by Joanne Lewis
“What is it?” Filippa asked.
“The last will and testament of Gianna Gaddi. It’s dated 1762,” Carla said.
“Who is that?” Marcello asked.
“The last known survivor of the Gaddi family. In her will, she gives all of the Gaddi artwork—dating back to Gaddo Gaddi in the twelve hundreds up to Gianna herself who was a portraitist—to the city of Florence.”
“Let me see that.” Marcello delicately opened the envelope.
“If we look at every piece of artwork by the Gaddi family prior to Dolce’s death, we may find her sketches for the competition,” Franco said.
“How can you be so sure?” Filippa asked.
“Because this was the fifteenth century and the Gaddi family were not wealthy. I guarantee they used and reused all of their resources. Somewhere in this city is proof that Dolce Gaddi drew the first skyscraper and entered the competition. And together, we’re going to find it.”
Marcello delicately held the will, studied it. “The curator gave this to you? How did you get Ileana to do that?” He placed it down.
“She is my sister,” Franco said. “When I found out that Carla is …”
“A lesbian,” Carla filled in his blank.
“Yes. I introduced her to my sister. There isn’t much Ileana won’t do for love.”
Carla blushed.
“We were also hoping …” Franco said.
“We?” Carla asked.
“Well, me. Ileana said it’s not necessary but I think it is. If this information leads you to winning the contest, that you might remember us when you receive the prize money.”
Marcello and Carla flanked Filippa as they made their way across the Ponte Vecchio and toward the city center.
“I don’t trust Franco,” Filippa said.
“Is it because you don’t want to share the prize money with them?” Carla asked.
“I just don’t trust the police. That’s all.” Filippa stopped. An archway bloomed over her. “This has nothing to do with money. I’m not going to lie, to have financial security would be nice because I have no idea how I’m going to survive. In Florence, or anywhere. But this isn’t about money.”
“If proving Dolce designed the first skyscraper isn’t about winning the prize money, what is it about?” Marcello asked.
Filippa started walking again. “I don’t know anymore,” she spoke softly.
Carla looked at Marcello. “What do you think of Franco’s theory that Dolce might have scrawled on other pieces of Gaddi art?”
“Based on my knowledge of the time period, it’s possible. Art historians and restorers have found art within art and symbols behind the paint. Think of Michelangelo and the Sistine Chapel. He put at least two portraits of himself in The Last Judgment. And many believe Leonardo da Vinci put symbols in the Last Supper and Mona Lisa. Some think Mona Lisa was painted over another painting.”
“And we don’t have any other leads,” Carla said.
“I thought Marcello found the rest of the transcript of Andrea’s trial,” Filippa said.
“I did. And after Carla translated it, we realized it was a dead end. It ended with Dolce claiming she was carrying Andrea’s baby.”
“Maybe he wasn’t gay?”
“All we know,” Carla said, “is the court ruled if she gave up her baby at birth Andrea would go free. If not, he would die.”
Filippa stopped. The Arno rushed behind her. “What did she do?”
“That was the end of the transcript,” Marcello said. “We don’t know what happened after that. So now the only lead we have is Franco’s theory.”
“Then I guess it won’t hurt to pursue that,” Filippa said.
“You sure?” Carla asked. “I know I’m biased since Franco is Ileana’s brother but it sounds solid.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Marcello, do you know what year Dolce died?” Filippa asked.
“1490. She was seventy-one years old.”
They turned a corner and walked past the Uffizi and the Palazzo Vecchio, along Via de Calzaioli until the white, green and red marble of the bell tower came into view, tucked between several buildings.
“Can you get a list of all the Gaddi artwork in Florence prior to Dolce’s death?”
They turned onto Via Cavour. Filippa stopped under a bronze sign stating Hotel Casci.
“Sure,” Marcello said.
“Good. Let’s meet back here tomorrow.”
“What are you going to do the rest of the evening? I thought we would have dinner, Tuscan style.” Marcello said.
“Another time. I promise.”
Marcello and Carla kissed Filippa on each cheek then walked away, back toward their apartments.
“Wait.” Filippa ran to them.
She grabbed Marcello and kissed him on the lips. She turned to Carla and kissed her the same.
Chapter Seventy-two
Filippa stood atop the dome, alone. She looked up into the lantern and pondered Marcello’s question—If proving Dolce designed the first skyscraper isn’t about winning the prize money, what is it about?
She had said she didn’t know the answer but she had lied. She had known all along. It was about the mother and father she had never known. It was about the little girl Filippa never got to be. It was about Grandpa Raj. It was about Julio and proving to him that she could be something. It was about Buddy and Roman who had lost their lives way too young. It was about every line of cocaine, every ounce of blow, every bit of weed she had inhaled, and all the fumes of crack that had floated into her lungs and bloodstream. It was about every day she had spent in prison. It was about redemption and acceptance. Absolution for past sins. Protection from damnation. Rebirth. Renaissance.
She wiped tears from her cheeks and heard a man clear his throat. She was surprised to no longer be alone. As she gazed upon him, she was astonished at the raw emotion that fell down her face. He was dressed in silk and linen, unsightly with a square head, pocked skin and a nose that hooked like a waterspout. She ran to her namesake and hugged him with all her might.
“I met Dolce a few times in my life.” Pippo said. “The first time she was a small girl running from parchment makers. Another time was after Andrea was imprisoned and we were awaiting her decision upon the birth of her child. That was right before The Day Before Massacre. My son saved the working class people of Firenze and gave them a voice. Because of him, they were given a seat on the city government. It cost many their lives but all change carries a price. Andrea was their savior, and mine. ”
Filippa pondered this for a moment then asked, “What was Dolce like?”
He looked up, as if searching for the correct description. “Luminous.” He put his hands behind his back and walked around the top of the dome.
Filippa followed.
“You know,” he pointed, “the way the cross beams spread apart at the pinnacle of the lantern allows for optimum ventilation. That was Dolce’s idea.”
“So she did enter the competition.”
“Yes and no. She submitted plans but after I saw them I believed she had stolen them from me. They were so precise, like she had been in my head, only better. Because of my standing with the Board of the Duomo, I had her drawings disqualified, but not before taking some of her ideas and improving my own submission. Po even told me about the city she drew with tall buildings and decorative shelves jutting out. He said she drew buildings that climbed into the sky where people could live one day. I told my biographer, Antonio Manetti, the ideas were mine.” He hung his head. “I died while the lantern was being constructed. It is apparent,” he looked up and sighed, “the plans I had entered in the competition were followed faithfully, including the improvements I had taken from Dolce.”
“Am I wasting my time trying to find Dolce’s entry in the competition?”
“Searching for plans that don’t exist? Yes, that is a waste of time. Searching for your true self, there is no better endeavor in the Renaissance or the modern world.”
“How do I find my true self?” Filippa asked.
“Go back to the beginning,” Pippo said. “Start over. What you think you want to find won’t be there. But what you need to discover, will.”
Chapter Seventy-three
Hotel Casci was a block from the dome. Located on the second floor of a converted fifteenth century convent and the former home of musician Gioacchino Rossini, its halls were winding and narrow, its twenty-seven rooms of moderate size. As Filippa walked toward room 14, framed jigsaw puzzles of scenes from the Sistine Chapel, the waterway of Venice, a German Shepherd dog, sketches of Renaissance Florence, and posters of Tuscany covered the walls. In a glass cabinet, miniature models of Michelangelo’s David, La Pieta and Moses shared shelf space with glass swans and fake flowers. A ginger bread house was in the hearth of a small, brick fireplace in a corner. A grandfather clock was motionless.
Paolo, six feet five inches tall, handsome, jovial and with black hair gelled into a Mohawk, graciously checked Filippa in to the one remaining room.
Inside, the room was comfortable, clean and spacious. Filippa dropped the duffel on the bed, then herself. She unzipped the bag and pulled out the tattered Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Artists. Lying on the bed, she turned to page 136 and went back to the beginning.
… and even a woman from the Gaddi family dared to enter the competition with Pippo’s design!...
Yes, that was where it had all began for Grandpa Raj. Filippa recalled sitting at the dining room table in the house on Biscayne Bay doing her homework or creating Filippa Village, Grandpa Raj working on his lesson plan but always returning to the worn copy of Vasari’s Lives.
… and even a woman from the Gaddi family dared to enter the competition…
How had Vasari known about Dolce? Filippa looked at the date of Pippo’s death. 1446. Then at the date of Vasari’s birth. 1511. Vasari had not known Pippo, or Donatello, or Andrea, or Dolce. They hadn’t lived at the same time. If Pippo had destroyed Dolce’s plans, how would Vasari have known about her especially when he wrote the first draft of Lives in 1547; one hundred and eleven years after the lantern competition?
… and even a woman from the Gaddi family dared…
She laid the book on her chest. There had to be a link between Dolce and Vasari. If it wasn’t through the plans for the lantern, what was it?
Filippa scanned the index. She checked dates of births and deaths. She skimmed to see who could have been in Florence during Dolce’s lifetime? Who could have known her at the end of her life as well as known Vasari during his life?
… and even a woman…
Her eyes grew heavy as muffled music from another room played and a small air conditioning unit rattled. Filippa reviewed each name in the index again, crossed off those that could not have known Dolce and Vasari, narrowed it down to a few possibilities.
Her eyes closed. She tried to force them open. They closed again. One last attempt, she flipped the pages of the book. She landed on page 414.
… and even…
Of course.
Filippa heard knocking.
“Are you awake?” Marcello called.
Relieved at the sound of his voice, she got out of bed and opened the door.
“We’ve been waiting out front for you,” Carla said.
“Sorry. I overslept.”
“Here,” Marcello pulled a piece of paper out of a satchel, which hung over his shoulder.
Filippa wiped the sleep out of her eyes and scanned the typewritten sheet. It was a list of all the Gaddi artwork in Florence.
GADDI ARTWORK IN FLORENCE
GADDO GADDI
MOSAIC OF CORONATION OF THE VIRGIN OVER THE DOOR
IN SANTA MARIA DEL FIORE
TADDEO GADDI
DESIGNED THE PONTE VECCHIO
CEILING PAINTING AND A SERIES OF FRESCOES REPRESENTING SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF THE VIRGIN IN THE BARONCELLI CHAPEL IN SANTA CROCE
THE ANGELIC ANNOUNCEMENT TO THE SHEPHERDS,
FRESCO IN CAPPELLA BARONCELLI, SANTA CROCE
LAST SUPPER IN THE RECTORY OF SANTA CROCE
ALTAR PIECES IN THE UFFIZI
MADONNA WITH SAINTS IN SANTA FELICITA
AGNOLO GADDI
FRESCOES OF THE STORY OF THE TRUE CROSS IN SANTA CROCE
MEDALLIONS
DESIGNER OR GILDER OF STATUES FOR THE FAÇADE
OF SANTA MARIA DEL FIORE
“Good work.” Filippa said.
“Last night, I did some—how do you say—snooping,” Marcello said. “I think we’re closer to finding proof of Dolce’s entry into the lantern competition.”
“Wait,” Filippa said. “Nothing is going to lead us to Dolce’s submission. No proof exists.”
“How do you know?”
“I found out yesterday. I, uh, met someone who knows what happened.”
“An art historian?”
“I would definitely call him that,” she smiled. “Despite the competition and the prize money, despite all we’ve been doing these last few months, I learned that not only is there no proof of Dolce’s submission into the lantern competition, but I don’t think it’s what I’m really looking for.”
“What is?” Carla asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“This person you met,” Marcello looked at Filippa, “I believe is wrong. We have to keep looking for proof of this competition. I know where maybe we can find it.”
“Back to the State Archives?” Carla asked.
“No. To the Opera di Santa Maria del Fiore.”
“English,” Filippa said.
“To the Cathedral Works Commission, or as it’s more commonly called in Italian, to the Opera del Duomo, the organization that has been in charge of the construction of the dome since the beginning.”
Chapter Seventy-four
The Opera of the Dome archives was situated just south of the dome in Via Della Canonica 1, accessed through Piazza del Capitolo. Marcello pressed a gold bell out front of the medieval building and a buzzer sounded. Filippa, Marcello and Carla climbed two flights of heavy stone stairs and entered the library. Marcello spoke Italian to the clerk behind a counter who ran off and returned with a casually dressed man whose graying hair frizzed from his head in Einstein fashion. He reached out his hand to Marcello, a wide smile on his face. They exchanged greetings. Marcello introduced him to Filippa and Carla as Doctoro Giuseppe Stroziano.
Filippa and Carla followed the men up several flights of stairs, stopping at lockers to put away their bags, then two more flights until they were led into a large, pristine, high ceilinged room with three tables, lamps attached, and platforms for books to rest on. On several wood bookcases located in the large room and also in many smaller rooms, the bindings of hundreds of ancient manuscripts beckoned. Filippa walked down a row between two bookcases and read from the bindings.
Debitore e Creditore 1515–1517
Suppliche Rescritti e Ordini del Governo 1561 al 1574
Lettere e Negozi del Provveditore 1748–1749
Back at a central table, Giuseppe placed a small softbound book in a velvet cradle.
“This is La Cupola Di Santa Maria Del Fiore by Cesare Guasti. Written in 1857, it is a complete compendium of the documents for the building of the cupola and the lantern. We find what you want in here,” he tapped the book, “then I can pull the actual manuscript off the shelf for you to look at. What would you like to know about the cupola?”
“We are interested in the lantern competition,” Marcello said.
“Ah, this is very important.” Wearing thin, white gloves, Giuseppe flipped through the book. He stopped at page 93.
Quod Lanterna magne Cupole fiat secundum modellum
Filippi Ser Brunelleschi, modo infrascripto
An 1436, a’ 31 dicembre.
“Can you read Latin?” Giuseppe asked.
Filippa and Marcello looked at Carla, who smiled.
The large white manuscript angled on a wooden platform was
rebound in the 1960’s but the pages inside spanned the building of the lantern from 1436 until 1442, four years before Brunelleschi’s death. It was hand-written in Latin by a notary present at the deliberations of the Opera. Giuseppe turned the book to a page near the beginning. It was dated December 31, 1436; the day the decision was made by the Opera del Duomo as to who would win the lantern competition. One page was all it had taken for a notary to transcribe the decision of the Opera. The paper was thick and water stained, the ink tawny brown, the handwriting small, meticulous and flowery.
“No touch, please,” Giuseppe said. “And no pens. If you must write, in pencil only. But of course, not on the book. Marcello, please sign for me.”
Marcello and Giuseppe walked to a separate area while Carla peered close to the manuscript.
“Can you read it? What does it say?” Filippa felt like a child about to unwrap a present.
“Give me a minute,” Carla said.
“I’m sure you can understand it. Don’t you have a degree in Latin?”
Carla looked at her sternly. “Give me some space. I need a minute.”
Filippa stepped back and looked around. Her heart fluttered as if she was about to get good news. The history of the documents in the room warmed her.
The bell from the bell tower rang. Five o’clock. It sounded like many bells at once, five or six, echoing, ringing and chiming in a sing-song manner making each dong indiscernible from the next. Birds chirped outside the green and purple stained glass windows with OPA, standing for Opera Archives, proudly etched on each pane like a coat of armor. The din of people talking on the streets below, a dog barking, doors opening and closing within the building, all filled Filippa’s senses. She was trying to be patient while Carla interpreted the manuscript.
“Okay,” Carla finally said. “I can read most of it. It’s the deliberations of the Opera to decide who wins the lantern competition. They pronounce Brunelleschi the winner for his ingenious design.”