For the first time in his life, Giancarlo felt a twinge of fear as he lingered at the base of the steps to Santa Croce. For once, he feared that God would not forgive him for his sins. He felt his hesitation was too obvious, so he moved to the shadows and sat inconspicuously on a nearby bench. A large crowd was gathered in the Piazza to watch a play put on by a traveling theatre troupe. The crowd was joyous and bursting with laughter, enticing Giancarlo to watch and forget about his deeds, but he resisted. For doing something as heinous as defiling the idea of an object of such divine beauty was not to be rewarded with laughter. By sitting there in the shadow of Santa Croce, he hoped to find the strength to face the consequences of his actions. But before he could, a quizzical Niccolò walked towards him from amongst the throng of people in the piazza. His blue shirt blew in the breeze as he studied the obvious tormented expression on Giancarlo’s face.
“Giancarlo,” he said as he was approaching, “what’s wrong? Why aren’t you watching the play?”
Giancarlo buried his hands in his face, too ashamed to look Niccolò in the eye. “I have done something very bad Niccolò, but I am not strong enough to go in and confess my sins.”
“Then confess to me, my friend.” He took a seat beside Giancarlo and placed his hand on Giancarlo’s shoulder.
Giancarlo looked at Niccolò with tormented eyes. “Last night, before I went to sleep, I had thoughts of Francesca. Impure thoughts, and I indulged in them.”
Niccolò gave a puzzled look, “and then what?” He asked.
“What do you mean?” Giancarlo asked.
“Well, what great sin have you done that you cannot confess to?”
“I- I just told you.”
There was a long pause, then Niccolò burst out laughing. He was almost in tears.
“How dare you laugh at my pain!” Giancarlo shouted.
“Giancarlo, idiota! You’re tormented by this?” He burst out laughing again.
“I have violated the beauty of a higher love, the queen of the pure and the virtuous, and I have tarnished her image by submitting to primal thoughts about her; I have violated the divine itself! And you tell me I have not done anything wrong?”
“I swear, you are more dramatic than Antonio, and no one is more dramatic than he is!” Niccolò said grinning.
“Do you come here only to jest at my agony?”
“Si Giancarlo, because you are agonizing over nothing. Tell me, have you heard of Aurelio Lippo Brandolini and his Dialogus de Humane Vitae Conditione et Toleranda Coporis Aegritudine?”
“Uhm, remind me again.”
Niccolò gave a cocky smirk, proud that he knew something that Giancarlo did not. “Well, he reasons, and reasons well that men and women are required to enjoy themselves so they can fulfill their role in God’s humanity. The touch of your… member, gives you pleasure because it leads to the furtherment of mankind. We get pleasure from eating food no? That is necessary to our survival; and so is the pleasure that you succumbed to last night.”
“But how did the pleasure from last night lead to the survival of mankind?” Giancarlo retorted.
Niccolò paused to think of an argument. “Look, Giancarlo, you are a sinner, but not because of what you did last night. I have seen you commit other sins far greater than this one. Do you remember the time you smashed Bernardo Petro’s face? There is a good chance you will end up in Hell along with the rest of us. If you cannot experience eternal paradise in the next life, then the only one you will ever experience is the paradise between Francesca’s legs. We all will die one day, it could be tomorrow, no? Enjoy life freely while you can and enjoy it without abandon.”
“I’m starting to understand why you are the way that you are Niccolò.” Giancarlo snorted, “but this is-,“ He paused in midsentence, with a look of terror in his face. He found the heavenly figure of Francesca and she was walking towards them. She was accompanied by a friend with long cascading blonde curls who seemed to be talking with great enthusiasm about something, but Francesca paid her no interest, she was staring straight at them.
Niccolò looked to see what had so terrified Giancarlo. He saw Francesca staring at Giancarlo. He smiled and nudged him approvingly.
Much to Niccolò’s dismay and Giancarlo’s relief, Francesca and her friend walked straight past them and towards the cart full of daisies. She smiled quickly at Giancarlo before returning her attention to her friend.
“Mio Dio,” whispered Niccolò. He looked at Giancarlo, his mouth agape and his face awestruck. “Giancarlo, you must go talk to her. Right now.”
“No, no, no. I’m not ready! What do I say to her?”
“You are ready. You must be, now might be your only chance.” There was a brief struggle but Niccolò was able to get Giancarlo on his feet. He placed his hand on the square of Giancarlo’s back, grabbing the red wool of his tunic, and guided Giancarlo gently but firmly towards Francesca. Giancarlo resisted slightly, but not enough to actually tear away from Niccolò’s grasp.
As the two walked up to Francesca and her friend, her friend turned and giggled, whispering to Francesca.
“Buongiorno mie donne,” Niccolò said with gusto. He took a deep bow and as a touch of flourish, raised his hand into the air. “I’d like to introduce myself. I am Niccolò DiPietro, and this here,” he said as he grasped Giancarlo’s shoulder, “is my dear friend Giancarlo Vetecelli.”
Francesca smiled and gave Giancarlo a silent nod. Giancarlo returned her gesture by giving her a nervous smirk and a short bow.
“Ciao Niccolò,” Francesca’s friend said. She gave a small smile and extended her hand out. Niccolò gently grabbed it and placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand. “I am Maria Saltano, and my silent friend here is Francesca Ruscello.”
“Ciao Maria. It seems that during the time we have walked over to introduce ourselves, Giancarlo too has decided to renounce the life he lives and has joined the Franciscan Order under a vow of silence,”
There was a brief awkward silence.
“I tried to join the Dominicans at San Marco, but these clothes are only wool and not silk,” Giancarlo softly quipped.
Caught by the surprise of this joke, Francesca let out an embarrassing snort. In reaction, she immediately covered her now scarlet face. “You must forgive me,” she said, “how unladylike of me.”
“There is nothing to forgive ma donna,” Niccolò responded, “it seems that our beloved Giancarlo has come to his senses and has abandoned his vows. Maybe now he can bless us with his poetry again.”
Francesca gave Giancarlo an inquisitive look.
“Ah, you’re a poet?” Maria asked eagerly.
By now, Giancarlo was no longer timid. Francesca’s positive reaction to his joke filled him with a sense of profound bravado. “I am a sculptor,” Giancarlo replied, feinting humbleness, “poetry is a mere hobby of mine. Never will I compare to the likes of Poliziano or those at the Palazzo di Medici.”
“Ah, Giancarlo is just being modest,” Niccolò rebuked. “In a few years, he will be the greatest poet that this city has ever seen.”
“A bold statement,” Francesca said spryly, “can you bless us with your poetry then, O’ great Giancarlo.”
Giancarlo glanced angrily at Niccolò. “Of course,” he said, bowing towards Maria and Francesca, if you can just give me a minute then I will come up with a poem specifically for you.” There was a lull in the conversation and many exchanged glances as Giancarlo lowered his head to the ground, forced to think of something on the spot. Maria glanced at Francesca with an amused expression, and then glanced at Niccolò, who promptly gave her a wink. As Maria blushed, Niccolò turned to Francesca and gave her a smile and a nod of encouragement.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” Giancarlo said eagerly. He pulled a yellow flower from the cart and handed it to Francesca, who accepted it graciously.
“In this flower, I see the yellow.
A thorn might prick, and I might bellow.
But in nature, I see the divine and
I always fear, to run out of time so I
Live my life of feigned majesty
But I must stop
For the beauty in front of me.”
Francesca blushed as Maria and Niccolò clapped vigorously for Giancarlo.
“Bravo, Giancarlo! Bravo!” Niccolò shouted with enthusiasm. “Do you see what I mean? Where is Messer Medici? He needs to hear your poems!”
Giancarlo’s face grew red at this praise and could hardly look Francesca in the eyes.
“Bravo indeed Maestro,” Francesca said. There was a big grin on her face. “Thank you for indulging us, it is not every day that Maria and I get to hear someone of such…skill.” She bowed her head to sniff the flower that Giancarlo gave her. “When can I hear more?”
Niccolò’s eyes widened in excitement for his friend. “Tonight! You can hear more tonight! At the Ponte Vecchio for the sunset!”
“I apologize Messer Niccolò, I thought I was asking Giancarlo and not you.”
“Give me one day, ma donna,” Giancarlo interrupted, “give me one day and I promise I will entertain you with a most exquisite poem. At sunset, on the Ponte Vecchio, like my eager but foolish friend here recommended.”
“Bene, then I will see you there. Come, Maria, we have stayed too long and must get going.”
“Ciao mie donne,” Niccolò shouted as they were walking away.
Maria turned around and gave a devilish grin. “Ciao Niccolò, I pray we meet again.”
Giancarlo and Niccolò stood calmly, watching them leave the Piazza. The second the two girls turned the corner and appeared out of sight, Niccolò began to jump with joy on top of Giancarlo. Meanwhile, Giancarlo stood motionless, with his mouth agape and in complete disbelief of the interaction that had just occurred.
“Can you believe it?” Niccolò shouted in excitement, “Mio frattello where did you come up with that poem? There is no way it was made up on the spot!”
“I don’t know,” Giancarlo said in a soft voice. Still unable to believe what had just happened, his eyes were wide and his brow was furrowed. He looked up at Niccolò in amazement, “Truly I don’t know! But I am seeing her tomorrow.” At this realization, a flood of excitement and joy washed over him. He too joined Niccolò in his celebration. “I am seeing her tomorrow Niccolò!”
“You are seeing her tomorrow!”
“What a glorious day my friend! Thank you! I could not have done this without you. Our Heavenly father above must truly find me blessed to have allowed me to experience this.”
“See, I told you. He does not concern himself with what you did last night.”
Giancarlo’s face reddened. “And let’s not forget about Maria,” he said, changing the subject. “Did you hear what she said to you? ‘I pray we meet again,’ you know what that means?”
“Only too well!” Niccolò laughed as he made a crude gesture with his hips, “I believe Maria and I will see each other sooner rather than later. But come, let us discuss these things on our way to the Bottega, I believe that Messer Lucardi might actually throw me out of his bottega if I am late one more time.”
Header Image: Bacchus and Ariadne, Titian. 1523.