Mackenzie nodded. She leaned forward on the couch and looked directly into Anthony’s eyes.
“Yes, I’ve thought a lot about this, and I agree that whatever you share with me will remain between us. I promise.”
Anthony nodded. He stood up, walked to the niche in the hallway, and grabbed the decanter. He topped off her glass as well as his.
“We are going to need this, and probably something more before we are done.” He sat down on the chair, looked at Mackenzie for a moment and then began.
“What I am going to tell you is quite unbelievable, but it is true. Whether you choose to believe what I say is entirely your decision. I will not take it personally. You may stop me anytime you like, to ask questions, clarify anything you need to or just tell me to stop talking. Having said that, here we go.” He took a deep sip of wine and continued. “I will try to go through this in some semblance of order. I have never actually talked about it in this way to anyone before, so excuse me if it appears disjointed. The first thing you will want to know is the story behind the woman that you have so adeptly discovered. The woman with the long pinkie finger was Bernardo Daddi’s wife, Angelina. He was deeply in love with her and put her into as many paintings as he could. At one point, it became sort of a game for him. Once he completed a painting he would challenge her to try to locate the woman.”
Mackenzie instinctively raised her hand to ask a question.
Anthony nodded. “I think I know what you are going to ask but go ahead.”
“That doesn’t surprise me and actually makes some sense. But, if she was Daddi’s wife, why does she appear in Lippi’s work? Daddi died before Lippi was born, so it wasn’t as if they were master and student.” She was on the edge of the couch at this point. “It also doesn’t explain the similarities in the signatures.”
“Those are indeed very appropriate questions and observations. The answer to both of them is as straightforward as it is seemingly impossible.” He paused, taking in a deep, steady breath. “And, if you are ready, here it is. Berlinghieri, Daddi and Lippi were the same person,” he leaned back, took a sip of wine and looked intently at Mackenzie.
“What do you mean the same person?” asked Mackenzie.
“I mean exactly what I said. The reason that Daddi’s wife appears in Lippi’s work and that their signatures match each other is because they were painted by the same person.”
“That would mean that this person would be almost three hundred years old! C’mon, that’s impossible.”
Anthony nodded in agreement. “I know. It certainly would appear that way. The thing is that impossibility is an incredibly malleable concept. Remember when I asked you about the possibility of life on other planets and the possibility of alternate universes? I did that to test your willingness to think outside the normal parameters of what we deem possible.
“Five hundred years ago, it was impossible that the earth was not the center of the universe or that man could sail around the world without falling off the edge. Completely impossible. Twenty years ago the idea that someone would be able to talk or send a message on a phone the size of a credit card to someone on the other side of the world with neither of them being connected to a physical line was totally impossible. There are a lot of things that are completely impossible until they actually happen, and then they are considered completely normal.
“I do not know what is possible and impossible anymore. I can tell you that I have become much more open-minded as I have watched many of the received doctrines we hold onto so dearly fall apart and appear in hindsight to be no more valid than the belief in the four bodily humors or the gods on Olympus. Like I said when we started, I did not expect you to believe me but I also told you that what I am telling you is the truth. Those three artists, spanning almost three hundred years, were the exact same person.”
“Okay, are we talking about the transmigration of souls, reincarnation and all that? You know, Daddi is really the reincarnation of Berlinghieri and Lippi is the reincarnation of Daddi? Is that it?”
“No, although I have always been intrigued by the concept of reincarnation. I personally have never observed it, but like I said, I am loath to shun an idea just because I have not experienced it or it does not make sense to me. No, what I am saying is much simpler, although admittedly harder to believe. Berlinghieri never died. He reappeared later as Daddi, and Daddi never died and appeared later as Fra. Lippi.”
“But Daddi was a student of Giotto. If what you’re saying is true, then Daddi would have been about a hundred years old when he started his apprenticeship. That’s a pretty old man to take on as your apprentice. Daddi is described in a number of records as a young man and so is Fra. Lippi. This guy would have been well over two hundred years old when Lippi started painting and there are a lot of written records that describe Lippi’s early life as a young man, not a two-hundred-year-old man.” Mackenzie couldn’t help but be incredulous.
“Have you ever heard of a disease called Progeria? It is also known as Hutchinson-Gifford syndrome? It is a very rare disorder that causes children to age prematurely. Most individuals with this disease rarely live past the age of thirteen, but they look like they are in their sixties or seventies when they are in their early teens.”
“Yes, I wasn’t sure what it was called, but I’m familiar with it. It’s tragic.”
“Indeed it is. There is no known treatment or cure. It is a very rare condition, though. There are only about one hundred cases that have been identified in medical history. Then again, they likely did not track it very well until the nineteenth century.”
“Okay, but what does Progeria have to do with a three-hundred-year-old painter from the Middle Ages?”
“Think of it this way. If there are certain things that cause someone to age exceptionally quickly, then is it not reasonable to assume that there are also abnormalities, defects, whatever you want to call them, to make someone age very slowly?”
“I guess so, but I’ve never heard of anyone living past 120, and that’s only in this century. It was rare for people to live past sixty in the Middle Ages,” responded Mackenzie.
“Very true. But those people who are 120 look old. People are impressed when someone becomes a centenarian, but everyone who reaches one hundred looks the part. Am I right?”
“Yes, that’s true. I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“It is just this. What if someone did not age normally? What if they grew older in years but they really did not look any older from the outside? What if someone was 150, but only looked twenty? What do you think people would say about that person? More specifically, what do you think people in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries would have said about such a person?”
“You mean that they were in league with the devil or a witch?”
“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “They burned people at the stake for curing people’s diseases with medicinal herbs in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries instead of relying on the priests to bleed them to death, pray over them and hope that they get better. You think that they would warmly receive someone who looks like he is twenty but has been around for a hundred years? He would be lucky if all they did was burn him at the stake. Most likely they would have tortured him for days until he confessed his dealings with the devil and then burned him.
“So he does not say anything to anyone. He tries to disguise the fact that he is not aging, or aging very slowly. Then, after a certain number of decades go by and it is unreasonable for him to still be alive, he disappears or stages a funeral, albeit one with no body, or perhaps uses someone else’s body. Then, after another twenty or thirty years go by and anyone who may have known him has already passed away, he reemerges as someone else in a different town, or in this case in one of the largest cities in Europe.”
Mackenzie listened intently to what Anthony had to say. On the surface, it sounded absurd, but the way he described it, it actually seemed plausible.
“So what you’re saying
is that if someone really did age that slowly, we wouldn’t know about it because he wouldn’t go public with it.”
“That is precisely what I am saying. Even now, what if you were 300 years old but you looked like you were thirty? If you went to a doctor and explained your situation, they would likely diagnose you as delusional and put you on an aggressive regime of antipsychotics. No one would believe you.”
“Anthony, I don’t know what to say. On the one hand, this explanation certainly clears up the mystery of the woman with the long finger and the signatures. At the same time, it’s pretty hard to comprehend that the same painter could have appeared over a 300 year period.”
“You are right. It is hard to comprehend. Like I told you at the beginning, I did not think you would believe me and I do not blame you if you do not.” He paused, “Now, there is one final thing that I need to tell you, and this will be the hardest one to believe. I only want you to know that what I am telling you is the truth. But before I tell you, can I ask that you to set your wine glass on the coffee table.”
Mackenzie laughed and did as he said. “Sure. This has got to be something good for that type of a setup. I’m all ears.”
Anthony stared at her for a moment and without breaking eye contact continued. “The thing you have not mentioned yet, either because you are being polite or perhaps it has slipped your mind, is that my signature also matches those three artists.”
Mackenzie stared at him in bewilderment, trying to piece together what he just said. “But,” was all she was able to get out before he continued.
“Yes, that person was me. I was Berlinghieri. I was Daddi, and I was Lippi. We are the same person.”
Chapter 35
Lucca, Italy, June 1262
The young priest escorted Berlinghiero through the rectory and knocked on the door to the prior’s private study. “Enter,” he heard from the other side of the door. The prior’s chamber was warm and bright with late afternoon light streaming in from the windows. There was a large bookcase with leather bound volumes of books and manuscripts, most of which were religious texts and illustrated bibles. Some appeared to be secular tomes, most likely Roman or at least copies of Roman texts. Beautiful tapestries depicting biblical stories hung on two of the walls. The prior sat behind a large wooden desk that was surprisingly simple in its structure. While clearly sturdy, with solid columns holding up the large top, there were very few carvings in the wood. The prior sat on a bench behind the desk dressed in a long, scarlet colored silk robe with a neatly braided white belt whose tasseled ends hung almost to the ground. When they entered the room, the prior stood and motioned to the priest.
“Thank you, Father. That should be all for now. Please leave us.”
“Yes, Father Prior,” responded the priest with a slight bow and then closed the door as he left.
The Prior directed Berlinghiero to a long wooden bench covered with a burgundy colored woven pad. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please have a seat.”
“When a young priest comes to my house and informs me that the prior of San Frediano wishes to speak with me, I assume that it is worth proceeding with some urgency.”
“I apologize if I created any unnecessary anxiety, but I felt that it was important for us to talk.”
“Of course. How can I be of service?”
“I am going to say some things that are difficult for me to say, and unquestionably more difficult for you to hear, but please trust that I say them because they are in your best interest.”
“Have I done something to offend the church? Or the prior?”
“No, of course not. You have always been a model for others to follow. You and your family have been faithful servants of the church and have graced us with masterpieces that will last well beyond all our lifetimes. Having said that, and forgive the abruptness of this question, but when did your wife pass away?”
Clearly caught by surprise by this question, Berlinghiero bristled slightly. “Excuse me? My wife, Ilaria? She passed away almost twenty-five years ago. Why do you bring that up?”
“And your sons?”
“Father Prior, you know that my sons have all passed away. My youngest, Barone, passed away only this past February. It is beyond me why you bring up these painful things. How can this help me?” protested Berlinghiero.
“Again, I apologize in advance because I know that these questions are painful. As you have said, I know that Barone left us this year. Barone was only five years older than me. His passing has made me realize that my own time here is limited. That is one of the reasons that I felt it was important to talk with you.”
“I do not understand, Father Prior.”
“Let me be more straightforward. When I was a boy, I already knew of the great Berlinghiero of Lucca. Your work was famous throughout the city and I later learned you were known well beyond Lucca. My predecessor was a man you knew well. When I was a boy and first entered the seminary to study and devote my life to Christ, he was a few years younger than you. And yet, Prior Sebastiano left us more than twenty years ago. He was seventy years old. He was blessed to live a very full life, more than most. I became prior twenty years ago at the age of forty. What I am trying to say, my friend Berlinghiero, is that I am now sixty years old and you were already a father and a well-known artist when I was a young boy. Yet, when I look at you now, you appear to me to be a man of thirty. You look like a man who should have a young family. However, you have outlived your dear wife and all of your sons, who all lived full lives themselves. Still, you look like a young man. How is that possible?”
Berlinghiero squirmed a bit in his seat, shifting his weight uncomfortably. He knew that what the prior was saying was accurate. He himself had asked the same questions. “Father Prior, I do not know how to answer you. I have questioned that myself. I have prayed for answers and received none. I do not seem to age like everyone else. While it is rare for me to look at my image, when I do, I see a young man standing before me. It is as if I have not aged at all during the past sixty years. I have watched the woman I love, the person I fell in love with as a teenager, grow old and pass away in my arms. I have watched my boys grow and become men, become great painters in their own right, start families of their own, and then grow old and pass away. I do not know why I am still here or why I still look young. If you know, I beg of you to share the answer with me.”
Without responding, the prior stood up and went over to a wooden cabinet. He withdrew two silver chalices and filled them with wine from a beautifully painted ceramic carafe. He handed one of the chalices to Berlinghiero and nodded for him to drink from it, and then sat down behind the desk. Berlinghiero took a deep sip. The wine was cold as it passed down his throat, but it served to calm him slightly.
The prior took a sip from his chalice, wiped his mouth with a cloth he pulled from the sleeve of his robe, and then continued. “Unfortunately, I do not have an answer to that. I too have thought about this a lot lately. You should know that you and I are not the only ones who have asked these questions. There is a growing concern in the community, and even amongst my priests. How is it that a man can remain so young? It is not natural, they insist. As you know, people often seek simple answers to complex problems. If it is not natural, then it is unnatural, and if it is unnatural, then it is the work of the devil. Certainly the church must take some responsibility for introducing them to the dark powers of Satan. I have known you my entire life and know you to be a man of God who has always served his church with honor. But, like I said, not everyone knows you like I do. Most of our congregation, as well as the rest of the inhabitants of this city, is younger than both of us and have not seen what you and your family have provided to the church.”
“I apologize for being so obtuse, but I do not know what you are saying.”
“What I am saying is this. You must leave Lucca. You must do so soon.”
Berlinghiero slammed his hands on the desk and stood up, defiantly. “What? Leave my hom
e? I have lived here my entire life! Where am I to go? What am I to do? Why must I leave the city where I was born, where I have worked and lived and raised a family?”
“I do not know where you should go,” responded the prior calmly. He looked at Berlinghiero with sad, knowing eyes. “I do know that the longer you stay here, the more danger you are in. My priests have heard the talk. I have in fact talked with priests who themselves question your longevity. We can pacify the people for only so long. They will ultimately come to take action against what they feel is black magic, or Lucifer’s hand. You must sell your house, or leave it to your grandchildren, it does not matter which. Whatever you decide to do, I urge you to do it quickly and then leave Lucca and essentially disappear. Berlinghiero Berlinghieri must become a memory and not be heard of again. You cannot continue forth as you have been. I am truly sorry, but it is because of my affection for you that I tell you this.”
“Why, Father Prior? Why has this happened to me? What did I do to bring this curse upon me?” pleaded Berlinghiero, on the verge of tears.
“There are obviously examples in the Bible of men who lived what would be considered the lives of twenty men. Methuselah supposedly lived to be 969 years old. He died seven days before the Great Flood. In fact, according to the book of Genesis, the Lord delayed the Flood seven days to honor the mourning period for Methuselah. His son, Noah, lived to be 950 years old. Even Moses lived to be one hundred and twenty. Obviously, they were not deemed to be in league with the devil. In fact, they were prophets and the chosen men of God. I cannot tell why it is that you have apparently stopped aging. I know that many people would consider it a blessing, but I understand what a burden it is for you. You must reflect on this and hopefully you will come to understand what God has in mind for you.” The prior stepped out from behind his desk and took Berlinghiero’s hands in his.
“I will do everything in my power to buy you time. I will talk to my priests and help them placate the congregation. But I have to repeat this: you need to leave Lucca soon, the sooner the better. I am not afraid of what I do not understand. That is not something that can be said of most people. You must understand that our congregation is made up of simple peasants and field workers, of shopkeepers, tradesmen, and merchants, some of whom are wealthy, but also illiterate and uneducated. By themselves they are unlikely to do much worse than simply avoiding what scares them. But as a group they become emboldened to destroy the source of their fears. Remember what I say now. It is with the masses and not the individual that you must be concerned.
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