Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (28 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Dawn

The rescue party was down to Renzo and Signore Soldo. While they both set up a makeshift bed of fabric and patterned cushions, I moved to put the apron in my satchel and clean the dishes. Signore Soldo’s eyelids drooped farther and farther over his eyes until he excused himself. While I watched Renzo roll around on the shop’s mattress of silk, I took out my sketchbook. At first I doodled whatever my imagination unloaded onto the paper: hybrid animals a sphinx would be jealous of and composite monsters that sported similar knee wounds took form from the ink. I’m not sure when my pen dropped nor when my cheek leaned against the fresh doodles. I woke at the knock of the door. Half-dazed, I walked to open the door. Leonardo and Sandro filed in with their arms full of props.

“You did not even ask who it was!” complained Leonardo, who looked fresher than ever.

“I’m sorry,” I said, stifling a yawn. “I’m surprised I fell asleep.”

“It is a good thing you are going to wear a mask.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked defensively.

“Because you have ink stains all over your face.”

“Pretty typical I guess,” I replied, trying to rub them off with some saliva and the cuff of my sweater. “Renzo is sleeping.”

“Wake him up! We need to get going. Dawn is almost here,” said Sandro. Nerves quickly replaced my sleepy haze, the kind you get before you go on stage at a school play or just before you get on a plane.

“I’ll wake up Francesco,” said Leonardo, walking towards the stairs at the back of the shop.

“Renzo, wake up.” I rubbed his back.

“I don’t want to,” he grumbled.

“That’s fine if you don’t want to,” I whispered reassuringly. “You can stay here in bed.”

“I’m not scared!” He stared up at me.

“Then why don’t you want to get up?”

“Because that means you will be leaving me, just like Margherita,” he said with all the sweetness and innocence that showed the virtue of his age. At a loss for words, I kissed him on his forehead and he squeezed my hand.

“This one is yours, Viola,” interrupted Sandro, holding out an orange mask.

“It’s hideous!” I protested.

“Leonardo’s orders.” I accepted the orange mask with the chubby cheeks and long pointed noise. “Here is the hat.” He tossed a bulky brown turban into my lap. “This one is for you, Renzo.” Sandro handed him a fawn-like mask.

Once Leonardo and Signore Soldo came downstairs, they too were dressed in full costume, complete with less ugly versions of my mask. Signore Soldo helped me bundle all my hair into the turban while the others waited outside.

“Almost forgot,” said Leonardo, passing me a cane.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s to make your costume look more convincing. Also if you’re hunched over no one will be able to see your weird shoes.”

“But my cloak is covering them.”

“Barely,” he said, eyeing the hem of the cloak. “It is also a good weapon.”

“We have to hurry!” urged Sandro.

Early birds eyed us with amusement as our troop of bizarre actors walked past them. Signore Soldo’s shop was just around the corner of Piazza della Signoria. Although it was a small distance, the walk felt even shorter as I remembered the first time I had walked down Via Vacchereccia arm in arm with Zia. Straight ahead lay the tower and the window I had looked out from my prison cell. Never did I allow myself to hope that I would be standing where I was. Lone grocers and their goods carted off across the piazza. While we walked towards the stage that had been abandoned in the plaza, I chanced a glance at the metal door but there was no one near it.

“Do not be nervous,” encouraged Leonardo. “You are not really that bad at running … you know I just like to tease you.”

“I know that,” I said, trying to swallow the lump that was growing in my throat.

Our troop climbed the stage and each one took turns doing what they thought actors did. Some rehearsed sonnets they knew. Others fussed with the torn canopy or tumbled across the floorboards. Still there was no sign. The sky seeped violet and ginger as the sun approached.

“They are coming,” whispered Leonardo.

I scrambled to look busy, but I could not think of anything to do as four figures turned onto the piazza. The tallest and leader was Pietro, who was quickly cutting a path through the faint fog. Following close behind him were the Medici brothers and a guard. While I turned to face Leonardo, I knew my time had run out.

“Leonardo … I—”

“Do not say it,” interrupted Leonardo. “I cannot stand goodbyes.”

“Stop being so bossy!” I said, watching the pack of four pass the stage. “I wanted to say … that I will miss you more than I have ever missed anyone.” Trying to grasp the words, I looked down at the wooden boards. “What you have done for me, well, it’s been—”

“I think I know what you are trying to say.”

“I love you dearly,” I said. “I’ve never had a friend like you, and I know I never will.” 

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” he said, giving me one last smile. “I don’t have a sister, but if I ever do … I hope she grows up like you.”

“I’d kiss you goodbye, but I think you gave me this big nosed mask so I couldn’t.”

“How clever you are,” he said before he kissed my cheek. “You had better keep an eye out for your perfect moment.”

I picked up my cane and was about to face the rest of my rescue party until I realized what a good time they were having with their new actor roles. It seemed a shame to ruin it with salty goodbyes. I wanted to remember them just like that, Renzo and Sandro having a handstand contest and Signore Soldo their judge. Slipping quietly off the stage, I crept towards the metal door. Giuliano was closest to the door, but Lorenzo held Idan. His eyes flashed from the door to Idan. With each step I could hear Idan’s high-pitched tick escalate. Pietro’s gaze fixed on the top window of the metal door’s building, and the guard looked relaxed with all his weight shifted towards the hip that boasted his sword. My gut told me the moment had come. I spared one look back at Leonardo, but he was no longer there. They had all run away, just as they promised.

It was my turn to do the same. I took a deep breath and bolted. As my legs pushed hard off the ground, my healing knee caps screamed. Hurdling towards the door, I shed the cloak and mask. I was upon them. Giuliano’s eyes doubled in size with surprise. A shrill scream pinched the quiet morning. Lorenzo turned to its source but instead he got a shove in the belly and the pocket watch he worked so hard to get was snatched from his hands.

“Giuliano!” shouted Lorenzo.

Only two leaps remained between the tunnel and me. My hand was on the knob when Giuliano caught me by the waist. I struggled as hard as I could but to no avail.

“Do not let go of her!” threatened Lorenzo as he grabbed at the stitch in his side.

“Why could you not stay put?” whispered Giuliano in my ear.

“Because I don’t belong here,” I pleaded. “You know that! Please let me go!”

“I care for you but I cannot—”

“Prove it then!” His grip loosened and I wiggled free.

“Giuliano! No!” was the last thing I heard when the door closed behind me.

I rushed into the tunnel, Idan’s chain safely tangled around my wrist. As the tunnel narrowed, I crouched so I wouldn’t crawl on my gashed knees. It took me a moment to realize that it was not just my heavy breathing echoing off the stone walls of the tunnel. I quickened my pace towards the bright outline of the painting. When the tunnel expanded, I sprinted and slipped down the smooth corridor. My fists crashed against the wooden panel that bolted the door. The sound of the latch lifting merged with the hurried footsteps following me. Once I squeezed through the opened painting and jumped off the tunnel’s platform, Mrs. Crawly’s happy face welcomed me.

“Help me!” I said as I tried to swing the painting back and reset the latch.

“What on Earth are you doing?” She laughed. “We must wait for Mrs. Reed.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Thai

A force pushed the painting forward. Mrs. Crawly approached the open crevice and offered her hand to the time traveler. Mrs. Reed gracefully hopped down.

  “That was a close one.” She grinned, brushing off the dust that had gathered on her black gown.

“Closer than Egypt?” asked Mrs. Crawly as she took Mrs. Reed’s cloak.

“Even closer.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it!”

“And so you shall,” promised Mrs. Reed. “Is everything in order?”

“The baths are drawn and lunch is almost ready.”

“Excellent … Will you show Viola the way?”

“It would be an honor,” said Mrs. Crawly, gently taking my hand. My mind blanked as she guided me past hundreds of art pieces. Every motion, sound, and smell was a vivid déjà vu. “Oh dear, you’re shaking,” she said squeezing my hand the way little Renzo had. Tears flowed steadily down my inked face. “The shock is normal, Viola. It will pass soon enough.”

Warmth soothed my face as she opened a door off the wide carpeted hallway. She led me into the enormous bathroom. It had high ceilings and one large window that overlooked the miles of garden. Steam hovered over a bathtub propped up from the green marble floor by lion feet. Mrs. Crawly was about to leave me when she stopped short of the door.

“Shall I help you, Viola?”

I made no response. It was all so painful. My heart grieved for the hollow space where my friends had been. Every pore and muscle ached. I stared at my haggard reflection in the mirror. Ink had mixed with my tears leaving an indigo smear. Instead of hair, I had wild wire poking in all directions, but the worst of it was I didn’t recognize myself.

Normally, in my lucid fourteen-year-old state, I would be too embarrassed to be naked in front of a woman I didn’t know. But that afternoon, I was a limp lump. She helped me take off my clothes and get into the bath. If I had not been so dehydrated, I would have probably still been crying. It felt glorious to submerge myself into the hot perfumed water. It had been so long since water encased me.

Wilted white petals spun around me as poor Mrs. Crawly washed my hair and spoke a constant stream of comforts. I let her motherly concern ease the ache while I looked absently over the white porcelain and into the garden’s muddled grass below.

“You must be hungry, my dear … Shall we get you to lunch while your clothes are being cleaned?” she asked, standing at the porcelain edge with a robe. I pushed myself out of the tub and slipped on the robe.

Barefoot, I followed Mrs. Crawly down the carpeted stairs and cold tiled atrium. Mrs. Reed was waiting for me at a humble table that faced the driveway.

“I thought we would eat here instead of the drafty dining room. We can also watch your father drive up.” Mrs. Crawly came back with a cart laden with silver trays. “Let’s start with the soup,” said Mrs. Reed. The patient woman served the creamy coconut soup into bowls and left us to our meal. “I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t eat one more strand of spaghetti. Every time I come back, I have an incredible craving for Thai food.” I could not help staring at her. She looked so calm where as I felt like a wet dog. “You must have many questions.” I took my spoon and dipped it into the creamy soup.
I didn’t have many questions, I had thousands
, I thought, trying to pick one. “Well, I might not look it, but I’m quite tired so I can answer a few,” she said.

“A few?” I scowled.

“Some things are better left for another time … when emotions and memories are less fresh.”

“I don’t agree,” I said over the scraping of spoons. “Let’s start with why you tricked me in the first place.”

“Tricked you?”

“Yes, you tricked me into going behind that painting.”

“I did nothing of the sort! I merely pointed out Verrocchio’s
Baptism of Christ
painting … I didn’t force you to go down the tunnel behind it,” she said, serving herself some rice and curried vegetables. “You did that all on your own.”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Reed, you are the one that put Idan in my satchel.”

“Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“Do you know anything about time travel theories?” She paused, looking out the window.

“No.”

“Well, there are several. One is the ‘Grandfather Paradox,’ which says if you were to go back in time you could jeopardize the chances of your existence in the future. As we are still here, that is clearly not the case. At least to my knowledge.” She filled my plate with the spicy green curry and pearly rice. “Another theory states that time is a fixed line. In other words, all your actions in 1469 Florence had already happened. That is, it is a destiny that has already been written. I just put you in a situation that allowed you to go back, if, and only if you were meant to.”

“So you are saying I was supposed to go to the past?”

“Correct … I also believed you needed a push.”

“Who asked you to push me?” I asked angrily.

“This might be hard for you to believe, but I care for you a great deal,” she said, looking up from her plate.

“You hardly know me and I could have died,” I protested. “Several times!”

“I was there the entire time. No real harm would have come to you.”

“What about when I was dangling off the tower?” I asked. She reddened.

“I confess to missing that episode. I had a mission to fulfill when I was there, and as Idan’s time was running short, there was little time left.”

“Did you have another Idan?”

“No, I was tagging along with you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my head spinning.

“The same amount of people that go into the portal with Idan must come back … So when I heard you unlock the latch, I was prepared to follow you through the tunnel.”

“But how did you get back? I mean, Lorenzo could have followed me and you would have been stuck in the past?”

“I was waiting for you at the mouth of the tunnel. You hurried right past me,” she said, pouring herself some icy water. “I tried to protect you but you kept ignoring my letters. So I decided to let you work it out your own way … and look how well you did!”

“Pietro said you wouldn’t come for me,” I said, suddenly remembering his threats in the tower.

“Peter,” she corrected.

“What?”

“His name is Peter.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s my son,” she said, taking a large gulp of water. My eyes nearly rolled out into my curry. “It sounds like something Peter would say. He was just trying to scare you, darling. I have saved him plenty of times, although his pride will not allow him to admit it. Throughout his life, I made things far too easy for him. He never had to share or make sacrifices, like I did and still do. From a young age, I have lost so much—my daughter, John, and now my son. It is a great comfort to have you here with me, my dear Viola. I have so longed to meet you,” she smiled but the corners of her mouth barely left their resting place. “Needless to say, I am sorry he took his anger out on you.”

“He was angry about his missing statue.”

“Not quite,” she said, wiping the creases of her mouth with a cloth napkin. “We used to time travel together, my husband, Peter, and I. We used it more for educational purposes. We’re not sure who invented it yet, but we think it might have started with Galileo. From an early age, it was clear that Peter was exceptionally talented. He learned from the best masters in history. Over the years, he became very solitary, proud, and resentful.”

“Of who?”

“Everyone.” She sighed. “My husband and I wanted to preserve the past, but my son wanted to play a grand trick on the world.”

“What do you mean?”

“You saw it, no? Donatello’s
Davi
d
?
” I nodded. “Well Peter wasn’t just making a copy for fun. He was making a copy to replace it.”

“Why?”

“I have come to two explanations for his behavior. The first is that he wants to keep the original for himself and to fool everyone else using his talent. Another reason is that he wants to make all those people who wait in line at the Louvre to take a picture of something like the
Mona Lisa
a fool.”

“I still don’t understand … why would he want to do that?”

“Well, it is hard to put into one sentence. For starters, he was rejected from every art school he applied to.”

“Why?”

“Each rejection letter said his technical skills were impressive but that he lacked creativity. As a result, he grew angry and contemptuous. He often said, ‘Art died with the Impressionists,’ meaning somewhere around the early twentieth century … I’m not really sure what ultimately motivates his stealing and manipulation. He was extremely secretive growing up,” she said, scraping her fork against the plate. “To get back to the point, people go to museums because they want to see the original artwork… so instead of seeing Donatello’s
David
in a museum hundreds of years later, they would have been seeing Peter Reed’s
David
.”

“That’s not right.”

“I agree … but you helped me with my mission. You provided enough of a distraction that he was caught off guard just enough for me to steal his copy and replace the original in the Palazzo Medici."

“What did you do with the copy?”

“I melted it.” She frowned. “It broke my heart … It was absolutely perfect.”

“But how did you know where he was?”

“I told you I would answer a few questions,” she said, ringing the bell. Mrs. Crawly came bustling in with crystal glasses brimming with rice pudding.

“Your clothes are good as new, Viola. They are in the bathroom just around the corner when you are ready. Your father should be here any minute,” said Mrs. Crawly before rolling the cart away.

“Regarding the subject, I will say that my husband and I felt greatly responsible for Peter's vanity and disdain for others. First, we tried to reason with him, but he always alluded us. Then we made it our mission to stop him … My John, Signore Reed that is, had a heart attack and since I have been unable to track Peter,” she said, breaking the dessert’s cinnamon crust. “I need someone to go back in time with me.” Charlemagne’s honk sounded from the driveway. “I suppose you’d better get dressed,” she said, shaking her head.

The warm pressed surface of my clothes truly looked new apart from the rips in my jeans. I pulled my pants slowly over my fresh wounds. My green sweater smelled like roses as I slipped it over my head. When I emerged from the bathroom, I saw Charlemagne parked in the driveway. I ran outside to greet Dad, and Mrs. Reed followed close behind.

“We will see each other soon, sweet Viola,” she said leaving an eerie imprint of her lipstick on my forehead.

To my unadjusted eyes, Charlemagne was the essence of technology. Once the car rolled to a stop, I hopped in. Mrs. Reed held the car door open, reaching over to shake hands with my dad. Her perfume clashed with my dad’s familiar musky aftershave.

“Thank you so much for sharing Viola with me. I think we had a wonderful time.”

“Thank you for having her.” My dad smiled, letting go of her hand.

Mrs. Reed shut the car door and kept up a steady wave as we rolled back down the winding entrance. I sat savoring the comfort of just sitting down and not having to do anything for the next hour. I propped my head against the cold window as we drove past the dormant gardens and spider gate. The heat from the vents gave off a burnt smell, but the toasty car felt magnificent. My hands retreated into my knit sleeves as I sunk further into the car seat and let my eyes close.

“Missed you like crazy, Dad,” I said, turning to squeeze him.

“Nonsense, Violet, I was only gone two hours!” He laughed, veering off onto the grass.

“Violet … Violet Menet …” I whispered to myself. It felt strange now to hear it. Who was Violet? She was a girl with no friends, no confidence, and scared of everything, including people, but especially of frogs. Was I Violet?

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t think Violet suits me anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … I think Viola suits me better, not Violet.”

“Is this about what I said to Mrs. Reed?” he asked as we braced a bump in the road. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. The words just flew out of my mouth. You have a term for that … what do you call it? Word vomit?”

“Wormit.”

“Yes! Exactly … wormit.”

“Don’t worry, that isn’t what this is about. I don’t want to hide behind a name anymore. Viola is who I want to be.”

“That’s good enough for me. Your mom will be thrilled. How did you bang up your knees?” He winced.

“I fell down the stairs.”

“So clumsy! Were your jeans torn when you left the house?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“It’s good I didn’t notice until now, otherwise I would have asked you to change. I don’t get this ripped jeans fashion statement. I hope I didn’t pay for those,” he rambled.

“Who won the game?”

“Manchester United, unfortunately,” was the last thing I heard before I dozed off.