From Sand and Ash(23)

Angelo could only stare at her in stupefaction.

“Ascension?” he asked, incredulous.

“You aren’t hungry for power. You aren’t hungry for riches. You aren’t hungry for women or fun or music . . . or pleasure.”

“Am I really so bland?” He laughed at himself, and Eva laughed too, but she pressed her point.

“You are hungry for purpose, for meaning, for . . . martyrdom . . . or maybe just sainthood.”

“I think you just described the ambitions of every good priest,” he said, strangely relieved.

“Yes. I did, didn’t I?” Eva looked a little stunned.

“Why are the synagogues so plain, do you think? Is it because Judaism is much more . . . bare? Simplistic?” It was Angelo’s turn to search for the right word.

Eva thought for a moment. “They aren’t all plain. But unlike Catholicism—a religion that has had unfettered centuries to decorate”—she shot him a wry look—“you only need the Torah and ten Jewish males to have a synagogue. The rest can be cobbled together. My father says it’s because Jews, as a people, have had little chance to settle. We are always on the move. The exodus never ends. We have been unable to make roots. So our roots are in our traditions, our families. Our children.”

Angelo could see Eva suddenly struggling with her emotions, and he reached for her hand. Her tears made him want to tear at his clothes and pull at his hair. He hated to see her pain. He hated the terrible injustice of it all, and he could only watch helplessly as she fought for her composure.

“It’s happening again, Angelo. All over again. The exodus.”

He could only nod. Agreeing. But then she looked up at him, and her eyes were fierce, glittering with anger and unshed tears.

“Our rituals are all about our children. So different from Catholicism where they take a man and ask him to make vows that deprive him of his roots, of children, of family. There will be no descendants of Angelo Bianco. Your tree ends with you.”

Angelo shook his head, but he didn’t bother to defend the church or himself. Eva was angry, and she had a right to be. The anger and the hurt and the longing for things to be different, both in the world and with them, was like a tangled ball of string, interwoven and indistinguishable. He understood that. And in a way, he felt it too. Angelo didn’t think Eva blamed him for the way things were. But she did blame him for the way things could never be.

“I didn’t come here to see Santa Croce. It is wonderful, but some other time. Come on.” Angelo released Eva’s hand and gripped her elbow, tugging her toward the picturesque cloisters to the right of the massive church.

They worked their way around until they stood at the columned entrance of the renowned Pazzi Chapel.

“Filippo Brunelleschi’s Pazzi Chapel, famed for its Renaissance architecture,” Eva parroted. She was Florentine, after all, and Camillo Rosselli was her father, a man who valued learning above all else. But Angelo was pretty sure she’d never seen beyond the exterior.

“Very good. Now come inside and sit with me,” he demanded.

She followed obediently, stepping into the quiet chapel. She was clearly expecting more extravagance, more opulence. Instead, Angelo watched as her face softened and her chest rose and fell, deeply at first, as if she couldn’t find her breath. Then her hand rose to her chest and she left it resting there, as if her heart had attempted to break out and fly up into the soaring, simplistic beauty of the domed interior.

“You like it,” he said, more than a little pleased. He led her to the stone bench that lined the walls beneath the long windows and the arched pilasters that made up the rectangular perimeter of the room. Angelo sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs out before him, his hand rubbing absently at his knee. There was always a little pain when he wore the prosthetic, like a shoe that rubs in all the wrong places. He didn’t mind the pain for the most part. It reminded him of his weaknesses and made him thankful for his strengths.

“This is where the monks of Santa Croce would have sat, once upon a time. This was a meeting room, a chapter house,” he softly explained to Eva. They were alone in the chapel, but the space demanded reverence.

“I wonder how the violin would sound in here,” Eva mused, her eyes on the light that poured through the oculus at the top of the dome overhead.

“Wonderful. This space, with you on the violin. Paradise,” Angelo said, wishing he could hear it. The strain he’d felt between them all day had dissipated at the chapel doors, and they sat in companionable silence.

“The plan of Brunelleschi’s chapel is the circle and the square—a rectangular base with a conical central dome. Every space is divided geometrically. The dimensions are mathematical, every proportion is perfect. Everything is in harmony; nothing is superfluous. The white plaster of the walls, the gray stone pilasters, even the glazed terra-cotta circular paintings, are mellow, serene, and balanced,” he explained in hushed tones.

“I can feel that,” Eva said, nodding. “I like it here.” She paused and then added with incredulity, “I’ve lived my whole life in this city. How have I not been inside this chapel before?”

“You were born in Florence. You take it for granted. But I was born in New Jersey. It is not exactly known for its art. Even as a boy, and a pretty sad, homesick boy at that, I recognized that this city was special. If you look down on Florence from the hills surrounding her, you see the domes, the bell towers, the medieval castle ramparts, and it’s almost as if no time has passed at all—like the Renaissance is still in full swing. There’s a sense of timelessness, of being transported back five hundred years when chapels like this were being built.”