Midnight Angels (6 page)

“But you don’t,” she said, refusing to budge from her hard stance.

“I barely made it into the fellowship program,” he said, “and I’m sure one big reason I was picked has to do with the fact I’m from Florence and the director wanted at least one student from the city included.”

“You’re as good, if not better, than anyone in that class,” Kate said. “And I’m not saying that to make you feel better. It happens to be fact.”

“I love the work,” Marco said. “I always have. It’s just that it comes easier to you and to some of the others. It has never been that way for me. And many of my friends are working at good jobs, and some have started families already. They look at me, at my age still going to school, studying the work of an artist dead for centuries whose name they’re sick of hearing, and they think I’m just wasting my time.”

“And what they think is important to you?”

“Yes,” Marco said. “I don’t have anyone back home who’s proud of me. My father died when I was a boy. My mother remarried a few years later, and the last person her new husband wanted to see every night when he walked through the door was me. I moved out as soon as I had the chance and don’t see her much, and when I do there’s not a lot for us to talk about. I’m probably the only single man my age in Italy not living with his mother.”

Kate leaned against a stone wall and stared across at Michelangelo’s home, letting a calming silence pass between them. “How many of your friends did you tell?” she finally asked.

“There were five of us in a bar,” Marco said, “two nights after you and I made our discovery. We went for a long walk and then stopped at an outdoor café for a few drinks.”

“How did it come up in conversation?”

“It started the way it always does,” Marco said, “and I fall for it every time. Everyone else at the table had both a full-time job and a fiancée. I’ve got neither. So, when it got to me, they asked about my schoolwork, but it was with that tone in their voices that I had heard so many times before.”

“And so you blurted it out,” Kate said, “despite your promise to me.”

“I was proud of what we had done,” he said, “what we had found. And I wanted them to know I wasn’t just wasting my days buried inside a classroom, that I was doing work that mattered.”

“Were they impressed?” she asked.

“Not as much as I thought they would be,” Marco said, “but enough so that it got them to stop talking about weddings and engagements and listen to what I had to say, at least for a minute. I didn’t tell them that much, nothing more than the basics.”

“Which are?”

“That you and I had stumbled upon a lost work,” Marco said. “I didn’t tell them how we discovered it and what we did with it, just that we had found something that, up to now, was only rumored to have existed.”

“Did you tell them what it was?” Kate asked.

Marco shook his head. “But they were smart enough to figure out it had something to do with Michelangelo. Anyway, they bought a round of drinks, toasted me, and we called it a night. And that was the end of it.”

“Not for all of them,” Kate said. “One of your friends had to mention it to someone, and that someone had to care enough about what we found to come looking for us.”

“The people chasing us are dangerous,” he said, “and none of my friends know anyone like that.
I
don’t know anyone like that. I get nervous around kitchen knives. I wish none of this had ever happened.”

“You didn’t know what it would lead to,” she said, letting her voice soften now. “There’s no reason for either one of us to have known.”

“I don’t mean just talking about it in front of my friends,” he said. “I mean all of it. Finding the work and …”

“Meeting me?”

“In a way, yes,” Marco said. “Now, please, don’t walk away. Give me a chance to explain what I’m trying to say.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Kate said.

“I like you,” Marco said. “From the day you first walked into class. What’s not to like? You’re beautiful, funny, kind, smart, and from what the other students tell me, even rich. It’s a dream for someone like me to meet someone like you.”

“There’s a but coming,” she said. “I can feel it.”

“But
there is a part of you that scares me,” Marco said. “I can tell just
in the way you react every time we’re in danger. You don’t seem bothered by it. My body goes numb when we’re chased, but you’re in total control. I’ve never been around anyone like that, and it frightens me. Does any of this make sense?”

“All of it,” Kate said. “And I’m sorry I got you involved in this, but I’m not sorry I met you and I’m not sorry we became friends. And just because I don’t look scared, it doesn’t mean I’m
not
scared.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Kate said. “I’d have to be insane not to be frightened by what’s going on around us. And while I may be impulsive, I don’t think it fair to write me off as crazy.”

“What do you think is going to happen?” Marco asked.

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you,” she said. “It might be better if you didn’t know what I’m thinking.”

“You see what I mean?” he said, stepping into the street, his hands spread wide. “What you just said scared me even more than those men who have been chasing us.”

“I won’t ever lie to you, Marco,” Kate said. “No matter how good it might make you feel.”

He took a deep breath and stepped closer to Kate, inches away from her face. “And I won’t leave you to fight this alone,” he said. “No matter how scared I get.”

“I don’t know who is chasing us,” she said. “But whoever it is, they want to get their hands on what we found. If they wanted to kill us, they would have done it by now. They need to capture us—me, really, not you.”

“Why you?”

“They don’t know for sure you were with me when I made the discovery,” Kate said. “And they might think I didn’t trust you enough to tell you where I hid it.”

“They have no proof to think that way,” Marco said.

“They have no proof
not
to think that way,” Kate said. “And since you let it slip to your friends that something was found, but failed to tell them what it was and where it is, only gives them more reason to believe I hold the key.”

“We can’t just keep running from one end of the city to the next,” he said. “Sooner or later, we’ll be caught.”

Kate looked at him and smiled. “You’re right,” she said. “I should
have thought of it from the start. I was so excited that we actually found something, I probably wasn’t thinking straight. But
that’s
the answer.”

“The answer to what?” Marco asked.

“We
let
them catch us,” Kate said. “Then we’ll know who we’re up against.”

“That’s not a good idea at all,” he said, a touch of panic seeping into his voice. “It’s one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard.”

“You said it yourself,” Kate said. “We can’t just keep running.”

“It sounds too dangerous,” he said. “We only
think
we know what they’re after. What if we’re wrong? What if they’re chasing us for reasons that have nothing to do with what we found in the corridor?”

“Like what?”

“How should I know?” Marco said. “Two weeks ago I was biking through the city looking for good buys on used art history books. My only worries had to do with maybe finding a part-time job so I would have some coffee money during the school year.”

“I have coffee money,” Kate said, stepping out into the street. “And there’s a bar just around the corner. Should be open in a few minutes.”

Marco thought about this for a moment. “Can I get a pastry to go with the coffee?”

“We both will,” she said.

He nodded and moved from the front of the building to stand next to her. “Is what we’re doing worth it?”

“The coffee’s the best in the neighborhood, and their pastries are better than anything I’ve ever had,” she said.

“Is it worth it?” he asked. “Is it worth risking our lives for a work that’s been hidden for centuries?”

“For you, I would say no, it’s not even close to being worth it,” Kate said.

“And it’s different for you?”

“Yes,” she said, “and please don’t ask me to explain why, because I haven’t even come close to putting it all together. I just know this is not only what I need to do, it’s what I
have
to do.”

“Even if there’s a chance it might get you killed?” Marco asked.

“Yes,” she said, “even then.”

She squeezed her arm under the fold of his and together they walked toward the coffee bar, the late afternoon shadows of Casa Buonarroti at their back.

CHAPTER
7

K
ATE HAD HEARD TALES OF MICHELANGELO SINCE SHE WAS OLD
enough to walk. Her parents would refer to him often, both in conversation and in the stories they read to her each night—a practice continued by Professor Edwards for years after their deaths. As she grew older and began to read about him herself, she set aside questions to ask Edwards over dinner, knowing he would offer in return a series of hints and clues designed to help her discover the answer. Over time, she began to think of Michelangelo as a talented but eccentric member of her extended family, the uncle who is always talked about but never seen. She marveled at his accomplishments, stared with awe at his works, laughed at his numerous outrageous acts and statements, and always sought to unearth new and interesting details of his life in each book or article she read.

But it was the story of the snowman that won her heart.

Kate was twelve when Edwards told her of the rare snowstorm that blanketed the city of Florence, starting on the morning of January 20, 1494, and ending twenty-four hours later. It was a warm and humid summer afternoon, and she and Professor Edwards walked slowly past the Great Lawn of New York’s Central Park, munching on soft toasted pretzels bought from a Sabrette vendor.

Michelangelo had been seventeen on the day in question and still mourning the recent death of his benefactor, friend, and the man closest to his heart—Lorenzo the Magnificent. The snowstorm had brought Florence to a halt, thick mounds of white covering every street and rooftop. An emissary from the palace was dispatched to the home of Michelangelo’s father on Via Bentaccordi, sent there by Piero de’ Medici, newly
designated as Lorenzo’s successor. Michelangelo listened to the messenger’s words and then tossed over his shoulders a thick purple cloak, a gift from Lorenzo, and trudged through the heavy snow to the de’ Medici Palace.

Forty-five minutes later, he stood before Piero, barely a man himself at twenty, and was asked to go outside and build a statue of a man made of snow in the family’s honor. A sad-eyed Michelangelo stared at Piero in silence for several moments before nodding his head and reluctantly accepting the assignment.

“Why would Piero ask him to do something so stupid?” Kate asked.

“It only sounds stupid if we look back on it,” Edwards said. “But in those days, it was an accepted custom to have sculptors design statues in the snow. In much the same way, painters were asked to make banners for the numerous processions and tournaments that took place throughout the country.”

“But why call Michelangelo to do the job?” she asked. “I mean, you don’t need to be a genius to build a snowman.”

“There were a number of reasons, and all of them left Michelangelo no choice but to accept the challenge,” Edwards said. “First, he was the family sculptor, which pretty much meant it was his job to do as he was asked. Second, with Lorenzo’s death, Michelangelo was forced to move out of the palace and back in with his father.”

“And what was so wrong with that?” Kate asked. “Didn’t he love his father?”

“I’m sure he did,” Edwards said. “But all the same, it would play to Michelangelo’s advantage that he live within the walls of the palace, which meant he would need to design a snowman that would please his new master, Piero.”

“Did he?”

“What do you think?” Edwards asked, smiling down at the girl, her cheeks red from the warmth of the day, her eyes bright and brimming with curiosity.

He marveled at the ways in which her young mind was evolving. She was always questioning, never shy about voicing her opinions, and, rare for a child her age, was not only quick to respond to a good story but also eager to wrap her thoughts around the different meanings it might carry. Edwards did all he could to feed her intellectual hunger, from museum
visits to trips to the local library, where Kate would devour everything from picture books to Nancy Drew novels. She loved stories and art, and he took great pains to nurture that part of her, understanding that by doing so he was also teaching her about her parents. Which is why Kate, above all else, loved to hear stories about Michelangelo. The man known throughout his life as the Divine One was the most direct connection between the young girl and the mother and father she would only know through memory.

“I think he went outside and did as Piero asked,” Kate said.

“And then some,” Edwards said. “He designed a statue so large and so magnificent that it brought out thousands of visitors from throughout the city, this despite the clogged streets and blocked trails. It also so pleased Piero that not only was Michelangelo invited back to live in the palace again, he was given an honored seat at the de’ Medici dinner table.”

“How long did the statue stay up?” she asked.

“Even the great Michelangelo was no match for a spring thaw,” Edwards said. “His work soon melted and disappeared. It is one of the few works he completed of which there is no visual image.”

Kate walked in silence for several moments, her pretzel long since eaten, her jelly bean sandals landing soft against the park pavement, the Great Lawn packed with sunbathers and children running while holding on tight to the strings of overhead kites. “So then how do we know?” she finally asked.

“That he made the statue?”

Kate nodded. “We don’t even know if it really snowed,” she said. “So how can we be so sure he made a statue out of snow?”