What felt like an eternity passed from the time Father Cambio told me to read Augustine before, at last, he gave into my pleas for poetry. He rejected both Petrarch and Boccaccio but agreed to Dante.
“Only Paradiso,” he said. “I fear you will find hell too appealing. Better that you learn to admire Beatrice, a model of feminine purity and goodness.”
I laughed. “If, upon finishing Paradiso, I emulate her for two weeks together, can we then read Inferno?”
“Hell, Mina, is never a reward.”
“We should read the Commedia in the order the poet intended so the progression leads us to heaven, not hell. Is that not where the faithful ought to end? Unless you think me so corrupt that I’d prefer the devil to Our Lord.”
“You should not speak like that, even in jest. I notice you make no mention of Purgatorio.”
“I shall spend enough time there myself,” I said. “Or so I assume, given your judgment of me.”
“I do not judge you, Mina. That is God’s task alone.” He stood close to me and stared into my eyes. I could not decide if it was exciting or unnerving. “It is critical to remember that. You and I, we are not divine, only flawed humans.”
“I’m more flawed than you.”
“I cannot agree.”
I looked down, uncomfortable—pleasantly so, if such a thing is possible—at the intensity I saw in him. “I ought not have asked to read Inferno.”
“I ought not have had the audacity to suggest you are too weak to read all of the Commedia. The poem does not romanticize damnation but leads the reader to long for Paradise. We will start at the beginning. I apologize for having so insulted you.”
“I feel no insult. You have always cared more about the fate of my soul than I have myself. I should be ashamed, but to claim I am would be a lie. A sin.”
“You are young, Mina, and youth, by nature, compels us to feel in possession of a sort of immortality, even though we know this to be impossible. Death resides far away, far enough that it does not trouble us. But it will come, and when it does, it will be too late to change course. Even the Holy Father will be held accountable for his sins.”
“I’m certain my own life has proved far less interesting than that of many popes.”
Father Cambio frowned and shook his head. “This sort of observation, Mina, is precisely what worries me about you.”
“I meant no disrespect.”
“You must learn to speak only after giving due consideration to what you plan to say. Unguarded words often prove dangerous.”
Now it was my turn to frown. I understood his advice, but must I adopt a manner dictated by restraint? I found very little to admire in caution. I wanted to live with abandon, not to become circumspect and wary. New ideas all but defined Florence in those days, and I had no intention of ignoring any of them, so hungry was I for learning. “I shall do my best.”
“It would behoove you to take my warnings more seriously. You don’t want to face the difficulties posed by finding oneself on a perilous path. Let me guide you, Mina.”
His face had settled into such a grave expression that I could not help but laugh. And then, as the sound echoed through the church, I saw something in his eyes—buried deep but there—that told me he understood, despite his misgivings. Could it be there was a man there, somewhere, hidden beneath his cassock?