Julio than for him. For that, she was glad.
“Now is the time to admit our sins,” Julio said.
Filippa ignored him. It was easy to tune him out. Her thoughts were all about Buddy. She studied him. His eyes were closed. His lips were slightly apart. His skin was rosy. He looked content. Maybe Buddy was right. Death wasn’t to be feared.