The Girl in the Glass (25 page)

“That’s great. Sometime this week let’s sit down and see what each new chapter would be about, okay? We’ll make a list, and I can send that to my publishers. Maybe Wednesday?”

“Yes, yes!” She turned to the little oil painting by her window and kissed it.

My gaze turned to the painting too. It was of a woman holding a baby in her arms. She was sitting under the shade of leafy boughs.

“Your mother?” I nodded toward the canvas.

“And me. I love this painting of her. It’s the smallest one my papa ever did of her and me together. But I love it anyway.”

“It’s very pretty.”

“The painting is more my father than my mother, yes? He painted it. All the love that he has for her is in every stroke. And he painted her—and
me—while we posed for him. This canvas is like a fragment of real time, fixed here, forever. That’s how it is when I hear Nora whispering to me. She left her imprint everywhere. I think we all do.”

I sensed a pulling sadness that this part of her manuscript might have to be scrubbed, or at the very least toned down. There had to be a way to keep it without destroying her credibility or reducing her to a delusional freak.

“Do you hear any other voices besides Nora’s? Do you hear her in every piece of art?” I asked.

She laughed lightly. “No, no, no! And I am very glad I don’t. No, the ones that speak to me with Nora’s voice are the ones that she and I are both a part of. Like, she can’t speak to me through my father’s paintings because she never saw them. She wasn’t there to leave her imprint. It’s different with the art we both have shared. But if all the art in Florence spoke to me, could you imagine? I would be a lunatic. Never a moment’s peace.”

Ah, yes. The specter of being thought something of a lunatic. I had to address it. “You wrote that your father told you not to share with people this ability you have because it would distance you from them. You do understand, don’t you, that there will be people who will not believe this part of your story? That you can hear Nora Orsini talking to you.”

Sofia shrugged. She unwrapped the parcel of veal she had bought on our walk back. “People are too quick to count as unbelievable anything they haven’t been gifted to be able to do themselves. It’s how they deal with the disappointment of not being able to.”

“But sometimes people will come along saying something is true when it’s not. You do know there are delusional people in the world, Sofia, right? I am not saying you are one of them. But other people probably might. I think maybe that’s why your father asked you to keep it to yourself all these years.”

She slowly turned her head to look at me. A frown crisscrossed her face. “What are you saying?”

“Just that we need to figure out how we could publish your book without making you a target for people who will not believe you have this ability. There’s no way to prove you have it. Someone else could come along and say paintings and statues talk to them too. No one could prove that they are lying or delusional, because they can’t prove that you aren’t either.”

“Someone else wouldn’t have Medici blood. I do.”

“That’s why we need to authenticate that, Sofia. The publishers are pretty clear on that.”

She smirked. “Why is everyone so unable to believe something without proof? I am an honest person. I don’t lie. Look at my life. I have never lied.”

“But even a liar can say they have never lied. Proof doesn’t mean you are who you say you are. It means we can believe that you are who you say you are.”

She shook her head. “A person’s word should be enough.”

“I agree. But you know the world we live in. We need to give people the confidence they need to put their trust in your story. It’s a trust issue, Sofia. It matters.”

Sofia set the pieces of veal down. She looked out over the rooftops from her kitchen window. “I guess I can understand that. Maybe we should go visit my father and see what he says. Maybe he knows where the records are.” This new thought seemed to change her disposition. She whirled to face me. “I would love for you to meet my father. Perhaps after the Uffizi we can go see him? Would that be all right? I usually see him on Tuesdays.”

“Well, sure. If you think he would like meeting me.”

“Of course he would!” She retrieved the pieces of veal and laid them out on a marble cutting board. She grabbed a mallet from a canister. “He hardly ever gets visitors anymore.”

I wanted to ask her why, but I couldn’t find the words. I would see soon
enough if her father would be able to help us track down the family records.

She handed the mallet to me. “First we need to pound out the attitude. That’s what my mama always said. We make the veal tender by treating it harshly. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Very.” I took the mallet and brought it down onto the meat.

“Harder, Marguerite.”

And I obeyed.

Among my family there aren’t many who can paint, but my mother was an exception. She painted a portrait of me and little Virginio to send to our father in Rome, even though she had the means to hire any Florentine artist to paint us. When I began to paint, my tutor and the instructor he hired no doubt wondered if I had been gifted with any of her talent. Even using her brushes, which I still have in my possession and which are very dear to me, I could not match her natural skill. My few canvases pale in comparison to the few I have of hers.

Nurse tells me Virginio would hardly sit still for her, and the painting took many months, but my mother did not mind. She loved spending her day with us. I remember her scent lingering on my bedclothes, dresses, and wraps because she was always near me.

She often took me to Santa Trinita for Mass. I remember sitting with her, running my finger along the trim of her sleeves and the jewels on her skirt.

Sometimes we went out on the balcony at night to look at the stars. My mother loved the night sky. She told me once she wished she could paint it, but the heavens, she said, refuse to be painted.

And yet it wasn’t always just the three of us. I remember Troilo Orsini being there on occasion. Sometimes on the balcony with us. Sometimes in the gardens. Sometimes in our games room, playing with Virginio and me. I remember he had a loud voice, but it wasn’t
frightening. He wore blue. He had shiny shoes. He was too jovial to be thought of as a father figure. He was more like a court entertainer sent to us to make my mother laugh.

I was too young to think anything of it.

20

After supper, and while I waited for Lorenzo to return from his photo shoot, Sofia and I sketched an outline of the other chapters she had written that I hadn’t read yet and ideas for the new chapters she would need to start writing right away. She already had chapters on the Palazzo Vecchio, the Baptistery doors,
David
and the
Prisoners
, the ceiling of the Salone dei Cinquecento, the statue of
Judith
with her sword held high, the Bargello, and a dozen other landmarks. They were in various stages of near completion. She asked if she could have a week or two to polish them.

When we began to brainstorm ideas for thirty new chapters, I asked Sofia to choose must-sees that were personal to her so that she could dovetail a personal story with the landmark. She told me everything in Florence was personal to her.

When Lorenzo knocked on her door a few minutes before nine, the list of new chapters was at twenty-two. Sofia sent me off to visit with Lorenzo while she completed the list herself. I think she was glad to be alone while she finished it.

Lorenzo kissed me on both cheeks at Sofia’s door, a greeting I know is standard with everyone he meets, but his kisses felt personal and intimate and I blushed. He didn’t seem to notice. He shut Sofia’s door behind us.

“A good day?” He led me across the hall to the front door to his flat.

“I’d say so. Saw
David
and the Duomo. And I climbed the steps to the top of the dome. About killed me, but so worth it.”

“Ah, you would not be able to leave Florence without having climbed those steps. Good for you.”

We stepped into his apartment, which was similar in floor plan to Sofia’s, but a little bigger. The décor was modern, unlike Sofia’s, and seemed oddly out of place with the character of the building. The furniture reminded me of an Ikea catalog page, except the aesthetic here was top-of-the-line, designer minimalist, not bargain price. Lorenzo and Renata’s books had done well.

“Wow,” I remarked, taking in the soft and hard edges, whites and blacks and taupes, and the aroma of leather everywhere. “Your taste or Renata’s?”

He laughed. “If the decorating were left to Renata, there would be crates and patio furniture in here. Renata is not a homebody. She likes to be out and about. She only comes here to sleep and change shoes! You are lucky you will be able to see her tomorrow night.”

He showed me their writing room, paneled in dark wood. Two desks faced each other with matching laptops, neat on his side, messy on hers.

He pointed out the bedrooms as we made our way back to the front of the flat. His was minimal, but clean. Even the camera equipment in the corner was arranged nicely. Renata’s bedroom was a tousled frenzy of fabric—clothes, bedding, and pajamas.

As we walked back to the main room, Lorenzo placed his hand on the small of my back, a tender touch. “Shall we sit on the balcony? I want to hear all about your day.”

He led me to a balcony off the kitchen, one that was twice the size of Sofia’s. Upholstered chairs and a sofa sat facing the blip of violet-orange where the sun had been. A decanter of red wine and two stemless glasses rested on a low table. I sank into one of the chairs.

“Your balcony’s quite a bit bigger than Sofia’s, or is it just my imagination?” I asked.

He poured a glass of wine. “Ours is the biggest one in the building. You’d think her family would have chosen this flat for themselves.”

“You mean they had their choice?”

He handed me the glass. “It’s their building, so I’d say they had a choice. If I owned the building, I’d want the flat with the biggest balcony.”

Surprise walloped me and I nearly fumbled the glass. “Her family owns this building?”

“Her father. And his brother, Emilio. It’s been in her father’s family for generations. I told Angelo once how lucky he was to own this place, and he said I was the lucky one because I got to live in it and didn’t have to worry about the upkeep.”

“Sofia owns this place?”

“Her father and his brother do. Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

I remembered the older woman who had come to the door earlier in the evening. A tenant, surely. She had come to Sofia’s flat because Sofia was the landlord’s daughter. Sofia was probably handling the building’s affairs since her father became ill.

“How long has her father been in the nursing home?”

“A couple years, I think. Why?”

“I don’t know. It just seems like a huge responsibility for someone like Sofia to have.”

He sipped his wine and then echoed my words. “Someone like Sofia.”

“Yes. Someone like Sofia. She seems a little naive, Lorenzo. It just seems like a lot for someone like her to handle. You said yourself she was fragile.”

“I meant with her book. She loves her book. I didn’t want you to tell her it was terrible or anything. I did not mean she was fragile about everything. And her father left this building in great shape. He has all the maintenance contracted out. Sofia doesn’t even have to collect the rent. A company does that for her. And why do you think she is naive?”

“Well, because … because of the way she talks about Nora Orsini communicating with her. It seems kind of … juvenile. And she insists she’s a Medici and yet doesn’t seem to understand why people would want proof of that.”

“Who wants proof?” He tossed the words out as if I were the silly one.

“Well, Beatriz and Geoffrey, for starters. They like what they’ve seen of her book. A lot. But they won’t publish someone who claims to be the last Medici but who also can’t produce a single document that authenticates that claim.”

Lorenzo smiled. “They want to publish Sofia’s book?”