Chapter One

City of Woes, City of Light

A scrap. Partially folded, heavy-weight, rough watercolor paper with prominent tooth surface flew from an overcoat pocket and fell to wet, square stones. Ink bled into ink. Blurring and distorting shapes mingled on the smooth curve of a stomach ending in protruding lips just below blood-shot eyes. A man’s foot, still wearing expensive Italian loafers, jutted between lips of viscera. At top right in the ink and watercolor a sharp beak impaled the naked torso of a man, his member bitten off, still bleeding; scar from an appendectomy faintly visible. In the bottom right corner of the grotesquery, a scalped victim was holding the top of his head with his left hand while a half-woman-half-lizard stuck its needle tongue down his throat, scream silenced. Upper center, a green-scaled, avenging angel stabbed three-headed Lucifer as he appeared to twist wildly.

Hellscape trampled by those crossing Ponte Vecchio in Florence, Italy on a particularly dark, rainy evening. Advena Goodwin bent to pick up the discarded ink and watercolor before continuing across the old bridge.

~ * ~

Spanning the River Arno, Ponte Vecchio traversed centuries in addition to distinct parts of Florence. Withstanding periodic onslaughts of floods and at one time a retreating German army in World War II, the oldest bridge in Florence witnessed more than its share of lovers and artists, goldsmiths and tourists, but also indignities and violence in the years since its fourteenth century reconstruction. Salmon and bright yellow-colored boutiques looked like tiny houses with green shutters, tacked outside the framework holding up the bridge. These little shops housing businesses above the bridge were known as the Vasariano Corridor. They seemed to hang precariously side by side until they come to the center arches, those deep graceful openings through which tourists and Florentines may see neighboring Ponte Santa Trinita and Ponte alle Grazie, neither of which is as beautiful or as storied.

Nearly seven hundred years after the rebuilding of the old bridge, American teacher Vena Goodwin stopped on Ponte Vecchio to draw up a strange, discarded watercolor painting. She tucked the illustration under her red coat and leaned into the February storm. Rain drops dotted her face. Tourists surrounded her. Walking quickly in the chill night, she missed inscriptions from Dante’s Inferno, scarcely noticing the symmetry of the causeway, but unknowingly, she now held a key to a murder.

~ * ~

Scarcely a week earlier, Advena settled onto her seat on Italia Rail traveling north from Rome to Florence, a little more than 230 km. Navigating trains was easy and definitely better than on her earlier expeditions, she decided. While still a foreigner, she felt far more comfortable and experienced in traveling after having lived in Rome for over a year. Yet, her extended absence from Italy had left too much unanswered, and she made a choice to teach again in a country she loved, one that would never be her own.

“In Florence? Yes, of course, I’d like to teach a course. Who could turn the offer down?” Vena told her instructor.

“They pay notoriously poorly, but it’s a chance to see Florence and take in the city in a way tourists seldom do. I’m pleased you have accepted.” Professor Rosenfeld smiled at his most promising graduate student, one who had returned to finish her degree after an absence. Settled. Vena was returning to Italia!

Florence, or Firenze, would be an entirely different creature than Roma, she reminded herself. Florentines were more reserved, partially due to tourism—over ten million came just the year before and helped the city’s economy. Tourists, however, did not distinguish Firenze from Roma. If Vena was to be something more than a mere visitor, she needed to know and understand far more than the typical American passing through the old Renaissance city. She found she was very good at hungrily acquiring new information.

Vena remembered her former lover, Elio’s, caution at their parting, “You’ll never be Italian. Don’t try. Be yourself always, Vena.” She had yet to find her home.

~ * ~

When younger, Vena long brooded on why the forever absent Greta had cursed her with the name Advena.

“You’ll look up its etymological origins someday and discover I chose a lovely name,” Greta said over the phone in a conversation lasting less than three minutes.

After hanging up and diving into the Oxford Dictionary, Advena located her name’s birth in the concept of exile. Daughter had, however, long forgiven mother for her serious transgressions; the elder woman’s failure to rise to the challenge of being nurturing and running away, leaving her child.

“Don’t be so dramatic all the time, Advena,” Greta said over the phone the last time they talked a few months earlier. “Lots of women are not interested in motherhood. At least, I gave you options. Do with them what you will. Your name is wonderful, but change the name if you feel the need. I don’t really care. I’m weary of your silly recriminations.”

Advena bore her given name like a weight until she altered it. Never feeling at home anywhere, Vena considered the subject of her recent study, Dante Alighieri, the great Italian poet she was reading, driven from his home in Firenze. “Midway through life” he had entered the “dark woods,” and Vena, too, found herself in strange surroundings translating his work. Yet her exile to his homeland was by choice.

In the months leading up to her departure for Florence, Vena read history about art, politics of the church, yet was aware she was just beginning to learn about Italy and its people. She studied a guide book of Florentine symbols: lily on a coat of arms, flower, not a lily at all she read, but a stylized iris. Vena wondered about how often our initial perceptions ended up deceiving us. Flipping pages during the long flight across the Atlantic, she came across the Marzocco lion, a symbol of the once free Republic of Firenze.

Wondering if her students would ask these questions, Vena doubted her careful preparation was sufficient even though she had been well versed and should have been ready to discuss her own crude translation of Dante’s work. Those Italian students would have more than passing familiarity with Dante’s Divina Commedia. Her rendering was rough, even childlike and not on a level near publishable, but the challenge gave her insight into both Dante’s literature and working in Italian. Again, recalling how her former graduate school English professor Gould might have begun a lecture, Vena could hear him say, “Hell is Firenze,” with a long pause before telling his shocked students Dante had condemned Firenze first after leaving, and the Italian poet created Firenze as symbol of every city in parody, working out his demons in exile.

Yet, Vena still expected Florence to be divine as a city of art, a city remaking itself over and over. Pilgrim without Virgil as guide, Vena wanted time to read copiously and think without comment. All of her past came flooding up as she stood on the platform waiting for a train. Florence was situated on the country’s main north-south line, and she knew the schedules of the slower trains, having taken them before.

Traveling solo had its drawbacks, however. “I’ll be fine, Bill,” she said to her father before she left his house. “Remember, I’ve been doing this for a while now.”

“I’m not doubting you. There are evil people out there, and sometimes, you get caught up in things beyond your control.”

She knew Bill was referring to the murders in Rome a little more than a year earlier when she was nearly killed. “Not going to happen again. I promise to be careful.”

“At least call or email me once a week, if that’s not too much.”

“Of course. You take care of yourself, too.” Vena acknowledged her father looked old, not simply older, but frail.

“I always do.” They hugged a little awkwardly as Bill was never entirely comfortable with fatherhood but always made the effort.

Vena remembered her father’s kindnesses when an older man sat down next to her on the train. Her skirt was too short, she decided after continuing to tug the hem for better coverage as the burly man cast his eyes down and over her body. Within minutes, he let his hand fall to her thigh, one finger lingering then stroking, and she had to elbow him sharply. Bill would have been proud she stood up for herself. The large Italian man who was sweating in the February cold pulled back and turned toward the aisle, laughing softly. At the moment, she knew she should have opted for the high-speed train rather than the pace of the local flavor journey. But there had been a rationale to her decision: she needed time to prepare herself to study additional texts and to call Elio and let him know she had returned to Italy, not to renew their romance.

For the first hour, she slept like a cat, with one eye half open and alert to her surroundings. When her head cleared, she determined to contact Elio even if calling him meant listening to his angry words. No, words of his pain would be far worse. She dialed his number, nevertheless, out of courtesy for their friendship. At least, she hoped they still had a chance for friendship.

“It’s you. I’m not really free to talk now, Vena,” said Elio flatly. Yet, he appeared surprised to hear from her and unable to disguise the confusion in his voice.

“Understand. I wanted to let you know I’m in Italy, in Italia for a couple of months doing some teaching for visiting Americans and Italians who want to improve their English through creative writing, that’s all.”

“You’re in Italia? Where are you exactly? Right now?”

“On a train heading north.”

The train prepared to pull out of another local station. More people clamored into the car’s opening and a few managed to make their way down the aisle. Vena knew she was lucky to have a seat.

“Right. On a train going where exactly?”

“Firenze.”

“You landed in Roma without telling me?”

“Yes, but I didn’t think it fair to call you when I landed,” she said as another heavy man sat next to her, pushing into her. He was, however, respectful and tried to gather himself up to appear smaller than he was and not crowd into her space. His mustache and beard appeared as if he had just come out of the woods, covered in little bits of brush and dirt. He tried to smile at her then turned away.

“Well, as long as you were being fair,” Elio said, sarcasm apparent even without the benefit of his expressive face. “All right. All right, then,” he said with some resignation, hesitating before hanging up.

Vena looked out the window to keep from tearing up.

Just about the time she decided she’d made an awful mistake letting her ex-boyfriend know she was back in Italy, Elio called back.

“Look, you know, I can be an ass sometimes.”

“Not really. I didn’t expect—” The man seated next to her appeared as if he was trying hard not to listen to her conversation, pulling his shoulders in toward his expensive chest and ducking his head.

“I’m sorry. I was just caught off guard by your call. The fact you were right here, in Roma, and didn’t call before. I was,” Elio nearly said, “hurt,” but caught himself in time.

“I’m sorry, too. This is difficult for both of us, but I thought you might want to know, and I thought I should not be in your country without telling you. Wouldn’t it be intrusive to just drop in on you, with or without warning?”

“Okay. I get it. I do want to know if you’re around. Thanks, really, for calling. How are you?”

“Fine. I’m looking forward to this time in Italia. And you?” She winced at the oddness of their superficial conversation; glad he could not see her face. Her burly companion on the train looked over at her and shrugged, as if he understood the situation.

Elio avoided answering her question. “Where are you going to be staying? The address?” As soon as she spoke, Elio seamlessly switched to English with her.

“Gherardesca, near the Piazzale Donatello, upper floor studio,” she said, cupping her hand to speak more softly into the phone. “Tiny but should work for me. I don’t need much space.” Shaking her head, she wondered why she told her former lover something so unimportant as the size of her new living quarters. “I’ll send you a text with the address. Everything’s buried in my backpack right now. How are you?”

“You never needed a lot of space.” Elio was referring to their year together, letting her know he was thinking of their time. “And, I’m—okay. No, I’m good. Very good really. I’m living with someone. She’s—I think I’m in love with her. We’re in a relationship.” Elio hung his head and put his hand over the phone as if trying to keep Vena from seeing his reaction, fully aware of how clumsy his lie sounded.

“That’s wonderful news. I’m happy for you.” Although Vena meant her words, she could feel old jealousies tingling, crawling up her back to her neck where they sat like tiny spiders. She didn’t have to think about Elio for long in order to recognize she still loved him. What did she expect of him after she had rejected his offer of marriage more than a year earlier?

“I’m happy for me, too. I really have to go this time, but hey, I almost forgot. My brother Dante is in Firenze right now. He was just stationed there. Weird coincidence, right? You should say hello to him. You still have his number?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ll call and try to see him if you think that would be okay.”

“Why not?” Elio nearly said, “You didn’t reject his offer of marriage,” but held his tongue.

“Try not to get yourself involved in an investigation again or major crimes. Okay? Carabinieri have their hands full right now, and I don’t want to have to worry—”

Vena had read about a scandal over two Arma dei Carabinieri officers accused of rape by a couple of American women. Unsure of what to believe about the incident, she couldn’t help siding with the young women, but her contact with Elio’s brother made her more skeptical of the account than she might have been otherwise.

“Is Dante tasked with some internal inquiry over those allegations?”

“Allegations?”

“The American students accusing the Carabinieri of rape?”

“You heard about it then? No, nothing like that, but, he’s in charge of these younger guys, making sure they look sharp, don’t make the tourists nervous. Restore the good name. You understand. There is more. A lot of unrest—migrant influx concerns.”

“I do. Should tourists be worried?” Vena knew she sounded ridiculous.

“Of course not. Firenze is pretty quiet right now, just the usual pickpocket minor stuff, some robberies. Listen, I don’t mind you being in Italia, I mean, it’s rather nice, but I don’t want to stress about you getting hurt either, so stay out of Carabinieri business. If something should come up, you and your crystal ball can advise from your room via phone.”

“I don’t plan to get into their affairs.” She laughed at the pun, more out of relief than anything. He was probably smiling, too, although she could faintly imagine his face working an emotion.

“Uh, was that some kind of double entendre? You know my brother better than that.”

“Sorry. I was kidding. Guess it wasn’t really funny under the circumstances. I know their code.”

“Kind of funny. Listen, I have to run, but call back when you want. Any time except today. I really am running late. Yes, I’m teaching. Actually, call after 4:00 is best. Sorry about earlier. I just…” Vena could hear his change in tone, but his words were still genuine.

“I know. I will.”

“Hey, watch out for wasps.”

“Wasps?”

“Vespas. They’re even more ubiquitous in Firenze, and they’ll mow you down if you’re not careful, Dante tells me. Tourists are too busy looking up to look around them. Keep your head up.”

“Promise to look both ways, and I’m not a tourist, remember.”

“You will be when you see Firenze. It’s gorgeous. Be aware of your surroundings. Promise.” He stopped himself from saying, “for me.”

This time when Elio hung up, Vena was relieved and not saddened. But she did start thinking about why she became involved in Dante’s investigations over a year ago. What was the draw about murder, not allowing her to look away? Like gawkers on a highway after an accident, she supposed, unhappy with herself. No, the pull wasn’t about killing but, rather, puzzles, searching for solutions to the unlikely all the way to seeming impossible.

This time, she would go to Firenze, to Italia, for the art and to teach she promised herself. But no sooner had she made a promise than she began thinking about Elio and missing him. A second or two later, she was pondering an old murder, Elio’s brother Dante, and the darker side of human nature rolling into dense fog enveloping her as she fell asleep.

~ * ~

Sometime around 994 AD Romans began constructing the three-arches out of stone piers and wood, spanning the Arno River, a walkway which would serve as fortification from barbarians. Beauty was not their aim. Destroyed by flooding, Ponte Vecchio was rebuilt, the newer structure completed in 1345 AD, just a little over 650 years ago, noted Vena as she leafed through an English guide book about Florence. She read a blogger’s account: “From a distance, the bridge appears as a miniature town floating above water with goldsmith concessions and ever-present pedestrians seeming to make the bridge home.” No, Vena wanted to correct the blog after examining the photographs online. Shops jutting out over water on either side of the three arches were like doll houses tacked in place, angles no longer quite right, a roofline slanting slightly off kilter, brown painted shutters standing out against ochre and pink colors like frames in a series of other world portraits. At night, however, with lights shining through the arches from below, everything appeared in perfect proportion. Every city light reflected in the Arno arose as river constellations.

Ponte Vecchio’s storied past that Vena loved best involved supposed harmonics of the structure because its proportions were said to form a musical octave. Historically, the old bridge was also a place where squalid, butcher establishments once sprang up and jutted out over the river, supported by wooden beams, altering the music, most likely, Vena conjectured. Meat stores dominated before the Grand Duke demanded jewelers and goldsmiths could operate on Ponte Vecchio, permanently elevating its status.

Darkening the glorious walkways in life was the fact Hitler apparently enjoyed the view from the archways. Yet, his decision not to bomb the old bridge was one of that monster’s exceedingly rare examples of semi-decency when he demanded his army leave Ponte Vecchio undamaged. His armies, however, did go about destroying every other bridge in the city. Vena had taken notes of their history and read them over, causing her anticipation of arrival to be much greater.

Ponte Vecchio held Dante’s verse inscriptions in protruding, rectangular stone commemorating the death of a nobleman, Buondelmonte, who was assassinated for his rejection of an arranged marriage on that very span. Vena circled the notes on Buondelmonte, intending to find out more later. A murder on Ponte Vecchio commemorated by Dante. Vena crosschecked two versions of her notes on these facts and Dante’s verse from Paradiso, inscribed on a plaque near the beginning of the footpath across the Arno. The position supposedly marked where the nobleman died, and the plaque read:

Conveniesi a quella pietra scema

che quarda l ponte, che Fiorenza fesse

vittima nella sua pace postrema

Dante—Par. XVI. 145-147

Below his verse, she toyed with several translations before arriving at one of her own, words still seeming a bit awkward:

The act was required to achieve final peace;

Firenze should sacrifice a victim

on the broken stone which guards the bridge.

The victim, Boundelmonte de’ Boundelmonti was murdered for love, but not merely for love. For love and politics.

~ * ~

“Sei un’opera d’arte, yes, a work of art, my dear,” said Carlino Sabatini as he adjusted a lock of curly hair which had fallen over his favorite model’s left eye. “Now turn your head to the left a bit more, open your lips a little wider. Your tongue. I want to see the tip of your tongue between your teeth. Place your fat little tongue just above your bottom teeth. Perfect. Your pictures are going to be all over in this ad campaign.” Carlino Sabatini snapped a few dozen pictures then stopped. “You’ll be famous, you know. Will you remember me when you’re surrounded by adoring crowds?”

Oriana bit her lip slightly to keep from laughing. He was so handsome, this older charming photographer who was going to make her a star. His salt and pepper, wavy hair and neatly trimmed small beard, were just enough to make him look smart, but not too smart, she decided. As he looked her over, she returned his stare, taking in careless luxury of the man, his light blue Zannone cashmere sweater beneath a beige-colored, Rubinacci linen blazer. His trousers were tailored to the shivering break, and she knew he perfected this detail in order to call attention to his Berluti Scritto leather slip-on dress loafers, embossed stitching across the toe. Oriana Elena Fiorentina knew clothing and designers even if she could not yet afford beautiful silks and the linen she wore in a photo shoot. Carlino’s shoes were at least 1,700 Euros.

A little flirting with a rich and influential man would not hurt her. Her wait for fame nearly over.

Approaching her again, Carlino tucked her hair behind her little ears. “Why, you have no earlobes, darling!” he said surprised, but delighted for a reason she could not yet understand.

Well aware he used any excuse to touch her, to get close, she understood she would soon willingly allow him far more intimacy and freedom to explore her body. Other technicians on the shoot were standing around watching and could not fail to observe the subtle body language between photographer and subject. They were used to Carlino crossing the line with models.

Money was everything, one of the younger men guessed. What they lacked. Oriana would not even look at the handsome technicians.

Signor Sabatini couldn’t be that old, Oriana concluded, studying him as he licked her with his eyes. Still in such good shape, she thought, and the way he stared told her all she needed to know.

~ * ~

Vena Goodwin massaged tight skin over bone of her right eye socket. Setting down Tomas Tranströmer’s The Great Enigma, a collection of poems by the Swedish Nobel Prize winner, she tucked the book in her backpack. A migraine had insinuated itself before she scarcely finished Tranströmer’s “Secrets on the Way.” Images of clouded journeys rumbled past like blurred landscapes behind closed eyes. Too much of the Italian landscape was hidden from view by concrete bank structures. The man beside her left, and an elderly woman sat in his place. Finally, Vena closed both of her eyes and slept soundly.

~ * ~

Weeks before her train ride to Florence, Vena had been talking with her old friend, a police detective, in Rochester, New York. Her one and one-half year search for John Keats’ vanished manuscript had come to an abrupt and tragic end. That manuscript was the artifact which caused her to leave Italy before she had a chance to determine whether or not she would stay with Elio.

Rags soaked in gasoline were ignited, spreading into conflagration, the mobster’s mansion entombing him, his wife, and all of their possessions in thick layers of ash. Vena recalled every detail she heard.

“Whatever papers were in his house are likely gone forever,” said Sergeant Campello. “If you believe Abramo likely had Keats’ valuable paper you were looking for, there is no longer any reason to continue searching. A fire takes everything. Probably another mob hit. Their State Police investigative unit said the fire originated in several places at once, a pretty clear sign of arson.”

When Vena finally managed to trace the likely path of Keats’ last poem to the crime boss living outside of Bridgeport, Connecticut—too late. The irony was not lost on Vena. Keats’ last work, having gone undiscovered for nearly two hundred years tucked in a book in an attic, would see the light of day briefly. Sadly, those few who saw Keats’ poem were now all dead. Exactly what words Keats used, his lyricism, the rhythmic lines disappearing, this time leaving no trace for even persistent amateur detectives. Never knowing for certain whether or not the poem really was John Keats’ last work on this earth hurt Vena’s heart. Believing there was a last poem but never reading it, never touching the paper with his elegant lines, created another scar.

~ * ~

Julia Esposito Sabatini was placing flowers in a vase in her elegant living room, thinking how her art training had largely been wasted on such trivialities as furniture arrangement, color swatches, and a few paintings no one wanted to see. She had studied Renaissance masters and considered herself a fine artist, but one as yet undiscovered and certainly unappreciated, even by her own family. Her disappointment in her father extended to other men she had known and those she painfully dated. When she finally married, later in life, she said “yes” to an attractive, immaculately-dressed man who used her, stole her money, and debased her; yet she held all this inside. Never would she let Carlino believe he had taken what he wanted from her, and she was left with nothing in return. A ruse, an act she carried in her posture and gestures in public. There were all those years of practice to perfection. In private, however, another matter.

~ * ~

“You have my wife’s dull greenish eyes and long, pointed nose, her plumpness,” said Gerardo, sighing. “Still, you should be able to find yourself a man. Someone will have you, but fix yourself up a bit first,” her father told her. “You don’t want to die alone, and I’m not going to carry you forever. You will not be poor, and my money and property should help.” Gerardo was not one to have conversations with his daughter, but when his wife demanded he say something to comfort their child who was sobbing for hours in her bedroom, he reluctantly obliged. Chubby, tall Julia was fifteen at the time and pushed her head in a pillow before falling asleep.

In the morning, she stood before a full-length mirror and examined her nose at length, deciding her father was not entirely accurate. There was a slight upturn at the end, and she was not as round as her mother who looked like she had just had a baby although there would be only one, a homely girl of whom neither of her parents were proud.

~ * ~

Gerardo attended an auction in France during the birth of his daughter, and he arrived home two days later to find a constantly crying infant and wife. After examining his daughter and finding she had all her toes and fingers, he said, “Well, she looks healthy but not very pretty,” then turned away. He patted the top of his sweating wife’s head.

Gerardo was not wrong. Julia was not a pretty baby and her incessant yelping made caring for her difficult. “You must be able to do something to make her stop,” he said in exasperation to his young wife who was wiping her constantly running nose and weeping eyes with the same cloth.

“I can’t stop her. Nothing I do works,” Rachel said. Neither husband nor wife understood Rachel’s sudden depression. Both, however, knew their child had altered their lives and destroyed their attraction for one another.

“Then find someone who can,” the impatient husband said before leaving his house late at night, one of many evenings away. On many more occasions, Gerardo had reminded his wife and later his daughter, woman was created from the rib of man. There would be no discussion of a woman’s place in the world in which she was merely a part, not the whole.

Although he would never divorce Rachel, Gerardo could not find his way back to loving her in the same way after their child was born, her pretty little figure slouching into formlessness after weight gained from eating in sorrow.

Rachel could not comprehend what had happened to her happy home even as they grew richer and had finer things.

Never a poor man to begin with, Gerardo spent his energies on building his business empire, investing and reinvesting, working long hours and taking solace in the accumulation of wealth. Life was dismaying and disappointing when he stopped for a moment, slept in his own bed, and listened to his wife snoring and snorting.

“Gerardo, why don’t we go out tonight and get a sitter for the girl? I need to have an evening out.”

“It’s better if a mother is with her child, and I have work to do.” He pulled his sweater on and tucked in his starched shirt.

“You’re always working.” Rachel’s lower lip pushed out of its own accord.

“How do you think you and the child are provided for?” He kissed the top of her head in methodical gesture and turned to go.

“I don’t need so much,” she said.

“Ah, but the baby will.” He left without looking back.

~ * ~

Rachel tried her hardest not to be cruel to her child, but the sight of her own daughter began to sicken her; the girl was blamed for the deprivation experienced by Rachel. Trying at first to be good in her role, Rachel finally gave up the attempt in all but appearances. She prided herself on never beating her daughter, however much she berated the girl privately, her tongue lashing like fat whips, leaving unseen welts.

Julia came into a world of privilege, without love and affection, and remained in that world. Unlike her increasingly indifferent father, Julia wanted to earn the love of her parents. She was confused by their cruelty for years.

“I will set the table for you, Mama.”

“Don’t touch your grandmother’s good silver. And, I would rather not have you call me Mama. It’s past time you grew up. Call me Rachel.”

“Rachel, should I set out the plates?” Rachel shivered as Julia yanked the stack of dishes from her and put each plate in its awful place.

“Go make yourself presentable for your father.”

~ * ~

At university, Julia threw herself into art studies where her efforts at creating something beautiful always seemed to fall short of expectations. Her professors became her disappointed father figures ad nauseum.

“Perhaps you should consider changing your major.” After hearing one professor’s comment, Julia steeled herself, went back to her room then tore up several of her drawings. Yet, she refused to give up and worked harder at her art.

Julia’s descent was a long, slow one, growing darker over time.

~ * ~

Reading on her phone, Vena pulled up an article from “The Week” about a new George Clooney movie. One line stopped her reading until she found that quotation again: “The whole world wants to visit enchanting Florence,” said Michele Giuttari, “But the city has a dark soul.” Michele Giuttari, the writer, was once a cop and headed the more recent homicide investigations into the Monster of Florence. The moniker was given to a serial killer who may have escaped justice entirely. Almost impossible to imagine, the Florence she longed to visit had also been home to serial murders.

Drawn to the ancient city for the same reasons as other tourists, Vena had been invited to teach an English poetry workshop in the city to visiting students. As a freelance contractor she had few protections when the job began or concluded, but she was not sure she wanted to stay in Italy beyond the parameters of her employment. Its impermanence suited her.

On her way to the enchanted city, Vena felt the slightest unease, aware violent crime in Florence was far less likely than in any American city of similar size. She put her phone away. The dichotomy of the beauty and art in Florence juxtaposed with serial violence seemed unnatural, impossible, but the city’s history suggested otherwise. Even a passing knowledge of Italia’s past had to figure in the Medici, those benevolent with an eye for art and those with a penchant for poisons in ruling.

~ * ~

Grabbing her Casini Firenze leather bag stuffed with every item imaginable, Julia Esposito Sabatini set out in her signature bright white shirt and black silk dress pants reminding everyone of the duality in life and art. She was on her way to speak with the curator of the intimate and recently opened Costa Gallery. In view of the fact her art was not yet widely known or juried, she had set aside her fears and humility. What good were her connections and wealth if she did not use them to promote her own art? The portfolio in her left hand weighed heavily, more out of nervousness than by libra. This painting was her most accomplished, she was convinced, having launched her artistic career once again after abandoning her own art for years.

Raining off and on for days, the pavement and streets were wet and little pools formed. Julia told herself she was not too old for anything. Aware she was not beautiful, she also knew she wore her wealth like a crown and her conceit like the black, Attico robe coat—with grace and style. However, her stilettos betrayed her, and she slipped on wet pavement, leather bag flying in one direction and her portfolio in another. Her hand and right knee caught the weight of her slim but tall body, and she badly twisted her ankle on the way down. After a moment in which she was stunned, the pain in her knee and ankle shot up through her torso, and she sat back down, silk skirt and Attico coat impossibly dirtied.

A young, foreign woman reached out and helped Julia Sabatini to her feet. This pretty woman picked up Julia’s bag and portfolio with an easy sweep of her arms. Julia’s oil painting had fallen from the unzipped portfolio. The young woman picked up the painting carefully, stared for a moment, startled, then placed the canvas back in the portfolio before handing all over to Julia.

“Stai bene? Are you okay?” the lady asked, slipping between languages.

“Sì, solo imbarazzato. Sei americano?”

“Yes. “Avete bisogno di assistenza?”

“No, I don’t need further assistance,” Julia said. “You may speak in English. I know the language, but your Italian—you are an American?”

“Yes, Grazie. Sono caduto durante la mia prima visita a Roma.”

“Falling and making a fool of oneself is always quite awful, isn’t it?”

“Awful to fall, but you didn’t look foolish. You aren’t injured too badly? Even a beautiful skirt such as yours washes quickly. And your art seems undamaged; homage to Bosch? I put your painting back in your portfolio. Advena Goodwin, by the way.” Vena extended her hand.

“I’m fine. Thank you. I don’t need your assistance. Homage to Dante. Bosch merely drew what Dante described.”

“Oh, I thought perhaps Bosch was a favorite from your work.”

“No, you assume far too much. If you would like to know, my favorite artist is Caravaggio.” Julia’s face reddened at her revelation to a stranger and abruptly walked away after removing her shoes, one with a broken heel, the straps tucked around her fingers which also held her portfolio. She was cognizant the American had been kind, but the act felt self-indulgent, pleading even. These foreigners were invading her city, wandering between statues, holding their cameras, cell phones, and guide books like Bibles, crowding them, pushing and shoving. She hated them all. Then again, Julia hated many people. Their dull eyes, glazed from lack of sleep and long plane rides, culture overload, and ill-fitting shoes, producing blisters. No, projection, she decided, blisters belonged to her.

Pain filled her body before settling more locally in her knee and ankle. Her face reddened with shame and disgust. She scarcely weighed her rudeness to the young foreign woman, the American. Grateful for the fact her unfaithful husband Carlino had not been there to witness her humiliation, she couldn’t bring herself to be polite to anyone who had witnessed the spill.

~ * ~

Vena stood watching the older woman limp across the public square. There was so little in the exchange between them, yet Vena felt something akin to a stabbing sensation. Then the young American turned toward her little apartment, her new living quarters for the next two months. Her unease at the moment, however, was not about finding her way in the city but the distorted and disturbing images on the painting by a woman who had fallen on uneven stones. As she looked down at the wet pavement below her, the moon appeared in reflection, another distortion. Ah, welcome to Firenze, she said to herself. Then, a second time, without irony.

Rising out of the Tuscan hills, Firenze held her red brick dome over Basilica of Santa Maria del Fiore. The largest dome ever so constructed, perfect architecture, a mystery of engineering and poetry. This city kept close her secrets, Vena considered, along with her treasures from antiquity. Firenze rivaled Roma with riches from the Uffizi, Museo dell ‘Opera, and Accademia galleries, Vena knew. She had a list in her journal of places she wanted to visit and the Bargello and Ferragamo museums were also included, but they would have to wait. Having made a note about booking tickets to the Uffizi early to avoid three-hour lines, she did not want to run around like a tourist but to live as a citizen of the city of art, if for a short time.

Yet, she guarded few illusions about her standing. Vena knew this was not her city but one with mysteries attending glorious art, drawing her fully inside.

~ * ~

Hieronymus Bosch, or rather, Jheronimus van Aken—his better-known last name a derivative of his place of birth—brooded over oak panels, nightmares from his disturbed sleep still in the room with him, expanding along the walls before him.

All those years ago—the night of fires from Hell, Jheronimus was a sensitive boy who stood weeping with his hands at his throat as screams filled the city and flowed over his skin then seeped into his veins. Four-thousand homes burned with their inhabitants. Smoke covered the boy’s face, ran down his throat, so he could scarcely speak. He saw her eyes. A girl he knew, just a year younger running from the conflagration, her hair on fire, skin already blackened, body unrecognizable. Her eyes gave her away, identified her as she searched for something he could not give. The burning mass with eyes ran a few more steps then collapsed. His father’s arm wrapped around him and held him back.

“She’s gone. Nothing we can do. Come away.” But the boy could not escape from visions of inferno in which shrieks of the dying were drowned by high-pitched wails and crackling flame, small, successive explosions popping, wood snapping. Those entombed stabbed at the boy’s ears until he could hear all the world’s sorrows and nothing else. He had descended into Hell at the age of thirteen.

Later, he could see again and hear. Ash had cooled. Some homes were being rebuilt. His father said they would never know who set the fire or why, but all those wooden houses “so close together were tinder for flames.”

Dipping his brush in lead-tin-yellow then red lake oils, Bosch moved slowly and methodically to create a crudely suggestive human figure cut in half in the demon panel from his work, The Garden of Earthly Delights. A man’s bare buttocks and legs would be showing beneath a red plate on which a suffering knight—holding the Grail cup—was being devoured by gray and yellow-green beasts with long snouts and bird claws. There was no escape in this terrifying vision: half man below another impaled by fantastical, winged-headed men with swords. A bone-white central figure of a body as contorted stomach with bizarre growth of a leg bearing thorns caused Bosch’s eyes to move toward the center, the incubus, again. The grotesquerie was his own face he recognized in painted image, a large face holding up a bony plate on which a red organ was played by an insectoid man.

All the fear Bosch held as a child, all he had seen and could imagine, all came to him in nightmares from evils of other men, emerged in his work. None were spared in this vision of Hell, not even himself, his hallucinations alive in the oils swirling on wood. In the far-left wood panel, the artist created God presenting Adam with Eve, but even in this brightly colored landscape of blues and ochre, there was the sinister insinuation in the palm and the centered pink plant with sharp teeth. A matter of time before the long needle on the end of a stem bursting from a blue mountain penetrated something. His brain had been swirling with images of Dante Alighieri’s Inferno and his own childhood, like rotting plums in a bag, holding these secrets to be released in the panel on the far right, earth cracking open a fissure Bosch was not entirely sure he would ever be able to close.