with Cathars, who lost a child.” I had asked around in the Oltrarno about this, but Silvano had caught wind of my queries and made fun of me, so I seldom spoke of it.
“I’ve heard of the Cathars,” Giotto said slowly. “They were a devout group full of Christian virtue. They cared for the sick and the needy, tried to live pure lives that reflected the most basic teachings of Jesus. I never understood why the Church called them heretics and tried to eradicate them. Perhaps because they had a strange idea about the Christ and baptism, that the Lord made the river Jordan flow upward, in reverse. It’s a beautiful poetic image, but why destroy a people because of it?”
“Why destroy a people at all?” I asked, enjoying our discussion, as I always did. “Why not leave people alone to follow their own faith as they see fit?”
“There’s a truly heretical belief: tolerance.” Giotto laughed. Then he shrugged. “I considered many times this river flowing in reverse. I thought it was a demonstration of the Lord’s mastery over nature, which is a great primal force, an original source. I go to nature first to find what is sacred and holy.”
“The priests don’t say things like this,” I ventured.
“You’re too clever to believe what priests tell you.” Giotto laughed again. “You’ve been around for enough years to have your own thoughts.” He tilted his grizzled head, stared at me with his keen eyes. “Though your years don’t show in your face. You’re like a painting, unchanging and timeless. There’s a mystery to you, Bastardo,” he said. “You have the face of a boy but the words of an old man who has spent too much time stewing in his own thoughts. Be careful that you don’t burn for it. The Church doesn’t much like those who think for themselves.”
“No one does,” I said, recalling Silvano’s threatening words. But after all I’d seen and done, I didn’t know how I was going to stop myself from stewing in my own thoughts. They were like the flotsam tossed about by a river, bobbing up and down within me, differentiating me from other people, and from the other whores, even more than my work or my youthfulness.
“Be careful who you confide in. I’d hate to see harm come to you,” Giotto said, his mouth drooping as a rare air of sadness enveloped him. Then his stout body twanged like a viola string, and his jovial nature returned. “Come, pup, let’s see my bell tower. The tribunal fathers complain about the cost, but beauty doesn’t come cheap, especially beautiful marble inlay!”
Chapter
5
GIOTTO DIED IN 1337, and all of Florence mourned. People who had merely heard of him went about with woeful faces and dark vestments. He was buried in Santa Maria del Fiore, whose walls were finally complete, under a slab of white marble. I did not attend the lavish public funeral procession or the long Mass. I went a few days later and stood near the white marble with Giotto’s small panel of the Evangelist and his peach-colored dog hidden in my shirt. I didn’t pray, I just remembered Giotto’s paintings. I thought of his homely face and the way he loved to laugh and how his cheerfulness drew people to him. And I recalled, and savored, each of our conversations over the years. My friendship with Giotto had been the sweetest thing in my life. It made me feel worthy. It inspired me with hope for other friends, better circumstances, a better self, and even, perhaps, one day, a wife of my own. It was a lofty ambition for one such as me, who probably wouldn’t make it out of childhood. I didn’t even hope to free myself from Silvano. I had tried once, two years previously, partly as a result of a conversation with Giotto. The painful memory came up unbidden and unwanted, and showed how sorrow was woven into even the brightest tapestries of my life.
It had been an entirely spontaneous attempt at freedom. One afternoon I was out trailing Giotto from a small distance, ducking furtively
“I’ve heard of the Cathars,” Giotto said slowly. “They were a devout group full of Christian virtue. They cared for the sick and the needy, tried to live pure lives that reflected the most basic teachings of Jesus. I never understood why the Church called them heretics and tried to eradicate them. Perhaps because they had a strange idea about the Christ and baptism, that the Lord made the river Jordan flow upward, in reverse. It’s a beautiful poetic image, but why destroy a people because of it?”
“Why destroy a people at all?” I asked, enjoying our discussion, as I always did. “Why not leave people alone to follow their own faith as they see fit?”
“There’s a truly heretical belief: tolerance.” Giotto laughed. Then he shrugged. “I considered many times this river flowing in reverse. I thought it was a demonstration of the Lord’s mastery over nature, which is a great primal force, an original source. I go to nature first to find what is sacred and holy.”
“The priests don’t say things like this,” I ventured.
“You’re too clever to believe what priests tell you.” Giotto laughed again. “You’ve been around for enough years to have your own thoughts.” He tilted his grizzled head, stared at me with his keen eyes. “Though your years don’t show in your face. You’re like a painting, unchanging and timeless. There’s a mystery to you, Bastardo,” he said. “You have the face of a boy but the words of an old man who has spent too much time stewing in his own thoughts. Be careful that you don’t burn for it. The Church doesn’t much like those who think for themselves.”
“No one does,” I said, recalling Silvano’s threatening words. But after all I’d seen and done, I didn’t know how I was going to stop myself from stewing in my own thoughts. They were like the flotsam tossed about by a river, bobbing up and down within me, differentiating me from other people, and from the other whores, even more than my work or my youthfulness.
“Be careful who you confide in. I’d hate to see harm come to you,” Giotto said, his mouth drooping as a rare air of sadness enveloped him. Then his stout body twanged like a viola string, and his jovial nature returned. “Come, pup, let’s see my bell tower. The tribunal fathers complain about the cost, but beauty doesn’t come cheap, especially beautiful marble inlay!”
Chapter
5
GIOTTO DIED IN 1337, and all of Florence mourned. People who had merely heard of him went about with woeful faces and dark vestments. He was buried in Santa Maria del Fiore, whose walls were finally complete, under a slab of white marble. I did not attend the lavish public funeral procession or the long Mass. I went a few days later and stood near the white marble with Giotto’s small panel of the Evangelist and his peach-colored dog hidden in my shirt. I didn’t pray, I just remembered Giotto’s paintings. I thought of his homely face and the way he loved to laugh and how his cheerfulness drew people to him. And I recalled, and savored, each of our conversations over the years. My friendship with Giotto had been the sweetest thing in my life. It made me feel worthy. It inspired me with hope for other friends, better circumstances, a better self, and even, perhaps, one day, a wife of my own. It was a lofty ambition for one such as me, who probably wouldn’t make it out of childhood. I didn’t even hope to free myself from Silvano. I had tried once, two years previously, partly as a result of a conversation with Giotto. The painful memory came up unbidden and unwanted, and showed how sorrow was woven into even the brightest tapestries of my life.
It had been an entirely spontaneous attempt at freedom. One afternoon I was out trailing Giotto from a small distance, ducking furtively
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