XVIII

C

oncerts, for this painter at least, are a source of envy. Not only are several musicians able to work in harmony to create beauty but also they may perform works of certain genius. They know at the outset how much will be required of them both individually and collectively. They certainly cannot, with a shrug of their shoulders, say that is good enough and walk off halfway through. The musician has responsibilities. Some, certainly, will protest this stance, arguing that the painter is blessed because he has no such responsibilities and has perfect freedom to create as only he sees fit. Freedom without responsibility is like masturbation without orgasm.

I've had my share of responsibility in life and in art but it has been empty. I've never been held accountable for failing to live up to my artistic obligations. No one has ever felt cheated by my mediocrity.

The rap upon my door startled me and, to some degree, frightened me. I was forced to quickly assess the state of my second floor cave. Any tidiness was born of emptiness. There was little to disarray but what there was, was.

I had managed to get my rent together for the beginning of December though it had been a couple of days late. It was too late in the month now though.

That cheque was cashed.

Soiled jeans slid up my pale legs. Laundry would need doing sometime soon. The landlord, or any authority, would have said something through the door by now. A burglar would have tried the door handle. The knock had not been a firm one, I noted, and a moment later the tepid tone repeated, accosting me a second time.

I should say something. I should seize the initiative.

I tried, "Uno momento."

Without, a woman laughed. "Your Italian is terrible."

Anne.

It was four days until the dinner party. It was six days before Christmas.

I should not be dressing myself at four in the afternoon.

"One second."

Anne answered, "I got that. Your Italian isn't that bad."

Shoes? Shoes.

When finally I opened the door, my body did its best to obstruct my friend's view of my home.

"Buon Giorno."I greeted, demonstrating that I was undaunted.

"Hi." she replied to show that she was unimpressed. Noting my screening efforts, Anne was quick to adapt. We would take a walk. Shoes had proven the correct choice.

Snow was in the air but it had not yet fallen. Together then, we strolled the narrow streets on the south bank of the Arno. The conversation, awkwardly, meandered around general light banter. Anne was a wit when she wished it. She had come out of her way to my place, to say something specific. She was certainly resolved to speak to it but it would take some warming up to on this cool day. I allowed her the time and made no dialogue that would either determine or encourage the direction of our strolling conversation.

Meanwhile, we lauded sarcastic accolades upon the tacky storefront displays and likewise gaily applauded the corners and alcoves that held secret classical beauties. It is strikingly revealing to see a crass advertisement for ladies' swimwear and then but have only to turn one's head to see a sculpted renaissance nude where it adorns some archaic fountain. Distinctly different forms of beauty or propaganda, it is difficult to not overtly point a finger at this to demonstrate humanity's decay. My bias borders on blindness. I wish it were otherwise for a priori, the conventional contemporary aesthetic should be superior to that of a less learned past. We should be getting better at understanding beauty. Maybe we are and I am not. A posteriori, having studied both forms fairly thoroughly, the now lacks. Still, I'd only had seven years of appreciation at that point. One should avoid rushing to judgement on any matter unless that matter is rushing toward one like a juggernaut.

"Beatrice told me about your letter."

Sometimes, when behemoths bear down on you, there is nothing to do but stop in your tracks.

"She's in town now."

When faced by oncoming danger, strangely one often does not seek to evade but rather becomes fascinated by the spectacle.

"She's afraid of you."

I was physically gutted then. Winded.

"You cannot come to dinner."

I could not breath. Unable to walk, my hand reached for a wall of cold stone. I needed solidity. I needed something to slap my palms against so that they could not ball into fists.

Feared! This was the worst of all possible turns. To be thought of as such a monster that could ever even imagine harming an innocent. For anyone, not the least my Beatrice, could see me as the sort of brute that could ever strike another, was to reduce me to naught but some Neanderthal. It did not matter that she was perfectly safe. It mattered that she feared. I had caused her fear. I had put an ugly, hurtful feeling into her soul. This slug had left his glistening trail upon a splendid orange petal.

I did not tell Anne that she had nothing to fear. My position was indefensible. An apology came from my mouth but it too was both meaningless and unnecessary. I shook my head and Anne did also.

"I know." She said.

"You understand that…"

"I do. Of course."

"I mean…"

"Yes."

We sighed. Another might have hugged his friend then. My eyes stared into the skyline, beyond Giotto's distant bell tower. It stood so tall and proud. It was so often silent.

Anne's hand boldly touched my arm as she asked if I was all right. I was glad for the question and grunted a reply. I could not say how long we stood in silence on that corner but she eventually, with a remarkable smile, wished me a sarcastic Merry Christmas and took her leave. Her cold parting warmed me for it showed that my friend truly understood me and respected my nuances. I had retreated from her long before she had commenced her exit.

The city did get snow that evening. Pretty enough, the white stuff didn't much stick and it was soon little more than slush about the shoes. I was long overdue for new shoes.

Sometimes I rue my distaste for hot drinks.

I rubbed my feet in the pitch black of the apartment, too angry to turn my paintings to face the wall. Christmas hymns chanted out from the transistor radio to give grim thoughts an undeserved solemnity.

She is in town now.

I was soon out again, walking the silent Firenze streets.

She is in town now.

Maybe our paths would cross.

XIX