Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death (5 page)

That sounded like an understatement.

Chapter 4

The day proved to be as long as I had expected, but far more interesting. The visit to the monastery surprised me, and by the end of the day I was still trying to figure out why it was also disturbing.

When the name Medici came up, as it did so often in this part of the country, I had expected grandeur and opulence, but the monastic establishment itself was surprisingly small and modest. Of course, in the past its wealthy patrons had embellished it with works from the best possible artists available at the time—for the patrons’ private pleasure—but that didn’t quite compensate for the small size, and the “good stuff” looked incongruous inside such a plain and simple space. At least they had survived the changes of the centuries, including the ultimate decline of the Medici. I told myself to stop being so critical; it was peaceful and charming and unspoiled.

The most surprising part of the visit was the tour guide: a young monk in full habit, who talked knowledgeably and comfortably about the artworks and artifacts we were looking at. It was only after a few minutes, in response to Jane’s direct question (in Italian—he spoke no English) that he told us that he was only seventeen. That hushed a lot of us. I found it hard to imagine many seventeen-year-olds who were so self-possessed, especially when faced with a crowd of ladies old enough to be his grandmother in some cases, and few speaking Italian. But what was more startling was his assurance—and his commitment. He had chosen his path, he told us through Jane, before he entered his teens, and had stuck to it. He’d even convinced the rest of his family to rejoin the Church. Would it, could it last for him? Or at some point would he yearn for a wider world? After all, he had seen so little of life. I had no answer. I just knew that I wouldn’t have trusted any path I had chosen at his age to be permanent—and I would have been right, about myself at least.

But the most unsettling part of the discussion came last, translated for us by Jane, whose Italian sounded fluent and authentic to my ears. If Jane had it right—and from the look on her face I wasn’t sure if she believed her own translation—the young monk was describing the “discipline” that he imposed upon himself, which appeared to consist of daily flagellation, and maybe worse. In the twenty-first century? From the expressions of the others who were listening, and their sudden silence, it seemed that everyone was having trouble grasping the idea. And the boy—seventeen!—seemed so sure … We moved quickly to the cloister and began to take pictures of the ancient well in the center and the cat sleeping in the sun.

When we had seen our fill, our drivers herded us back to the vans. They had told us before we started out that morning that whichever van we chose, that would be “our” van for the rest of the trip. In other words, that group of nine or so people would be our travel buddies. I’d meekly followed Brenda to her van and waited to see who else climbed on board. I saw Cynthia heading off in another direction, but I didn’t feel slighted. I wanted to talk to more than one person over the next few days.

Once loaded on board, we set off for the next stop: a (surprise!) Medici villa. Apparently the Medici had roamed the countryside around Florence, picking off nice properties as they went. I had to admit they had good taste. Getting to this villa proved to be something of a challenge: the only road that led to it was barely one lane, but more important, it sloped upward, all the way. If any van showed the slightest hesitancy and slowed, it was an iffy proposition whether they could resume the climb without backing up to a relatively flat section and taking a run at it. Needless to say, with nine people on board, most of the vans did this, more than once.

When we finally made it to the top, we found it was a smallish castle, in the middle of nowhere, but it was nice, and we were told in all seriousness that it had crenellation—apparently that last characteristic was important for status or dating the building or something, for reasons I missed hearing. The castle sat at the top of the hill, and there was no driveway that would take us any closer, so we trudged up from where we had parked at the bottom and arrived at the top panting only slightly.

We were greeted by an older man in a cap—not the owner, but someone who worked for the owner, or so I understood the explanation, which again I could barely hear. It was hard for Jean and Jane to make themselves heard outside, especially when people were spread out along the path, and half of them were busy looking at something else in the opposite direction. I was beginning to feel as though we had wandered into a chapter in a nineteenth-century novel. The aristocracy, the servants, the ancient castle—we visitors were the only anachronism.

We began by touring the terraced gardens, which apparently had been revitalized in the early twentieth century by a romantic-minded Englishwoman, which explained why there were so many roses. And views. I was coming to expect spectacular views everywhere and I wasn’t disappointed. Everywhere there were banks of blooming flowers, and exotic trees, and a few olive trees tucked into corners; and then there were the mountains. I took more pictures, but so did everyone else.

Inside we started with a short tour of the ground floor of the house and I was drawn immediately to the kitchen, which opened off the sunny central courtyard. It was magnificent, a funny mix of old and modern, with rows of polished copper pots in all possible sizes hanging on the wall, and then matching rows of copper pot lids, and an immense stone sink—with a plastic bucket sitting in it. The center of the room was occupied by a table that would have seated twenty people easily, made of two massive single boards, with room to spare around it—and there was a flat-screen television hanging in a corner. The collision of past and present was tangible; we were standing in the room where our lunch was being prepared and where who knew how many Medici meals had been made.

The castle was actually still occupied by a family, which presented an oddly uncomfortable situation, although the family members appeared and helped to serve a delicious antipasto lunch prepared by a pair of aged retainers. The youngest family member—a granddaughter?—took advantage of the occasion to practice her English, which was surprisingly good. We were served buffet style, in a long room whose original purpose I couldn’t fathom. We collected plates full of antipasti we had just seen being prepared, and after my first bite I was inspired to reevaluate my position on salami, which I liked far more than I remembered. Maybe it was just good, or maybe it was eating it under the watchful ghosts of all those Medici, surrounded by rosebushes and olive trees.

We distributed ourselves in a wobbly oval around the perimeter of the room. Each time we settled somewhere we found ourselves face-to-face, or side by side, with people we hadn’t talked to yet, and I wondered idly if there was an algorithm to predict how long it would take the forty of us to sit next to each and every one of the others in the group. Still, I was happy that we would be sticking to the vans we had originally chosen, so we could keep count of our group and not misplace anyone. I didn’t relish the idea of trying to explain in English to some sympathetic Italians that I’d been left behind by my tour group. I thought the relevant term might be
perduto
but I wasn’t going to bank on it. So far we were sticking together quite well, doing the typical touristy things like oohing and aahing and snapping lots of pictures, of the tower and the roses and each other with the tower and the roses behind. The weather cooperated—still cool, but no rain. More comfortable, in fact, than blazing sun would have been.

After we had eaten we roamed about on our own for a bit, although we’d seen all the high points already. I made a point of ducking back into the amazing kitchen to thank the elderly woman who was still cleaning up. My feeble attempts at Italian produced
molto bene
and
mille grazie
. I didn’t know if they were appropriate, but they seemed to get the message across, as the woman bobbed her head and smiled widely.

The printed schedule said we were allowed time for a siesta after we’d driven back from the villa. We quickly agreed that we were all too keyed up to take naps, and nobody was ready to admit they needed or wanted one. Instead we prevailed upon Brenda to take a detour to Borgo San Lorenzo, the nearest town of any size, in search of (what else?) gelato. It wasn’t hard to find. We parked on the street near a small cluster of shops and then descended on the tiny
gelateria
, where we provided much amusement for the staff.

But I was on a mission. On my one and only trip to Florence, decades earlier, I had stumbled upon gelato without warning and ordered
nocciola
based solely on the name, since I had no idea what it was and I was feeling brave. The first taste hit me like a baseball bat to the head, and there was no question about the flavor: hazelnut. Uber hazelnut, mega hazelnut. It was spectacular.

Now I wanted to know if my memory was accurate or if I’d magnified it beyond all reason through the passing years. I ordered; I tasted. I think for the first time in my life I understood the urge to swoon. Nocciola hadn’t changed, and it was still wonderful. It made me happy to know that I’d have many, many other opportunities to try other flavors of gelato, as well as to revisit nocciola as often as possible. We lingered in the small shop, simply enjoying being there, with no responsibilities beyond enjoying ourselves. The sun was shining and we were in Tuscany eating gelato. Life was good.

Cynthia and I didn’t cross paths until we returned to the villa, sated with ice cream and sunshine. We walked in and flopped down in our respective beds almost simultaneously.

“How many more castles are we supposed to look at?” Cynthia asked, her eyes closed.

“A hundred? How many Medicis were there?” I responded, unwilling to move.

“Too many. And they all wanted to put their stamp on everything they touched.”

“I noticed that. Like monogramming the silver. Does anyone still do silver?”

“The better question is, does anyone still get married and insist on matching sets for sit-down dinners that will never happen? You know, those big fancy dos with lots of presents?”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t been invited to a real wedding in a long time. My daughter’s friends seem to have no interest in tying a knot with anyone.”

“Smart girls. Oh, sorry—women. They’re a lot older than we were at their age. What about your daughter?”

“Aren’t they, though? As far as Lisa tells me—which isn’t much—she has no interest in getting married to anyone. She’s enjoying her freedom.” As always, I hoped that wasn’t any reflection on what she’d seen of her father’s and my marriage, or what came after. I kicked my shoes off and wiggled my toes. “Anyway, my impression was that the Medici had a lot of balls.”

Cynthia snorted. “What, you mean all those coats of arms they plastered on everything? You are bad. Wasn’t there a handout about the Medicis in that immense information packet?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember what it said. I think the bottom line was nobody really knows what those balls were supposed to mean. The Medicis slapped them everywhere, like branding a building. Or maybe just saying, ‘I was here and I bought the place.’” We contemplated our eyelids for a few minutes. Then I roused myself to say, “What’s on for this evening?”

“I think the encyclopedic itinerary said something about a play.”

I’d done my best to forget about that. “Oh, right, the infamous play. You didn’t sign up for it?” I asked, somewhat surprised. Cynthia had never been one to suffer from stage fright.

“Nope. I thought it would be more fun to heckle from the audience. You?”

“Not my kind of thing. I will applaud when instructed to do so, but I don’t have high expectations.”

“How long until dinner? Or should I say drinks before dinner?”

I had to roll over to look at my travel clock. “Half an hour, maybe? Too short for a good nap. Want to go exploring?”

“How about we find a patio with a pretty view and just sit and stare at it for a while?”

“Works for me.”

We dusted ourselves off, put our shoes back on (ugh), and ambled out to the small patio in front of our door, where a couple of chairs and a table awaited. We sat and contemplated the vista. I was still trying to make up my mind about whether I preferred the view to the right or to the left. On the right the valley was broad and deep, but there were more mountains on the left. It was a tough decision.

“Why do you think most people came on this trip?” Cynthia asked in a quiet voice.

I thought about why I had decided to do it and realized I was still confused. “You mean this particular group of people?”

“Yes, in a way. I’m trying to figure out the demographic of the group. I mean, they aren’t all friends in the outside world, are they? How many of these people have you kept in touch with?”

“Apart from you? Only a couple, and only in a superficial way—you know, sending a holiday card, maybe. I did note that there was a peculiar concentration of people from one dorm freshman year or the year after—mine, by the way—but I don’t know if that’s significant or coincidental. I think a lot of them stayed there where they started, but I didn’t.”

Cynthia nodded, not taking her eyes off the view. “I saw that too. But, tell me—is this just an indulgence for most of these women? Are they trying to recapture lost youth? Or trying to figure out whether they have made something of their lives? I mean, as a group we set a pretty high bar, by the standards of the day.”

“Huh,” I said intelligently. “You mean we expected to go beyond the ‘Mrs.’ degree? How many reunions have you been to?”

“Uh, three, maybe? Silly, isn’t it, since I live so close.”

“I’ve been to the last few. And one thing that has made me sad is that so many of our classmates have said—or written, if they didn’t attend—that they were reluctant to come for just that reason: they didn’t think they could measure up to those standards. I mean, we have a higher-than-average number of CEOs and MDs and PhDs among us here. I can see that it might be kind of scary.”