Writing for Fun
September 2015
A Gentleman In Florence - Pete Norman
'Mamma Mia, the idiot is off again!'
Giovanni leaned into the stout handles with all his strength and the cart began to roll, the small wooden wheels bouncing over the uneven cobbles. The strident rattle assaulted his ears, but at least the sound gave some warning to those in his path, gave them the time to dance clear of his headlong dash. Ahead of him the English gentleman surged irrepressibly onwards, scattering the good citizens of Florence before him like a tidal wave.
Without warning an unusually large gap between two stones beckoned a wheel deep inside and Giovanni cursed as the cart dropped heavily down, a flash of pain shooting up his arm, jarring his shoulder.
'Meloni!' he shouted after the man, but the melon-head neither heard the insult nor slowed in his stride. Giovanni was struggling to keep up, he was struggling to even keep him in sight, and he was tiring fast. If he had not been contracted, and at a very acceptable daily rate he had to admit, he might have abandoned the idiot long ago, but he was relying on the money – the 'Grand Tour' season was desperately short and he had to make the best of every opportunity, to do his best to please each and every customer. His face broke out into a broad grin, because in truth he had no real worry at all, for when your uncle is a Carabinieri Capitano, in the end even the most stubborn and obstinate tourist on the Grand Tour has no option but to pay up.
What he failed to comprehend, however, was exactly what the man was seeking, why he had raced across the Ponte Vecchio, the most beautiful bridge in the known world, rising majestically astride the Arno; why he had run through the Piazza della Signoria completely ignoring the stunning statue of Michelangelo's David; why, he had even passed the magnificent Duomo with scarcely a sideways glance at its spectacularly ornate grandeur. Instead he chose to weave his way through the labyrinthine alleyways which took him far away from the usual tourist trail.
Giovanni was nearing the end of his endurance when they finally reached the Piazza della Murate. It was nothing special, it was a little shabby, the yellow ochre paint peeling from the walls, the wooden shutters hanging broken from the windows – but the man was standing in the centre of the small square, spinning around on his heel, a happy smile on his face, scanning the tired old buildings, searching for the optimum viewpoint.
Giovanni was a little surprised, but then again he had to admit that he loved this quiet corner and during the low season he was often to be found here on his little wooden stool, sketching the ancient buildings. His particular favourite was the large house on the South side with its ornate wrought iron balconies, however this gentleman had apparently settled for something on the wall opposite: a modest house with two large windows on each of the three floors and above them a tiny attic window under the eave. A perfectly ordinary building, but, è la vita, never mind, it was after all the man's right to choose for himself and he cared little where he would spend his day, for the city was like an old friend and, no matter where he was, he was never far from a cousin, a drinking companion . . . or a beautiful favorito.
Giovanni unpacked the equipment from the cart, setting the three legged stool and the easel onto the most level section of the cobblestones in the shade. On the small table he placed the paints, the brushes and the rest of the required paraphernalia, together with a large carafe of water.
The Englishman sat heavily onto the stool and dismissed Giovanni with a cursory wave of his hand. Released from his responsibilities, the Fiorentino sighed to himself and wandered off to re-acquaint himself with the tired, but atmospheric, architecture, which had survived mostly unchanged for centuries, although by now it was beginning to show its true age.
On the opposite side of the square stood an ancient entrance, the heavy wooden door bleached by the searing heat of the Mediterranean sun, dry and deformed out of true shape, studded with iron nails, pitted and rusted. Before the door were placed two old chairs around a small table – a simple gesture, an open invitation to rest a while and put the world to rights. As Giovanni approached, a wizened old face, with flowing white hair tied neatly back into a bun, appeared at the window; a few words were called into the shaded depths of the house and moments later an even older man appeared in the doorway, his face breaking into a warm smile, his right hand reaching out to greet his old friend, his left supporting himself unsteadily on a heavy old stick.
As Giovanni assisted Bruno to a chair, Maria materialised in the doorway and a carafe of red wine and a bowl of olives were placed on the table; pipes were produced, tobacco proffered and soon a haze of aromatic smoke hung in the air about them.
The sun was somewhat higher in the sky when Giovanni was dragged from the pleasant conversation by the loud voice of the Englishman, 'The sun . . . the blasted sun! Where are you, man? What in heaven's name am I paying you for?'
With a patient smile Giovanni crossed the square and re-positioned the easel, the chair and the table a few metres further back into the shade. Gratitude was given by way of a low grunt.
Before he returned to his friend Giovanni took a brief glance at the painting; it was not bad, he supposed, but neither was it very good: the brushwork was clumsy and heavy and the colours were too garish, the unhappy consequence of a badly chosen viewpoint and a strong sun. However it was not the amateurish brushstrokes which caught his eye. He pointed to the tiny attic window in the painting. 'Signore, the window . . . there is a face at the window, but . . .' He looked across the square at the building. 'But, I see no face at the window there.'
'Of course there is no face there . . .' The Gentleman leaned in close and squinted at the canvas. 'It is just a . . . just a smudge . . . a slip of the brush.' He stabbed the bristles into the palette and erased the faint trace from the window. Then his eyes spotted something else, his mind was diverted, he changed the brush colour and began to paint.
Giovanni discretely left him to his labours, but as he was walking away the Englishman called out, 'And some lunch. At noon. Some cheese and bread and wine.'
'Formaggio, pane et vino. Naturalmente . . . At noon. Of course.'
When he returned to his chair he found a Damone checker board filling the centre of the small table. Bruno smiled an overt challenge, picked up his Imperatore and slammed his opening move down onto the board – the game was on.
For a little more than an hour they played, enthusiastically, noisily. Giovanni was good and he seldom lost at this, his favourite game, but Bruno had accumulated his experience over many more years and with his superior guile and cunning he was virtually unassailable. All thought of time was lost in the vicious cut and thrust of the game and the small round table echoed to the rhythm of the falling pieces.
Then the great bell high up on the tower of the Basilica di Santa Croce rang out clear and loud; the first of twelve notes and Giovanni was dragged back into the here and now . . .
Noon.
Formaggio. Pane. Vino.
Bruno called inside and a few moments later Maria came hurrying out, her hands grasping a small tray covered with a red and white striped cloth. Giovanni thanked her profusely, grabbed the tray and raced across the square.
The Englishman was not happy. The sun was almost directly overhead and all but a small wedge of shade in the small square had evaporated. His wide brimmed hat shielded his eyes, but large wet patches covered his shirt and perspiration stood in large drops on his forehead.
'Where in heaven's name have you been? You are supposed to be caring for me. I am paying you, and paying you damned well, you imbecile.'
Giovanni moved the stool into the last remaining vestiges of shadow, while the gentleman berated him constantly.
'Blasted heat. Blasted country. Blasted peasants.'
Once the man was settled in the relative comfort of his tiny oasis of shade, Giovanni quickly dragged the rest of the equipment over to the chair. He took another glance at the picture. It had not progressed a deal further than the last time, except that paint had been spread layer upon layer, creating a thick homogenous mess, but there, in the topmost window, the merest shadow of a face gazed back at him.
'You have put the face back at the window?'
The Englishman irritably pulled the painting from his hands. 'Why are you so obsessed with that damned window? Of course there is no face there. It must be where the paint has dried unevenly in this infernal heat.' He snatched up a palette knife, roughly gouged out the offending image and then quickly set about painting the tiny window afresh.
Giovanni turned in silence and crossed the square to more amenable company.
Bruno caught the irritated look on his face and raised his eyes.
Giovanni spat out the words, 'I hate the man. I absolutely hate the man. He calls me an imbecile!'
Bruno raised one eyebrow and Giovanni had no choice but to laugh with him.
'Yes, but he is ignorant and supercilious. 'Blasted heat. Blasted country. Blasted peasants,' he says. He hates the country and he hates us, and yet he spends a small fortune – much more than you or I will ever see in our lifetimes – to endure this misery.' He looked around the peaceful square, at the moody architecture gleaming in the midday sun. 'He is painting like a chimpanzee. I am certain that the very buildings themselves hate him just as I do. I am certain that each and every brick he paints shrinks away in disgust from the evil caress of his clumsy brush . . .'
Bruno gave a toothless grin. He picked up his Pedine, jumped it across Giovanni's Damas, sweeping it from the table, before slamming his counter back down onto the board. All of the other pieces shuddered at the impact. All thoughts of the ignorant Englishman disappeared as Giovanni re-focussed on recovering his fragile position.
The shadows were creeping steadily across the square when he finally remembered the Englishman. The stool and the easel were still there, now in bright sunlight, but of the gentleman himself there was no trace. Puzzled he rose and walked across, searching the square with his eyes as he went – unnecessarily, he knew, because there was nowhere for the man to hide from his view.
Everything was just as he had left it: the remains of the bread and cheese were hardening in the intense afternoon sunlight; the carafe of wine was half empty; the painting looked to be nearly complete. He leaned in for a closer look, his eyes travelling instinctively up to the tiny attic window. He gasped . . . the face was there, much as it had been before, except that now it was much clearer; captured in a frozen moment in time, hands grasping the edges of the window frame, struggling to escape from incarceration, screaming out in silent terror.
He looked upwards towards the window atop the building on the other side of the square. Was there the faintest hint of a face at the window? Or was it merely the ephemeral shadows cast by the wispy clouds dancing across the sun?
He could not tell.
He did not care.
Giovanni shrugged his shoulders, gathered up his equipment and threw it into the cart. With a cheerful whistle he made his way back towards his home, regretting that he had not requested the fees in advance, but, all things considered, he supposed it was probably worth it.
As he crossed the Ponte Vecchio he reached into the cart and pulled out the ghastly painting. With a flick of his wrist it arced over the parapet and into the lazy waters of the Arno. For a brief moment as it spun in mid-air a pair of terrified eyes from a tiny attic window locked with his . . . and then it was gone.
