by Joanne Lewis
“It is time to acknowledge our greatest regrets,” Julio said.
Buddy’s eyes opened slightly and his lips moved. Filippa bent down and put her ear to his mouth.
“I’ll say hi to the Renaissance girl,” he said.
And then she felt his last breath, blown like a hot breeze off Biscayne Bay. She took a moment to enjoy the last scent of him, the last feel of him, then straightened herself and looked at Julio.
His eyes were wide. Tears ran down his face. “He’s gone?”
Filippa nodded.
“Now is the time for us to admit our sins,” Julio stared at Filippa. “You weren’t driving the car that killed Roman. I was.”
It wasn’t long after Buddy’s funeral that twenty years of Julio’s sobriety was fully and finally snorted and swallowed away. Filippa made vain attempts to stop him. Occasionally, she felt a twinge of guilt for promising Buddy to take care of Julio. But Buddy hadn’t been aware of the abuse and control. He knew nothing of the fourteen-year-old boy who had taken advantage of the seven-year-old girl in the Fontainebleau hotel. He knew nothing of the twenty-something man who had repeatedly beat a teenage Filippa and then soothed her wounds with heroin. He knew nothing of Filippa, an abused woman who chose to shield her pain with drugs, or of Julio who had cheated on her not only with Buddy’s mother but also with many others; all the while hiding behind an armor of religion. And he certainly didn’t know about the man who allowed Filippa to go to prison for the death of a small boy for which she wasn’t responsible. Worse than prison has been the emotional jail where she still resides.
Julio had explained, “you were so drunk, I could have said you were on the moon and you would have believed me.”
“Why tell me now?” she asked.
“I promised myself I would tell you after Buddy was gone.”
“What about the testimony of Roman’s nanny?” Filippa felt bewildered. It was the nanny’s testimony that had convinced Filippa to plead guilty. Roman’s nanny had sworn under oath that Filippa was driving.
“My girlfriend. At the time,” Julio said. “I had no choice. If I went to prison, who would have taken care of Buddy?”
When he told her this, Filippa had wished Julio was dead. And now, ten days after Buddy’s funeral, her wish had come true. She sat in front of the computer and looked at the couch. Julio had been snorting cocaine, drinking whiskey and taking pills all day. He had been pressuring her to snort a line “for old time sake”. So far, she had resisted. She had even left the house but had come back to check on him.
Now, Julio’s torso was on the cushions. His lower body was contorted and draped onto the floor. White foam bubbled on blue lips.
Near her was a line of cocaine.
The cursor on the laptop blinked at her, mocking and judging her like the Hot Legs sign at Julio’s apartment so long ago when Grandpa Raj was still alive. But time reveals true character. Especially hard times. And watching Buddy die was as hard as it could ever get.
Filippa knew she had to call the police and report Julio’s overdose but first, she had to deal with her own temptations.
She had two choices.
The blinking cursor that with a swipe of her fingertip would open an email from Marcello. Finally, he had written to her.
Or her other choice—the smooth, snaking line of cocaine next to her.
She dabbed her right pinky into the white powder and brought it to her lips. With her left hand, she rubbed her index finger over the laptop touch pad. The email opened. She stared, her tongue a slight dart from the poison. But it was all poison, wasn’t it? Did it really matter whether she was paralyzed by drugs or imprisoned by her failures? Really, what was the difference? And what did it matter if she found the girl? Who really cared? Buddy was gone. All the money in the world wouldn’t bring him back, wouldn’t bring Roman back. It didn’t matter that Julio had been driving the car. Roman’s life had ended too soon. Just like Buddy’s. And the Renaissance girl, she probably never existed. Vasari had made her up. Grandpa Raj most likely chose an unattainable dream so he could keep the dream alive. Wasn’t success more daunting than failure? Success had to be maintained, built upon, justified. But with failure, a line of cocaine was all that was needed to make the pain go away.
She turned her wrist, examined the cocaine on her fingertip. Saw Julio, stiffening.
She licked her finger and felt an immediate, sweet and familiar rush. She bent over to draw the remaining line into her nose, reading at the same time the email [email protected] had written. Three simple words stared at her.
She read them over and over. Then another time. Once more. Again.
We found her.
Chapter Fifty-two
The manuscript attached to the email from Marcello had been transcribed by Carla into English. Filippa read the email.
At which time a stooped woman slowly walks to the front of the courtroom.
Old Woman: I would like to testify.
Il Podesta: What is your name?
Old Woman: Novella.
Il Podesta: Do you have a last name?
Old Woman: I am sure I do but it is not one I remember.
There is laughter in the courtroom.
Il Podesta: Do you swear to tell the truth?
Old Woman: Yes.
Il Podesta: Make it quick.
Old Woman: This man (she points to the sodomite) saved my life. I was being attacked by two of the many insane who walk our streets and he stopped them.
Il Podesta: Is it your testimony that because he stopped the attack he is not a sodomite?
Old Woman: It is my testimony that it does not matter who he loves. What matters is his character and virtue, the kindness in his soul, and his love for all human beings without judgment. Not many people are willing to sacrifice themselves for a stranger.
Il Podesta: Is that your testimony?
Old Woman: Yes.
Il Podesta: Then I am ready to make my ruling. This Court finds the sodomite …
At which time a struggle is heard. A boy wearing a cap runs into the courtroom and falls onto the floor in front of the podesta. A polizia runs in behind him.
Il Podesta: What now?
Polizia: I am sorry. I could not stop him.
The Podesta looks down at the boy. Slowly, the boy stands.
Il Podesta: You have something to say? Speak, boy.
He removes his hat and long hair falls out.
Il Podesta: What …?
The girl removes her smock.
Il Podesta (pointing at her stomach): Is that …?
The girl nods.
Il Podesta: What is your name?
Girl: Dolce Gaddi.
Il Podesta: And do you swear …?
Girl: I swear. Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti is the father of my unborn child.
As Filippa was about to send an email to Marcello asking where he had found this part of the transcript and if there was any more, an instant message appeared.
Nice to know you’re still alive. How come you haven’t emailed us or answered any of our emails? We were worried.
Filippa was shocked. They had been writing her. And they hadn’t received any of her emails. She looked at Julio’s body. Rigor mortis was setting. He had deleted all their emails to her and all of the ones she had sent them. She could hear Julio’s explanation—the devil’s work. It had to be destroyed. Filippa knew all that was a ruse. Julio had to control her. He had always had to control her. And she had allowed it. But, no more.
Filippa typed. Where did you find the rest of the transcript?
Come back to Florence, Marcello wrote. Carla and I will tell you everything.
She hesitated. She had no reason to go back to Florence. Julio was lifeless on the couch and would never abuse her again. She no longer had to run from him.
And Buddy was dead. The Renaissance girl had failed to save him. No amount of money would bring him back.
The line of cocaine beckoned. The cursor on the
computer screen flickered on and off, on and off, Marcello’s words calling come back to Florence.
Filippa lifted her head from the desk, slightly because that was all she could manage with the throbbing pain between her eyes. She let her skull fall with a thump. Screaming in her head dulled everything around her, including the screensaver photo of Buddy when he was healthy, including the rotting smell of Julio’s corpse, including her easy way out.
Inches from her nose was a line of cocaine. The line Julio had tried to tempt her with before he obliterated himself in a fury of powder, a tornado of sleeping pills and a fifth of whiskey.
She recalled her options. Annihilate herself, join Buddy and Julio, Grandpa Raj, her mother, even Dolce. Or …
… she moved the mouse and the screen saver was replaced by a blinking instant message.
Come back to Florence, Marcello wrote. And Carla and I will tell you everything. Are you there? Dolce, are you there?
She tilted her head, looked at the screen. He had called her Dolce? She looked at the screen again. It read, Filippa, are you there? There’s more to do to find the Renaissance girl but we’re on her trail. Come back to Florence. We need your help.
Filippa looked at the cocaine again. She considered dabbing it on her tongue but suddenly felt repulsed by its vile smell, by how it had foamed from Julio’s mouth and now was dried and crusted on his blackening lips, by the memory of how it had burned the insides of her nostrils, by her obsessive desire for more drugs that had made her so desperate she had done nothing with her life and had believed she killed a little boy.
Filippa dialed 911 and reported Julio’s death. She gathered her belongings and left the home. Her response to Marcello traveled over the Internet from her out box in Miami to Marcello’s in box in Florence. I’m on my way.
PART THREE
Chapter Fifty-three
Slowly, Dolce rose from the cold floor. She looked up at the podesta who stood behind the raised bench, boosted by straight arms and flat wrists, leaning over, his eyes wide and judgmental. A notary sat on a three-legged stool, its wooden feet curled into the neck and head of a dragon, its tongue lashing out. The notary watched her, a pencil poised over paper. Dolce felt the baby move, as if to give her courage. She turned and saw Andrea behind her. Normally robust and handsome, his cheeks were sunken, his hair matted like a gnarly dog, his spirit broken. And behind him … could it be? Pippo. She hadn’t seen him in ten years, since the day she ran from the parchment makers.
“You have something to say?”
Dolce was startled at the strength of the podesta’s voice. She was so taken by Pippo she had forgotten she was in a courtroom, surrounded by Florentine elite who chose who should live and who should die, who should go free and who should be confined. She barely noticed the citizens who filled the pews and lined the back walls, excited by the prospect of witnessing Florence at her worst. She hardly saw Donatello, the grandest sculptor, seated next to Pippo.
Cosimo de’ Medici and his bodyguards entered the courtroom and were heading her way, their steps long, their torsos bent forward with grave determination. Even they were blurs.
“Speak, boy.” The podesta demanded.
Dolce wondered who he was addressing, then recalled her disguise. She swiftly removed her hat. Her long hair tumbled to her shoulders.
The audience gasped. Some yelled the obvious, “he’s a she” and “that’s a girl.”
Hands shaking, Dolce unbuttoned her black and grey overcoat and let the garment drop to the floor.
The podesta pointed at her stomach. “Is that …?”
Dolce nodded, void of the words best able to help Andrea.
“What is your name?” The podesta leaned further over the bench.
For a moment, Dolce hoped he might fall and squash his head.
“Dolce Gaddi.”
“And do you swear …?”
She didn’t need him to say anything more. The words filled her mouth and fought to tumble out in comprehensible order. “I swear. Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti is the father of my unborn child.”
The notary transcribed feverishly.
Gasps of surprise, groans of disappointment and exclamations of relief bounded around the stone floors and wood ceiling.
“Silence,” the podesta yelled.
The guard stepped forward. A menacing look and a hand on his sword were enough to calm the crowd. Cosimo and his guards stood back, watched and waited.
“Show us what is beneath your undershirt,” the podesta ordered. “Prove at once you are truly with child and not posing as a fraud.”
Dolce lifted her shirt. Her stomach was round, shiny and firm. Her belly button protruded.
The podesta stared, then sat back heavily in his chair. “Very well. This Court is satisfied the girl is indeed pregnant.”
The podesta looked past Dolce. She followed his line of sight. Cosimo de’ Medici was inches from her. He wore a fine cioppa, a silk gown that fell from his shoulders in organ pleats with full sleeves and a high collar. It was lined in fur with the hem and sleeves cut into a scallop design. It was red, the color of nobility. He smelled of rich meats.
The podesta bowed.
“This girl,” Cosimo said, “is to be tried for the murder of my nephew, Giuliano. She is to be taken into custody now.”
“My apologies but that is not possible.” The podesta looked at her stomach. “You know the law. It is forbidden to imprison a woman with child.”
“So be it. Then I shall watch her and when she is no longer with child, she will be punished.”
Cosimo turned and, with a flourish, seemed to fly out of the courtroom. Henchmen, without necessity, warning the crowd to stay back.
The podesta gnawed on the end of a quill. “I am ready to pronounce my sentence.”
“We demand counsel,” Pippo stood.
The podesta waved his hand. “One more outburst and I will be sentencing you.”
Donatello jumped up.
“And you.” The podesta shouted.
Pippo pulled Donatello into the seat.
“Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti, step forward.”
Slowly, Andrea rose. His legs spindles beneath a short, torn tunic. Dolce stepped back.
“No,” the podesta said. “You stand next to him.”
Dolce stepped back to his side. Andrea grabbed her hand.
The podesta looked at the notary. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“I begin by stating the obvious. Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti is hereby found guilty of sodomy.”
“No,” Donatello shot up.
“You speak again, and you will be thrown in the dungeons. I have heard no testimony throughout this trial to exonerate the accused. That is, until the Gaddi girl presented physical evidence that might be compelling. Of course, I must wonder, is she to be trusted? We might feel certain upon the child’s birth if his features favor his father’s but that would not be conclusive. We might wait and see if the child grows and becomes an accomplished sculptor like his father, but that too would not be sufficient. Donatello could be the father then.”
The spectators laughed. The podesta smiled, appearing pleased with his joke. Pippo grabbed Donatello’s arm and held him back.
“I am pronouncing the following sentence …”
Andrea’s grasp on Dolce’s hand tightened.
“Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti is hereby sentenced to prison.”
Some members of the audience groaned, others cheered. Donatello lunged toward the judge. Pippo held him back again.
“Silence,” the podesta yelled, “I must complete the pronouncement. He will have no hard labor. When he is hungry, he will eat. When he is thirsty, he will drink. If he desires the fruit of a woman, one will be provided. But this is all conditional upon the following …”
The podesta looked at the notary and waited for his written words to catch up with the spoken sentences. When all appeared synchronized, which was of the u
pmost importance for posterity, the podesta continued, “At the child’s birth, a midwife will bear witness and, before the first cry, the child will be cloistered to serve God in silence as a nun or monk depending upon its sex. And when that occurs, when the baby is willfully released to the People, Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti will be declared innocent and set free.”
Dolce looked up. “But … why?”
“A mother will only make such a sacrifice for the father. Your choice will be the true indicator of Il Buggiano’s guilt or innocence.”
“And if I refuse to give up my … our baby?” Dolce asked.
“Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti will be hung immediately in the public square.”
Chapter Fifty-four
With steady rain falling, Dolce sloshed through puddles on her return to Abramo’s shop. Her hair was tucked under her cap. Her hands rested on her belly. Bags of sand lined the Arno and offered little protection against the water that splashed over the banks. The bells were ringing. The gates were closing. Curfew was going into effect. Around her, merchants ignored the warnings and were gathering and buzzing. The verdict of Andrea’s trial had already seeped into the red bricks and cobblestones that ran through Firenze like arteries, drawing members of the working class together. Dolce heard them speak of Andrea and of his fate, of the girl carrying his child, and of his refusal to give up his fight against prejudice and discrimination. On more than one corner, she heard Andrea’s name spoken in the same sentence as the words salvatore and liberatore. They were calling Andrea their savior.
As she hurried to Abramo’s shop, Dolce wasn’t sure what she was going to do and if she should tell Samuele about Andrea’s sentence. About her own sentence. She wasn’t even sure how she should feel. Her baby’s life for Andrea. Andrea’s life for her baby. The working class might believe Andrea was their savior but Dolce knew she could be Andrea’s savior.