Disposition of Remains (11 page)

Graziella and I agreed to meet on the Ponte Vecchio, Florence’s famed bridge, occupied by colorful buildings and jewelry shops run by equally colorful characters. I’d always been enamored with the Vasari Corridor, the once-secret passageway that runs from the Palazzo Vecchio across the top of the Ponte Vecchio to the other side of the Arno River. It was created for the rich and powerful Medici family so that they could avoid rubbing elbows with local riffraff while traveling between their palaces.

While I waited for Graziella, I marveled at the disguised corridor from the outside. I fought past the throngs of tourists pulsing their way across the bridge. Upon reaching the halfway point, I sifted through some chains one of the jewelers was peddling. I purchased an inexpensive necklace from a little Italian woman who insisted that I deserved something more expensive. Really, the chain was intended merely as a device to keep the Miraculous Medal charm from Sister Constance close to me. It would serve as a reminder of what she had said to me at the Ognissanti: that someone would miss me when I was gone, and that Mary, or some mystical force, might intercede on my behalf at my hour of death, just like Sister Constance believed.

Graziella greeted me with that same angelic smile she bore the previous night. She wore a flowered dress over her gazelle-like frame, her soft, curly hair in a romantic updo.

“Ciao, Stacia. Did you rest well?”

“I did, thank you,” I lied.

“Good, good,” she said with a smile as she interlocked arms with me, “because we have much to see.”

It was something that Jerry, my first love, used to do: lock arms with me as if we were about to prance down the yellow brick road. I realized how much I missed Jerry then. I felt almost the same immediate comfort with Graziella as I had with Jerry in my youth.

As we strode along, I came to notice that there were dozens of tacky padlocks attached to the side of the bridge.

“What’s with all the padlocks?” I wondered aloud.

“Couples attach them to the railing as a symbol of everlasting love. It is believed that if you lock a padlock to the rail and throw the key into the river, you and your partner will become eternally bonded.”

She shook her head and shrugged.

“Honestly, I think it’s a story that the padlock salesman at the end of the bridge made up. It defaces the bridge and it’s horrible for the environment.” She said fervently.

It certainly was an unattractive sight, and while I could understand how throwing metal keys into the water could
damage the river’s ecosystem, I still appreciated the romantic notion. I couldn’t help but picture myself gazing lovingly into Wilbur’s eyes as we turned the key in our own lock and tossed it into the murky, green river. But, as quickly as that image came to mind, it morphed into a grotesque scene where Evan was turning the key on a pair of handcuffs, permanently linking us to the bridge and each other.

“What people don’t realize is that the city just cuts off the locks or fines the perpetrators if they’re caught. What does
that
do to their eternal bond?” Graziella scoffed.

“American couples have been known to carve their initials into tree trunks,” I contributed.

Of course, I didn’t mention that with deforestation and the construction of new neighborhoods, those “Jimmy & Megan forever” hearts wind up as two-by-fours in cookie-cutter subdivisions. I considered that perhaps that is why the Western world’s divorce rate is so high: couples attempting to cement their love with impermanent symbols and perishable pieces of legal paper. It irritated me to consider the fact that we can’t just enjoy love as an intangible. Instead, we are compelled to try to make it into something tangible, like a $3 padlock, and somehow own it—and flaunt it for the world to see.

Graziella broke my pessimistic train of thought by explaining that the entire concept of bankruptcy is said to have started on the Ponte Vecchio. When a merchant was unable to pay his debts, a soldier would break his table, making it impossible for the merchant to sell his wares. The practice was called
banco rotto,
literally meaning “broken bank—or table.”

It turned out that Graziella and I shared a passionate dislike for souvenir shopping, so we bypassed the rest of the peddlers on the Ponte Vecchio and made our way to the Palazzo Pitti, the Medici’s destination on the other side of the Vasari Corridor.

The gray-stoned, prison-like exterior of the palace stood in stark contrast to what lay behind it. The massive Renaissance-style garden that awaited us on the other side of the palace was a labyrinth of trees and shrubs, adorned by dozens of statues and fountains. The Boboli Gardens even boasted some Roman antiquities. I had never seen anything like it. We strolled slowly through the gorgeous landscape.

“Michael has spoken quite often of you over the years. I’m glad to have finally met you,” Graziella said.

Here it comes,
I thought. All her former pleasantries had just been staged as a manipulation to uncover my true intentions.

“I’m sorry if my being here is causing any difficulties,” I responded softly.

“No, no, not at all. I think it is good for him to see you again. I think it is good for you as well. You seem to be at something of a crossroads.”

“That’s an understatement,” I muttered as I wondered if Graziella could possibly be that gracious.

“The way I look at it, you made him part of who he is, and I fell in love with him the way I found him. Had you stayed with him, I never would have met him.”

It made sense. It was just a much more mature attitude than I would have
been able to adopt. We seated ourselves on a park bench near a tranquil fountain with a statue of Triton as its centerpiece.

“Why did you break up with Michael, if you don’t mind my asking?” Graziella asked gently.

“Because of my mother. She was dying, and she wanted a very specific kind of life for me—something she felt that Michael couldn’t provide. It wasn’t a lifestyle I wanted, but I worshipped my mother and I felt that she knew things about life that I hadn’t yet experienced. She wanted me to have money and possessions that Michael and I could never have afforded. Evan was my mother’s wet dream.”

“May I ask what the problem is with your marriage?”

“Where do I start? The problem, unfortunately, is more than just my marriage; it’s what my marriage did to the rest of my life, or lack thereof, I should say.”

I paused to contemplate my explanation.

“Evan squashed my humanity for seventeen years. And I let him. But now that I’ve escaped his…reign, I seem to be creating a lot of havoc for myself.”

I sighed, and then turned to look Graziella directly in her soft, gray eyes.

“What do you think makes marriage work for you and Michael?”

She averted my gaze as she answered.

“We tell one another everything—good, bad, or otherwise. And we accept what each other has to say. I was in an abusive relationship before I met Michael, and Michael was a bit of a work in progress himself. I think you know what I mean. We sort of grew up together, I suppose.”

It was a relief to learn that Graziella hadn’t always been the perfect, angelic creature that sat before me
. I admired her. She had been in an unhealthy relationship and had escaped it unscathed.

“So I guess reconciliation is out of the question?” she asked with a timid smile.

“Only if he has a brain transplant,” I quipped.

She
laughed as though my statement was hilarious. The woman even got my weird sense of humor.

I went on to explain the further difficulties of my relationship with Evan. Graziella affirmed that, at minimum, a frontal lobotomy would be in order if I were to go back—if not for Evan, then for myself.

After the leaving the Boboli Gardens, the two of us sauntered along the bank of the Arno River until we came upon a tree-lined, ominously steep, but very inviting staircase. I was eager to discover what it led to, but my tumor was zapping my energy. I stopped for a moment to take a deep breath before embarking on the upward journey.

“You will find that most of the best things to see in Italy require a bit of work,” noted Graziella
as we made our way up the stairs.

She practically sprinted while I sluggishly struggled, huffing and puffing the entire way up the seemingly endless stone steps until we finally reached the summit. I had spent my years doing Pilates and yoga and all the other active things lawyers’ wives do to make their bodies look good, but I’d never really been in any great cardiovascular shape.

When we reached the terrace, the climb proved well worth the effort. The Piazzale Michelangelo, with its bronze replicas of Michelangelo’s most prominent sculptures was alive with budding artists and musicians. As if the square itself weren’t impressive enough, the panoramic view of all the red rooftops of Florence with the Duomo as its centerpiece was a thrillingly beautiful sight. That’s when it sank in: I had finally made it to Italy. I was really there, fully and completely—mind, body, and soul.

I wanted to engrave the image onto the hard drive of my brain. I wanted to remember the feeling of finally gazing upon Florence from that incredible vantage point.

A street performer sent shivers up my spine by accompanying the music playing on his boom box with his own rendition of Andrea Bocelli’s “Time To Say Goodbye,” with a flawless operatic voice. I was determined to never forget the intense happiness that welled up in my core at that moment. It melted away whatever anger I had been holding onto. Any time that my life—or my impending death—got me down from that moment on, I would bring myself back to that place, to that perfect hour.

Graziella led me back across the bridge to a Franciscan church called the Basilica of Santa Croce.

“The neo-Gothic façade was designed by Niccolò Matas, a Jew. See the Star of David?” she asked as she pointed up toward the white marble façade.

Plain as
day, situated high and center, was a blue six-pointed star on the church’s exterior. I took a moment to appreciate the tolerance and unity it represented. That is, until Graziella explained that even though Matas requested to be buried in the church with his peers upon his death, he had never been allowed inside its four walls. Simply because he was Jewish, he’d been buried on the front porch instead.

My newfound positivity was shattered by that revelation as we tiptoed over the remains of Matas to enter the church. Inside, Graziella introduced me to the funerary monuments
to Galileo, Dante, and Michelangelo. Each of the ornate, marble tombs was uniquely enchanting. These men had made such an impact on the world that even hundreds of years after their deaths, people travel from far and wide to visit their graves. I certainly had not made that kind of impression on the world. I hadn’t made any impression at all.

I became lost in thought, contemplating where my remains should reside. I came to the pitiful conclusion that a cardboard box labeled “Property of Evan Altman” would be the most appropriate resting place for me.

“Where would you be buried, if you had the choice?” I asked Graziella, catching her off guard.

She furrowed her delicate brow as she surveyed the area.

“Over there, next to Michelangelo,” she laughed, pointing.

She clearly did not consider it to be a serious question, although spending all of eternity interred beside the greatest of the great
, truly wouldn’t be a bad choice. Spending it in a small inconspicuous urn stashed somewhere near Botticelli would be my dream come true.

Minutes turned to hours and before I knew it, my tour had come to an end. School was out, and it was time for Graziella to change from docent to mother.

As we arrived at their school’s front gate, Filipa and Bianca charged up the sidewalk toward us, grabbed my waist, and clung onto me as though I had candy in my pockets.

“Children are very intuitive. They sense something about you,” Graziella said.

Do they sense that I need a hug, or that I have a short shelf life?
I thought to myself.

The girls gave me a full-throttle recap of their
day. A little girl named Adriana had peed her pants and become the laughing stalk of the school, they’d eaten zucchini risotto for lunch, and Filipa had scraped her elbow jumping off of a swing from some high altitude. Bianca, although not a big fan of math, had aced her test. That’s all I was able to ascertain from the fast-clipped, heavily accented monologues they fired at me in unison. Graziella had mastered the art of just calmly nodding her head, whether she’d caught it all or not. I wasn’t nearly as adept.

Part of their
daily routine was walking to the organic market to pick up fresh food for dinner. Graziella insisted that I dine with them once again. She promised to teach me how to make
lasagne al forno
the authentic way.

“Should we get some more wine?” Graziella asked enthusiastically.

Alcohol and I were on bad terms, but I didn’t want to rebuff that kid-in-a-candy-store look on her face.

“Sure. Why don’t I get it?” I asked, hoping to contribute. I picked up a bottle, but she confiscated it, shoving it under the bread and pasta in her basket before the girls noticed.

Apparently deeming it necessary to explain the clandestine nature of her behavior, Graziella said softly, “Michael’s abolition of alcohol is kind of a foreign concept here. In Italy, we give our children watered-down wine with dinner, beginning at a very early age. We don’t drink to ‘party’ like Americans do; it’s just a part of everyday life. When I met Michael he explained to me that he had been through the twelve-step program and that he couldn’t be around alcohol. I respect his wishes, but sometimes I miss my wine!”

I smiled, then grabbed a second bottle and shoved it under the bread and pasta to keep the first one company.
We finished shopping and strolled leisurely down the street. Filipa whispered something to Bianca and hysterical giggling ensued. Before I knew it we were standing in front of the Leonardo Hostel. I looked questioningly at Graziella.

“I want you to get your things and stay with us.”

“What? Really? Are you sure??” I asked with surprise and hesitation.
Michael and I sleeping under the same roof?

“
Urrà!”
the girls squealed in unison—the Italian version of “yay!”

How could I resist that reception?

I knew it was probably a bad decision, but I found the three of them very comforting. Somehow, being in their company felt like home. Graziella was a lot like me—or more what I aspired to be. We both loved Michael, so in an odd way it made sense that we would understand one another.