CHAPTER 59

IT WAS NOW MID-MAY and Ceseli was making her way to Geneva. The trip from Djibouti had been easy. The train ride from Naples to Rome was equally uneventful.

It seemed important to her to maintain some continuity with her previous plans. So in Rome, she climbed up to the Janiculum Hill to find the American Academy.

At Penn she had learned that the academy grew out of the inspiration of several American architects, painters and sculptures who had been asked to plan the fine arts exhibition of the 1893 World Columbian Exposition. These farsighted men wanted an American school in Europe where American artists and scholars could study and further their skills. Ceseli’s father had been a handsome contributor to the academy. Ceseli had applied for, and won, the coveted Rome Prize that would give her a place to live and a stipend for her to conduct her research. Ceseli’s father had been keen on this solution because she would be close enough to Geneva that they could visit often.

Now with the certainty that she could begin her studies in September, she was free to go to Geneva. She wanted to get there in time to hear the Emperor address the League of Nations.

She had thought about finding Bruno Zeri in Rome in the ghetto just at the foot of the Janiculum Hill where the American Academy was, but she knew it was premature. She had made him a promise that she meant to keep. But that would have to wait until her return to the Academy in the fall. Would he be back from Ethiopia, she wondered.

On her trip from Rome to Florence, she was very nervous. She wondered if she should be doing this at all: going to see Marco’s family, rather than just sending his book by mail. She decided that it was something she should do personally.

Out of the fast moving train window, she saw the Tuscan hills stretched out on each side of the train, with their symmetrical neat rows of vineyards as far as she could see. This is such fertile land, she thought, comparing it with the Ethiopian high plateau. The land the Italians were by now beginning to farm. The land that Mussolini seized. Ceseli decided not to think any more of the war. It was over. Italy had won.

The train pulled into Florence’s St. Maria Novella train station. As she pulled her satchel down off the rack, she noticed that many of the passengers were unloading suitcases through the train’s open windows. So it isn’t only Marco who likes windows better than doors, she thought. She left her trunk in the baggage deposit at the station and looked around her.

“His office is right next to the church.”

She walked out of the crowded railroad station and looked across the square. The façade of the basilica of the fourteenth century Santa Maria Novella Church, with its inlaid black and white marble squares was imposing. She had the fleeting thought that she had seen it before, perhaps on her visit here with her father. There was a small building on the left of the church.

She dodged the oncoming bicycles and crossed the square. Inside, she found immediately the buzzer for Dr. Antonio Antinori. She rang the bell and waited for the buzzer. After it came, she shoved the heavy door open and walked up the two flights to his office.

“Avanti, la porta é aperta.”

Ceseli opened the door, as instructed, and walked inside. To her left was a tall mahogany bookcase full of leather bound books. There was a dazzling print by contemporary painter Giorgio Di Chirico on the opposite wall, and a soft red and blue Persian carpet. There was nobody in the waiting room.

An older lady, dressed in a black dress and black woolen shawl despite the warmth of the evening nodded pleasantly to her.

“You have an appointment, signorina?”

“No, but I was hoping I could see Dr. Antinori.” But pamper me. Should anything happen. Send the book to my father in Florence. “I have brought him something from his son, Marco.”

“Just a moment. Please be seated,” the lady said as she opened the door to the left and disappeared. Ceseli put her satchel on the ground and sat down nervously. She wondered what Dr. Antinori would be like. He’s an expert on Renaissance gardens. He knows where every plant and tree come from, and what they can be used for.

The door opened immediately and Dr. Antonio Antinori came toward her, his hand outstretched in greeting. He looks remarkably like Marco, she thought as she stood and took his warm handshake. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket with a green braided wool tie. His eyes were the same color as Marco’s were.

“I’m Ceseli Larson,” she began.

“I know who you are, my dear,” he interrupted. “I’m so pleased to meet you. I know how much my son cared for you. Please come in.”

She followed him into his office, where a large oak refectory table dominated the room and was heavily loaded with books and files. On it was a bronze candlestick lamp that cast deep shadows over the table. Ceseli took the seat in front of him.

“I’m so glad to meet you,” he smiled. “But then, I just said that.”

“I’ve brought you this,” Ceseli said, taking Marco’s brown leather book from her satchel. “I promised him that if anything were to happen to him that I would send it to you. I decided to come in person.”

“I’m so glad you did. Marco wrote us about you before he left Addis. Then we had a letter from his hospital unit.”

“He told me that Zeri had helped him send that letter. Bruno Zeri is a journalist with Corriere della Sera. He knew Marco, and of course liked him. Everybody did.”

“Mr. Zeri was here. About a week ago.”

Oh, thought Ceseli, that was nice of him.

“He told us he had burned his body on a pyre so that it would not be mutilated. My wife was thankful for that. May I call my wife and tell her you’re here? She would so like to meet you.”

“I don’t know,” Ceseli began, looking at her watch. It was 5:30. “I was planning on taking that night train to Geneva. My father died last year and I haven’t even been there yet.”

“Won’t you consider staying with us tonight and leaving tomorrow? We would appreciate it so much.”

“All right then, if you’re sure I won’t be a bother.”

“It won’t be any kind of bother, I assure you.”

“Then I’d like that very much.”

“If there’s any tree you associate with the hills of Tuscany, it’s the cypress,” the doctor said an hour later as they drove the small FIAT up the winding hillside the eight kilometers to Fiesole. “But they’re actually from Persia or Syria. Some say the Etruscans brought them here, but I think it was the Romans.”

“You see them in the background of so many Italian paintings,” Ceseli ventured, noticing the tall cylindrical trees that stood vigil over the lush land and intermingled with the white and pink oleanders.

“Do you know Florence?” Dr. Antinori asked as he changed gears on the small car.

“I was here with my father when I was twelve. It was for a conference on art.”

“In 1923 there was a week-long symposium on Tuscan art and archaeology.”

“That may have been it, but I’m not sure.”

“It drew experts from around the world.”

“My father was an expert on stolen art, particularly archaeology. That’s where my interest came from. He and I were going to Ethiopia together, but then he died and I went alone.”

“I see. Fiesole is older than Florence, you know,” he continued as they drove up into the hills above the city. “It was an Etruscan town. We like it because we have a wonderful view of the city and enough land to grow all our own food. It’s more like a small farm.”

Ceseli looked at the narrow tightly curving road with its stonewalls on each side. Finally, they turned into a long driveway that led sharply up the hill toward a villa of stone and plaster painted the color of soft ochre.

As Dr. Antinori swung around to park, the heavy oak door opened and his wife came shyly forward. Ceseli wondered what to say, but Mrs. Antinori, who came to her kissing her warmly on both cheeks, quickly dispelled her apprehension. “Thank you for coming. It means so much to me to meet you,” she said warmly, standing back to look at Ceseli more closely.

Ceseli liked her immediately as she noticed the warmth in her hazel eyes. She had her Titian red hair pulled back into a chignon setting off the high cheekbones and light skin. She was tall and slender, and very friendly. “I don’t want to be a bother . . .” Ceseli began.

“You could never be a bother. Marco wrote that you were a very special young lady. We had a letter from him just before the accident. He hadn’t seen you or heard from you in months. But he was determined that he would find you after the war, even if it meant going to New York. He said that he might really like that. Something about eating Chinese food.”

Ceseli smiled, remembering their first discussion at the Italian compound. “There was no mail up there in Tigre. If I had known that he was so close that last week, I would have gone to see him earlier,” she said, realizing what a feeble excuse it must sound like. “The Emperor was preparing for a final battle, but it kept getting postponed.”

“Please, come in, or would you prefer to have some tea in the garden?”

“Whatever is best for you.”

“Then first come inside. Paolo and Chiara will want to meet you. She’s just finishing her homework and Paolo is most likely kicking his soccer ball near the barn. I’ll call him.”

She turned, and Ceseli and Dr. Antinori followed her into the large entranceway with its terracotta tiles and startling white walls. They walked through the formal living room to a large kitchen in the rear. The door to the garden was open and she could see the olive trees with their gnarled trunks just on the other side of the bricked garden.

A long-legged shy thirteen-year-old came to her, holding out her hand. Ceseli took it as she studied Marco’s sister. She was very slight, with her massive curly red hair held back behind her head, and penetrating blue eyes from among light lashed eyes and freckles.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Chiara said in English, shyly.

“And I’m pleased to meet you too. You go to the British School?” Ceseli asked, holding her hand. “Your English is so good.”

“Yes. Marco went there too, you know.”

“Yes. He told me that when we first met on the train to Addis.”

“Was it scary being in Ethiopia all alone?” Chiara asked, quietly.

“No, not really. Of course it’s very different than being in Florence, but all the people there are very kind, and very gentle. And Marco took care of me. And there was a friend of my fathers who is the American Minister there. I lived in the American compound with tortoises as big as this,” she said, holding out her arms to give the young girl an idea of their size.

“Really that big?” Paolo interrupted, smiling. Ceseli noticed the same mischievous eyes. “You’re joking aren’t you?”

“No, really.” Ceseli thought about mentioning the hyenas, but decided not to.

“Marco said he’d invite me when the war was over. He liked it very much.” Paolo smiled, and as she looked at him she was surprised at the family resemblance.

“Yes, he did. And the people liked him tremendously,” she smiled, keeping the young boy’s eyes. “You would have liked it too.”

“Perhaps we should have some tea,” Mrs. Antinori said, inviting them into the garden.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Ceseli added, following them. Their talk continued through tea, and through a delicious dinner that was preceded by small Tuscan crostini made from olive paste and mashed chicken livers.

“Marco told me you were a wonderful cook,” Ceseli said as they finished. “That the key to your success was that all the ingredients were fresh.”

“Marco was a wonderful flatterer,” his mother smiled. “He was a good cook too.”

“Yes, he certainly was.”

“Ceseli,” Dr. Antinori began gently, “Mr. Zeri told us that Marco died in a bombing raid by our own Air Force against the Red Cross unit where he was serving. Is that true? It seems hard to believe, even of the Fascists.”

“But that is exactly what happened. I was there when it happened. Did Bruno Zeri tell you that Marco saved my life?”

“He did.”

“Marco was protecting my body with his. He took the bullets I would have taken. Marco said the planes flew over every day. But that morning they must have had different orders. The tent was the direct target. The planes banked and came back. They were making sure nobody survived. After I knew Marco was dead, I ran down the hill and hid in a cave. Even if I had survived because of Marco, I would be dead if I were still on that plateau,” she said as tears began to slowly crawl out of her lids. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping them away. “I wouldn’t have lived if he hadn’t done that.”

Ceseli reached to her neck and released the thin gold chain with its medal of St. Mary of the Flowers. She handed it across the table to Mrs. Antinori. “I have brought this to you. He wore it every day. He gave it to me, as a loan, the night before he died.”

“We gave it to him for his First Communion,” she said, fingering the medal. “It’s the patron saint of Florence. Even then he wanted to be a doctor. It was meant to keep him safe,” she smiled wistfully. “You must keep it, Ceseli,” she said, handing it back across the table. “I’m sure that is what our son would have wanted.” Mrs. Antinori kissed it softly and handed the chain back to Ceseli.

“Then I would be honored to have it. I’ll wear it next to my father’s dog tag. I loved them both very much.”