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Author » Jessie Chaffee. Florence in ecstasy, p. Florence in Ecstasy, page 1. Try our free service - convert any of your text to speech! More than 10 english voices! The Unnamed Press P. Names, characters, places, and incidents are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Permissions inquiries may be directed to info unnamedpress. For my parents, Heide and John, and my brother, Joshua. And for my husband, Brendan. And then at once she was filled with love and inestimable satiety, which, although it satiated, generated at the same time inestimable hunger. I wake from violent dreams filled with strong winds and slamming doors. Bodies thrown against windows loose in their frames, frames loose in their sleeves. I wake in Florence, afraid. The image is familiar now. This empty apartment is mine. Still, this is not quite life. On this morning, I relight the citronella coil and walk to the window. In the alley, a man puts on a magenta helmet, climbs onto a moped, and pulls out onto Via Malenchini, the last to leave the bar below. It is feeding time. I wait, as I do every morning, for the sun to come into view. When it does, it shines at such an angle that the hidden city emerges. I no longer see edges and perimeters. Instead, the roof tiles, drainpipes, plaster walls, cobblestones, and glass panes become a single canvas for the pattern drawn by this glow. All I see is the pattern, etched in light and shadow. I am in a new place, unmarked and alive. This moment is an answer, a stopping point. This morning is every morning. This is when I do not feel alone, when I feel held by this city. Until the sun is fully up and the pattern fades like exposed film, the rooftops, drainpipes, stones, and windows regaining their edges and returning to the foreground. Another long day stretches ahead. But something is shifting. I walk to the bathroom, pull my T-shirt up over my head, let my pants drop to the floor, and drag the orange scale away from the wall. It rattles across the blue tiles, catching in each valley. I adjust the needle to zero. Not cheating—never cheating—I watch the numbers spin like a slot machine until they stop, predictably. Today, I think as I dress, tie back my hair, and climb the three stone steps to the kitchen, will be different. I open the long slatted doors and step out onto the small balcony, which is so steeply pitched it feels like it may topple into the courtyard below. It is one of the reasons I took this apartment, even when the landlady quoted the rent and I felt my stomach drop. I needed the light. The other one, I said, the bright one, as she eyed me skeptically and repeated, Caro, caro, caro. When I pass her on the stairs now, she always gives me that same look. It is the end of August. For weeks the other windows have been quiet and dark, except for the apartment across the way and one floor down, where an old woman sits all day, her arm spreading on the sill. She is sometimes staring out, sometimes cooking sauce I can smell as steam climbs out and over the terra-cotta roofs. But even her window is vacant this morning. The Italians have fled the cities for the coast, and all over Florence there are handwritten signs taped to shop doors. A manic, frenzied movement repeated day after day, night after night. They are looking up, always up. Up at the frescoed ceilings of churches; at the parade of Madonnas in museums; at the oversized head, hands, and feet of the David; at the performers dressed as mummies who move only at the sound of money in their jars; at the buildings edged in angels that circle and circle. I am no different. There is something more, it says. Such a delicate name. But she is all hard edges. No sooner have I closed the door than she is there on the stairs with that same side-eyed look. It is almost September. Almost a new month. Only cash. Up front. I have enough to get through September, and that will be it. Every last cent. But as soon as I hand her the bills in that old stone lobby, I feel free. And then I walk. Every morning I walk, circling the bones of Florence, treading a well-wo rn path through the bodies of transients to whom I am invisible. Today I walk until my skin is on fire and my legs are slick and shaking. I lean into it, feel the heat coming off the stone, feel the bodies pressing against me, tourists burrowing in to snap photos of the Ponte Vecchio, their cameras storing the same image again and again. It is a launching point for the boats that, even in this heat, cut lines up and down the lazy Arno. But today is different. Because for the first time, a woman emerges on the embankment, a boat balanced on her shoulder, oars balanced on her hip. She is alone. She is at ease. I watch as she lowers the body into the water, slides one oar into the metal U-ring, then the other. She pauses, glancing up and down the Arno—there is no one else out yet, it is hers alone—then steps carefully into the shell. She nudges the dock with one hand, and the river offers no resistance as she pushes off gracefully, adjusts the oars, and begins her course, making her way toward the next bridge with purposeful movements. It is a separate existence, one far from this city with its crush of bodies and sounds and smells. I watch until she disappears from sight, a single body at peace. To the right is the long courtyard framed by the arms of the Uffizi Gallery; to the left is this green door. Today will be different. I inhale sharply and push against bodies, launching myself across the street. But before I reach it, the door swings open with a rush of cool air, and a group of teenagers clambers out, jostling by me with a chorus of permesso, scusi, permesso. Another figure is behind them. A man, tall, with dark hair brushed back. The skin gathers around his eyes in bursts as his cheekbones stretch to accommodate an expansive smile. I feel surrounded by it. I look past him into the darkness, my face still hot from my walk, my dress sticking. Tell him what? He pushes the door open wider. Arrivaderla, signora, arrivaderla. I walk down a flight of steps, blind until my eyes adjust—an office glowing fluorescent, another door. There is no one here. I should leave. But I think about the woman on the water, and then I hear distant punctuations of sound that must be human. I cling to the name and keep going, through the door and down more stairs. A little bar filled with tables, and daylight beyond. An old man in a unisuit looks up from his paper, squinting like an angry gnome. I wait for him to ask me a riddle, but he shakes the paper and lowers his eyes. Behind the counter a man with a white mustache fills a glass with bright pink juice. No riddles, no tricks. I know how I must look to him—it is written across me in spaces and hollows. Above us, the Ponte Vecchio sprawls, a triple-bellied beast, reflections catching in its arches and water pouring between its supports like a churning shadow. But tomorrow people will return. As he speaks, his smile loses its tension. He gently polishes its bowed wooden sides. Against one wall is a raised pool of water, four sliding seats balanced along its lip. You know why? I imagine the crowds wandering the galleries above, and that could be me, had been me, and yet in a month, a day, a single afternoon, you can become something new, can become undone but also transformed. Tomorrow my assistant is back—you register with her. Then you begin here, in this room—to practice, to learn, okay? One week, two weeks. And then the river! And why not? Before I leave, I walk up and down the hallway lined with wooden boats. They are overturned on shelves, spines raised, bodies stretched, stacked floor to ceiling in rows running from the largest eight-man boats to the small one-man sculls at the far end. I have the sensation of the past hovering just below the present, as I so often do here, my own past leaping out, fast and fierce, and suddenly I remember. I search for inconsistencies in the repeated symbol of the red-and-white rowing flag that ripples across each boat, trying to find a place where the human hand had wavered. The museum was dark. It was a Monday in July and after hours—it had been planned this way, so that I could come and go barely seen, and now I was going, or was supposed to be. I ducked into the bathroom, eyed my face in the mirror, hollowed. I threw up. Then I walked through the vacant galleries, clutching the envelope—a severance, handed to me with lowered eyes because I had brought myself to this place, to the bottom—until I reached the painting. A sea-filled nocturne. Blue and silver, but up close, mostly gray, a fog heavy with shadows, the only break in the haze a few orange gestures, the brightest near the center—a fire on a distant shore? That was how I had felt. For years, maybe. And so I remained in this fog. I was exhausted, in fact I could barely stand, but still I stopped in front of this painting to stare at that bit of orange near the center, that place beyond this place where I found myself, inexplicably. I put my hand out to touch it—and why not? It was a shallow valley, rough under my finger. I felt the events of the previous months slipping away. I felt a door opening, the crack widening into something I could slip through. Other author's books: Florence in Ecstasy. Brian uk Emma uk Amy uk. 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Where The Past Meets The Present: Jessie Chaffee Discusses Florence In Ecstasy - The \\\[HOST\\\]
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