Читать книгу Florence in Ecstasy - Jessie Chaffee - Страница 13

Chapter Five

I wake the next morning to rain that doesn’t let up. At the club, everyone will be indoors—all bodies crowding in, all sounds echoing loud, all the older men clustered in the bar instead of on the embankment, all eyes and voices. I avoid it. I should open my laptop, look for work, but I avoid that, too.

I visit San Frediano in Cestello on the other side of the river, the Oltrarno. Luca was right—the church is beautiful. A small plaque on the wall outside announces that the mystic, Santa Maria Maddalena de’ Pazzi, lived and died in the adjacent convent. Inside, there is a chapel dedicated to her with a painting of the saint in ecstasy, and in the chapel’s belled ceiling she welcomes souls into Heaven with sweeping arms. This is why he sent me here. There is nothing more, though—not in the little brochure I was handed and not in my guidebook—and the gates leading to the convent beside the church are locked.

I find a small café not far from the church, glowing warm on this gray day. I stop for a coffee, but the place seeps in, holds me there, and I stay from early afternoon into evening, alternately reading and watching people battle the rain through the wide window. I return the next day and the day after that. The waitstaff has no qualms about my making the transition from a coffee and salad to a glass of wine when the café empties and they have their staff dinner, scraping at plates and laughing, while I watch the gray light stretch across the tables in shifting bands and catch in my glass.

I’m still reading about St. Catherine. As a teenager, she pleaded to join the Mantellate, a group of older widows cloistered in the Basilica of San Domenico, but her parents refused—she was not old and was not a widow. She would be married. Until she grew ill, so ill that even when her father took her to the thermals baths, the boiling waters had no effect. Her illness was a sign from God, she said, and so her parents acquiesced, allowing her to join the widows in prayer, and Catherine was healed.

Her career began with a movement inward, with visions and ecstasies. When in a trance, she did not wince at the needles that disbelievers jabbed into her feet. This and her vision of a mystical marriage to Christ secured her celebrity. As she grew older, she looked outward beyond San Domenico. She cured the lame, drew poison, and drank pus from the sores of the sick. She learned to read and became politically active, composing letters of criticism to the pope.

And she made herself empty for prayer. By age eight, she was slipping meat onto her brother’s plate. By sixteen, she ate only fruits and vegetables, then used instruments—a stalk of fennel, a quill—to throw them back up.

As another steaming dish arrives nearby, the thick, smoky smell drifting my way, my stomach turns over—with desire, then revulsion—and in this, I understand the saint’s denial. I remember well when my days became punctuated by sharp sensations:

Chills.

Sunlight too bright.

Sounds attacking.

Counting. And with the counting came praise and with the praise came questions. How do you do it? Claudia asked, one of a chorus when I began losing flesh, December into January into February. There was admiration in their voices, and I knew what they were asking: How do you cut so close to the bone? By the time Catherine joined the Mantellate, she had stopped eating almost entirely. This body of mine remains without any food, without even a drop of water: in such sweet physical tortures as I never at any time endured. She was empty, open. I’d like to think that she belonged to no one but herself, that the sweetness of the pain was hers alone. But she writes, My body is Yours.

Love. Her letters are filled with the word. The soul cannot live without loving… The soul always unites itself with that which it loves, and is transformed by it. I envy her ecstasies, emptied of everything. Is that love? All that emptiness and the trance that follows? Love is a tunneling, I think. An envisioning and then a tunneling of vision, the edges disappearing until all that remains is the beloved. I had hoped that I would feel that with Julian, that with him I might escape the mornings when I woke tamped down and pressed myself back into dreams that did not soothe. But he was no match for the other solace I found. He fell away with all the rest.

By the second day of my residency at the café I’m almost all the way through Catherine’s life. The soul is always sorrowful, she writes, and cannot endure itself. Outside, people are hurrying through the rain to the evening service. The bells begin to clang furiously, ricocheting off one another as one of the staff appears.

“Un altro bicchiere?” he asks, lifting my glass.

“Sì,” I say, wanting him to leave me to listen to the bells. They are playing a hymn. It is familiar to me and I feel a rush of happiness, uninterrupted. Even in this gray light it grows, and I’m afraid of the moment when I’ll slip over the peak and feel it dissipate. I close my eyes and the bells continue. They are asking a question: Are you searching for? Are you searching for?

On the third day, the sun returns and still I do not go to the club but to my café, book in hand. I’ve promised myself that when I’ve finished reading it, I will look for work. Three weeks left here. Three weeks.

I take a table outside now. The street is different in the sun, and the corner where this café sits is suddenly a stopping point for many. First a young woman leans against the building, high heels shining. She pitches her head back, laughing at her companion’s joke. She’s replaced by an older man who stands with his eyes closed.

I’m afraid that with the good weather I’ll see someone from the club, and, sure enough, just as afternoon is becoming evening, Francesca rounds that busy corner with her daughter in tow. She’s almost as tall as Francesca, but she must be only eleven or twelve—she still has the face of a child. She is holding a balloon, a smiling sun that hangs from a piece of bamboo. She looks up at it as Francesca hurries her on, speaking emphatically, and a moment later I hear, “Hannah! Come stai?” and they are standing over me.

“Bene.” I hope my voice doesn’t sound off. Her daughter looks at me and then looks back up at what I now realize is not a balloon but a paper lantern. She twists it slightly so that it swings side to side, the metallic paint catching the light.

“You really dropped out of sight,” Francesca says. “Where have you been?”

I shrug, not trusting my voice to say more. I take a sip of water.

“Have you met Adriana?” She pinches her daughter’s arm lightly and the girl puts out her hand.

“Buonasera,” she says, looking me straight in the eye. She flashes a smile but it disappears when her mother’s voice cuts in.

“What are you reading?”

I show her the cover of my book.

“Santa Caterina? Interesting. You know they have her head in Siena?”

“I do. I’ve seen it.”

“Allora we’re on our way to Piazza della Santissima Annunziata for the Festa della Rificolona. You know it? It’s a lantern festival—for the children. Little children, really.” She drops her voice. “But this one wanted to go.”

Adriana glances at me again.

“You should come. It’s all kids and tourists, but you might like it. We can talk.”

I feel light-headed and take another sip of water. But I can’t think of an excuse not to go.

“Okay,” I say, and stand carefully, leaving a few bills on the table.

We walk to the river, where the light off the water is blinding. People are crowded outside the gelateria at the end of the Ponte Vecchio and the jewelry shops lining the bridge are still open. The club is visible through the break in the shops—with the sun, the old men have returned to their posts outside, and Stefano stands at the edge of the dock, shading his eyes and shouting directions to the teens. I scan for Luca but I know he won’t be there.

“I was wondering when I didn’t see you at the canottieri,” Francesca says, as though reading my thoughts. “You avoiding someone?” She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“No.”

“Well, it happens.”

“I’ve been busy,” I say, but Francesca doesn’t seem to hear me.

“Anyway, it’s pointless. Florence is a tiny village. I don’t care what people tell you. There’s no avoiding anyone.”

“Boston’s the same. I guess most cities are like that once you get to know them.”

“Not like Florence,” she says, and shakes her head. As we approach the piazza, the crowd grows dense, and more children appear with lanterns. Francesca pushes Adriana along ahead of her and raises her voice to be heard over the chatter. “I came here from a city and I thought I was moving to a city. That’s what he said. Center of culture, history. All that. Instead I’ve got this tiny village. Don’t let anyone fool you. There’s no hiding here,” she says, and then, as though to prove her point, “So I heard you left the party with Luca.”

My face flushes, giving me away, and still I say, “He just walked me out. That’s all.”

“Sure. You don’t have to be embarrassed. You’re an adult. Luca”—she nods—“he used to date a lot of women. And then one really messed him up—broke his heart. That changes a person, you know?”

“I don’t,” I say. “Nothing happened. I’m not looking for anything here.”

“Va bene.” She shrugs. “Just thought you should know. These men—you can never tell.”

Adriana looks back at us as we’re funneled into the square.

“Do you study English?” I ask her, and she nods.

“Yeah, she speaks it perfectly,” Francesca says loudly. Then to me, “When she talks, that is. Honestly, sometimes I feel like I’m living in a church.”

I look at Adriana, but she’s aleady broken away and her lantern becomes one of many as she disappears into the crowd, the orb swinging side to side.

Francesca pulls me to the stairs of the old foundling hospital that frames one edge of the piazza. Along its portico, in the spaces where the columns burst into arches, is a line of medallions stamped with swaddled children, white against powder blue. I look up at their bodies, tiny from here, and wonder when I will bleed, if I will bleed, my insides parched and brittle. At the end of the building, a large wooden wheel is set into the wall. I’ve read that centuries ago people could abandon their unwanted offspring there: place the child on the wheel and rotate the little foundling into the orphanage anonymously.

Tonight the piazza is filled with children, though, from the youngest sitting on their parents’ shoulders to those Adriana’s age, who anxiously search the crowd for other teens. Each child clutches a paper lantern.

“It’s part of the Feast of the Madonna,” Francesca explains as we look out over the square. “I swear, there are more feasts and festivals in this city… Don’t get me wrong, I was raised Catholic. My parents put me through the ringer. You?”

“No. Not even close. My mother believes in yoga—that and work.”

“Ha. What about your father?”

“I think he goes to church now because of his second wife. Anyway, finding God didn’t change how he felt about us. He was still just not around.”

“Ho capito. Sorry. Anyway, tomorrow’s the big day,” Francesca says. “Birth of the Madonna. Back to church.”

The last bit of sun is lost behind the buildings and the air becomes sulfurous as each lantern is lit. Adriana reappears with another girl at her side, who greets Francesca quickly and then drops her voice to an excited whisper as Adriana leans her lantern toward us. Francesca pulls out a lighter to spark the candle from below and the sun’s face ripples with light and shadow. Across the piazza, other lanterns glow to life, their patterns appearing. There are animal heads, starbursts, a Medici family seal. Adriana’s friend has a broadly grinning cat. The images blur as the crowd begins to move and Francesca takes my arm. We walk out of the piazza behind the two girls and join the stream of lights that flows, sparkling, between the old buildings.

“The parade goes up the river,” Francesca explains.

Suddenly there’s a shout from the crowd and one of the lanterns explodes. Its owner, a very young girl, begins to cry as bits of paper fall to the ground. Adriana and her friend look around, their eyes wild with anticipation.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Don’t worry,” Francesca says. “It’s normal. Some of the kids carry—what do you call it?” She purses her lips, then says, “Peashooters. Mostly boys.” Her phone rings. “Aspetta,” she says, glancing at it and smiling before picking it up. “Pronto? Sì… Yeah, I’m here with Hannah. You know Hannah… Sì, certo. Ponte alle Grazie. Va bene. A dopo.” She snaps it shut. “Look—there’s one.”

A boy darts through the crowds ahead of us. He raises the little peashooter to his lips and takes aim at a glowing lion. He blows and, in a moment, the lantern is deflated.

Francesca shakes her head. “Just like men, you know?”

He takes aim at another lantern but misses this time. Night has fallen, and above us, people are leaning out their windows to watch the lanterns pass. We take one turn and then another before we reach the river, where bodies pour in from the other streets to join the unbroken line of light. On the Arno, small glowing boats are carried fast by the current until they are caught in a mass at the base of the Ponte alle Grazie.

“Peter!” Francesca shouts, and I see him leaning against the wall by the bridge. She grabs his hand as we pass and kisses him on the cheeks.

“Ciao, Hannah,” he says, flushed. Adriana looks back with a blank expression before she and her friend link arms and move ahead without speaking. He glances at Francesca.

“Non ti preoccupare,” she says. “It’s not a problem.”

“So you started in the piazza?” Peter asks, his voice bright. “It’s a great event. It only happens in Florence, you know.” He pauses. “We’ve missed you at the canottieri.”

“Thanks,” I say, though after Francesca’s gossip, I wonder who the “we” is. I try to remember the end of the night at the dance club—who saw me fall?—but the faces are gone, disappeared. More lost time.

“Have you been out on the water yet?” Peter asks.

“No, I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You should try. I can help you if you’d like. Francesca could, too. She’s not half bad.” Francesca hits his arm and Peter grins.

Around us the children begin to sing, the words become clearer as they repeat: “Ona, ona, ona. Ma che bella rificolona. La mia l’è co’ fiocchi e la tua l’è co’ pidocchi.”

What a beautiful lantern, mine is tied with bows. But the last phrase is confusing.

“Pidocchi?” I ask.

“Lice,” Francesca says.

“Why lice?”

She shrugs. “Who knows?”

“Because of the history,” Peter says, excited.

Francesca loops her arm through his. “The little professor. I told Hannah it was a Catholic thing. You going to show me up?”

“I’m not showing you up.” He laughs, pulling her closer and then turning to me. “It is a Catholic thing. But the holiday was also one of the biggest market days of the year. Farmers came in from the countryside to sell their goods, but there wasn’t enough space in the piazza—Santissima Annunziata—so they left the night before to get a spot.”

“Ah,” Francesca says, pleased. “So they came with lanterns.”

“Exactly,” Peter says.

“Ona, ona, ona,” the song continues, louder now. Up ahead at the next bridge the light is spreading horizontally as people disperse.

“And the lice?” I ask.

“Well, the farmers wore their best clothing. Coming to Florence was a big deal, you know. But the Florentines still saw them as lice-ridden peasants. And the children who lived in the city would shoot at their lanterns.”

“Sì.” Francesca laughs. “The Florentines are a bit arrogant, no? Hundreds of years, and nothing changes.” She sighs and leans her head on Peter’s arm.

“I should go,” I say as we approach the bridge. The parade is morphing into a party. The adults are gathering in groups, and the lanterns that have survived the snipers are falling forgotten to the street or becoming weapons themselves as children chase one another.

“I’m glad you came,” Francesca says warmly, embracing me.

Peter kisses me on both cheeks. “Until tomorrow,” he says insistently. “I’ll see you out on the water, okay?”

I’m about to say no when Adriana runs up, clutching her lantern, which is hanging limp, pierced. She isn’t crying but is instead elated.

“È scoppiata!” she says to Francesca, clutching it like a prize—the lost lantern means someone was aiming for her.

“Brava, brava.” Francesca smiles at her for the first time all evening.

“Okay,” I say to Peter. “I’ll see you on the water.”

That night, before attempting sleep, I read the final chapter on the saint’s life. Like all the greats, it seems, it was short. Catherine died at age thirty-three of a stroke, at which point she was eating almost nothing, subsisting on only water and the Eucharist.