by Joanne Lewis
“How can you be so smart? You must have had a great teacher.”
He laughed, kissed her. “The best. Besides, I have already made a decision. I made it shortly after the verdict was reached.”
“So you already knew? Why did you pretend …?”
“I didn’t want you to make your decision based on me. Whatever your heart tells you is what we will do.”
She leaned back. “And you will not be angry with me? You will not resent me when you see a child playing with her father and you had no opportunity to play with your own child? You will not feel shame and disappointment when other children are growing and learning and getting married and having children of their own and your child is cloistered?”
“I am not saying it will be easy. I love you, Dolce Gaddi. Now,” he grabbed the satchel, “let’s talk about something else.” He reached in and removed a scroll. “For you, my love.”
She wrapped her hands around it as if she were holding her newborn. Samuele dug into the bag and pulled out several styluses, a knife, a compass and a straight edge.
“What is this for?” she asked.
“The competition for the lantern. Your entry is due pronto. The commission will make their decision on the 31st day of December. You do not have a lot of time.”
“I can’t compete with Pippo. And Nic tells me many accomplished architects are entering the competition like Ciaccheri, Ghiberti, Mazzei and Domenico.”
“You even said it yourself. You know Pippo better than anyone. And you know the dome better than anyone.”
“Except Pippo.”
He thrust the pens toward her. “Try. For me. For our child. For Andrea. For yourself.”
She held the scroll in one hand. The writing instruments in the other. She looked toward the bell tower. She hoped Andrea was watching.
Chapter Fifty-eight
One week after she had accepted Samuele’s marriage proposal, Dolce was cleaning Bandino’s room and found the plans for La Citta di Dolce hidden behind a wood panel. She grabbed the mixed pages of vellum, parchment and paper. She recalled how she had obtained these pages. Some had been stolen, some found, and a few actually purchased with money she had earned while living in the dome. Parts of her design were on the backs of posters. The pages were different sizes and thickness. The ink colors varied—blacks, blues, reds and sepias. She held the drawings to her chest and felt her heart pound as if she were embracing a lover.
Bandino was in the city, selling olives and flax. Bartolommeo was in the barn, tending to the pregnant cow that was lying on her side and refusing to eat. Guida was in the kitchen giving lessons to the children, the hearth keeping them warm.
Dolce felt a darkening, a shadow cast over her. She turned. Nic stood in the doorway to Bandino’s room. She clutched the papers.
“What are those?” he asked.
“My drawings.”
“Drawings of what?”
She hesitated, saw his heel crashing down on her sketches in the dirt when they were young. “La Citta di Dolce.”
“Is that what you used to draw when you were small?”
“Yes.”
He stepped toward her. She backed away, into a corner.
“Why are you afraid of me?”
She didn’t respond. He moved closer and reached for her. She flinched and twisted away.
He raised his hand and softly rubbed her cheek. “Dolcina, I am sorry for how I acted when we were young. I was a poor brother. I am ashamed. Please forgive me.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Ahhh, you speak with distrust in your voice. Let me prove it to you.” He held out his hands. “Give them to me.”
She pulled the drawings tighter into her chest, resting them on her protruding stomach.
“I will not hurt them. You will see.”
Dolce tried to look around him, to determine an escape route.
“Please, Dolcina. Let me show you I am not the same Niccolo. That was a very long time ago.”
She thought of her baby. She had to protect her child. Slowly, she handed the plans to him. One by one, he shuffled the different pages and boards and studied the drawings.
“These are very good. You are very talented.”
“Grazie.”
“Here,” he held them out to her. “I just wanted you to trust me. You can have them back.”
“What are you doing?” Bandino stood in the doorway.
Nic brought the drawings back toward his body.
“What is that?” Bandino asked.
“Dolce’s city.”
“Where did you find them? They were hidden. Who has been searching my room?”
“Dolce found them. By accident. I was taking them from her.”
“Good,” Bandino said. “Destroy them.”
“What?” Nic asked.
“I’ve been meaning to get rid of that malattia.” He spat.
“No,” Dolce said.
“Destroy them.”
“I will, Padre.”
“Now.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“But,” Dolce cried, “those are mine.”
“In my household, everything belongs to me.” Bandino looked at Nic, waited.
One by one, Nic tore each drawing into pieces. Bandino handed him a knife for the ones that were too thick to rip by hand. Finished, a pile lay on the floor.
“Burn them,” Bandino said.
Nic did not move. Tears dotted his eyes.
“Now.”
Nic picked up the pieces of Dolce’s city and threw them into the fireplace in the kitchen. Dolce watched her creations turn to ash. Smoke rose, filled her nostrils, lingered in her throat. Then, like a dark spirit, disappeared into the night.
She ran outside, the cold taking her breath and stinging the skin on her face. She ran to Il Gigante and threw her arms around the marble.
Chapter Fifty-nine
One hundred kilometers northwest of Firenze along the Carrione river is the province of Massa-Carrara in Tuscany. In the second century B.C., the Romans created quarries out of the snow white marble mountains that rose like enormous cathedrals between a beach and the Apuane Alps.
Marble was everywhere. Grey dust covered olive and fig trees, thick bushes and tentacle vines. The powder coated the arms, legs, hands and faces of the stone carvers. The dust, like fine crystals, even snaked inside ears, into the cavities of their mouths and to the depths of their nostrils. And for some, it even crept into their sexual organs.
Men, looking like ants compared to the giant mountains of stone, used crowbars, screw jacks, hammers and wires to release parts of the sleeping giant. They hollered watch out below and mind your heads when a piece weighing forty, sometimes fifty tons, detached from the monolith then roared and rolled until it came to a rest. The workers then descended upon the conquered stone and squared it into blocks and then into smaller slabs that could be hauled away on wooden skids.
From the second century B.C. to the fifteenth century A.D., little had changed at the Carrara quarries from the arduous process, the deaths and the infertility problems.
In the Fantiscritti quarries in Miseglia, the middle of three small valleys located in the Apuane Alps above Carrara, a tale is told of a strange event that occurred in 1421. One offspring came loose on its own from the white mountains, without prodding, as if propelled by an unknown power. The beast, thought to be six tons in weight, rocked free. Twenty men leapt out of its shadow. It bucked and rolled until it reached the bottom of the quarry then came to life again, spun three times, flipped twice, then lay down. When men approached, oh so carefully for they knew not how this creature freed itself from the others, it growled, took a man’s life, then lay still again as if prepared to be sacrificed.
The marble monster was dormant for fifteen moons as the leaders decided what to do. Most were afraid to approach the sleeping ogre for fear one of its limbs would lash out and take another life. Finally, it was decided the poorly blocked, sloping ma
ss of mediocre marble filled with microscopic holes would be sacrificed to the Gods of the seas. Many resisted the idea for fear dumping the fiend into the sea would result in tidal waves and tsunamis. Surely, shipping, commerce and war strategies would be affected. The day the brute was to be released into the ocean, a man named Bartolommeo rode up on horseback with a decree from Bandino Gaddi. The workers of Carrara cheered. Who better than a Gaddi to tame the beast? At no charge, not for labor nor transportation, the bravest men hauled Il Gigante to Il Poderino. Two men and three horses died on the difficult journey. Upon their return to Carrara, four stallions leaped into the sea and drowned, one man died of consumption, one of malaria and one dove off the top of a snow marble mountain as if diving into a white capped ocean.
Il Gigante arrived at Il Poderino on the same day and at the same hour as Dolce, although Dolce was too young and frightened at the time to remember.
And now, as she fanned the fire next to the marble tower and looked toward Giotto’s Campanile as if she could actually see Andrea watching from his prison, she bowed slightly to Il Gigante, the one constant in her life. She sat on the hard, cold ground and reached for a small mallet and chisel and began to carve its base.
No one would destroy La Citta di Dolce again.
Chapter Sixty
It was very seldom that a woman achieved anything of importance in Renaissance Italy. She bore the children but the man received accolades for the boy heir while the woman was punished for the female infant. She cooked and cleaned and educated the young but the men earned livings and fought wars. She was expected to remain loyal and it was expected he would stray.
A woman with artistic sensibility was rarely noticed. Neither Brunelleschi nor Donatello nor any of the other well known sculptors, architects and painters of the time had female assistants. The men were talented, to be sure, and they revolutionized the world. But what other masterpieces would have been created if women had been commissioned by the Medici and other wealthy lords to craft frescoes, wedding trunks and family seals?
At the kitchen table, seated upright and with a pen in hand frozen over sketches, and with her hands resting on her swollen stomach, Dolce softly snored. The fire in the hearth had died several hours ago. Her fingers, toes and the tip of her nose were turning blue from the cold. The other members of the household were sleeping, cuddled and curled in blankets on beds made of feathers. It was the beginning of December 1436 and Dolce’s plans for the lantern to sit atop the dome were finally finished.
Ingenious. Yes, she knew her design would work. Piers were broken around the eight corners of the dome. Pilasters were flanked by radial piers and topped by curling volutes that jutted diagonally to abut the inner piers. Half columns and stilted arches, rectangular doors and rib shaped strips completed the blueprint. As if Pippo had designed it himself. Maybe better.
She stirred when she felt something being laid over her shoulders. She dropped the pen and grabbed the wool blanket, pulled it tightly around her. She opened her eyes, only slightly, and saw Bandino. She pulled the blanket tighter, felt warm, nice. A dream. Bandino would only cover her in a dream.
When she awoke as the sun was rising and roosters were calling their wake up songs, she shuffled to the fireplace and lit a log. She then went to the hearth to start the wood burning. Everyone would awaken soon. She had to go out to the barn and retrieve some eggs then cook the pork and heat the bread she had made the day before. It was an important day. She was going to officially enter the competition to build the lantern.
She looked back at the table then sunk to the ground. The pen was there. The drawings were gone.
Dolce ran through the house and into Nic’s room where he, Guida and their two children shared a bed.
“Where is it?” she demanded.
Nic sat up, rubbed his eyes. Guida stirred.
“Where are my drawings to enter the lantern competition. They’re gone. Did you throw them into the fire like you did with La Citta di Dolce?”
“No, no. Of course not. I only did that because father …”
“You swear?”
“I would not lie to you, Dolcina. On my children’s lives. I have been sleeping. The entire night. I do not know where your drawings are. I would never take them, never …”
She didn’t wait to hear what else he had to say. She went to Bandino’s room, flung the door open and rushed inside.
“Where are my drawings?” she asked his empty bed.
Without coat or cloth, she ran to the barn and found Bartolommeo petting the pregnant cow that appeared to have regained her strength.
“Have you seen my drawings?” she asked.
“No, Dolcina.”
“How is she?” Dolce looked at the black and white cow, its stomach protruding. She touched her own belly.
“The calf isn’t due for several months but I think she’s going to make it,” Bartolommeo said.
“You are taking very good care of her.”
“Don’t tell anyone this for fear they will think I am diseased. I see Mea in her eyes. We never had children although we tried.”
Dolce smiled. “She is a beautiful animal.”
“Grazie.” He kissed the top of the cow’s head. “I am sorry. I do not know where your drawings are. The ones for the lantern competition, right?”
“Si. They are gone. Do you know where my father is?”
“He woke me several hours ago and asked me to prepare two horses to be taken to town. I offered to accompany him but he refused. Said he had to do this alone.”
“When he left, was he carrying anything?”
“A satchel over his shoulder. I do not know what was in it.”
“Grazie.” She reached into the chicken coop and grabbed five eggs. “Join us for breakfast, per favore.”
“Si. It is a frigid morning.” He laid a blanket over the cow. “I would be most pleased to share your warmth.”
As Dolce was serving breakfast, Bandino returned. He stepped into the kitchen and warmed his hands by the wood stove.
“Where are my drawings?” she asked.
He sat at the table, sipped wine from a metal mug then stared into the thick, blood red liquid. He didn’t respond.
“Where, Father,” she spat, “are my drawings?”
Guida stood, reached out to Dolce. “Be calm. The baby.”
Dolce waved her away and stood over Bandino, who while seated was the same height as Dolce when she stood.
Bandino sipped the wine and threw the remaining liquid into the fire. The flames crackled and jumped.
“I took your drawings and went to the Board of the Duomo to enter the competition as if they were made by my hand.”
“You did not?” Dolce cried.
“How could you?” Nic asked.
Bandino held up his hand and his shoulders slumped. For the first time Dolce confirmed he was a small man in a largy body. “But when I studied your lines and graphs, I was taken by the symmetry and beauty and precision. The lantern you designed is sure to radiate like the most beautiful rays of light. As much as everything about you is a reminder of my failures as a Gaddi, as a husband and as a father, I could not claim authorship.” He stood, holding the mug. Dolce looked up at him. “I submitted them to the Board under the name Dolce Gaddi. They were quite shocked that a girl dared to enter the competition but said they would consider your entry as if by a man.” He flung the mug into the hearth. The metal glowed red then slowly melted.
Chapter Sixty-one
Two weeks after Bandino had entered her drawings into the lantern competition, Dolce stared out the window at Il Gigante. Pippo’s dome and Giotto’s bell tower could be seen in the distance. The December air was frigid. The ground was frozen hard. The vegetation was skeletal, brown and dreary. It was too cold for her to finish carving the blueprint for La Citta di Dolce into the marble. She had made a lot of progress until the frost became too biting, her stomach grew too large that her back ached all the time, and the baby became m
uch too fidgety.
She had begun at the base of the giant and had already carved the building that rose into the clouds. She thought of a name for it. Scrapers of the sky for the way they touched the sun. Terraces were supported by cantilevers. Novella waved from atop the mist. As far as Dolce knew, no one on the farm except Bartolommeo was aware of her project. Bandino never went very close to the tower, didn’t even look at it. Guida and the children had no appreciation for the angel trapped within the stone. Nic was too busy running around the farm, trying to please Bandino.
Snow started to fall. Big, thick flakes landed softly and accumulated until the ground was covered in a thin, white veil. She was pleased to be alone. The fire warmed her. She wondered if Cosimo’s guards were still patrolling the entrance to Il Poderino in twelve-hour shifts. Would they really imprison her once the baby was born? She knew the answer. Yes. She would be tried for Giuliano de’ Medici’s, Hell’s, murder.
And she would be hung.
Cosimo would make sure of it. She had heard that Evanko, Purgatory, was being housed and fed and given plenty of wine in the Medici palace so he would be ready to testify against her as the only witness.
Dolce felt the baby roll. She had been experiencing cramps. The medico had ordered her to rest. No more lighting the fire each night for Andrea, at least until the storms subsided. No more chores, until the baby was born. Bartolommeo and Guida helped a lot. Samuele, when he visited. Even Nic, sometimes. Bandino grumbled each time he was near her but said nothing about her inactivity.
The rhythm of the sideways falling snow quickened. Il Gigante was growing fuzzy and harder to see in the snow that now fell fast like rain. The cupola and bell tower were no longer visible in the distance.
Dolce was bored. She would love to sweep, make a bed, cook a meal, and carve her city. But she knew the baby’s health, her own safety, could be compromised.
She opened the door to the house and felt the cold air jab at her skin. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the snow tickling her face. She opened her mouth and tasted the flurries as they landed on her tongue. She heard the storm calling her name. She placed her hands on her stomach and felt the baby’s warmth inside of her. She thought she heard her coo. Yes, Samuele was right. They were going to have a girl. She smiled. A girl. Her baby girl. Would she be artistic like the Gaddi family or analytical like the Da San Miniato family?