| Author: |
cbishop |
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Thursday, February 12 2004 @ 07:03 AM EST |
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1959 times |
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COR MAGIS TIBI
(The 13th Century Camollia Portal, which leads to the road from Siena to Firenze, bears a Latin welcome: "To you Siena opens its heart -- wider even than this door.")
It's Saturday, our last day in Siena. The Conservatori is almost empty. Most of the students have departed. When I walk from my room to the communal bathroom, there are echoes in the long, gracious corridors. Ghosts chatter and giggle behind every door. If I look down into the garden, surely I will see the disdainful Connie studying, the noisy Jean holding forth fortissimo, the quiet Jean writing a letter.
We've just come back from Firenze, Robin and I. I've been overwhelmed by the Uffizi for the last time, bought a pink shirt in the market at San Lorenzo and earrings that will go perfectly with the shirt -- gold cupids sitting on gold crescent moons, adorned with rose coloured jewels.
We chose the slower bus from Firenze to Siena deliberately, the Diretto which isn't direct rather than the Rapido which is all too rapid. And what happened? The bus drivers decided to race and -- I might have forecast this -- the slow bus beat the Rapido!
And now we go to make arrangements for our departure tomorrow. Renato is on the front desk. He's the volatile one with the space between his top center teeth -- the one who's so good at solving problems. If you only ask the right questions.
I'm never quite sure just what we're hearing or saying. The staff at the Conservatori doesn't speak English, and my Italian has grown worse, not better, during our six-week stay. The spate of words, the Tuscan dialect are bad enough -- but what really throws me is the "Lei" construction, the polite third-person. I'm so afraid of getting it wrong and offending someone that I've almost stopped talking.
When I do speak, I have my own system for dealing with necessities. I start my sentence with "I want," which is true even if it's blunt, or I use a form I like to think is reflexive: I slap on a "si" or a "mi" in front of almost every verb. Robin is impressed with this subterfuge. Just as I'm impressed with her ability to make jokes in Italian. Do the Italians understand our efforts and evasions? Do they get the jokes?
We tell Renato we've been to the Uffizi, and I mention Robin's sculpture project at Santa Maria delle Scale, near the Duomo in Siena. Renato's face is animated, as always.
"You like art?" Si, Renato. "Would you like to see an old book of art?" Si, si!
He takes a key from the center drawer, applies it to a lower righthand drawer. Ecco! -- the book of art. He beams with pride and pleasure, and well he may. It's obviously a rare book. Dry golden paper, a date in the early Seicento. It's a treatise on the architecture of Michelangelo, with drawings of all of his buildings including those in the sculpture and paintings. It's fabulous.
“E il suo, questo libro?" I ask. Yes, it's been in his family for hundreds of years. And he keeps it there in that drawer! Who is Renato? What is his relationship with the Conservatori? Why have we never asked him? Why don't we ask him now?
He becomes more and more animated. On impulse I ask whether it might be possible for us to see the church next door to the Conservatori -- "la chiesa qui vicino." We have heard that the Signora Direttrice has the key. He looks unhappy. He doesn't know whether she'll let us see it.
But it's a day of magic. As if on cue, the Signora Direttrice arrives: tiny, full of dignity, in some way apart, as if she too found the effort to communicate beyond her. Renato repeats my request to see the church. And suddenly the Signora is radiant and accessible. Of course we may see it. She will stay at the desk while Renato does the honors. We pour out our thanks in our flawed Italian, and follow him through a corridor, through another corridor, through the enormous shining kitchen, through yet another corridor where he unsets a burglar alarm, and into what is clearly the vestry. Gold-embroidered vestments, dusty but not frayed, hang on a long rack. Collection plates are piled haphazardly on chairs.
And then we are in the church. It's a beautiful church. Much bigger than it appeared from the street. Baroque, I think. Renato points with pride at the frescoes.
"Bellissimi, no?"
"Si, bellissimi." He seems to be telling us that the church belonged to the Piccolomini family, that the government owns it, that it is "in Restauro" (like half of Italy), but the government has run out of funds so nothing has been done for a few years.
Now he is showing us some of the church vessels. This one, he says, is "d'oro puro" -- pure gold. Is that reverence or greed in his voice? Both, I think. We admire the chalice and touch it. All three of us, I realize, are speaking in hushed voices, as befits a secret visit to an almost secret church.
When we get back to the front desk we thank Renato and the Signora once again. Their eyes glow. They are saying -- I think they're saying -- that Siena is a city of art. Manuscripts. Precious books. Paintings. Drawings. You can't see these treasures in a museum or a gallery. They are hidden in the hiding places of the Siena families, "segretissimi" -- high secrets.
The Signora is as excited as Renato. She nods her head enthusiastically. Many secrets, she agrees. Under the churches, there are other churches. Under the buildings are other buildings. Even under the streets, the alleys, the piazzas--under the Campo itself--there are secret places, secret passageways. Nothing is as it seems. Under my feet I feel the thin layer of marble floor, and under this unimaginable layers of secrets sustain me. I have trodden over them daily without thinking. Perhaps it's just as well.
That night, dinner finished, the Signora Direttrice leaves the table near the window, where she reigns in solitude. With slow and infinite dignity she is crossing the dining-room and coming toward our table. We rise. She is saying -- I think she's saying -- she understands it is our last night in Siena. She hopes we have enjoyed our stay, that we will return to Siena and to the Conservatori. We stammer our gratitude in our bad Italian.
But what is happening? The tiny, stately Signora is leaning forward and kissing me on both cheeks. I feel her warmth as she does so. And as she turns to kiss Robin, I know we have been allowed deep into Siena's mighty, inscrutable heart.
That night, after all, we don't take our usual walk round the Campo. For some reason it's not a night for a last cappuccino at the Palio Bar, nor for lying on the russet stones of the Campo, close, close to the universal navel, and gazing up at the Italian stars. It's a night to be alone, to do last-minute packing. To look out the window at the Tuscan hills and farms. To ponder the mysterious secrets of Siena's heart, and our own.
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