The Painter of Souls by Philip Kazan

Author:Philip Kazan [Kazan, Philip]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781681771724
Publisher: Pegasus
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

11

FILIPPO TRIES TO SLIP OUT of the inn just as the sun is rising. It is silent downstairs, and he is praying – even though he knows it is not what he should be asking God - that the girl will be there. But she is nowhere to be seen, and he guesses she has already left for market. As he is padding towards the door, the landlady appears from the kitchen. Filippo grits his teeth, but the expression on her face is concern, not fury.

‘You cannot think of walking without breaking your fast!’ she says, but Filippo holds up his hand. The Rule of the Carmelites is different from – her brother is a Dominican, yes? Different from the Rule of Saint Benedict. He must be abroad as soon as he is awake, he insists, and no food until after midday prayers. And look: by God’s grace, the sun is shining! But she will not let him go until he has knelt with her next to the cold hearth while they say the Catechism together. Finally he makes his escape. As he walks briskly down the hill towards the gate that opens towards Florence, he feels as if he has left some part of himself behind, something he no longer needs. The cobblestones feel as soft and springy beneath his feet as a new Turkey rug. The girl’s smell is rising off him like the finest perfume. His only worry is the state of his bed, which he hopes will not give the girl away to her mistress.

By mid-morning he has reached Empoli and the sun is on his back. Empoli is a bigger place than Montopoli and the sight of people out and about their business makes Filippo think of home, of how near he is but, on foot, still two days away. Then he remembers the three grossi. It isn’t too hard to find a livery stable, and he rents a mule. There are no Carmelites around, so what does it matter whose feet carry him to Florence? Besides, he rode here, so he can ride back. Astride his little mount, he trots along in the thin December sunshine. The sky is full of rooks and gulls. He feels light, as if he has taken off a rusty suit of armour. The girl is there, in the air in front of him, on his lips, on his fingers. He has arrived somewhere: it is a place where he belongs.

He decides it would be courting fate to ride into Florence through the Porta San Frediano, so near to the Carmine. So he takes a ferry across the Arno at Montelupo Fiorentina and comes by muddy lanes and little villages to the Porta al Prato. Once he has passed through, his senses, dulled by the road and by his almost sleepless night, begin to come alive. He can see the campaniles of the Carmine, of San Frediano and Santo Spirito across the Arno. There ahead of him is the skyline of Florence he knows so well.

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