by Joanne Lewis
“The decree allowing me to visit has been repealed. I have been meeting with Dolce, the girl who holds your future in her womb.”
“Did you tell her she should not sacrifice her child for me?”
Pippo looked away. “With reluctance.”
“Father,” Andrea said, “the working people of Firenze think I’m to rescue them. They think because I have been tortured and judged that I am their leader. I do not understand why they see this in me. I am an ordinary man. They are gathering now. I have heard there will be more bloodshed. What do I do?”
“It is not your responsibility to save them.”
“But if I can spare one life, shouldn’t I?”
“If you spare one, people will complain you didn’t save two. You will go from hero to goat. And what of your own life?”
“No matter what Dolce decides, I have no life left. If she keeps her child, as I hope she does, I will be hung. If she offers her child to a monastic life, I will be stricken with guilt and shame and will spend every day in the fire knowing what has occurred because of me.”
A worker neared Pippo. “Where would you like those cross beams?”
“Do not disturb me,” Pippo snapped.
The man reared back with fear then looked at Andrea. He fell to his knees. “Il Buggiano,” he cried.
Pippo grabbed Andrea’s arm and pulled him away. “I will summon Donatello who will take you to safety.”
“If I flee, the people will be slaughtered and Dolce will suffer.”
“What is your affinity for these people and that girl?” Pippo waved two approaching workers away.
“I want to do good but I am afraid.”
The workers started to gather around them, pointing at Andrea. Some falling to their knees.
“Do you remember the story of the fat carpenter?” Pippo led Andrea away from them.
“Of course. You made him think he was someone else because he failed to honor a social engagement with you. You told me that you can achieve anything you set your mind to.”
“Yes, that was the lesson. Make your choices well, my son, for they will be with you for the rest of your life.”
“Yes, Padre.”
Andrea heard rumbling, like a quickening heart beat. He looked into the distance. Workers scattered, crouching under wood beams and stone overhangs.
Andrea looked to the sky. “There are no clouds yet a storm is coming.”
“That is not thunder,” Pippo said. “It is Cosimo’s army.”
“Heading this way?” Andrea’s stomach lurched. “They are coming for me. I must go.”
“Be careful, my son.”
Andrea ran down a hill, through the old market, cut in and out of sharply angled streets, his ankles twisting on the cobblestones. Sounds of panic—high pitched screams of women, low-toned commands of men, the in-between pitch of panicked children—weaved through the thuds of galloping hooves striking dirt and stone and resonated like a whip against Andrea’s skin.
Up ahead, the streets pulsed in differing directions. The intersection beckoned like the rays of a five-pointed star. One street led to the piazza where Cosimo’s army was headed and the masses were about to be slaughtered again. Another led to the bell tower, where Andrea could return to the temporary safety of his cell. Two other streets jutted into other parts of the city and still another toward the gate that would take him outside the walls of Firenze. Andrea skidded to a halt and considered his choices.
He took a deep breath, recalling when he and Dolce had run for their lives, remembering how Dolce had saved his life first outside the gates and then inside the courtroom, marveling at her courage. Thoughts of Dolce bolstered him. He turned and ran toward the piazza where the masses were assembled and where Cosimo’s militia was headed.
As he ran, he felt someone beside him, matching his steps. He quickened his pace. He had to get there before the horses. When the Piazza della Signoria came into sight, he slowed, out of breath. A meaty hand wrapped around his arm. He swung out and struck the offender somewhere. In the face? The neck? Andrea turned, hands balled and raised to chest level. He looked down and saw Po on the ground, rubbing his jaw where Andrea had hit him. Andrea dropped his fists and lifted him to his feet.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Come on.”
They ran toward the piazza and entered the L shape. Most people were running, their footsteps beating like anxious hearts. Some men and boys stood firm with useless weapons in hands. The market stalls were toppled. The roof was askew—one side low to the ground, the other still raised overhead.
“Up there,” Po pointed.
Andrea jumped on to the roof, climbed like it was the slope of a mountain until he reached its peak.
“Be calm,” Andrea yelled.
He was ignored. As hard as he urged, as loud as Andrea called to get their attention, most of the crowd didn’t seem to notice him. Some shouted at him, some shook sticks at him. Andrea touched the prison guard uniform he was wearing and realized he was dressed like the enemy.
“It is me,” he said.
They didn’t hear. Or didn’t listen. He removed the uniform, grabbed red cloth from a stand and wrapped himself in it.
He yelled, “I am Il Buggiano.”
Some noticed him, then others. More and more, until the seething respirations of the piazza slowed. Eyes watched him, so many eyes. Mouths moved but no words emitted. Male hands tensed around clubs. Women clutched their young. They looked up at him. Waited. Expected. Hoped.
The first of Cosimo’s men halted at the edge of the piazza. Others, many others, joined them until snorting horses and red eyed men were lined in battle formation.
They all watched Andrea. Andrea’s heart pounded and filled with fear. Who was he to think he could prevent this massacre? Who was he to think he could save the masses?
He tightened the red cloth around his shoulders and yelled, “I am Il Buggiano.”
PART FIVE
Chapter Sixty-nine
With dawn about to stretch into the horizon, Filippa was asleep, finally asleep. Julio emerged from a puff of car exhaust. Grey and black smog surrounded him like a dust storm. She smelled burning rubber and blazing flesh. Filippa gagged and covered her mouth and nose with her hand. Her eyes teared.
With her free hand, she pointed at Julio. “You killed Roman. You were driving. Not me.”
He laughed.
“Why would you do that to me? Why would his nanny lie to the police? Do you know the pain I’ve been living with thinking I killed that little boy?”
Dolce stepped next to her. She held a large war ax, its gleaming sharp end bloody. She thrust the ax toward Filippa. Filippa took it and looked at Julio.
“Do it,” Dolce said.
With both hands, Filippa swung the iron against Julio’s head, bashing him, over and over, with all her might, crying, yelling. Blood and brain matter splattering.
Dolce cheered.
Julio laughed.
Filippa woke with a start. The plane was landing in Florence. She hadn’t told Marcello and Carla when she was arriving. She had something to take care of before she saw them.
Outside the airport, she grabbed a taxi.
“Brunelleschi’s dome,” she said.
She fell asleep in the cab, dreaming of the reunion with her friends. She was anxious to find out what else they had learned about Dolce and to get back on task, to finally find out who the girl was that had designed the first skyscraper and had entered the competition to build the lantern. Then they could win the prize of the modern day contest, prove Grandpa Raj right and start a charitable organization in Buddy’s honor. She was pleased and surprised her parole officer had allowed her to take this trip, again.
The driver yelled. “This is as close as I can get you to Il Centro. It’s a nonstop traffic jam in there. They should close off those streets to cars.”
She paid, grabbed her duffel bag, got out and maneuvered through th
e throng.
So many people were around her, crowding the sidewalks, stepping under and around scaffolding. Vespas motored around cars, two to a bike on long, black seats, no helmets. She didn’t remember the city being so crowded, closed in, smoggy and noisy. Chitter-chatter, the hum of Vespas, the hammering of construction workers. It was June and the city was thick with tourists. The five Romance languages surrounded her and some languages she didn’t recognize. Chinese or Japanese? Hebrew?
Filippa turned the corner and a slice of the dome and the lantern came into view—bristling in the afternoon sun. People were shoulder to shoulder in the plaza around the cathedral and the bell tower but Filippa could have been in the middle of an ant farm with millions of tiny black creatures biting her and she wouldn’t have noticed. Tears came to her eyes, silenced her voice and clotted her throat. Big, thick tears rolled down her cheeks. One by one, they dripped off her chin and crawled onto her tongue. Her chest heaved. Her limbs shook.
“Are you okay?” an American tourist asked.
She nodded and spoke through sobs. “Dolce was right. Dreams do come true.”
Filippa paid the admission fee and scaled the 463 steps to the top of the dome. It felt good to climb to the top legally. At the peak, she ducked under the stairs and waited for the natural light to change until she saw it clearly.
Dolce Gaddi, Architetta.
Yes, it was real. Dolce was real. She traced the name with her fingers. Dolce had been the girl who had entered the competition to build the lantern in 1436. She had been the one who had designed the first skyscraper too. Question was, how to prove it?
Filippa leaned in, noticed something scrawled below Dolce’s name. Why hadn’t she seen it before? The lettering was shaky, clearly carved by a hand less steady than Dolce’s. Filippa looked more closely.
Il Buggiano, Scultore/Eroe.
Chapter Seventy
Filippa didn’t descend the spiral stairway until it was almost five p.m., closing time. She had sat up there, feeling Dolce’s arms around her, sensing Andrea nearby. She had stared at the spectacular panoramic view of Florence. She saw a small portion of the old wall that had closed Florence in hundreds of years ago to protect it from attacks. Beyond the wall, small farms dotted the landscape.
She attempted to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Andrea had been tried for the crime of sodomy. His trial was not going well for him until Dolce came in, removed her overcoat and claimed to be carrying Andrea’s baby. That was the last she had read. She wondered if Marcello and Carla had found more. Like a good mystery novel, she was anxious to read on.
She tried to imagine Florence over five hundred and seventy years ago. What had it been like for Brunelleschi building the dome? Where had Dolce lived and what was her life like? And Andrea too? And how was she going to prove that Dolce had entered the lantern competition? If there was any documentation, certainly some historian would have found it by now.
She heard the announcement, closing time. Filippa smiled at what she would have done a few months ago. Hide until the guard made his last check, then spend the night curled under the stairs, staring at the stars. But not tonight. Not anymore.
At the bottom of the stairs, she ambled through the cathedral, looking at the artwork, people watching—seeing all shapes, sizes and ethnicities—listening to the United Nations of chatter, trying to identify what country a person might be from. She studied a picture of Dante from Commedia, admired it for a moment then turned to leave. She stopped and hid behind a statue. Was that Officer Franco? She didn’t know why she was afraid. She hadn’t done anything wrong. This time, at least. But she had had her fill of cops, American and Italian. She hung back a moment, waiting for him to leave.
He turned and greeted a woman with a kiss on each cheek. Filippa leaned forward to get a better view. Was that Carla?
Filippa was tired, so exhausted her legs felt like weak stems trying to stay upright against a raging tide. The ten-hour flight, the six-hour time change, the mental exhaustion from the roller coaster ride that has been her life, losing Buddy, Julios’ death, it was all coming down upon her, hitting her limb by limb. First her legs, which were barely carrying her through the streets of Florence. Next, her arms that hung with immense weight by her sides. Followed by her shoulders that hefted the burden of the duffel bag; her thoughts that wouldn’t stop zooming; and her heart that ached as if it would break into tiny pieces with the jostle of every step.
She followed Carla and Officer Franco onto the Ponte Vecchio, the old bridge constructed by Taddeo Gaddi in 1345 that spans the Arno River at its narrowest point. As in medieval times, merchants lined the bridge. Then, it had been butchers and produce venders marketing their goods. Today, jewelry and kitsch objects were sold to tourists.
In the center of the bridge, Carla stopped and fingered linen scarves. Filippa melted into the crowd. To her left were a series of arches, beyond them apartment buildings. To her right, a bust of Benvenuto Cellini. In the sky, clouds blocked the sun.
Filippa felt a shadow descend upon her, a strong, magnetic presence. A potpourri of dust blew into her nose from no apparent source. A cloud inched over, allowing golden beams of warmth to radiate on to her face. As if tapped on the shoulder, Filippa turned. Behind her, she saw the highest point of the dome, its gentle arms pushing her forward like a mother cat urging her kitten to take its first steps.
Carla and Franco began to walk again. A statue of Bacchus beckoned at the end of the bridge, his arm raised over his head as if cheering Filippa on. They turned right at Bacchus, off the bridge and on to the Oltrarno, the other side of the river Arno known for its denizens of creativity, and onto the street Borgo San Jacopo. They were in an area known as SoPo; south of the Ponte Vecchio.
Filippa stayed several feet behind Carla and Franco, feeling the uneven cobblestones under her sneakers on the narrow street. Bicyclists zipped by. People milled around, gazing upward, pointing at the ancient architecture, stopping to inspect the wares of the many artisans that lined the street selling beads and jewelry, pottery and ornaments.
At a bust of a man with his head tipped back while holding his nose as if pronouncing his superiority to the stench of humanity, Carla and Franco turned left onto Via Toscanella. They walked into a small plaza called Piazza Della Passera and stepped into Caffe Degli Artigiani.
Filippa hung back in the piazza, pretending to look at a display laid out on a tattered blanket on the street. A longhaired man with an impish grin was selling handcrafted wood charms carved into fish, snakes and symbols of spirituality. One piece caught her eye.
Filippa handed him a couple of euros and palmed a thin, brown leather necklace with a breeching dolphin carved into a wood pendant. It reminded her of Miami. It reminded her of Buddy.
Pendant around her neck, Filippa peered into the café off the plaza and saw Carla and Franco standing at a white counter. Close-up photos of faces were taped to the wall like wallpaper. Cappuccinos and brownies in hand, they walked out of the café and through another door, into the seating area of the restaurant.
Hidden behind a tall sign of a waiter holding a menu and with the duffel bag at her feet, Filippa rubbed the dolphin pendant between her thumb and forefinger and looked into the open door of the corner cafe. Carla and Franco seemed to be speaking rapidly. Their expressions were serious. Their smiles hesitant. Finally, Franco handed Carla a large envelope.
Filippa wasn’t sure what to do. She rubbed the pendant harder as if asking for a wish to come true. Why was Carla talking to Franco? Filippa warned herself not to be paranoid. There had to be some logical explanation as to why Carla and Franco were eating brownies together in a café.
“Filippa?”
She immediately recognized his strong Italian accent and the way his voice raised at the third syllable to intonate he wasn’t stating her name, but asking it.
“Yes,” she spoke softly.
Marcello grabbed her, pulled her into his chest. The dolphin pendant stabbed
her.
“What you doing here?” he asked.
“You first.”
“Carla asked me to meet her. I hadn’t heard from her in a few weeks so I came right over. Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?”
Filippa nodded toward the café.
Marcello leaned over, squinted. “Who is she with?”
“That’s Officer Franco. Remember how I told you Carla and I first met? Well, the second time really. That’s the police officer that caught me on top of the dome.”
Marcello leaned forward. “What are they doing together?”
“I don’t know.”
He took her hand. “Come with me. We will find together. I let you go once. I’m letting you not go again.” He placed his hand over his heart. “That is my solemn vow.”
Chapter Seventy-one
Marcello held Filippa’s hand as they walked into the café. He led her to the table where Carla and Franco were seated.
Carla looked up, scanned from Marcello to Filippa. As she took in Filippa, a broad smile crossed her lips. “When did you get here?”
“No,” Marcello said, “the question is best asked to you. Why are you with him?”
Carla sighed. “Officer Franco is also a student of the Italian Renaissance. I think everyone is in Florence.”
“And?”
“He has a friend at the State Archives?”
“Who?” Marcello asked. “That’s where I work.”
“There are areas within the archives where documents are stored that the curator believes are too delicate for display,” Franco said. “Areas that employees do not know about. The curator, she is my friend.” Franco looked at Filippa. “You’re not living in the dome anymore, are you?”
“No,” she smiled.
“Good. I must give a confession. When you told me about the skyscraper contest and the girl at the dome, I was full of intrigue. I had Carla’s number in my cell since that is how you called her to pick you up. I contacted her and she told me about your search for the Gaddi girl. I thought I could help. I had my friend take a look to see if she could find anything on Dolce.” Franco waved the envelope. “She found this.”