Frescoes

Cobblestones thump softly under my flip-flops, the indentations of each stone smoothly pressing into my feet. In my hands I carry several bags full of tourist memorabilia: pashminas, Ciao Bella t-shirts, and the cool, Celtic bracelet that attaches itself to a ring of Celtic knots around my finger. “Molto delicate,” the trendy store owner had told me as she wrapped the silver in tissue paper and slipped it into a crimson paper bag sealed closed with a gold sticker. Now, outside the glass fronts of a long line of such trendy stores, heat rises like slithering phantoms from the Florence streets and disappears into the heavy summer air. People mill about, dark-haired, expressive-eyed Italians hurrying between the paler, wide-eyed tourists that periodically swoop in and out of these stores with familiarly foreign names: Dolce and Gabana, Gucci, Armani. Crowded buses creep like gorged caterpillars, huffing grey puffs of exhaust into the clear blue sky as business men in suits and ties swerve through the traffic, beeping the tinny horns of their Vespas.
Rounding the corner, the shiny fronts of cafés, boutiques, and tourism give way to the mud-caked, stone façade of an unfinished church. It’s just like Italians to put off what can be done tomorrow for a few centuries worth of tomorrows, displaying their procrastination as civic pride. Weathered stone steps ascend to the church’s heavy, wooden double doors, a grand platform for such a humble frontage. I finger the intricate carvings etched into the doors’ rich surface and smoothed by uncounted hands before my own. Leaning against the portals and escaping the heat, I duck into the refuge of the cavernous church.
Here, all is cool, dark, and quiet. Small candles flicker along the walls, casting their light on the upturned, ecstatic faces of stone saints. I am not Catholic, yet still the scene evokes a sense of deep respect, a feeling of smallness, inadequacy, before the God that could excite such devotion in men. The bright, white walls and dark red pews of my own, familiar Southern Baptist church reflect nothing so reverent, yet even here, though their tones are hushed, the general murmur of tourists echoes against the tall, frescoed ceiling.
My skirt’s sheer, black fabric brushes against my bare legs as I drift down the center aisle and slide into a pew in the center of the church. Supported by rows of thick, white columns, the vaulted ceiling weighs down on those below, dampening the source of the noise it magnifies. A naturally lit dome brightens the space directly above my head, filters the light downward into the church’s dimmest recesses. And I sit, ankles crossed, shopping bags gathered around my feet, hands folded in my lap, listening, looking.
To my right, an elderly Asian man drops his glossy souvenir bags into his wife’s waiting hands and pulls the camera hanging around his neck to his eye. I watch as the pair make their way around the room, pausing at each statue, each altar, only long enough for the man to snap a picture before moving on to the next, then the next, the next, then out the door. They must hurry; they have so much to see.
A few pews ahead of where I sit, a blonde boy of about eight also sits with his feet dangling, his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands. He swings his feet, stretching to scuff the toe of his sneaker against the tile floor until he jerks his head upward and runs to a young couple standing nearby. Although I do not denotatively understand him—except enough to know he is speaking German—his whining tone translates well enough for me, “Can we go yet?” A quick look at his mother’s face and the resulting slump of his shoulders and dejected trudge back to his seat, also tell me that she has replied “no” and that he realizes the futility of further badgering.
Backed against one of the columns that line the aisle leading to the altar, an old man with salt and pepper hair and eyes clear and bright as a mountain stream, sits hunched on a rickety stool, a sketch pad open across his lap. A couple of charcoal pencils peek out from his breast pocket and one rests lightly in his hand. His fingertips are blackened and trace a slight shadow across his forehead as he pushes his hair from his face and looks up to eye the statue opposite him. Watching his eyes searching, studying, darting back and forth from statue to paper, I come to understand that shading a drawing of a statue displaying so many folds of fabric must be rather difficult. His weathered and knotted hands, however, make smooth strokes of his work. Quick flicks of his wrist accentuate detail. Deliberate presses of his fingertips smudge in shadow and dimension. Or at least that is what happens as the picture his movements form in my mind takes shape, but he is too far away for me to see his drawing. Perhaps he doesn’t even sketch the statue.
Perhaps, instead, he sketches the woman who, for as long as he has been sketching, has been standing staring into the face of the figure I assumed was his focus. Perhaps his smooth strokes trace the length of her hair as it falls down her back. Perhaps the quick flicks of his wrist sketch in her folded arms, one hand reaching upward to rest right below her lips. Perhaps the darting of his eyes is to catch every detail, hurrying back and forth in fear that she might move before he is finished. As she turns and walks away, I wonder if he had enough time to capture her sad expression, the lowered arch of her eyebrows, the slight downward turn at the corners of her mouth, or the way that one strand of hair wouldn’t stay out of her face no matter how many times she brushed it away.
To my left, I hear the musical sounds of an Italian woman speaking softly. I turn to see an elderly woman leading a young girl by the hand. Pausing next to one of the smaller altars lining the walls, the old woman kneels and motions for the girl to do the same. The little girl kneels and her large, dark eyes look up into the face of a figure of Jesus with a radiant heart painted upon his chest. Touching her head, chest, and shoulders, the girl crosses herself and bows her head. Her eyes close tightly as her little lips move quietly in her smooth round face. The elderly woman beside her periodically peers over at her, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.
Suddenly feeling rather intrusive, I pull my eyes away from the little girl who, in my mind, has begun to resemble the cloud-lying cherubim that adorn the ceiling and scan the room until my eyes meet a pair staring straight into mine. These eyes peer out of a sun-swept face under honey-colored hair and, like me, she is probably in her early twenties. Slightly embarrassed, we both quickly look away and I begin gathering my bags. Stepping out into the aisle, I file past her, noting the several bags also lying about her feet and make my way to the door. Pushing it open, the heat and noise of a busy city greet me. Molto delicate, the moment is gone, fades away like frescoes on a church wall.