Chasing the Setting Sun

“La Città del Rinascimento. The City of the Renaissance. Once, Ferrara was the cultural jewel of Italy, drawing some of the greatest artists, musicians and thinkers of the Renaissance: Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, even Leonardo DiCaprio! Our family was the head of a glittering, exhilarating place in a vital period of history. Even more influential, in some ways, than Venice or Florence, thanks to the House of Este and their court. Ferrara was an international powerhouse, long before New York or Paris reached their prime. Now, people remain fascinated to this day with the Medici family, but the House of Este- “

“Lo so, Papà. I know.”

“Mio caro, my dear, it is rude to interrupt your Papà in the middle of his story.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, not feeling very sorry at all. As much as I would like to believe Papà was in the middle of his story, I knew far too well his tendency for rambling monologues that took up most of the evening. I would be lucky if he had made it out of the prelude, a decidedly unfortunate reality given the fact that I had somewhere else to be.

Papà cleared his throat. “Where was I?”

“The Este family,” Mamma supplied.

“Ah yes. The Este family! One of the most powerful families of their time…”

I tuned Papà out as he forged on. I suspected Mamma did the same, though she gave every indication of being an attentive listener. She sat knitting by the open window, the gentle breeze occasionally rippling through the errant strands of her hair. Though Papà needed no encouragement to continue, she managed to nod and murmur her agreement in all of the right places of his rose-colored history of Ferrara and the House of Este. She never failed to laugh at his Leonardo DiCaprio joke. I never failed to roll my eyes, at the DiCaprio joke or other various “comedic” embellishments to the saga of the House of Este. It was, as stories go, not all that interesting, though the fact that I could likely recite verbatim Papà’s version of the story of the Este’s may have had something to do with my lack of interest. Papà, however, was obsessed. “We are living descendants of one of the greatest families in Italy, Fulco,” he tells me all the time. Other than the oral tradition, he has no evidence to support this claim. To my eternal dismay, he has solidified the long-held family assertion of our origins by naming me after the man credited with founding the House of Este. If I was a larger, more athletic boy, a name like Fulco perhaps wouldn’t be such an affliction. Papà says I will grow into it. I have my doubts.

My gaze shifts once again to the window, where I am met with a view that all the tourists come hunting for. L’ora d’oro. The golden hour. The setting sun has gilded the entire countryside, transforming an already stunning landscape into a downright heavenly panorama. Medieval ruins speckle the hills in the distance, some intact enough to make it seem as though time stopped in the 15th century for our small corner of the world. The house smells like the parmigiana di melanzane, eggplant parmesan, that we had for dinner, but underneath the savory tang of sauce drifts in the floral and earthy scent of the country, carried with a slight heaviness on the wind which suggests rain in the coming days. The pull of l’ora d’oro is irresistible. I never get sick of it. My foot taps an incessant rhythm on the floor, vibrating my entire body. Mamma glances at me, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, shaking her head in an almost imperceptible movement. Papà, unfazed, launches into his bit about Isabella D’Este and da Vinci.

I am slightly encouraged. He is moving ahead at a decent pace, at least. Still. It is all I can do to stop myself from banging my head against the floor, a tactic I would try if I didn’t already know from previous experience that it would only prolong the current torment. Papà likely wouldn’t have noticed. Mamma is the one who doesn’t miss a trick.

Approximately four hours later (or fifteen minutes, according to the clock), Papà was finally wrapping up.

“Never forget, Fulco, you carry a remarkable legacy on your shoulders.”

“Yes, Papà.”

“We D’Este’s are a family of noble lineage!”

“Yes, Papà.”

“We should be living in the Castello Estense!”

“Yes, Papà."

“Leo, mio tesoro, my treasure, isn’t the match about to come on?” Mamma interjects, not meeting my eyes over her knitting, a sly smile playing on her lips. The needles in her hand don’t slow at all.

I glance at the window, hope renewed in my heart. Dusk hasn’t fully set in yet. L’ora d’oro lingers on.

“Oh! Quite right dear, quite right its almost time! Grazie, cara, thank you dear.” Papà kisses Mamma on the cheek, pats me on the head, and settles into his chair in front of the television to watch his football team. There are only two things known to derail my Papà from his D’Este address: football and food. Seeing as how we had already finished dinner, football had come through as my saving grace.

In one fluid motion, I whirl around and to my feet, out to the front door. Heart pounding with excitement, hand on the knob, I turn and start to pull the door open when-

“Fulco!”

Mamma.

I stop in my tracks, heart sinking back to approximately 2,000 feet below sea level. So close. So close to freedom.

“Yes, Mamma?” I say cautiously.

She rounds the corner, hands empty, her knitting having disappeared to some unknown location. Her face is inscrutable. I try to mirror her impassivity. Gulping, my fingers knock an off-beat rhythm on my thigh.

“Bring me back a few pears, ok? I want to make cake this weekend.”

She smiles indulgently and waves me off. Relieved, I grin back, but waste no time in bounding out the door, onto my bike, and into the fading light. Best to be off before Mamma changes her mind.

The evening breeze is quickly whipped into a full-blown wind by my furious pedaling. The earthy aroma is stronger now, balanced by the faintness of a sweet smell that I can’t quite place. Night has begun to slowly creep in. The air has a cool bite to it, promising the inevitable approach of fall, not too far off. I pay little attention to my surroundings as I speed ahead. There’s still just enough time, if I hurry. I can see the silhouette of the monastery, not far off now. The sun still hangs reluctantly in the sky, inching closer and closer to kiss the horizon. The uneven pavement starts shaking my bike, and I am forced to hop off and awkwardly jog up the last incline to the monastery. I reach the door, or what is left of it, panting heavily with a not-insignificant amount of sweat darkening my shirt and slipping down my face. The metal of my bike clanks gracelessly to the ground as I toss it aside and step over the threshold of the monastery.

To refer to it as a monastery is potentially misleading. It definitely used to be a monastery, 600 or so years ago. I checked the archives once, to see if there was a record, a name, anything specific about it. All the files said was that it was the ruins of a medieval monastery. Name: Unknown. Date: Unknown, but likely circa 1400s. Status: Closed to the Public. Perfect.

What once was likely an impressive structure is now a crumbling and isolated ruin. Most of the roof is gone, and large segments of the walls. The foundation is still relatively intact, providing me with a roadmap of what once was. The main building evidently had a few minor buildings attached, kitchens and living quarters and such, but the majority of them did not stand the test of time. Somewhat like the House of Este.

Purposefully yet carefully, I head to the courtyard. It probably once was a green commons area in between the various buildings, almost like the monastic version of a backyard, except enclosed on all sides. Now, it is overgrown, though I try to weed it every once and a while when I come out. I make my way to the center of the green, marked unmistakably by a pear tree, heavy laden with fruit. Pears litter the ground, and I kick a few away as I sink to the ground and settle my back against the tree, facing what is left of the main building.

From my knapsack I yank my supplies, mediocre in objective quality, infinitely precious to me. Cheap colored pencils and my sketchbook may be all I have, but I make it work. I don’t have much time, but I did make it just under the wire.

Not all of the roof survived, but one corner did. In turn, its survival allowed a stunning window of stained glass to withstand the elements and avoid the fate of its brethren. The glass depicts a man, golden circle around his head, surrounded by a kaleidoscopic explosion of color. The wall opposite the glass long since fell to the insistence of time, which, in turn, at just the right moment in the evening, allows the light of the setting sun to catch the stained glass and set it ablaze, along with the ground in front of it. The effect is utterly breathtaking. I can never get the colors right, but I do think I am getting better. It doesn’t stop me from trying, anyway.

I stay far longer than I should, until the light and warmth of the sun is almost a distant memory. I start the ride back home, weighed down by the pears in my bag, already anticipating tomorrow’s golden hour and planning how I will make my escape to l’ora d’oro earlier. I will come up with something.

After all, I am a D’Este.

*Credit for factual information referenced goes to Brittanica.com. Creative liberties were also taken.*