Tailwinds Past Florence

by Doug Walsh

  “I’m leaving. Tell Edward, when you see him, which I’m sure will be right away, that I’m going to the Uffizi. And the next time he wants to talk to me, tell him to do it himself.”

  Kara ascended the grand staircase, carried on a wave of tourists to the Uffizi’s top floor. After waiting nearly an hour to buy a ticket, she had almost given up. And she would have if she could’ve thought of somewhere else to go—or so she’d tell Edward if he asked. But she waited, knowing deep down that she’d regret leaving town without paying a visit to one of the world’s great art museums. And personal tastes aside, Florence was still very much Florence.

  All around her, couples pooled and eddied in the corridor and gallery halls, some studying their museum brochures, others leaning in, conjoined by the tinny speaker of their overpriced audio guide. Men walked with practiced posture, their hands clasped behind their backs and chins jutted in contemplation, as women nodded thoughtfully by their side.

  Kara advanced through the centuries, from the Byzantine to the Gothic to the Early Renaissance, each gallery a reminder of the Jesus story. Crucifixions hung from every wall, forlorn portraits in crackling plaster and oils dulled by time, their wooden frames perfuming the museum with musty aromatics reminiscent of a Midwestern church basement.

  Ahead, she caught a partial glimpse of The Birth of Venus, a mere fragment of Botticelli’s seashell, a pasty white leg, and a wisp of Venus’ flowing locks, before receiving an elbow to the midsection.

  “Excuse you!” Kara snapped at the man who paid her no attention, shoved as he was by the crowd flocking to their shepherd, the guide’s red pennant held aloft on a stick.

  Leonardo da Vinci’s name drew her into the next hall, but a cursory lap was all she could muster. Impersonating the gravelly monotone of the priests she endured in her youth, Kara took to entertaining herself. “Crucifixion, annunciation, crucifixion, adoration, repetition, repetition.”

  Two women dressed in flowy skirts and loose-fitting, striped blouses, turned and laughed. “Tu es très drôle,” one said, her hand covering her laugh. They looked Kara’s age.

  “Merci beaucoup,” Kara replied. It wasn’t often someone thought her funny. “Ciao.”

  Kara strolled along the corridor, past endless marble busts, slowing to peek in at the Renaissance works, disregarding them as more of the same. Ahead, a windowed wall offered sweeping views of the Arno River. She looked to the hill on the far bank, toward the campground where her bike doubtlessly slumped, damaged and limp. And toward Edward, the other half of her crumbling marriage.

  She leaned on the windowsill, her head pressed against the warm glass, recalling her turbulent winter, the pressure building for months, until February, when Edward rescued them from divorce with a vacation of her dreams. She’d been fighting a headwind ever since.

  A museum attendant approached, heels clacking on the tile floor, finger wagging in time with her shaking head, warning not to lean on the windows. Kara noticed a sweat smear on the glass before hurrying away, embarrassed.

  She meandered along the corridor, drifting aimlessly downstream on the current of museumgoers, unable to focus on the art, blurred as it was by the gauzy recollections of her arguments with Edward, the peculiarity of Hiromasa’s warning.

  A cranberry-colored room caught her attention. The area was dominated by a Roman sculpture, a lady in recline, a breast exposed. She was drawn further into the room, enchanted by the stark brilliance of the colors in a circular painting on the far wall.

  She looked at the nameplate: Michelangelo’s Doni Tondo. It was the only painting of his remaining in Florence. “How could that be?” she wondered aloud as she soaked in the colors, a palette of the most brilliant blues and pinks and yellows she’d seen. The near-fluorescent pigments cut through the dreariness of her mood, shattering her malaise.

  Kara stepped back to better absorb the warmth of the colors, the comfort of the flowing garbs adorning the Holy Family.

  Feeling someone trying to get her attention, she noticed the two French women she had seen earlier off to her side, staring. One gestured for her to look beyond her, a flick of the eyes and subtle lift of the chin. “Vous avez un admirateur,” she whispered.

  Kara feigned nervous surprise as she placed her hand on her heart and mouthed her gratitude. The woman’s glance suggested he was coming this way, and judging by her arched eyebrows and devilish wink, she thought he was hot.

  Edward. He’d always been attractive in a classical sense, but the months on the road had sharpened his features, given him a masculine edge she found suited him, irresistible.

  When he’s not being a jackass. She punctuated the thought with a snort and stepped to the side, leaving room for him to approach. Whether to report on the bikes or tour the museum with her, she didn’t care. That he knew where to find her only confirmed her suspicions that he put Hiromasa up to confronting her about Alessio.

  “Michelangelo only used the rarest, most expensive pigments available in Italy,” the voice behind her said. “Spettacolare.”

  Surprise swirled a tinge of fright as Alessio stepped beside her. “Oh. It’s you,” she stammered, caught off-guard. Dammit, Edward.

  Alessio’s two-day scruff complemented the olive-bronze tan of his skin. Instead of the campground polo shirt, he wore a slim-fitting collared shirt, the top three buttons undone. His black jeans, Kara noticed, flushing, were clean. Tight.

  He sure cleans up well, she caught herself thinking.

  “His only painting on wood that remains.”

  She turned back to the Doni Tondo, impressed by his knowledge, distracted by the comforting familiarity she felt bubbling inside her. “It’s beautiful,” she said, immediately embarrassed for having allowed such banality to escape her lips.

  “But I saw you were not so impressed with the others.”

  Kara’s breath caught in her throat as Edward’s warning rang in her ears. He’s stalking you. He’s dangerous. She glanced at Alessio, who stood studying the painting with his chin in his hand, and recalled how harmlessly he accompanied her yesterday. Still, she knew she had to be careful. She shifted a small step away and noticed the other women were nowhere to be seen.

  “Religion doesn’t interest me,” Kara said, before turning to exit the hall, unsurprised when he followed.

  “But the Renaissance has so much to teach us,” he said, falling in step beside her in the western corridor.

  “Sure. In terms of technique—”

  “And emotion,” he interjected.

  “Yes, emotion too, I suppose,” she added. “But it was so stodgy. So staid. The Renaissance only stands out in history because of the misery that preceded it.” It was a retort she’d first heard from a classmate in her Survey of Western Art class and had been repeating the line ever since.

  “You speak of the black death?”

  “Well, of course,” she said, noticing his tone had grown defensive.

  Kara believed the true value of art lay in its role as a wellspring for contention. As Alessio leaned on the piety of the era’s patrons to justify the subject matter—and Kara indelicately compared them to pagans—she couldn’t help thinking of the philosophical debates she had tried to engage Edward in over the years. But his was a world of numbers, hard truths, and ledger sheets without room for interpretation, a monochrome environment unable to process the Technicolor of her thoughts.

  As they spoke, Alessio held back to allow a tour group past, gently placing his hand on the small of Kara’s back; he escorted her, shielding her from being bumped. His touch rippled up her spine, ringing her vertebrae like a xylophone. His hand lingered several steps longer than necessary as his finger stroked the material of her shirt. The gesture leaped past chivalry into the zone of familiarity. Desire. Kara indulged in the attention a moment longer than necessary, then stepped to maintain some separation.

  “Okay, maybe not like pagans. But seriously, Michelangelo, Titian, and Raphael were all great painters, but their work
was prosaic. What the Renaissance needed was a woman’s touch.”

  “Ah, you believe there were no female painters.”

  Kara shrugged, then noticed they had returned to the windows overlooking the river and hilltop campground in the distance. And Edward. She turned her back to the view and leaned against the sill. She lowered her voice, as if afraid her husband would hear her. “We ladies just like to see one another succeed.”

  Alessio looked around. “One moment, please.” He approached a museum guard stationed in the corner.

  Kara couldn’t hear the conversation, but judging by the man’s body language, whatever Alessio was asking was out of the question. Kara watched with curiosity as Alessio pulled a blue bill—twenty euros—from his pocket and handed it over. The man looked around, frowning as Kara locked eyes with him, then pocketed the money. Alessio waved Kara over.

  The guard spoke rapidly, annoyed, as if berating them in advance for the trouble they would undoubtedly cause. Kara couldn’t understand a word the man spoke, but his tone suggested a list of dos and don’ts. They were led to a pair of handsome wooden doors, at least twelve feet tall, with red handles. The guard waited for a family to pass, then backed through the doors. Kara braced for an alarm that never rang and followed.

  “Where are we going?” she whispered to Alessio, who merely smiled, his eyes sparkling with the joy of a surprise yet to be sprung.

  The guard, clad in navy polyester pants and plain burgundy jacket, led them down a flight of stairs to an arched hallway lined with portraits. Alessio handed him an additional ten euros, saying “Due minuti, per favore.” Then, to Kara, “Come. It shouldn’t be much further.” He cupped her elbow, guiding her down the hall.

  Kara gave a hesitant glance to the security guard, then continued, warming with each step, anxious to see what the bribery had bought them.

  “This is the Vasari Corridor, where the Medici traveled privately above Ponte Vecchio, between their palace and offices.” Alessio scanned the portrait-lined walls, ushering her onward, swiveling his head back and forth before stopping beneath a darkened painting. In it, a woman in black robes with an alabaster shirt stared at them, her blond hair pulled tight against her scalp. She held a piece of paper and a quill.

  “Allow me to introduce Sofonisba Anguissola,” Alessio said with esteem.

  Kara never heard of her. “Your mistress?” she joked, immediately regretting the innuendo.

  Alessio smiled a wolfish grin. “She was before my time.”

  Kara detected a hint of longing in the way he said it and approached the painting, craning her neck to inspect the brush strokes.

  “It is a self-portrait. Sofonisba was among the most famous women of the Renaissance.”

  Kara nodded, genuinely impressed, as much by the information as she was Alessio’s knowledge.

  “Michelangelo himself helped to nurture her talent. Sofonisba went to Spain, to serve as the lady-in-waiting for King Philip II’s third wife.”

  “At least someone got to go to Madrid,” Kara said, looking away, ashamed how whiny the comment sounded.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  Doubtful.

  Behind them, the security guard said something in Italian, his voice echoing through the hall. Alessio held a solitary finger and resumed his lesson.

  As he explained the painting’s history, Kara became distracted by the thoughts going through her mind. Comparisons of this moment and those times at the SAM with Edward—and his cell phone. Few exhibits were more interesting to him than his email. And here was this man, a stranger willing to bribe his way into a special area. For her.

  Kara whispered empty praise as her face sagged with regret, wondering if she had given up her dream too soon.

  Which one?

  “Even the Pope is said to have commissioned a painting from her,” Alessio continued.

  Kara turned to him, surprised. She couldn’t look away. A part of her suspected he was seducing her vulnerability, using her story about Spain, her anger at Edward, to crack her defenses. Everything he said could be made up, she reminded herself. But how many landscapers know where a rare painting is located in a secure part of a museum?

  The guard cleared his throat and began tapping his watch. “We should get going,” she said, no longer trusting herself, knowing Edward was right to want her to stay clear of Alessio.

  Together, they walked back through the museum, passing a dizzying array of exhibits they barely glanced at. They talked at length about Kara’s art, why she gave up traditional media for the dazzling world of designing business cards and do-it-yourself book cover templates. Though Alessio seemed to have little understanding of what she said, he never let the conversation falter, and never brought it to himself. It was the kind of conversation Kara wished could have gone on all day, the kind where one topic led naturally to the other, and witty observations were volleyed back and forth with the ball always coming to rest on her side of the court, her interests. Her plans, her dreams.

  Kara slowed her pace, allowing each foot to hang in the air, dangling, before finding the floor, as if she was trying to hold back time. She was swept up in the moment, trying to convince herself of its innocence, knowing it would end soon. And then what? The past hour had felt more and more like a date with each passing artwork.

  From within the hall nearest the stairs, a towering depiction of the Virgin Mary appraised Kara with side-eyed scrutiny. Kara felt the heat of the Madonna’s glare, judging her, reading her thoughts. She hurried down the stairs, wanting Alessio to stay behind, but thrilling at the sound of his shoes on the steps behind her.

  Outside, Kara crossed the street, wondering where to go, suspecting Alessio would follow. She stopped beneath the loggia, shaded by the stone columns.

  “Well, thank you for showing me the Sofonisba.” She wasn’t sure what to say. Only knew she had to leave.

  “It was my pleasure.” Alessio stood an arm’s length away, his eyes locked on hers.

  “So, I guess I’ll see you around the campground.”

  “You most certainly will.”

  Alessio took a step toward Kara who, in turn, backed up incrementally, feeling for the stone column behind her. She leaned against the fluted marble as he placed a hand against it, beside her shoulder. He leaned in, smiling.

  Kara’s heart beat faster as the air warmed around her. The murmur of the tourists waiting to get into the museum disappeared, taking with it the noise of the hawkers and ubiquitous polizia sirens.

  He brushed his hand across her face as he moved in to kiss her, and at once his hand was around her shoulders, pulling her to his lips. She gave in, instantly, with her whole body, and yielded to his advance.

  And for two of the longest seconds she could remember, her heart thundered as her knees went weak, and she kissed with the verve of passion and sin—and the cresting realization that this thing that could never happen again, had in fact happened.

  Kara pushed Alessio away, her eyes wide. “No. I can’t.”

  His hand ran the length of her arm, to her wrist. Which he grasped loosely. “Kara.”

  Her eyes followed the stitching of his clothes, from his sleeve to his collar, dropping to the hairs of his chest protruding from the open buttons.

  “Cara,” he said, repeating her name softer, taking her hand in his calloused fingers.

  “I’m flattered,” she said, shaking her head, pulling her hand free. “But I’m married.” Her voice cracked as she turned and ran in the direction of the campground, cursing herself for not taking Edward’s advice.

  Chapter 26

  Saturday, June 20 — Florence, Italy

  “We need to talk.”

  Edward looked up from the flattened cardboard on which he’d spread the salvageable parts, wondering what prompted her urgent tone. Kara appeared flustered, winded, as if she’d pedaled a mountain pass. Where had she been? He wanted to ask, but the sight of her crossed arms and tapping foot told him not to bother. />
  He tore open a foil packet and withdrew a makeup removal wipe to clean his hands. The smears of bicycle grease soon vanished, leaving only dueling inky crescents under his fingernails and cuticles. “Should have swiped more of these from that hotel in Amsterdam,” he said, holding the empty packet up for show.

  “Why did Tom give you a phone?”

  Edward took a deep breath and stood, grimacing as the sudden change in position fanned the fire in his thighs. He’d been squatting for the better part of an hour. He balled the wrapper with the blackened wipe and tossed the trash onto the cardboard, where it rolled to a stop against a bicycle chain that lay coiled like a snake.

  “To check in. We made a bet,” he said, delaying, searching for the explanation he’d rehearsed that morning. Before the trip to the gardens, the damage to the bikes.

  “What kind of bet?”

  Edward ran a nervous hand though his hair, “It was more of a contest. It turns out that Tom knows Ron Madsen and he recognized me from our profile picture … Do you remember that magazine I was in?” Edward paused for acknowledgment, but Kara merely twirled her hand, ushering him to the point.

  “He wanted me to come work for him—”

  “In Minnesota?” she interrupted, her voice rising with incredulity.

  “No. In Seattle.”

  Kara stared at him, her face pursed in concentration. She seemed to be analyzing every word he said, anticipating and slotting each syllable into a grid, as if every argument and lie he’d told her were a Sudoku to be solved by his coming explanation.

  He knew he had to get this right.

  “Tom offered me my own office, my own staff,” he continued, growing wistful for what could have been. “Private wealth management. Great money and strictly nine to five once I got set up.”

  “Fantastic. So, why hide it from me?”

  His gaze fell to her feet, where her toes clawed the soles of her sandals, as if bracing for the blast of his secret. “He wanted me to start in six months.” As the truth hung in the air, Edward thought back to all the times he’d heard people say how relieved they felt after confessing a secret guilt. Unburdened. Bullshit. The words of his revelation clamped down upon his shoulders like a yoke, hitching him to the immovable heft of his deceit. He willed himself to look her in the eyes.