In the stifling heat, Ross knew that at least half of what the woman had said was true. He slipped his backpack from his shoulder to the ground and looked east, into the warm wind, then to the river below. The river’s surface reflected the ochre and mustard hues of the old city, both vague and beautiful, like an Italian dream. A slim canoe glided across the green, rippled water near a group of old men fishing from the river-bank in the shade of the bridge.
Ross had arrived in Italy six months earlier, on a rainy day with gray, stone skies. He disembarked at Rome’s Da Vinci Airport, exchanged his dollars into lire and found a pensione in a convent at only 100,000 lire a night. He spent his first week in Rome, seeking out the city’s art, dining in the splendor of the Bernini fountains in Piazza Navona and standing in the Sistine Chapel, his head craned back to look at its ceiling, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.
Then he hopped a train south to Naples. After just one day he decided the city was overly populated, crime infested and polluted, so after visiting its central museum, he moved on to Sorrento and the beautiful Amalfi coast, the Isle of Capri, then farther south, ferrying across the Strait of Messina into Sicily. He took a train into the city of Taormina, where he lived in a pensione along the Mediterranean Sea for the rest of the spring, eating blood oranges and writing his thoughts in a leather-bound journal he had bought at a street market.
He traveled throughout Sicily, ingesting the island by train and bus, from the Greek ruins in the Valley of the Temples near Agrigento to snowcapped Mount Etna, where he gathered a pocket of small volcanic rocks as souvenirs.
In late May, when the weather turned warmer and the rain stopped, his travels took him northwest, along the western coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea to La Spezia. He hiked the five cities of the Cinque Terre, taking refuge from a rainstorm in a concrete German World War II bunker. He spent a week in Genoa and two weeks in the bustling metropolis of Milan, where he saw Leonardo’s L’Ultima Cena (The Last Supper). Then he turned eastward, first to Verona, then on to Venice, wandering the labyrinth of islands for nearly three weeks. He spent two days on the island of Murano, where he watched artisans blow glass into art.
He was in no hurry, which is a virtue in all things Italian, but as summer waned he felt the desire to settle. And so in late August, his tourist visa expired, he came to Florence, where he hoped to find work at the Uffizi, Florence’s world-famous art gallery.
Though he had been alone since his arrival, now, in a town famed for its bachelors, from Donatello and Michelangelo to its present-day mammoni, he felt the extent of his loneliness amplified by his new surroundings. Florence is a city of lovers. It seemed to him that everywhere he looked there were reminders of his solitude.
Earlier that day he had sat alone in a café, watching a young Italian couple across from him as they drank their cappuccinos and looked into each other’s eyes, the two of them laughing and flirting and touching. Ross felt envy rise in his chest like an illness. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman. Still, something, a voice from some shadowed corridor of his mind, told him that it hadn’t been long enough.
Ross lifted his pack, slipped into it, then walked to the end of the bridge and west to the arched loggiato of the Uffizi.
The Uffizi’s courtyard was swollen with tourists. Though he had envisioned the inside of the museum a thousand times in his mind, Ross had never considered the transient community that thrived at its gates: the crisp-uniformed carabinieri with their crimson-striped pants, the gypsy beggars with frowning children carried in their arms as props, the tour guides with their frantic faces and closed umbrellas held up like lightning rods, and the sidewalk peddlers from Nigeria and Morocco with their posters and handbags and Taiwan-made trinkets spread out on blankets. The air of the Uffizi courtyard was filled with the babble of a hundred different tongues, like a daily Pentecost descending on the gallery.
A line stretched from the admission door nearly a hundred yards to the end of the building’s long corridor, to the Palazzo Vecchio and its fraudulent David. Ross walked to the less crowded reservation line and waited outside the nylon-roped stanchions that surrounded the entrance. A stocky, barrel-chested Italian, with pocked skin and black, wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail, stood guard at the entrance, clipboard in hand, occasionally calling out to the line the names of those with reservations. Ross stepped up to him.
“Excuse me, signore, I am here to apply for a job.”
The man looked up from his list. “What job?”
“As a tour guide.”
“They hire for all jobs inside. Past the gift shop there is a door.”
The man unhooked the rope and waved Ross on through.
For more than three years he had waited and hoped for this moment, and it filled him with electricity as noticeable as the cool air that met him as he stepped inside. The lobby was crowded as a bus of Japanese tourists congregated in the room while their guide helped them gain admittance. In the room’s center was a glass cubicle with the sign “Biglietti” where four women sat behind Plexiglas with their cash registers and ticket machines, each facing a different direction, watching the crowd with boredom. In the back of the room, under an archway, was a small gift shop where maps and guidebooks were sold.
Past it, around the corner, was a door with a small plaque that read, “Direzione del Museo.” The door was partially open and Ross looked inside. A slender, beak-nosed woman with thick-rimmed eyeglasses sat at a cluttered desk, writing. Her hair was dark, pulled back from her forehead. She glanced up.
“May I help you?” She spoke in clear English slightly bent with a Florentine accent.
“I was sent here to see you.”
“Who sent you?”
“The man outside. He said this is where you were taking applications for tour guide positions.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Come in, please.” Ross stepped inside, laying his pack on the floor. “I do not know why he would say that. We do not hire that way. There is an exam given once a year. It is very competitive. We usually have more than a thousand applicants for the position.”
Ross frowned. He hadn’t counted on this and he felt a little ridiculous for his assumption. As he contemplated this dilemma, the woman looked him over and seemed to decide he was handsome.
“You are American?”
“Yes.”
She motioned to the wooden chairs in front of her desk. “Please sit down.”
Ross came around and sat.
“You have been a tour guide before?”
“No. But I know the Uffizi well.”
“Then you are a professor?”
“No.” Ross leaned back a little from the desk. “But I know everything about the Uffizi.”
“What do you mean ‘everything’?”
“Ask me something.”
She considered his challenge. “Tell me about the gallery.”
“The Uffizi is one of the finest art galleries in the world and the first museum of modern Europe. It was officially opened in 1765, though the building and some of its art existed for nearly two hundred years before that. The building itself was constructed in 1560, when Medici duke Cosimo I commissioned Giorgio Vasari to design a grand palace along the river, with the appearance of ‘floating in air.’ The gallery has not been without its challenges. It has survived World War II, a major flood and even a bomb planted by the Mafia.” He rested. “I know everything about the Uffizi.”
“Tell me about the exhibits.”
“The Uffizi houses work from Raffaello, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, Leonardo, Cimabue, Botticelli, as well as hundreds of other artists. Choose one.”
“Tell me about Botticelli.”
“Alessandro Filipepi, also called Sandro Botticelli, was born in Florence in 1445, where he resided until his death in 1510. Botticelli means ‘little barrels’ and was actually a nickname given to Alessandro’s older brother on account of his being overweight. Unfortunately for the Filipepi family, it stuck
to all of them. Botticelli has twelve paintings in the Uffizi. They are among the most popular works of the gallery, including the Primavera, oil tempera on wood, painted for Lorenzo Medici in 1498, acquired by the Uffizi in 1919 and recently restored in 1982, and the Birth of Venus, also whimsically called ‘Venus on the Half Shell.’ The medium is tempera on linen canvas, and its patron and origins are unknown, though many experts speculate that it was also commissioned by the Medici family. This work was acquired by the Uffizi in 1815 and restored in 1987. Like the Primavera, there is controversy over the actual meaning of the work. Some say Botticelli’s works capture the essence of the Florentine woman, past and modern—the sad eyes, the lips bent with a hint of sardonic grin. It’s an appraisal with which I happen to agree. His works may be found in rooms nine to fourteen in the first corridor.”
“Bravo. That is impressive.”
“I’ve memorized the entire gallery, every painting, fresco, tapestry and sculpture; the artist, the patron who commissioned it, the date it was started and finished, its artistic significance and the year it was acquired by the Uffizi.”
The woman looked at him in astonishment. “There are thousands of exhibits. That would take many years to learn.”
“Only one and a half. But I worked at it nine hours a day.”
“You studied the Uffizi nine hours a day?”
“I had a lot of time on my hands.”
She gazed at him curiously. With employment an impossibility, Ross wondered why she was spending so much time with him.
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Some. Il mio Italiano è ancora un po’ brutto.”
This made her smile. “Actually, you speak well. Where did you learn?”
“Mostly from books. But I had a few Italian friends in America.”
She gazed at him for a moment without word then said, “Just a moment.” She left the room. She returned accompanied by an older and taller woman with honey-colored hair and blue, square-lensed Gucci sunglasses. She wore leather pants and a silk blouse, with a scarf tied around her throat.
The first woman returned to her desk, and the tall woman sat down in a chair next to her, crossed her legs and smiled at Ross, but said nothing.
“Excuse me, sir, I forgot to ask your name.”
“Ross Story.”
“Story?”
“Sì. Like a book.”
She spoke to the other woman then turned her attention back to Ross. “Signor Story, this is Francesca Punteri. She is one of our guides.”
She smiled at her own introduction. Ross smiled back.
“I have asked Francesca if she could employ you as an assistant. Some of the guides have more work than they can handle or cannot take English-speaking groups because their English is not good enough. For Francesca both are true.”
“My English not so well,” the woman interjected, proving the assertion.
“. . . so they take on others as assistants and split the fee. This way they can make more money. Technically it’s not legal, but there are ways around things in Italy.”
“What is the fee?”
“They usually receive two hundred thousand lire a tour, so about half of that.”
“So I would do the same work and she would take half?”
“Sì.”
“What if I just found groups on my own and took them through the gallery?”
Her expression tightened. “That is prohibited. If you are caught there is a big fine.”
“How big?” Ross said, as if weighing his odds. Her expression tightened more.
“The fine is three million lire.”
Ross’s brow furrowed. “That is a big fine. Who would catch me?”
“You must have a badge to lead a group. There is much security here, of course. And there are the other guides. Not all of them are busy. They protect each other.”
“I think half is too much to give away,” Ross said.
“And you would keep all tips for yourself, of course,” she added. “I think it is a fair offer.”
In spite of her limited English, Francesca understood the conversation. “Sessanta per cento.” Sixty percent.
Ross looked over at her. Her eyes were on him, anticipating his response. He answered in Italian, “Grazie. When would I start?”
“Oggi pomeriggio, se vuole.” This afternoon if you want.
He nodded. “Very good. When would you like me to meet you?”
“At three, outside the reservations entrance.”
“Three it is.” At this Francesca stood and Ross likewise stood and shook her hand. “I will be there. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Piacere mio.” My pleasure.
Francesca walked out of the room and the young woman smiled at him.
“Thank you for your help,” Ross said. “I don’t know your name.”
“My name is Patrizia.”
“Piacere, Patrizia.” It’s a pleasure.
She smiled. “Welcome to the Uffizi. If you would like, I have a little time right now. I could show you around. Then we could take a coffee at the bar.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
“You may leave your bag in here. It will be safe.”
Patrizia led Ross out of her office, past the ticket counter and up four flights of stone stairs to the second-floor gallery. As he walked down the wide, high-ceilinged corridor, a sense of awe fell over him. This place, these works of art, had saved his life. Not in a figurative sense, but in reality. Perhaps life did come full circle, he thought. Perhaps this was recompense for the injustices of his life. Maybe. If so, the first installment had been paid.
CHAPTER 3
“L’amore è cieco, ma il matrimonio gli ridà la vista.” Love is blind. Marriage restores one’s vision.
—Italian Proverb
Alessio straddled the back of the living room’s leather couch as he gazed out the window. He had been bouncing a rubber ball against the window as well, but he had dropped it and it had rolled out of reach beneath the couch and so now he just looked. Eliana walked down the stairs, her arms full with a laundry basket.
“Don’t sit on the back of the couch, honey.”
He continued to gaze outside, as if he hadn’t heard his mother.
“Alessio.”
He moaned and slid one leg down.
“What are you looking at, sport?”
“Nothing.”
“Get down. And what nothing are you looking at?”
He reluctantly slid off the back of the couch, slumping back in the sofa’s thick cushions, his heels on the edge, his knees higher than his head. “Is it three o’clock yet?”
“Feet off the couch. You know better than that. And it’s way past three.”
He dropped his feet, which barely reached the floor. “Oh,” he said, sighing loudly.
“Since when do you care what time it is?”
“Dad said on the phone yesterday he’d be home at three.”
Eliana groaned. Her countenance softened; then she set her basket down and walked to Alessio’s side, sitting on the couch next to him. She put her arms around him and pulled him close. “He must have gotten caught in some traffic.”
She felt stupid offering the same worn excuses for her husband. She should be good at covering for Maurizio by now, but she wasn’t. It just seemed to get harder.
Alessio’s face was still bent in dejection. “I don’t like traffic,” he said sadly. “It’s always catching Dad.”
Eliana would have smiled at his observation had she not hurt for him. “Why don’t you go outside and play?”
“Dad told me that we’d go to the park and kick goals. He was going to teach me how to play.”
“He’ll be home soon, honey,” she said, hoping it was true. She honestly had no idea if he would be home or not. There was no telling with Maurizio. “Why don’t I go out and kick the ball with you?”
“Moms can’t do that.”
“Of course they can.”
>
“Dad says girls can’t play soccer.”
“He did, huh?” She didn’t doubt it; it was typical Maurizio. “Well, there are women who can play soccer better than your father.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Can you play better than Dad?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”
He thought about this. “We can play if you want.”
“Okay. Let me check dinner first. You go get the ball.”
“It’s right there.” A fluorescent yellow-and-black soccer ball was sitting on the floor next to the couch. “Can I wear my Totti shirt Dad gave me?”
“What’s a Totti shirt?”
“You know. Totti. He plays on Team Italia,” he said, incredulous at his mother’s ignorance of one of the country’s best players.
“Yes, you may.”
“Can we go to the park?”
“I would, honey, but I’m still making dinner. We’ll just play in the courtyard. Now go change your shirt while I check the oven.”
Alessio ran upstairs. Eliana lifted her laundry basket. Why do you make promises you can’t keep, Maurizio? she thought.
It was dark outside. Eliana was reading in the den when she heard the gravel crunching beneath the Alfa Romeo’s wheels as Maurizio drove his car up the driveway five hours later than he’d promised to be home. Alessio had been fed, bathed and had gone to bed. Their dinner had gone cold.
The front door opened and he announced his return, dropped his suit coat on the sofa, loosened his tie and then, with a loud sigh of exhaustion, collapsed in front of the television. Eliana put down her book, and went to the kitchen to reheat their dinner. She did not greet him, certain that anything she said would come out more as a rebuke than a welcome. He had been gone for two weeks this time. She didn’t want to start fighting the second he got home.
With the exception of a load of wash and forty-five minutes of soccer with Alessio, she had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen preparing a special meal for Maurizio’s return: spinach-pear ravioli in walnut cream sauce, bresaola with rucola, mushroom crostini and broiled Chianina steak. There was a bottle of their own best wine, L’incanto, in the center of the table, next to a sterling silver candelabra.