A Summer In Europe (15 page)

Emerson cocked his sandy head to one side and said,
“Nice?”
He opened his mouth to say something else, but the clock struck five and, so, they were all ushered into the Accademia.

The gallery was smaller than Gwen had expected. There was a section for paintings off to one side and there were some other sculptures lying about, but just about everyone’s attention was drawn to the tribune at the far end of a long hallway.

Was it really the
David?

Yep. There it was.

An unmistakable figure carved out of marble. Lean and ...
beautiful
. Gwen caught her breath. Now this ...
this
was different. She tried to understand what, specifically, made her have a reaction to the statue. Perhaps the enormity of it? The remarkable condition it was in? The intriguing look on David’s marble face, which made him seem so very real? That body of his—so muscular, sinewy, fit?

Or maybe it was that Emerson kept nudging her, spoon-feeding her new facts about the sculpture and sending her pulse scurrying on a wild footrace whenever he touched her. Maybe it was natural to react strongly to art of any kind when the piece in question reminded the viewer of someone in real life.

She was standing in a small gallery between two tall and powerful men. One made of flesh, blood and bone, the other made of marble. One clothed in cotton and khaki, the other naked. Yet, they both had a simultaneous pull on her. Their natural charisma forced a divide in her attention. She compared them. Contrasted. Found there was more of an overlap than not. Both possessed blatant magnetism, although only one of them was fully unaware of the depth of his charm.

“He started it in 1501,” Emerson jabbered, “and finished it in 1504, when he was only twenty-nine. Remarkable work, is it not?”

“Yeah.”

“And, as you probably already know, Michelangelo believed the images of his sculptures already existed in the slab of stone. His job was merely to free it. To chip away at the superfluous material until the image emerged,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“He was fond of the concept of
disegno,
too,” Emerson continued, chattering blithely, “which involves some tricky witchcraft and the lighting of small rodents on fire.”

Gwen began to nod, but his words struck an odd chord. “What?”

He laughed. “Just checking to see if you were listening. With all those American ‘yeah’s’ and ‘uh-huh’s,’ I couldn’t be sure.”

“Sorry, I’m just—just new to this,” she admitted, feeling the warm blush of embarrassment sweep up her neck. “I don’t know what that Italian word meant. The one you just said.”

“Disegno,”
he repeated. “And don’t feel bad about your lack of familiarity. It is hardly common knowledge. It’s Italian for fine-art drawing, but it refers to more than just literally sketching something. It is what elevates visual arts like sculpture, painting or architecture from a simple craft to a truly fine art, making the art equivalent to literature or music.”

“How so?”

“Well, it was initially a Florentine thing. Artists like Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli and Michelangelo embraced the concept. Take a look at the incredible attention Michelangelo paid to David’s muscles, especially in his limbs and his neck.” He pointed at the imposing statue, his palms sweeping the air as if sliding along the marble.

Gwen nodded. “It’s very realistic,” she agreed. Although David wasn’t exactly, how should she put it? Well-endowed ... Particularly for a man who had such large hands and feet. She did not mention this to Emerson.

“Yes. It’s highly realistic because Michelangelo was a
disegno
follower,” he said. “Artists like him felt it was the key intellectual element in art. That the use of careful drawings was the cornerstone of a good painting or sculpture. This contrasts to the Venetian School and their preference for
colore
.”

She squinted at him. “I don’t know that term, either.”

“No worries,” he said. “One of the reasons I love coming to Italy is because, with every trip, I learn just a little more. Titian, for instance, whose work we’ll see at the Uffizi and in Venice, has these bloody gorgeous reds. Breathtaking colors and so natural. He, Rubens and others followed the
colore
philosophy and directly applied color to a canvas without drawing the picture first. I love that, too, but to sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Italians that was considered merely a painting technique, rather than a well-thought-out artistic creation.
Colore
is much more spontaneous, of course, but it’s also dependent upon the model being right there in front of the artist.”

She eyed Emerson curiously. Sure, he’d visited Italy a number of times but still ... how did he know all of this? He was a
physicist
. Why did he care so much about artistic techniques? “Do you draw or paint?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Not me. My mum. She’s always really enjoyed it—both the studio-art skills and the philosophic component. She gravitates much more toward
disegno
. She prefers it herself because she’s very much a planner and thinker, and the preliminary sketches
disegno
followers use are so studied and complete, the artist is able to work without models at all. As a result, they can be more imaginative in their creations.” He grinned at her. “Even though she’s not an artistic genius like Michelangelo was, Mum plans out her projects just as carefully, incorporating her skill in having learned to draw from life, but also being able to design much more intellectually and inventively on the canvas. Renaissance-era Italians considered this the highest form of art.”

Gwen grinned back at him, even though a sadness she couldn’t name filled her heart. Her mother had enjoyed artistic things, too. Not to the same extent as Emerson and Thoreau’s mom, but Gwen would have loved to have been able to tell her mom about these different art styles. To share what she’d learned on this trip with her.

She sighed. “Thanks for explaining all of that to me,” she told Emerson.

He shrugged. “I suspect I really was nattering on this time and boring you. But it was either painting philosophies or talking about David’s tiny willy. I made a choice.”

She laughed aloud then quickly covered her mouth with her hand when a few tourists shot her strange looks. Her blush returned full force, making not just her neck but her entire head feel very hot.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice,” Emerson continued. “That poor, poor man. Good thing the gent had such great aim with a rock or, really, he would’ve been shamed in every way.”

“Shh!” she said. “That’s terrible of you.”

Emerson ignored her. “In a competition, Priapus would win every round against David,” he said, referring to the god of sex and fertility that they’d seen painted in Pompeii. “And I’d be willing to challenge them both in a—”

“Is my brother boasting again?” Thoreau broke in, having managed to disentangle himself from Cynthia and Louisa for a few moments. He rolled his eyes at Gwen and smirked at Emerson. “Really, if Mum could hear the way you go on in public.” He shoved his brother out of the way and took a step toward Gwen. “So, what do you think of the
David
—his expression in particular? We’ve been having a bit of a debate with the curator over there.” He pointed to the middle-aged Italian man in the process of being accosted by the Britsicles and their slew of questions. “Do you think Michelangelo depicted David in the moment just before his battle with Goliath or in the moment just after?”

“You cannot budge in here and make such a nuisance of yourself, Thor—” Emerson began.

“Would you hush up for two minutes and let her answer a simple question?” Thoreau replied calmly. “Gwen?”

She studied the famous marble face, noting the pensiveness of David’s expression. He didn’t take this battle lightly. He was serious and determined, qualities she could appreciate in somebody challenged to tackle something (or someone) much larger and more fierce than himself. He was holding the rock, so she supposed it could be that he’d picked it up again after having thrown it ... or that he hadn’t yet released it. In either instance, she felt for him and the magnitude of his task. In recognizing the extent of her own empathy, she couldn’t help but realize what a masterpiece Michelangelo had created. She was feeling sorry for a man carved out of marble!

She glanced at Thoreau. “I don’t know for sure. I think good arguments could be made for either view, but ...”

“But?” Thoreau prompted.

“But, to me, he still seems really tense. As though he’s made the decision but hasn’t yet acted.”

Thoreau pumped his fist. “Yes!” He motioned between him and his brother. “We were always taught that the sculpture represents ‘the moment between conscious choice and conscious action’ for David.” He bobbed his head toward the curator. “The lackwit over there keeps telling us it’s after the fact. I don’t believe it.” He bowed slightly. “Thank you, Gwen, for your fresh perspective.” Then, to Emerson, “Try not to brag too much and annoy her.” Over his shoulder he added, “And you don’t stand a chance against Priapus.”

“Bugger off,” Emerson called cheerfully after his brother.

Thoreau got in the last word or, rather, the last gesture with a very rude hand signal.

The group spent another forty-five minutes or so viewing many of the other pieces. At one point, her aunt cornered her while she was alone and looking at the
Slaves
sculpture. Aunt Bea whispered, “I like seeing you having such a good time, Gwennie. You should do more of this. Stay out late with Emerson. Have fun tonight.”

Gwen tried to remind her aunt that she wasn’t really a late-night person and, besides, she’d spent several hours with the man already. If she stayed out late with him people might start talking.

To this, Bea replied, “Eh, so what? They’ll talk whether you go out or not. Don’t come back before ten.” And she zipped away.

With this familial edict in mind, Gwen didn’t object as she might have when Emerson suggested they skip the return trip to the hotel and go, instead, on a stroll down the Via del Corso. There was a
trattoria
he wanted to check out (“Thoreau raved about it, and if it meets his standards, it’s sure to be good. He’s dreadfully choosy... .”), and he was looking forward to a return to his favorite
gelateria,
too.

“You will love this place,” Emerson assured her. “It has the finest Italian ice cream in the country. And they’re closed tomorrow, so we’d best get there tonight.”

They eschewed the bus yet again, had a quick dinner at the little eatery Emerson’s brother had liked (it
was
good) and found themselves at an ice cream shop in downtown Florence called
Festival del Gelato.

Gwen had tasted several scoops of gelato since arriving in Italy, and she’d had to admit it was a particularly delicious treat, but there shouldn’t have been anything too different about the cone she had this time. It was one of their double scoops, which sat next to one another on their specialty cones—
fragola
(strawberry) on one side and
cioccolato all’arancia
(chocolate-orange) on the other—but the portions were generous and the company was captivating. Maybe that was why the flavor seemed even stronger, the texture even creamier, the sweet coolness even more refreshing. The burst of taste sensation when she licked the
fragola
was so powerfully fruity, Gwen was convinced it almost
had
to be healthy!

And sitting across the small circular table from her, Emerson nipped at his cone and swirled his tongue in the flavors he chose—
stracciatella
(chocolate chip) and
malaga
(rum raisin)—mesmerizing Gwen with the attention he paid to the ice cream and the pure pleasure on his face as he consumed it.

The oddest thought crossed her mind as she watched him: This was how making love should be. A rapturous feast. A whirl of delight. That a lover’s facial expression should reveal at least as much enjoyment in kissing her as Emerson’s did in eating his ice cream.

And, of course, this reminded her yet again of Richard. She paused, trying to remember how he’d looked at her when they were in bed together. It was usually pretty dark—Richard preferred it that way—but, even so, she was having difficulty recalling a time when he had treated any part of her with the reverence Emerson brought to his gelato. This was troubling.

“A euro for your thoughts?” Emerson asked. “You seem a light-year away, Gwen. Don’t you like your flavors?”

She slowly let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Perhaps the time had finally come to tell him a little more about herself. About her relationship. “I—um, I was just thinking about my boyfriend at home. Richard. I don’t think he’s ever tasted gelato.” She studied the Englishman’s reaction to this disclosure.

As he seemed to do with most things, he took the new information in stride. “Well, what’s not to like? You should tell your Richard to fly on over to Florence and give it a try. There’s another popular
gelateria
in the city, Vivoli’s, which is known the world over, although”—he pointed to the shop’s ice-cream counter—“this place is my favorite. Most definitely.” He then returned to lavishing affection on his cone.

She mustered her courage and asked, “So, is there someone special for
you
back in England? A woman you, um, love?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

Though Gwen had no reason whatsoever to feel the plummeting disappointment that followed these words, she was, nonetheless, surprised by her sudden resentment. She bit her lip and was about to press for further details on this mystery lady when Emerson swiped a paper napkin across his mouth, grinned at her and said, “My mum.”

“What?” she said. Then it registered. “Oh! Your mother. Well, yes, of course you love
her
.” Gwen laughed, her emotions yo-yoing from uneasy to strangely hopeful. “But what I meant was—”

“I know what you meant.” Emerson sucked the
malaga
side of his cone until it formed a perfect creamy peak. “I was just fooling with you.” He hesitated for several moments then added, “I date. A few women, actually. But there isn’t one that’s particularly serious now. There usually isn’t. I’m not like Thoreau.”