Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (5 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Silk

When I looked out the door for the second time, all of Florence had awakened, and an icy chill blew through the street. The hungry scavengers had not left their posts but were now lost among the many people going about their business. Men dressed in dark monochromatic capes, tights, and fur hats flooded the street. After warning me to watch for the front step, Zia grabbed my hand and guided me to one of the doors across the street.

“We’d best get this over with,” she said, shaking her head.

A hefty middle-aged woman opened the door. She had light eyes with pillows of skin cushioning them. “I was just on my way to call on you. I saw the strangest thing … It looked like Giuliano de’ Medici was carrying a young girl in fr—”

“Yes, that is why I stopped by. This is my niece, Viola. She is … well, what I mean to say is Viola has come from the country to stay with me.”

“I am Signora Rossi,” she said with a curt nod. “I had no idea you had a niece named Viola.” Her eyebrows arched as she rubbed her thick fingers on the spotted dishcloth slung about her belt. “I would’ve remembered as it is my favorite name,” she said, crossing her arms.

Zia shifted her weight from side to side, letting her eyes settle on the ground. “It is a nice name,” she said.

“Well, what happened?”

“When?”

“With the young Medici?” insisted Rossi.

“Oh yes … well, Viola fainted at the execution of that poor girl, and—”

“Poor girl indeed! She was accused of drowning her babe in the Arno,” interrupted Signora Rossi. They both crossed themselves.

“Well the young Medici was nearby and he graciously helped carry her to my house.”

“What a strapping young man,” said Rossi, her small mouth curling into a smile. “A fine match for my Maria.”

“But she is engaged to that sweet young boy!”

“Sweet he may be, but rich he is most definitely not.” She rolled her eyes. “I would invite you to sit by the fire but Maria and my husband are not dressed for company.”

“That is all right. We are on our way to the market.”

“May I call on you later?”

“By all means,” answered Zia as she steered me away from the door. As we walked towards the end of the street, the sun came out from the clouds. “I feel quite awful lying, but it’s for the best, I assure you.”

A group of young men clad in beautiful tunics of lavender, crimson, and emerald walked past us. They were joking and laughing at each other. Each of the four had short swords attached to their embroidered belts.  Women were scarce but the few that glided through the street exposed their marble skin and long hair proudly. Such young women left a trail of whispers behind them. The most stunning ladies wore smooth silks and plush, velvet gowns. Others, myself included, wore warm woolen dresses. The dark blue dress Zia had given me was a little too short, so as I walked down Via dei Benci, everyone could see my purple Converse poking out from beneath.

Zia locked her arm with mine as we made our way through hordes of people. The dusty walls that lined the street were at least thirty feet high, and all the doors opened directly onto the road. The smell of saltwater and fish wafted around the donkeys, chickens, and small altars of the Virgin Mary. The cobblestones were slippery, so I put all my energy into being graceful and careful.

When I almost slipped, Zia exclaimed, “Heavens, child, you are clumsy! It must be those peculiar shoes. Be steady, Viola, especially when I am attached to you.” Pressing her small hand against my own, we continued down the street.

The deeper we climbed into the heart of the city, the taller the walls, the wider the streets, and the brighter the light. Makeshift carts made of battered wood and fabric propped themselves up on random corners. Many of the stalls sold wool, used clothing, and vegetables. One stand sold bright flowers. The white petals and crisp green stems of the lilies stood out in spite of the gloomy surroundings.

“Some things don’t change.” I smiled to myself, thinking back to Angela’s Flower Shop on the corner of my apartment building. Flowers have always bloomed, and merchants will always sell them on street corners.

“That is better! I like to see a young girl smile,” said Zia, her eyes twinkling, as we continued to tread along the slippery path. “This is called Piazza della Signoria. This is the blessed place where I found you,” said Zia as the street opened onto a plaza.

The square was emptier now but I could still feel the ground vibrate under hundreds of feet, hooves, and wheels. The only evidence of the horror scene that had taken place a few hours ago was the wooden platform and the noose. Suddenly, I became more aware of the cold moisture in the air and the dryness of my throat.

“It was so horrible,” I muttered softly.

“Some call it justice but many call it entertainment. I don’t care for it. Somehow that wooden post and bit of rope bring out all that is wretched in humanity. The crowds are unbearable! I try not to come near the piazza for fear of being trampled to death, but this morning it was unavoidable.”

Laughter erupted from a rickety stage nearby. Old and young, poor and wealthy, swarmed around the modest stage. The actors played using masks with exaggerated noses, lips, and eyebrows. Even though one of the actors faked their death, there was a steady stream of laughter from the audience. The cheerful sound trailed off with the growing rumble of a clock ticking.

“Do you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?

“A ticking sound?”

“I can’t hear anything over that racket.” She pointed to the stage.

Although several towers and storefronts enclosed the plaza, the largest building was by far the most impressive.

“That is where all the important government officials work. It is called the Palazzo della Signoria,” she continued, pointing to a sandy brick building that looked like a fortress with its great walls, stepped roof, and looming bell tower.

Through the gaps of the battlement, we could see marching guards clad in polished metal. More than anything, the building looked intimidating and allowed only a few rows of clover-shaped windows for light.

Zia tugged at my arm and we continued to make our way through the plaza. Before we swerved onto another street, I lingered in the center square. The constant ticking sound had not stopped. Where was it coming from? Was it Idan? Quickly, I counted how many doors there were in the Piazza della Signoria. In total I tallied forty, give or take two. How was I going to try to open forty doors? Maybe I could come every morning and make notes about who goes in and out of each door? The one that no one comes out of should be the door to get back to Mrs. Reed’s gallery.

What if I chose the wrong door? They could accuse me of breaking and entering or trying to steal something. They would probably arrest me and drag me up that deadly wooden platform. The anxiety from the early morning pressed against my chest again. Zia noticed my tense body and stoic expression.

“Don’t worry so, Viola. Upon my honor, I am an old woman and I worry less than you. We cannot have that! Let us go down this street instead. I think you will like this next part of the city.” Patting my hand, Zia took a sudden right. “All women enjoy this spectacle, the vain and the humble. My late husband was one of the finest tailors in Florence and he would often come to this street on business. It is called Via Vacchereccia,” she explained with a proud smile that made her scar vanish.

As we walked down the promising street, the stink dwindled. The cotton canopies of the buildings swirled against the wind’s will and the strong rope that grounded them. When we drew closer I could see hundreds of baskets with little loose packets of material in a rainbow of colors. The bundles looked like wrapped spider webs shimmering under the waves of their canopies. Little signs were written on each basket, but I couldn’t read them.

“Do you know what is in those baskets, Viola?”

“Material?” I answered. Zia turned and pointed to the store on the opposite side of the street. The shop front burst with shelves, upon which neat rows of material shone. “Is that silk?”

“Yes! Those bundles are raw silk, and that is what it looks like after it is woven. Silk is beautiful from start to finish, no?” Zia observed as she approached the store merchant.

He was an older man with a wide nose and a shaggy mustache that concealed his lips. When his blue eyes met Zia’s, his hollow cheeks almost reached his eyebrows and in his smile he revealed a few golden teeth. When they both spoke in very fast Italian, I was reminded of how alien I was. I understood little, but it was evident that the merchant was thrilled to see Zia.

She reached for my hand and passed it to the old man. “This is Viola, my niece from the country. Viola, this is Signore Soldo.”

The old man cradled my long fingers and gave my hand a scratchy peck.

“Your niece is our blossoming violet among this city of wilting flowers.” He grinned at his own wit. In my embarrassment, I veered my eyes towards the waves of silk contained in the shelves. Not letting go of my hand, he led me further into his shop. “Although I cannot boast of having the finest silks in Florence, they are very close.” Letting go of my hand, he reached to move the footstool. With one last glance at me, he climbed and retrieved two velvets of different colors, sea green and apricot. “Which one do you like best, young lady?” asked Signore Soldo. His question reminded me that it was still my birthday. In answer, I pointed to the sea green velvet. “Excellent. I thought you would choose that one! The color attempts to match the grace and singular color of your eyes.” He wrapped the fabric with thin sheets of cotton.

“Oh, sir, I cannot pay for it!” I said, shaking my head.

“But it is a welcoming gift to Florence … Besides, I only give such exquisite material to the most exquisite ladies.” He winked.

“Hush, Francesco! You will scare the girl senseless.”

He bowed his head in apology. “God will forgive me as he knows I only speak the truth. Such beauty has obviously been inherited from her aunt.”

“Thank you for the gift. I will hem this to the bottom of Viola’s dress. She is too tall for it, poor child. We will visit another day.”

“Please do visit me again, ladies,” he begged.

“Thank you, Signore, for the gift,” I said and extended my hand to shake his. Instead, he knelt down on one knee, pulled my hand towards him, and gave it another prickly smooch.

“Another time, Francesco!” said Zia. We weaved our way out of the shop and onto the street of silk. “We are almost there, dear,” Zia assured me, turning right onto a street with an inscribed plaque that read “Via Calimala.”

Looking up I could see that the bright morning light had faded. The humidity and smoke that drifted into the street from nearby ovens and chimneys made the air so heavy it felt like we were cutting our way through the lane. The smell of fresh bread and soil melded with the smoke that burned through my nose. After some minutes of walking, the street opened up into another plaza.

“At last! My feet are tired,” admitted Zia.

CHAPTER SIX

Leonardo

Unlike the Piazza della Signoria, the Mercato Vecchio was more constricted. The walls surrounding it were punctured with hovels that sold baskets of fish, meat on hooks, grains in jars, animals in cages, and milk in canisters. As we strayed deeper into the market, there were several shrines with a cross and a bit of painted fabric draped over its arms. There were also pairs of wooden benches where the devout could reflect. The piazza had a breath of its own, made up of the men, women, children, and animals heaving through it. On one corner of the piazza was a small fountain where children filled their buckets with water.

On the opposite side was a slender column. It had a leaning figure at the top carved from white stone. At the base, several steps wrapped around the column. While some shoppers rested on these steps, most people in the market were bargaining or begging. Several women with simple dresses and hats were seated on barrels and selling their goods on the floor with only scraps of fabric protecting their livelihood. One was only a girl about my age. She was selling chickens, eggs, milk, and cheese. Sleeves rolled up past her elbows revealed forearms that were thick from farm work. Her bored and hungry expression was the same one I had in Mr. Barnett’s biology class.

“Zia, didn’t you say you needed milk?” I reminded her, gesturing towards the young girl.

“Indeed, I did! But you can usually get better deals farther into the market. Shall we continue on to see if we find a better stock?”

“Why not just buy them here? You also said that your feet were tired, no?”

“That is true,” she answered, surveying the plumage of the chickens and the quality of the cheeses.

Zia began to haggle with the girl. Gently squeezing her arm, I pointed to the column steps. “Go on, but remember do not speak to anyone and do not venture off. This market is a maze and a dangerous one for girls,” she said. I walked over to the steps and sat down on the side where no one was sitting. It somewhat hurt to sit as the skin of my elbows and knees still felt tight from the fall. Looking around at the market place, I could not help think how bizarre it was that I had not completely lost my mind. Hugging my knees, I peered down at my father's birthday present. The shoes, too, seemed to have added on years from our trip to the past. My poor dad must be worried, waiting with that wretched Mrs. Reed in that terrible house with those awful paintings. Why couldn’t we have done something more normal for my birthday?

Zia broke my train of thought as she set down a cage with a chicken and a burlap bag with two canisters on a step.

“I thought you were just going to buy milk?” I said, casting a weary look at the chicken. This was the first time I had seen a live chicken up close.

“Well, I am usually less impulsive, but such an unusual day calls for an unusual purchase,” she said, wiping her brow with a handkerchief. “Also, I won’t have to take this long walk every time I need an egg. The heavenly mother knows I am getting too old for such expeditions. If it pleases you, you can name it.”

“Thank you. I’ll try to think of a good one,” I said, looking at the hen’s rusty feathers.

“I am off again to get flour. It will be quicker if I go alone, but I will be back,” she assured, counting the coins in her leather pouch. “Oh, I forgot to warn you. Watch out for those palm readers! They are swindlers and will steal you blind. I cannot abide their ridiculousness. Besides, if you want to have your palm read, I know a true seer,” she said before vanishing into the bustling market.

While I watched her walk away, I realized that a real attachment and love for Zia was burrowing its way through my heart. What if she really was one of my great grandmothers? Either way, I felt lucky to have fallen by her feet.

I looked back down at the hen. “What would be a good name for you?” I asked. She looked like a George to me, for no particular reason other than being the first name that popped into my head. Nevertheless, she was a girl, so I named her Georgina. After stealing a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching me, I opened my satchel and took out my sketchbook. Once I had flipped to a clean bright page, I began to draw Georgina in all her ruffled glory. Just when I was really getting into it, a voice over my left shoulder interrupted me.

“Not bad!” I turned to see from whom the compliment or insult came from.

He looked about eighteen with dark blond waves and budding facial hair surrounding his wide grin. Although he had a strong, stalky build, when he sat down next to me, I noticed he moved gracefully. His nose’s slight bump balanced his flawless bone structure.

“You might think me a brute for saying so, but you will never truly be a great draughtsman or in this case, draughtslady unless you master light and shadow … May I?” the stranger asked, holding his hand out to receive the bound pages, his smile reaching his hazel eyes.

My hands shook as I passed it to him. He reached into the pocket of his olive tunic and pulled out some charcoal. It was hard to see what he was doing to the drawing of Georgina because his hair blocked my view. After a few minutes of craning my neck around to get a better look, he parted with the drawing.

“This book of paper is as curious as its owner … I have never seen a girl interested in drawing before,” he said. Scared of being recognized as a foreigner, I held my tongue.

“Viola!” called Zia.

When I looked up she was practically sprinting with a small sack of flour slung over her shoulder. As she approached the base of the fountain, she looked more relieved.

“I told you not to speak to anyone, sweet girl. You are very lucky indeed that it is Leonardo who so imprudently sat down by your side,” she huffed.

“Well, Zia Cioni, I must rid your sweet child of guilt. To my own displeasure, she has not opened her mouth once. Fortunately, I have the happy but sloppy manners of sticking my nose in where it is most certainly not welcome. Please forgive me, ladies. When an idea or vision grabs my interest, it rarely lets go,” Leonardo concluded with a look that would have melted the heart of Medusa.

“By and by, I am glad you two have met. Tomorrow I am taking her to your master’s house to meet and possibly help him around the workshop,” admitted Zia.

“Allora? But what of Margherita?” asked Leonardo.

“She is very far along and her belly is much too big to be slaving after ungrateful apprentices! No doubt she would welcome some help.”

“Zia Cioni, may I point out that you still have not introduced me to your sweet girl?” said Leonardo.

“Viola, this is my nephew’s most talented pupil, Leonardo … You are from Vinci, are you not?”

“
Si
, da Vinci.”

“Leonardo, this is my ward, Viola Orofino.”

The name Leonardo da Vinci instantly transported me to the tea and cake with Mrs. Reed. She had mentioned the artist as being a “renaissance man” and already very accomplished by my age. Although my brain strained to recall all her words, my stomach worked equally hard to keep my breakfast down. This was impossible. Out of all the places I could have gone back in time to, why here and with Leonardo? This was too big of a coincidence. Like it or not, in my gut I knew that he would help me return to the door I had fallen from.

Instead of kissing my hand, he sprung up from the stairs, took off his hat, and gave a low bow. Not being able to stop myself, I beamed at his enthusiastic manners. He slid the sketchbook back onto my lap. After examining the drawing of Georgina, I found myself speechless. Leonardo had brought her to life on the page with so little effort that I recognized how much I still had to learn. My first reaction was astonishment for Leonardo’s talent, but the crisscross lines that made up Georgina’s feathers made me feel insecure about my own attempt to capture her.

“Your drawing is incredible,” I admitted.

“Aha! Viola speaks … It is a quick sketch of your excellent hen, but thank you all the same,” he said with a curious smile. “Your heavy accent betrays you.” He scratched his phantom beard. “Pray, where were you born?”

“Very far from here.”

“An orphan?”

“At the moment … sort of.”

“Then we have that in common as I am an orphan as well.”

“Leonardo, my dear, that is not entirely true,” interjected Zia. “Are you so ungrateful to your father? Was it not Ser Piero di Antonio who recommended you to my nephew, Andrea, and helped you get started in your apprenticeship?”

“Well, my natural father had plenty of chances to legitimize me, but he has decided against it. Please do not think me ungrateful, Zia, as I appreciate the pains he has taken for me,” he said, softening the stiff tone the conversation had taken. He offered me his hand and pulled me lightly to my feet. Putting his arm around Zia’s shoulders, he said, “But as I see it, all bastards are orphans in a way. If only we all had caring women like Zia Cioni to look after us.”

“How can you speak of yourself so, Leonardo?”

“I find it is best to call things and people by the names society or nature gives them,” he said with polite conviction.

“As you say, but for my part Florence can keep her names and I my opinions.” Zia sighed.

“I must be off or Master Verrocchio will be cross with me. He sent me to the apothecary to get some ocher and saffron, and I have stopped one too many times on my return. I hope to see you both again tomorrow, Signora Cioni and Signorina Viola.”

Mrs. Reed had also mentioned that Leonardo worked in Andrea de Verrocchio’s studio. Not wanting to be rude, I shouted back, “It was nice meeting you!” The volume of my voice surprised even me.

Seeing that he was trying not to laugh and not wanting to end the conversation on an embarrassing note, I thanked him for the drawing with a gentler voice. He strode off across the stained stones of the Mercato Vecchio.

“Do you think I was too loud just then?” I asked Zia, feeling a little self-conscious.

“Heavens no, Viola! People do not speak loud enough in my opinion.” While I realized my mistake in having asked such a question to an almost elderly woman, Zia had taken out a small notebook where she begun to scribble some numbers down.

“What are you doing, Zia?”

“Normally, I would wait till I returned home, but with my mind the way it is, it is best to write down the daily expenditures as they happen.” Looking down at her account book, I saw the date scrawled on the top of the page.

19 Dicembre 1469

The numbers that made up that combination appeared in Idan’s peepholes. At least now I knew that I truly had lost myself exactly 544 years in the past. My dad often said “knowledge is power,” but I did not feel more powerful. With my free arm I lifted the burlap bag and Georgina’s cage. After Zia had closed her accounts, she carried the flour, canisters, and the delicate gift of velvet as we walked back to Via dei Benci. After arriving at my new refuge, we placed Georgina in a decrepit coop in the alley behind the house. Zia instructed me to give her a generous bowl of water and several chunks of hardened bread. Meanwhile, Zia prepared her famous goat cannelloni. Before this trip to the past, I was thinking of becoming a vegetarian, but after I saw the head of the goat that was soon to be our dinner, my decision was set. Exhausted, we ate our hot meal in silence while the sun slowly extinguished. Zia lit two candles on the table.

After dinner we said good night at the top of the stairs. Zia took one candle into a room on the right and I took the other to the chamber with the hay bed. Immediately, I took Idan out of the satchel lying on my bed and tried to uncover its secrets. The hand was now between the moon and the rising sun. The combination of numbers had not changed. Now I knew that three of the knobs told the date, but what about the fourth knob? Earlier, I tried to move the knobs but they did not budge. I didn’t try too hard because knowing my luck they might break, leaving me stuck here forever.

It would be a lie not to admit that I had never been so scared in my entire life. The hanged woman’s sprite face haunted me. While I felt indebted to serendipity for having dropped me in Zia’s path, I dreaded not being able to get back home. Passing by those chanting beggars on the streets reminded me just how terribly things could have worked out. Questions still plagued me as my head rested on the bulky pillow.
Why am I here? How can I figure out which door will get me back home? What role does Idan play in all this?
There were so many mysteries without answers. Yet what I yearned for the most was to wake up to the sound of morning traffic outside my window.