8

The Golden World

The Pierleonis and their houseguests enjoyed Sunday morning breakfast in the castle kitchen. The harvest table was piled with fresh fruit, homemade biscuits, and raspberry jam from last summer’s pick. The cook served made-to-order skillet omelets. Rich, freshly ground coffee satiated Armando and Sarah before they walked out of the kitchen to head for the ancient tower. Golden rays of light illuminated the Tuscan landscape; everything sparkled. Exuberant farmers came up the back road singing while bringing loads of fruits and vegetables to the pantry. Four strong young men laughed after singing a particularly robust chorus as they balanced a taut burlap square piled high with a perfect pyramid of bright red tomatoes. They nodded discreetly to Armando while slyly assessing Sarah. A girl followed behind them with a large bundle of dark green spinach on her back. It must really be something to run this place, Sarah thought as Armando heaved open the old planked door into the south side of the square tower. She wondered if his studio was on the first floor or if, as she was hoping, they would go up to the tower.

“This will be quite a climb; however, you have the right shoes,” he said, noting her ankle-high leather boots, tight jeans, and loosely woven white cotton sweater, which fell over her shoulders like a shawl. As they entered the cavernous space, rays of light filtering down from the top flashed on the reflective surfaces of dust particles and penetrated the deep gloom. Armando indicated the way to the stairs by stepping up onto a stone platform, a secure foundation for the open wooden stairs firmly attached to the ancient walls. They rose reversing back and forth, platform by platform, up to the top. Climbing the narrow steps with Armando behind her, above Sarah could see a flat wood ceiling, the floor of his studio. When they’d climbed around eighty steps, thirty feet in the tower, they came to a landing with a slit open to the outside. She stopped to peer out over the red-tiled roofs and gables of the castle to the rolling Tuscan landscape around the tower. Armando stood close behind her on the narrow landing.

“Is this staircase original?” she asked.

“The stone platform is original, and we rebuilt the wooden stairs. There once was a rotting wood floor between this landing and the lower area. You can see where the beams were in the square indentations in the walls by the landing below.”

“And what was the tower used for in the beginning?” Sarah asked, turning to look out the slit once more.

“A thousand years ago, the family lived on the two upper floors, one of which is now my studio but with a new floor. The lower level was very tall and garrisoned soldiers during the tenth century.” He pointed toward the castle. “When life became safer in the fourteenth century, the early stages of the castle were built, such as the area of our kitchens and servants quarters. The section you are staying in as well as the dining room were built during the Renaissance, a vital period in this region. Even then this tower was occasionally used to garrison soldiers and store supplies. Excepting San Gimignano, this is one of the few remaining early medieval towers in Tuscany, so we restored it. As for me, I like to work in a space infused with the layers of time because it helps me imagine many realities. Come, we’re almost to my studio.”

They climbed up a dozen more steps to the last landing where he pushed open an old creaking door. They stepped into a bright 30-by-30-foot-square room filled with racks for canvases. Subtle north light from a wide panel of windows in a high dormer streamed down onto a large easel. A few dozen canvases were strewn about, leaning against posts, against a garish red divan, or suspended on hooks. Sarah walked straight to the canvases and began studying them. She had taken several art theory classes, since art was used to express religious devotion for hundreds of years, and had, in the medieval period, been used to convey esoteric ideas through hidden symbols.

Armando watched her move excitedly from one painting to the next, pleased at how captivated she seemed to be by his work. Sarah’s sense of time and place faded while she soaked everything in. Finally she told him, “I am so struck by your realism, your perfect depiction of your subject matter as color and form, yet what intrigues me is there is something else going on in them, and . . .” She felt him standing very closely behind her right shoulder and detected his aroma, pungent, moist oak leaves warmed by strong fall sunlight. As he moved tantalizingly closer to her body, she smelled lavender in his cologne. Until this moment, she hadn’t really noticed him very much. I felt him watching me last night as I walked into the library, so I shut him out. Like most truly beautiful women, she was used to people watching her, and she generally ignored the attention because it took away her sense of self. Armando is different from anyone I’ve ever encountered; he’s like an exotic cat.

“Yes, you were saying—and . . .?” he said in a soft and very silky voice as he moved his body closer to hers. His chest was inches behind her back. She spun gracefully to face him while simultaneously taking a few steps back. Startled by the vibrant intensity in his dark eyes, she tensed her lips, hoping words would distract him.

“Yes, I meant to say I see another world in these paintings. I wonder what it is and how this could be, since on the surface they are totally realistic. Take this one,” she said, adroitly moving farther away and gesturing to a canvas depicting a rustic Tuscan villa surrounded by sturdy, crude walls with fields receding deep into the background. “The view is of this lovely villa, yet I also see odd touches of color, like over here on this windowsill, a dash of deep red. Or, there on the side of the doorway, a touch of sienna plus these touches of deep blue dotting the stonewalls in front of the house. Something else is happening that is not an element of the realism. These touches suggest there is another world in this painting.”

Armando was charmed by her earnestness and intelligence as she struggled to express what she saw. He sashayed closer to her. “What do you think this other world might be?”

Sarah searched his face. “I want you to tell me what you see when you’re painting.” I think what he’s doing is related to a whole lot of things I want to know.

As her desire to know took over her mind, he was even more drawn to her and then something shifted deep within him: a potent and lusty shining dragon merged into his lithe body while she stood there breathlessly waiting for his reply. Instead of answering, he grabbed her shoulders and kissed her fully and passionately on her lovely mouth while pressing her gorgeous large breasts to his chest. He moved his arms around her back and forcefully pulled her pelvis close.

Instinctually she rammed the palms of her hands into his shoulders and shoved him backward. “Armando! Stop!”

He almost fell over, but recovering his footing and expelling air from his lungs, he slurred, “I’m sorry, I am truly sorry. I have never done anything like this in my studio. I apologize; I am terribly embarrassed. I just lost control of myself because you are so beautiful and see so much in my work. Most people think those extra touches are like the extra colors in a Cézanne. In fact, my work has been compared to his. I really don’t know what Cézanne intended, but I know what I intend with my work. I will try to tell you what I’m really doing here if you will just say you forgive me. Please forgive me so I can forgive myself. You carried me away with your delightful enthusiasm! I am excited because you see what I create. This means you think what I do is meaningful!”

Sarah was shaking. She hadn’t been kissed like that since just after college when she dumped her last serious boyfriend who had annoyed her with knee-jerk seductions. Since then she had buried herself in the world of ideas, deliberately forsaking the physical. This is a new level. That kiss nearly overwhelmed me, and I almost didn’t stop him. I pushed him away only because he startled me. She retreated to the place where she was always safe—words—and said, “Yes, I forgive you if you will tell me what you see, tell me what you really intend with your art.”

Armando was relieved. He rushed around the studio grabbing canvases and placing them in a row. He put a photograph on a stand and muttered that he always worked from one. As he explained the steps he went through, it became apparent the other world she detected was actually a first painting. Then he layered over it with the realistic landscape in the photo by tying the first painting to the landscape with geometrical color nodes. Sarah questioned him until she really understood his technique. His approach was utterly fascinating. But what is this other world?

While they were carrying on this serious discussion, a fast and furious train of thoughts assaulted Armando. He struggled to control himself as his breathing intensified, and he realized that her excited mind was incredibly arousing. Here he was, forty years old, and trying to stop an erection! What is it about her? Yeah, she’s beautiful, but when she talks about ideas, she’s amazingly sensual. Does she have any idea how seductive she is? Breathing hard, he searched for words to answer her.

Sarah thought the struggle to describe his work was what was causing his chest to heave and his eyes to bulge slightly. As he went on more about his technique, she began to feel hot energy in her solar plexus. The fine, sensual, and aristocratic curve of his lips captivated her.

Responding to her shy eyes on his mouth, he desperately extended his right arm with the elbow facing out down over the front of his loose slacks. I never thought I’d be grateful to talk about ideas to calm myself down!

Armando continued, the words rushing out, “Even though I work from a photo in my studio, I begin by going back to that same view again when the light is right. I sit and contemplate it for hours and maybe take more photos. As the light comes and goes, I become it as I integrate the various elements—the curve of a wall, a space that suggests emptiness, colors that draw me deep into the Earth. Then finally the moment comes that I’ve never tried to describe to anyone before now. Warmth comes in as energy suffuses me, and I feel crackles in my brain. They produce flashes of light in my inner eye that thicken my body. Viewing the landscape while perceiving this way, I find the elements in the landscape that bridge our world to the other world, the place the Jungians call the golden world. Once I see it, I can paint it.

“The first painting is sometimes just a cluster of stars, such as the Pleiades or Orion, with connecting lines. Sometimes it is a series of nodal points that require strong colors to express their emergence and intersections, like a 3D hologram on a flat canvas. Then back in my studio, I anchor in the realistic landscape of the photo. That second painting goes very fast, maybe just a few hours, and it is easy and enjoyable, even relaxing. I’m not satisfied until the landscape comes through, so I get it done as soon as possible after I’ve gotten the first image. This has made me very prolific. People always buy my paintings because they take people to another place in the landscapes they’ve already learned to love.”

While he was speaking, Sarah was discreetly studying his strong, masculine jaw accentuated by prominent, well-formed cheekbones. His intelligent and slightly arched brows drew attention to his dark eyes; his expressive mouth made her feel warm. This good-looking man just kissed me! She returned to examining his paintings, and as he explained she realized she could see even more of the golden world by detecting a magical imprint of the primary light pattern in her own retina.

Sarah said tentatively, “I’ve always wondered about the golden world. I understand what the Jungians mean when they talk about it, but I never thought someone could depict it in realistic art. Your work makes me wonder if some medieval painters, such as Sandro Botticelli, Allesandro Lippi, or Fra Angelico, also captured that world. I am truly impressed!”

“Lucky for me, so are my parents as well as a few collectors. It is strange you mention Fra Angelico. Our family has retained a story about him. The rumor always was he fathered a child with one of our ancestral daughters. She was sent to a convent, and our family raised the boy. His name was Armando, my namesake! My full name is Armando Angelico Pierleoni. I’ve often wondered if I’m actually related to Fra Angelico even though the story is from six hundred years ago. I suppose I will always be happy painting as he was.”

He stopped, his face growing somber. “But what happened today makes me very unhappy. I lost control simply because I am a man. I feel terrible. Will you promise me you forgive me? Can you show your forgiveness by accepting a dinner date with me when we are both back in Rome soon?”

Sarah was intensely stirred up. Today felt like a turning point in her life, a doorway was opening, an unknown portal. She felt a strong attraction to Armando, the most sensual and potent man she’d ever met, so she agreed to see him in Rome.

Before dinner Sarah crept back into the Pierleoni chapel. This time when she knelt at the altar, she fell into deep thought but not about Jesus. She was thinking about the two intriguing men who’d suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere. What on earth is going on? After avoiding men for a few years, suddenly I’m spending time with two older, very sensual men. And that kiss . . . even though I shoved him quickly and hard, his mouth locked onto mine. I can still feel him and taste him; he could have taken me. He reached into me and grabbed me. I am going to have to be very careful because nothing will stop him.

While Sarah was in the chapel, Matilda entered the library on her way to the dining room to check the table and chairs before dinner. She was startled to see Armando reading in a chair. “Armando! How nice to see you here. I know this is your favorite room, but lately you always seem to be in your studio. How are you, dear? How are you really?” She knew that he often came to the library when he wanted to talk to her.

“Well, Mother, I suppose I do feel like saying something. I am so taken by Sarah! I don’t think I have ever had such a strong response to a woman. You’ve surprised me with this one. She is beautiful, intelligent, and cultured, yet not in an artsy and superficial way like most of the women I know. She is spiritual like me, something I didn’t think I would ever find in a woman. We’ve agreed to see each other in Rome, which I hope will make you happy?”

Matilda smiled. This was just what she had hoped would happen. “Of course it makes me happy, Armando,” she responded. “She is a lovely woman from a very good family, and Pietro and I hope you will find someone to love. Your father and I have always been so happy together, so it is hard to imagine you not finding your love. Have you been paying any attention to what your father is doing tonight? We are serving the boar he hunted on the day before everybody came. He’s been roasting it all afternoon, ever since he got back from Siena. He is offering us a Tuscan feast! He called in vegetables, fruits, and desserts from nearby farmers to create a true celebration of spring. Perhaps it will be a celebration of the day you found your lady love!”

At 7 p.m. the sun moved down in the western sky, warming the front of the castle. Sarah enjoyed the view from the large courtyard by the front entrance.

Pietro also stepped out to see the sunset and immediately walked over to her.

“Oh, Sarah, I wonder if you have any idea what’s going on tonight? Your father was with me today in Siena touring the square where the Palio goes on in the summer as well as seeing the Gregory VII murals in the Cathedral library. Thus he may not have told you? We invited some of our neighbors to come for a feast tonight to meet you and your father, just a few.”

“How delightful, Pietro! And who are your neighbors?”

“Ah, it is lucky I walked out right now or you’d never understand where they come from. Look out to the distance on the right and then scan to the left, but don’t look too much at the sun. Do you see the little rolling hills out there with stone buildings and towers on the top? Do you see the rows of cedar and old walls winding up the hills to the castles and villas, just as our driveway rises here?

“Yes, I have been looking out at this view as much as possible since I arrived. I’ve wondered if they are small villages and if I could go see them.”

“Those buildings are the castles and villas of my neighbors, and some of them will come tonight. These are the real old Tuscan families like mine, and you will love meeting them. Dress as you did last night, and you will be perfect. They can’t wait to meet you and your father. Of course, they never miss my roast boar served with our private reserve wine.”

At 8 p.m. the guests started arriving. Each minute or so another car came up the hill, and the drivers unloaded the guests in front of the castle where Pietro and Sarah had been standing. Then the drivers parked behind and went into the kitchen for supper. As the guests came in, Sarah and William stood with Pietro, Matilda, and Armando inside the great hall to greet them. Sarah found the ladies, in their long dresses and heirloom jewels, to be like relics emerging from the past. I never imagined I would witness a scene like this—ancient nobility arriving.

The guests were very curious about Sarah, addressing her in slow lilting Italian that she barely understood. They were charmed by her attempts to speak their language and her natural beauty. Once all the guests had arrived and were formally introduced, off they went to the library for cocktails wondering whether Armando was involved with her. They’d guarded their daughters against him years ago because of his reputation as a notorious rake. Maybe, they mused, he was past that now that he was forty. Their daughters were all safely married now, and they wondered if he was finally going to settle down.

Eventually the dinner bell rang and they flowed into the dining room in a pack, the guests moving through the house with the familiarity bred of long acquaintance. The large room was filled with a long table covered in a white tablecloth. One end was partially covered with the feast and the other was set for guests. On guard was the cook, slicing into a twenty-pound roasted boar. As Armando slyly observed, Sarah winced when she saw the grinning face of the boar with a crimson apple crammed in its mouth and a red bow tie around its neck. The space in front of the wild pig was piled with platters of vegetables, potatoes, salads, and sauces. Everyone lined up with their plates to enjoy the feast, and then some sat down at the other end of the long table and others went to round tables in the entry hall.

William was enjoying the celebration immensely. When Armando took an empty seat next to him, he decided to give him another chance. They toasted each other with red wine.

Armando said, “I must say, William, your daughter certainly knows art. She came up to my studio this morning, and we talked about my work for hours. There are few people who have been able to analyze the deeper levels of my paintings; most just see the surface realism. It was a joy to share with her. Her intelligence is impressive, just delightful.”

Despite his reconciliatory feelings, William found the sound of Armando’s voice grating. There is something slimy about this guy, something disturbing about him. He covers it up with his perfect manners and elegant clothes. This guy is a snake.

“Her intelligence and her seriousness have been a challenge and a source of great enjoyment to her mother and me,” William replied. “Things have worked out quite well because she pursues her studies diligently. We miss her, being so far away in Rome, but she’ll be right back as soon as she finishes this phase of her research.”

“Ah, well, she and I never got around to talking about her work, come to think of it.”

William tuned in more deeply to Armando’s voice. As Armando continued, “She has agreed to have dinner with me in Rome, and I hope you won’t mind if I see her. I’m so happy I came out this weekend. Otherwise, I might never have met her,” William heard instead a disembodied voice whining in a barely audible high pitch, “I want your daughter, and when I want something, I get it.”

William looked over his left shoulder at Armando, pulling his lips tight and showing his teeth. “She’s studying patristics, the early Church Fathers, and the sources in Rome are excellent. She is working on her Ph.D., and she will have to write a very challenging thesis. I do not think she is in Rome to date.” He grinned at Armando like a mean Cheshire cat while sticking his left elbow on the table by Armando’s arm and shoving it, seemingly inadvertently. Then he raised his glass with his other hand to indicate he wanted more wine.

Armando turned away from the fat flushed elbow and sank his sharp knife into the pink, buttery boar flesh. He cut a piece and skewered it on his fork, raising it slowly to his lips. William’s elbow came off the table again when he cut into the tender boar flesh. When the time to exchange places for dessert came, both were relieved to part.

Armando made the chatting rounds with each of the guests. Then he stole Sarah away from a few of the ladies and led her to a small table with two chairs back in the library. They shared a few more thoughts while sitting together in the low, flickering firelight amid books and family genealogies. He didn’t ask her about her studies, since he’d never heard of patristics.

For Sarah, the evening was perfect. The profound quiet in the library calmed her soul, and the glowing fire soothed her mind. I can still feel his kiss. I feel like a princess in this ancient home with Armando.