traffic snarled in front of Santa Trinita.
“You should go in there,” called Marco over the engine noise. “There are frescos done by Michelangelo’s first teacher. Tradition says that the master himself helped chalk out the buildings, and perhaps this is where he did his first fresco painting.”
“I notice that you care mainly about the buildings. Such an architect.”
He laughed. I tightened my arms around his waist in reply.
The knot of scooters and pedestrians broke apart, and we roared across the bridge into the Oltrarno neighborhood. This side of the river had fewer palaces and more local people, at least on the road we were taking. I could have taken in the scenery for hours, but in minutes Marco swung the bike into a hidden parking garage.
I handed him my helmet and looked around. “Where’s the museum?”
“This is all part of a school. La Specola is but one tiny part of the complex.”
He wasn’t kidding about the tiny part. Again the museum employee—the only one there—spoke no English. We took our tickets and the photocopied map and pushed our way through a wooden door.
We were surrounded by glass display cases filled with carefully mounted seashells and other ocean denizens. These gave way to cases with moth-eaten animals that only a taxidermist could love. They were neatly organized and the cases were recently dusted, but the only sound was the faint hum of the fluorescent lights in fixtures that looked like they’d been installed in the 1950s.
I raised an eyebrow at Marco.
“These are very historic animals, Sara. The hippopotamus was a Medici.”
“I recognized the Medici nose.”
“That would have gotten you into trouble not too long ago,” he said, trying not to laugh. The room was so still that we were both nearly whispering, as if normal voices would break the spell that kept the animals from moving.
“Four hundred years is not too long ago?”
“Not to Florentines.”
We crossed into a room with walls completely covered in framed drawings of body parts. Below the drawings were small glass cases, each containing what looked exactly like…actual body parts. But what grabbed my attention were the three glass coffins in the center of the room. They were lined with faded satin sheets, with old satin pillows on one end. Each bed contained a sleeping person. Well, assuming that people were sleeping if their bodies had been partially flayed open and their internal organs neatly laid bare.
“They are made of wax. Realistic models from two hundred years ago, for students to learn about the human body without desecrating the dead,” said Marco.
The more I looked at them, the more confused I felt. The models were accurate in every detail, and I could remember anatomy classes that didn’t have such good models. I wanted to draw them even if I wasn’t sure I could convey how emotional they were. These things were only teaching aids, but their creator gave them real faces. The old man looked weary, even asleep. The young mother seemed to be dreaming, a little smile on her peaceful face. The young man broke my heart, with his hand up by his round and rosy cheek. These scientific models lay on soft beds and held rosaries, and I’d have done no less for them if I’d been the one building the display. I tried not to let Marco see the tears in my eyes.
“It is all right, Serafina,” he said, taking my hand in his. “We are something more than the sum of our parts, and I can feel it in this room in a way that I cannot in the fine museums and churches. I am glad you feel it too. The artist imagination, yes?”
I leaned my head on his shoulder. We stood there for a moment in silence.
Then I felt him chuckling. “What’s so funny?”
“I recognized the Medici nose.”
Our laughter didn’t break the mood so much as it transformed the mood. We had come full circle through the exhibit floor, and though we were in the final room, I could see the ticket desk through the glass in
“You should go in there,” called Marco over the engine noise. “There are frescos done by Michelangelo’s first teacher. Tradition says that the master himself helped chalk out the buildings, and perhaps this is where he did his first fresco painting.”
“I notice that you care mainly about the buildings. Such an architect.”
He laughed. I tightened my arms around his waist in reply.
The knot of scooters and pedestrians broke apart, and we roared across the bridge into the Oltrarno neighborhood. This side of the river had fewer palaces and more local people, at least on the road we were taking. I could have taken in the scenery for hours, but in minutes Marco swung the bike into a hidden parking garage.
I handed him my helmet and looked around. “Where’s the museum?”
“This is all part of a school. La Specola is but one tiny part of the complex.”
He wasn’t kidding about the tiny part. Again the museum employee—the only one there—spoke no English. We took our tickets and the photocopied map and pushed our way through a wooden door.
We were surrounded by glass display cases filled with carefully mounted seashells and other ocean denizens. These gave way to cases with moth-eaten animals that only a taxidermist could love. They were neatly organized and the cases were recently dusted, but the only sound was the faint hum of the fluorescent lights in fixtures that looked like they’d been installed in the 1950s.
I raised an eyebrow at Marco.
“These are very historic animals, Sara. The hippopotamus was a Medici.”
“I recognized the Medici nose.”
“That would have gotten you into trouble not too long ago,” he said, trying not to laugh. The room was so still that we were both nearly whispering, as if normal voices would break the spell that kept the animals from moving.
“Four hundred years is not too long ago?”
“Not to Florentines.”
We crossed into a room with walls completely covered in framed drawings of body parts. Below the drawings were small glass cases, each containing what looked exactly like…actual body parts. But what grabbed my attention were the three glass coffins in the center of the room. They were lined with faded satin sheets, with old satin pillows on one end. Each bed contained a sleeping person. Well, assuming that people were sleeping if their bodies had been partially flayed open and their internal organs neatly laid bare.
“They are made of wax. Realistic models from two hundred years ago, for students to learn about the human body without desecrating the dead,” said Marco.
The more I looked at them, the more confused I felt. The models were accurate in every detail, and I could remember anatomy classes that didn’t have such good models. I wanted to draw them even if I wasn’t sure I could convey how emotional they were. These things were only teaching aids, but their creator gave them real faces. The old man looked weary, even asleep. The young mother seemed to be dreaming, a little smile on her peaceful face. The young man broke my heart, with his hand up by his round and rosy cheek. These scientific models lay on soft beds and held rosaries, and I’d have done no less for them if I’d been the one building the display. I tried not to let Marco see the tears in my eyes.
“It is all right, Serafina,” he said, taking my hand in his. “We are something more than the sum of our parts, and I can feel it in this room in a way that I cannot in the fine museums and churches. I am glad you feel it too. The artist imagination, yes?”
I leaned my head on his shoulder. We stood there for a moment in silence.
Then I felt him chuckling. “What’s so funny?”
“I recognized the Medici nose.”
Our laughter didn’t break the mood so much as it transformed the mood. We had come full circle through the exhibit floor, and though we were in the final room, I could see the ticket desk through the glass in
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