Eternal City

I’d finally done it, and my heart was bursting with emotions to which I could not lay a name. My nearly lifelong dream had manifested into a reality. And what a wonderful, amazing, and unforgettable reality! I had waited years for it, and it had not disappointed in the least. It was just as I’d always known it would be and had been more fulfilling than anything imaginable – save giving birth to two children – in my lifetime.

It was nearly sunset, and I sat drinking a glass of Tuscan Merlot on the outside patio of La Soffita Renovatico, a restaurant not too far from the Vatican. The beautiful colors of the sunset were streaking the skyline, creating a luscious array of colors and creating the embodiment of art in a city filled with such. I was relishing each sip of the burgundy, fruit enriched, yet spicy wine. It was delicious and spread its warmth through my somewhat numb body with quick measure. It was as if the rich essence of the wine only added to the depth of my emotions, and indeed, that with which my entire being was still reverberating.

My love affair with Italy and with one man most likely began when I was about nine years of age. I don’t precisely remember the first time I saw a picture of the sculpture of the Pietà by Michelangelo, but I do recall the immense fascination, appreciation, and love of his realistic work that initiated at that point of my then short life. Even at such a young age, my mind wondered if there was anything more beautiful by comparison. My love for the artist had grown by leaps and bounds through the years. At only ten years of age, my mother had gifted me with a book of the Renaissance Master’s entire collection of works. “Because you love beauty,” she had inscribed inside the book she gave to me. I think that she, too, knew that it was unusual for one so young to be so drawn to something so old despite its everlasting beauty. Thus, began my obsession with Michelangelo and Italy.

As I sat drinking my glass of Merlot, I recalled how I’d read somewhere that blind and deaf Helen Keller had been allowed to run her hands over the sculpture of the Pietà when she’d visited the Vatican. The story reported that as she’d done so, so overcome with emotion was she at the realistic nature of the piece, she had wept uncontrollably. There was little doubt at this moment that such had been the case. I could only imagine the greater depth of emotion had I been allowed the same. In fact, my mind wondered as to the possibility of ever recovering from such a thing as touching the Pietà. It would be highly unlikely.

My eyes were puffy and red from crying, my body infused with the uncontrollable emotions that I’d experienced that beautiful day. I removed my glasses and used the cloth napkin in my lap to dab at the remaining residue of tears. I did not care who saw me. At this moment, I only knew that my heart was full, and I was thankful that I had achieved my life’s utmost desired dream. At sixty-three years of age, I’d been very brave and traveled to Italy alone. There was little I was afraid of, but traveling alone had been a bit intimidating. Still, I was thankful I’d done it. I was very proud that I had manifested my dream into a reality far beyond the imaginable.

As I sat at the table alone, enjoying my glass of wine, an older gentleman approached my table and stopped.

“Signora. Excuse me...are you well?” he asked.

I looked up and nodded. “I am fine. Grazie.”

He smiled, and I immediately saw kindness displayed in the depths of his brown orbs. “I am so glad,” he said. “I saw the tears on your cheeks.” He drew lines on his tanned face with his fingers to describe his words as he spoke.

I immediately returned his kind smile. “Thank you. I’ve just had the experience of a lifetime,” I murmured quietly.

His smile broadened. “May I sit? Per favore?”

“Si,” I gestured to the empty seat at my small table. The sunset had grown now and a shimmering glow seemed to fill the entire space of tables and chairs where we were seated.

As the stranger settled comfortably into the wooden chair, he smiled again, but his eyes grew a bit more serious before he asked, “You have been to the Vatican, no?”

I nodded. “Si.”

“Ah! It is an experience like no other,” he said before also ordering a glass of Merlot after the waiter approached. With the wine in hand, he continued, “I know only privilege to have always been near these things all my life. What was your favorite? Per favore. Tell me.”

I glanced down at my glass of Merlot, a bit nervous about sharing my heartfelt, truest love with a stranger, but this man’s eyes were so kind, inquisitive, and serious that somehow, I knew that he, too, felt the pure depth of beauty housed within those walls so near us.

I smiled. “I have been in love with Michelangelo’s work since I was young. His Pietà is so special. But now, in the face of such immense, vast beauty, it seems incredulously difficult to choose.” Despite my attempts to the contrary, my eyes filled with tears yet again.

He nodded, a simple one of pure understanding. “Si, I know. Truly, signora, I know,” he said as he reached his hand across the table and touched my forearm to reassure me that what I was feeling after such an experience was completely normal.

As he did so, a warmth invaded that had nothing to do with my recent artistic experience or the Merlot I’d just drunk. It was as if his touch also reverberated through my being. I had always known this man, my mind immediately thought before I chastised myself for the absurdity of the idea.

A glance at him told me that he felt the connection, too. I smiled, a bit timidly, but my green eyes deepened and grew warmer, more open to him in a mere heartbeat. I had been divorced for twenty years, so this feeling was a bit new to me. But there was no denying that there was a connection between the two of us. We agreed on Michelangelo and the beauty of the art housed in the Vatican, of this there was little doubt. I could not imagine that it would be more than something such as that.

“What is your name?” I asked. “I am Isabelle.”

“Lodovico,” he said. “Are you staying in Rome long?”

I smiled. “Another week. But then I must return to the States.”

“Ah, then you must allow that I take you to dinner tonight and treat you to some of Italy’s best food. Per favore. It will be my pleasure,” he said, a light surfacing within his eyes.

I took note of the grey streaks in his dark hair. There were lines about his eyes that had surely been born from years of laughter. He was a handsome, older gentleman, and there was the connection we seemed to share. My heart skipped a beat, before I answered, “Yes, that would be lovely.” I did not think of it as a date; merely as two acquaintances enjoying dinner as they discussed things in which they shared a common interest. Still, I could not quell the nervous butterflies that flitted about in my stomach. I was definitely looking forward to seeing him again later that evening.

After a few more minutes, as the sun sunk lower and the sunset turned to twilight, we agreed to meet back at the same trattoria or restaurant at nine o’clock that evening. This would work beautifully since I was staying at the historical Hotel Campo de ‘Fiore nearby. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was looking forward to a night of getting to know this man better. He was knowledgeable about things I’d come to see in Italy, and it was easily discernable in our brief conversation that we had much in common. A short while later, he stood and took my hand for a moment before saying the same before he left, as if he’d read my mind yet again.

Nine o’clock arrived, and I found Lodovico back at the quaint, little trattoria where I’d first encountered him earlier that day. I’d chosen to wear the standard, little black dress and carried a burgundy shawl with me because of the evening’s chill. Lodovico looked quite handsome, dressed in slim, black trousers and a barely discernable plaid jacket with a crisp white shirt.

After we were seated, he ordered more of the delicious Tuscan Merlot that we’d enjoyed earlier that afternoon. The trattoria was unbelievably beautiful at night and embodied the beauty of Italy in its ambience. Candles shimmered on the crisp white tablecloths that were adorned with elegant yet simple arrangements of purple and yellow flowers. Gleaming silverware and china filled the tables. It was quite romantic, especially as the beautiful strains of Italian music filled the air.

After the waiter poured the wine, Lodovico raised his glass. “To a beautiful evening with a beautiful signora,” he said, his eyes mildly flirtatious. We softly clinked our crystal glasses together and smiled at one another. I was feeling a wonderful warmth in the pit of my stomach from the look in his brown, kind eyes and his charming toast.

Dinner was ordered, eaten, and delightful conversation ensued, mostly about art. It appeared Lodovico loved art as much as I did. He, however, had enjoyed the privilege of growing up surrounded by the immense beauty embodied in so many different artists’ work and architecture. I envied him.

 We were enjoying a fruit and cheese tray for dessert with more of the same wine when Lodovico suddenly looked at me, a deeper seriousness in his eyes before he spoke.

“What?” I questioned him, admittedly curious.

“I must tell you something,” he began. “I promise - it is completely true. I tell you this because I feel I know you – as if I know you for a very long time.”

“Yes?” I asked, smiling as he reached for my hand. I could feel the warmth that emanated from his eyes in the strength of his touch. My first thought was that he was married, and I was horrified at the thought that this was a possibility I had not even considered.

“You love Michelangelo, no?” he questioned.

Taken aback and a bit confused by his question, I nodded that I did.

He smiled, a very handsome smile. It was a beautiful smile. “My name is Lodovico di Simoni Buonarroti,” he said.

A stunning awareness grew in my eyes. “Buonarroti? As in Michelangelo? As in Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni?”

“Si,” Lodovico smiled. “I am the descendant of Michelangelo’s youngest brother. I am proud to say that I was named for the greatest master of the Renaissance.” A fierce pride was all too evident in his eyes as he spoke. “And I, too, am an artist, though nothing when compared to him.”

I was amazed. Could this be true? Was this in fact the connection that I had so vividly felt from nearly the first moment I’d met this man? It was true that I’d been drawn to Michelangelo from a very early age, inexplicably so, and here was one of his ancestors with whom I felt an unusual connection. Perhaps it was due to more than a shared interest in art.

Lodovico, as if reading my mind, immediately pulled out his wallet and showed me his identification to prove the truth of his name. He was indeed a Buonarroti.

I looked up at this beautiful, kind man with a new dawning of understanding. Was there in fact more to this than even my small mind could comprehend? I’d always felt misplaced in the States, as if I were born on the wrong continent and perhaps at the wrong time. But now, things were beginning to converge, and I was all too certain that I was in the exact place and time for which I was meant.

I reached over and touched Lodovico’s hand before I spoke. His eyes grew warm at my light touch.

“Lodovico,” I began. “I think that somehow my heart recognized this about you from the start. You have made this trip more than the dream of a lifetime. For me, you have made the universe combine with all the stars to align itself in the most perfect formation possible.” Lodovico looked at me and smiled a beautiful smile as he lay his hand atop mine.

I returned to the States a few days later, but not without the memory of a lifetime. And for many years thereafter, each spring I would rejoin Lodovico in the Eternal City of Rome where my fascination, heart, and truest love had always resided. We would share a glass of wine at the trattoria near the Vatican at sunset and then much later, enjoy an Italian meal as we talked well into the night. And each year, time and time again, it was as if in some small way, I had at last come home.