The Dark Heart of Florence by Tasha Alexander (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

kill him when he stole your fiancée,” I said. “Is there someone else who has a stronger motive for wanting him dead than that?”

“Are you suggesting I murdered my brother?”

“No, of course not. His death was an accident.” I needed to tread with care. “I just wondered what he’d done to people unrelated to him, given the appalling manner in which he treated you.”

“That was his business, and now that he’s dead, it’s no one’s. I’m sorry to throw water on your rosy view of poor Marzo, but the truth is that you should rejoice at not having known him better.”

With that, he turned away and stormed back toward the stairs, taking no notice of any of the ladies he passed. His mood had changed completely. I almost let him go before remembering that I needed to know where Lena lived. I leapt to my feet and ran after him.

“Wait, please, Ridolfo,” I called. He stopped, glowering at me. “I know it’s not appropriate at the moment, but I should like to let Lena know what I think of the way she so callously cast you aside. She did not allow Signora du Lac and me to take her home yesterday, so I do not know how to reach her. Can you tell me where to find her house?”

“Cross Ponte Santa Trinita and go to the Piazza Santo Spirito. Look for a shop there that sells leather accessories. Her father owns it. That is all I have to say to you, signora. Please leave my family alone. We have enough trouble without you looking for more.”

 Florence,

148016

To claim that I had mastered my temptation before I again saw Father Cambio would be a lie worthy of the worst circle of Dante’s hell, had he reserved it for those driven by lust rather than treachery. I was convinced I’d tried valiantly, but as I ponder my actions now, so many years later, I recognize my effort as barely even half-hearted. At the time, though, I could not have behaved any differently. I had no desire to. The delicious longing I felt for him was the most exciting experience of my life. It consumed me.

And it focused me. Everything I did was carefully crafted to ensure I could see him again, a strange course of action, given that the only occasions on which I was kept from him had stemmed from his own choice. But I did not recognize that in those heady days.

After confession the next week, we did not take a turn around the nave of the church, instead going directly to the room off the cloisters. Father Cambio had left there his copy of Inferno. He directed me to sit down and started to read aloud from it, Canto V, the tragic story of Francesca da Rimini. A high-spirited girl, she was forced to marry a man both deformed and cruel. But Francesca knew nothing of his character, not at first. The wedding took place between her and a proxy: her husband’s kind and handsome brother, Paolo. No one, however, told her he was a proxy, and she fell in love with him at once.

Theirs was a love that could not be denied. Together, they read the story of another pair of doomed lovers, Lancelot and Guinevere. As noble as that other couple, Francesca and Paolo did their best to resist temptation, but when they reached the part in the book where the knight, at last, kissed his fair lady, they were overcome.

Quando leggemmo il disïato riso

esser basciato da cotanto amante,

questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,

la bocca mi basciò tutto tremante.

Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse:

quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.

When as we read of the much-longed-for smile

Being by such a noble lover kissed,

This one, who ne’er from me shall be divided,

Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.

Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it.

That day no farther did we read therein.

That day, we, too, read no further. Like Lancelot, my love came to me and kissed my lips, whispering that I must no longer think of him as Father Cambio but as my own Giacomo. He tasted of wine, sweet and tart. From that moment, everything changed.

 Florence,

190317

The walk Cécile and I took to the Piazza Santo Spirito was my first excursion into the Oltrarno, the other side of the Arno. The Ponte Santa Trinita’s elegant arches spanned the river, offering an incomparable view of Florence’s most famous bridge, the Ponte Vecchio. The first structure on the site was Roman, dating to 994, but the current Ponte Vecchio had been constructed in 1345, a flood having destroyed its predecessor. Medieval shops lined it on both sides. Atop the buildings on the east runs an enclosed corridor designed by Vasari in the sixteenth century to make it possible for the Medici to travel from the town hall, Palazzo della Signoria, to their ducal home at Palazzo Pitti, across the river, without having to encounter the public.

After crossing the bridge, we turned toward Santo Spirito, quickly locating Lena’s father’s leather shop when we reached the piazza. Inside, gleaming wooden counters displayed a stunning collection of handbags, valises, wallets, book covers, portfolios, and more. The leather was indisputably of the finest quality, but adding to its inherent beauty was the method used to decorate it. Florence is famous for its colorful marbled paper. Here, a similar technique was used to stunning effect on leather, giving exquisite detail to the pieces. A boy who looked to be no more than fifteen popped his head out from a door in the back.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“We’re looking for the shop’s owner,” I said.

“I can fetch him for you if you’ll wait.” I thanked him and he disappeared behind the door. We could hear his footsteps clattering up the stairs, and a few minutes later a middle-aged man with gleaming raven hair—not yet marred by a single streak of silver—greeted us.

“I am Signore Bastieri,” he said. “Are