From Sand and Ash(22)

“You know what is best, Angelo. You know what is right. Now you must go forward and not look back,” the monsignor said, and Angelo could only nod. The church was the best place for him. Deep down, he believed it. Angelo didn’t belong with Eva. It was not who he was.



Angelo spent his final day of vacation back in Florence with Eva, trying to find a way to tell her nothing had changed and nothing could change. He took her to all his favorite places, trying to share his feelings, to explain what drove him. Instead, he ended up sounding like a tour guide in a city she already knew and loved.

She was quiet, and he could feel her depression. The art and the architecture didn’t feed her spirit the way it fed his. He tried harder, pointing out a fresco there, a statue here, telling her what he loved and what he appreciated, so she could appreciate it too, and little by little her face relaxed and her smile came back as the art came to life.

The only thing he wanted to show her inside the Palazzo del Bargello, amid the sprawling expanse of some of the world’s greatest art, was Donatello’s statue of young Saint George, shield in hand, eyes facing a threat no one else could see.

“Padre Sebastiano brought a group of us here about two years after I came to Italy. This one statue changed everything for me. I couldn’t look at anything else. The rest of the group moved on, but I couldn’t move. Another priest saw me staring at the statue, and he told me the story of San Giorgio and the dragon.”

He relayed the tale that had moved him, altered his thinking, and redirected his life. As he talked, Eva’s eyes were fixed on the sculpture, like she could almost imagine how he had looked, standing there all those years ago, a boy who wanted to be a saint.

“He risked everything,” Angelo said as he finished the story, “and even though he died for his beliefs, he lives on because of them too.”

He met Eva’s gaze then, and her eyes were sad. Maybe she saw the truth, and it hurt her.

“After that, Don Luciano, the priest I met that day, kept tabs on me and even sent a letter to the seminary, asking for periodic updates on my schooling and progress. Don Luciano is now in Rome. He’s a monsignor. I’m hoping I will be able to learn alongside him at some point.” It was his fondest wish.

In the Piazza del Duomo, they stood in front of the bronze baptistery doors, and he pointed out the life of Christ, so painstakingly illustrated, engraving after engraving, panel after panel.

“The first time I saw these I could only stare. It was like being in love, when your eyes can’t look away without instantly wanting to go back,” he breathed, his voice an awed whisper, but Eva just nodded, her eyes on his face instead of the baptistery doors.

Angelo turned away from the baptistery. “Now to Santa Croce.”

“Santa Croce too?” Eva asked, groaning as if she were five. She was teasing, but beneath her banter was a growing despondence. The more they saw, the wider the gulf between them grew. They walked the short distance, a few city blocks, between the Duomo and the basilica, their conversation mild in the August heat. The forecast had threatened rain, but the sky was cloudless, the breeze nonexistent.

“Have you been inside?” he asked as they began to cross the Franciscan basilica’s lengthy piazza.

“Yes. On school outings, and once with Uncle Felix. He made me play my violin outside, remember? I drew a crowd. He was quite pleased with me that day.”

“I do remember! You told me all about it. You were quite pleased with yourself too, if I remember right.” Eva always came alive in front of a crowd, and when she’d told Angelo about the numbers she’d drawn, he had wished more than anything he could have heard her play.

“Playing for an audience is a million times better than playing alone,” she said, confirming his thoughts.

“Well, I love Santa Croce. It’s charming, less intimidating.” Angelo winked at Eva and she just shook her head and sighed.

He studied the towering white edifice ahead of them, the arched doorways, the intricate carvings, the height crowned with several crosses and a blue six-sided star that made him think of the ugly yellow stars some of Camillo’s refugees had worn on their clothing. The reminder depressed him. Thank God Italy had not resorted to pinning labels on her Jews.

“Less intimidating?” Eva countered doubtfully. She rubbed her head, and he could have sworn he heard her whimper. He was invigorated by the art, but Eva seemed overwhelmed by it all. Or maybe it was him. Maybe he depressed her.

“Catholicism is so . . . ornate,” she said, trying to take it all in.

“That is one of the things I love about it. It’s complicated and beautiful and there’s nothing easy about it. Everything is symbolic, ritualistic. Like a beautiful woman, it makes you work.”

Eva harrumphed. “What do you know about beautiful women?”

“I grew up with one. I think I know plenty.”

“Ha!” she laughed. He was trying to be sweet, though he was also being truthful. “I’m not complicated, Angelo.”

“You are to me.” He eyed her briefly, then looked away.

“No. You make me that way. You are far more complicated than I’ll ever be. I’m not sure what drives you. I have never been able to understand your passion for . . .”

“God?” He finished her sentence.

“No. I don’t think your passion is for God, exactly. I think your passion is for ascension.”