The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,29
boasting many wonders within. The soil for the foundations was brought from Golgotha, yes, all the way from the Holy Land.” I still could not speak as we walked forth among the great buildings, but I sensed that I had somehow been forgiven. “Well, Luciana,” said the monk, “your obvious state of awe mitigates your earlier churlishness somewhat. For here is the true glory of my city, which took three centuries to realize. They say that this campo perfectly represents our journey to God. It is said,” continued my friend with enthusiasm, “that in the Baptistery we are baptized to faith, in the Cathedral we celebrate it, in the Camposanto we await resurrection, and in the tower”—he pointed high—“we reach up to the divine heights of the Kingdom of Heaven.”
I allowed Brother Guido his triumph and forgave him his wordy explanations, for the place was truly a marvel, made unique by the crazy collapsing campanile. The monk echoed my thoughts with his next speech. “I find the tower is rendered more beautiful, not less, by the imperfection of its stance. And you can see at once, can you not, from the shape and the incline, that the tower is indeed the edifice that Botticelli’s Graces describe in the Primavera, with the negative space between their clasped hands.”
He was right, the relationship was exact. We were certainly in the right place to begin our quest. Now at the base of the tower, I was frightened and exhilarated at once by the sight. To look directly up at the structure was to feel as if it could fall at any moment and crush me flat. Excited at last to speech, I asked a single question. “Can we go up?”
Brother Guido seemed pleased by my continued enthusiasm, a welcome contrast, I’ll wager, from my humor of the last few days. “Yes,” he said. “If you are not afraid.”
I was afraid. “Of course I’m not. Why should I be afraid?”
“Because they say the thing will come down in under a year. Mind you, they’ve been saying that ever since it was built.”
I shrugged, but in truth would have been sorry to see such a splendid structure fall into rubble—sorrier still if I was within. But I tied my pony by the tower’s dark door as Brother Guido did likewise, and kilted my skirts ready for the climb.
“There is a stair within,” he said. “We must look for anything which tells us of the tower’s connection with the Prima-vera. And take care. The incline, together with the circles you must describe with your feet as you ascend, can be somewhat disorienting.”
Brother Guido was not wrong. Before we even reached the second gallery I already felt as if I had had a couple of bottles of Chianti. But I was enjoying myself—not just from the sensation of drunkenness, which all seemed so long ago, but because my spirits rose, too, as we climbed. My feminine wiles returned as I clasped Brother Guido’s arm, giggled to punctuate my steps, and fell against his body as oft as I could. ‘Twas not much for one as prick-hungry as I, and his complete indifference offered me little comfort, but it was better than naught. Most delightful of all, though, were the glimpses of the green fields below, and the beautiful sight of the Duomo and Baptistery laid out in a great white cross below. At last we reached the top, and I could admire the view of what was, I had to admit, a breathtaking city. For long moments we lingered, the painting all but forgot, enjoying the scene below, with the ant-sized humans scuttling about between the great white behemoths. At length, though, I noted a gathering crowd, as the ants became a swarm and began to congregate in a square far below. “What’s going on?” I said, pointing, my breastbone squeezed against the warm stone balustrade as I strained to look.
Brother Guido, in a fatherly gesture of protection which touched me not a little, grabbed the tail of my skirt. “Take care.” He moved beside me to look. “Ah. They’re getting ready to begin.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Among others,” he said, “my uncle. And they’re getting ready for the Gioco del Ponte, which is held on this day every year. I was hoping we’d be in time.” He began to move toward the doorway of the gallery, to begin the long descent.
“And what is the ‘jocco del pointy’?” I called after him.