“It’s happening again, Angelo. All over again. The exodus.”
He could only nod. Agreeing. But then she looked up at him, and her eyes were fierce, glittering with anger and unshed tears.
“Our rituals are all about our children. So different from Catholicism where they take a man and ask him to make vows that deprive him of his roots, of children, of family. There will be no descendants of Angelo Bianco. Your tree ends with you.”
Angelo shook his head, but he didn’t bother to defend the church or himself. Eva was angry, and she had a right to be. The anger and the hurt and the longing for things to be different, both in the world and with them, was like a tangled ball of string, interwoven and indistinguishable. He understood that. And in a way, he felt it too. Angelo didn’t think Eva blamed him for the way things were. But she did blame him for the way things could never be.
“I didn’t come here to see Santa Croce. It is wonderful, but some other time. Come on.” Angelo released Eva’s hand and gripped her elbow, tugging her toward the picturesque cloisters to the right of the massive church.
They worked their way around until they stood at the columned entrance of the renowned Pazzi Chapel.
“Filippo Brunelleschi’s Pazzi Chapel, famed for its Renaissance architecture,” Eva parroted. She was Florentine, after all, and Camillo Rosselli was her father, a man who valued learning above all else. But Angelo was pretty sure she’d never seen beyond the exterior.
“Very good. Now come inside and sit with me,” he demanded.
She followed obediently, stepping into the quiet chapel. She was clearly expecting more extravagance, more opulence. Instead, Angelo watched as her face softened and her chest rose and fell, deeply at first, as if she couldn’t find her breath. Then her hand rose to her chest and she left it resting there, as if her heart had attempted to break out and fly up into the soaring, simplistic beauty of the domed interior.
“You like it,” he said, more than a little pleased. He led her to the stone bench that lined the walls beneath the long windows and the arched pilasters that made up the rectangular perimeter of the room. Angelo sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs out before him, his hand rubbing absently at his knee. There was always a little pain when he wore the prosthetic, like a shoe that rubs in all the wrong places. He didn’t mind the pain for the most part. It reminded him of his weaknesses and made him thankful for his strengths.
“This is where the monks of Santa Croce would have sat, once upon a time. This was a meeting room, a chapter house,” he softly explained to Eva. They were alone in the chapel, but the space demanded reverence.
“I wonder how the violin would sound in here,” Eva mused, her eyes on the light that poured through the oculus at the top of the dome overhead.
“Wonderful. This space, with you on the violin. Paradise,” Angelo said, wishing he could hear it. The strain he’d felt between them all day had dissipated at the chapel doors, and they sat in companionable silence.
“The plan of Brunelleschi’s chapel is the circle and the square—a rectangular base with a conical central dome. Every space is divided geometrically. The dimensions are mathematical, every proportion is perfect. Everything is in harmony; nothing is superfluous. The white plaster of the walls, the gray stone pilasters, even the glazed terra-cotta circular paintings, are mellow, serene, and balanced,” he explained in hushed tones.
“I can feel that,” Eva said, nodding. “I like it here.” She paused and then added with incredulity, “I’ve lived my whole life in this city. How have I not been inside this chapel before?”
“You were born in Florence. You take it for granted. But I was born in New Jersey. It is not exactly known for its art. Even as a boy, and a pretty sad, homesick boy at that, I recognized that this city was special. If you look down on Florence from the hills surrounding her, you see the domes, the bell towers, the medieval castle ramparts, and it’s almost as if no time has passed at all—like the Renaissance is still in full swing. There’s a sense of timelessness, of being transported back five hundred years when chapels like this were being built.”
“You’ve climbed the hills? I haven’t even climbed any hills,” Eva teased.
“You doubt me?” Angelo smiled and tapped his prosthetic leg with his cane.
“No.” She smiled too. “I think you were born with half a leg so the rest of us could keep up.”
“Ah, Eva. Spoken like a true sister.”
“I’m not your sister, Angelo,” she said softly, and he didn’t argue. Funny how they both employed or rejected the familial relationship when it suited their own purposes. But he needed to confess something, and he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Eva?”
“Yes?” There was fear in her voice.
“Do you remember a year ago, in the Jewish cemetery, when you told me that Camillo worried that I had been pushed into the seminary, coerced a little?”
Eva nodded.
“I didn’t want to admit it then. I was afraid if I admitted it, you wouldn’t let it go. But your father was right.”
Eva’s eyebrows shot up at the admission, but he continued lightly, determined to get it all out.
“Before he left me here, my father told me what was expected of me. He told me my uncle had made inquiries and recommendations, and that I would be entering the seminary. He reassured me I would be cared for and taught. He told me that because of my leg, physical work, the kind he did, wouldn’t be an option for me, and the church was the best place for me. ‘It will be hard for you to provide for a family, Angelo. Your duty is to be able to provide for yourself and not be a burden to others,’” Angelo quoted softly.
“He said that?” Eva’s cheeks pinked, and her hands clenched in outrage.
“He did,” he said, nodding. “Forgive him, Eva. I have.”
“You could have been anything you wanted to be, Angelo. You still can.”
“Ah, there she is again. The girl who thinks I can walk on water.”
“I’m Jewish, Angelo. I don’t think anyone can walk on water.”
He shook his head at her irreverent humor and smiled in spite of himself.
“When I’m here, I feel like I can simply immerse myself in space. All my life I have been physically imbalanced because of my leg, but in here, everything makes sense. Everything is simple. My mind and body are in harmony. There is balance.”
“But you can’t live here,” she said. Angelo thought her intention was probably to tease, but her voice sounded plaintive.
“No. I can’t. But I can do my best to carry that peace inside of me, that sense of purpose. I didn’t want to be a priest in the beginning, Eva. But I have come to believe it is what God wants for me. I started to believe it the day I saw Saint George. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I have to defeat my own dragons. We all do. This is the way I will defeat mine.”
Eva’s face was pale, and Angelo could see her pulse hammering at her throat. His own pulse pounded in his head, and he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine under the shirt he wore beneath his seminarian’s robes.
“The art I’ve shown you today is old, ancient. But the art centers on one thing. It is the story of Christianity. And that gospel is a living, breathing thing, still inspiring and moving men and women today. It is the thing that separates us from chaos, from selfishness, from being lost. It is the breather of hope and the light in the dark. It has always been enough for me, more than enough. I fell in love with the Catholic Church through the art, then I was asked to give my life to her. It was easy for me, don’t you see? When you love someone that completely, you will do anything for them. I feel that way about the church and about God.” He hesitated briefly and then, with a deep breath, said, “And I feel that way about you.”
Eva’s eyes snapped to Angelo’s, and he saw a flash of joy in their deep brown depths before it flickered out with the realization that there was more. He wasn’t finished.
“I would do anything for you, Eva. Anything.” He thought of what Camillo had said about not only blessing lives, but saving Jewish lives, and it gave him the strength to continue. “But I can’t have you and the church. I need the church, Eva. I need the church, and I believe the church needs me.”
She didn’t respond. Not at all. Not a glance or a sigh. Not a word.
“Eva?” The question was soft. But he knew. He could feel it between them, dark, thick, slippery. Dangerous.
She turned and raised her eyes to his.
His breath caught in his throat as he rose stiffly from the stone bench and stepped away. He had to step away from her.
Dear God. What had he done?
She didn’t just love him. She was in love with him. And he was unable to give himself to her. The truth he’d been skirting rose in his chest like spilled oil—dark, thick, slippery. Dangerous.
He took several steps away, turned, and walked back. She rose to meet him. Her eyes shone and her lips trembled.
Kyrie, eléison. Lord have mercy. Christe, eléison. Christ have mercy.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
“You can,” she whispered back, almost pleading, abandoning all pretense. For a minute he let the possibility pull at him again. Could he? He shut his eyes and tried to imagine walking away from the church. His father’s words echoed in his head. You belong in the church. It is the best place for you. Your job is to not be a burden. He pushed the words away, but Camillo’s voice rose up as well, and the chorus was deafening. You will be in a position to do so much good. Save my family! And finally, Monsignor Luciano’s parting salvo. It is not who you are, Angelo.
“I can’t, Eva,” he said more firmly. “I won’t,” he added, his voice harsh. He would be strong. He would not lose the battle in this moment. Not even for Eva.
“You already have.” Her voice was mild, but the pain was sharp, making her mouth twist wryly. She mocked herself, and the agony in her face echoed in his chest. She was reflected in him, and he in her. It had always been that way. When she was in front of him, she was the only thing he could see. She filled his vision. But his eyes were single to a different glory.