On my third morning in Florence, I took Tram T2 to its final stop and waited through a long red light. Across the road was a small doorway. I wondered if that was it.
Museo di San Marco. Yes.
On the ground floor, there was a room on the left with wooden benches running along the walls. A woman in a red dress came in, sat on a folding stool facing the fresco, and stayed perfectly still while her boyfriend photographed her. Nearby, a man was explaining to his girlfriend, “One famous artist said that this place…” A group of older tourists came in, and their cameras were clicking.
My stupid shoes kept squeaking for no reason. So I shifted my weight onto my heels and walked closer to the fresco.
Up close, a golden robe had been lifted, forming soft folds beside a whole field of deep green. Only after stepping back did I realize that there were two garments, one worn over the other. Beneath the golden robe, another robe in soft, bulging flesh pink, was shaped by the body of the kneeling figure. Light rested on its folds until the fabric looked almost transparent. Then there was something blue. Or green? Then violet, and something between violet and pink.
The faces became blurred. Sadness. Grief. Eyes lowered. One of them was looking at me.
Christ’s face was even higher, almost impossible to make out. They say Fra Angelico burst into tears every time he painted Christ.
Everyone had left. I stayed. Sitting there, I missed my thesis: its unfinished outline, a half-read empirical economics paper, and the purple annotations I had made with my Apple Pencil while waiting at Gate 18.
If I could write my thesis here, I would be the happiest person in the world.
Cosimo de Medici had no thesis to write. But he kept a cell for himself on the first floor.
There were other small cells lining the corridor. Each had a single window and a fresco on the wall. I only glanced at most of the frescoes. Whenever I saw a color I liked, I took a photo and moved on. More often, I simply stood in the doorway, looking around the cell.
They are very small. I am familiar with another small room.
Twenty-five square meters. Two windows, one large and one small.
Outside the window are trees. The tallest is a poplar. In early April, it turns into scattered patches of fluffy white. Beside it stands a slightly shorter tree, its leaves shaped like those of a maple. Then come three more. They all look different, but they are almost the same height. They are always the last to grow leaves, and their leaves are always the smallest.
From April to June, they become denser and greener after every rain. By the time summer finally arrives in the Netherlands, they have become a curtain between me and the audience in the building opposite.
When the wind blows, the leaves rustle. Very often, I cannot tell whether I am hearing the trees or the rain. I run to the window to see, open it, and listen. Afterwards, I never quite want to close it again.
A few hours later, the birds wake me, calling one after another. I look at the almost transparent blue light beneath the dark blue curtain, pull the blanket tighter around myself, and turn over.
A floor lamp stands in one corner. At its foot rests a dusty ukulele. Now and then, the lamp cord brushes against the strings, producing two slightly out-of-tune notes.
On the top shelf of the bookcase beside the lamp are books in different languages. The newest one is a book on Fra Angelico.
Above the stove, a small light is always left on. Beneath it, a red pot is steaming, its lid trembling more and more. The room is filled with the sweet smell of pumpkin.
A pale green single fitted sheet hangs over the white drying rack. One sleeve of a dark grey blazer peeks out from the black wardrobe. A worn blue seat cushion shifts ever so slightly whenever someone sits down.
By winter, the sky begins to turn a transparent blue by four in the afternoon. The poplar branches, stripped of all their leaves, look like nimble forks held in one hand, some for salad, others for dessert.
Someone is living in this room.
Sometimes she frowns, rubbing her lips and chin as she reads the words on her screen. Sometimes she sits cross-legged on the floor, eating almonds and flipping through a book. Sometimes she gets up and walks back and forth across the room, her upper body and lower body bouncing out of rhythm.
Sometimes she sits in front of her computer and types. Quickly, then stops, holding down the Delete key. Then she slowly sits up straight. Her eyes brighten. The sound of typing grows faster. She laughs. She claps. “Perfetto!”
Then she puts on a song with a strong beat, pushes her rolling chair backwards, gets to her feet, and starts bouncing from one side of the room to the other. She sits down again. Tears slowly fill her eyes. She covers her face.
Smiling, she wipes them away, runs to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror, and thinks, crying beauty.
She opens a notebook, writes nothing.