The Eternal City

I’d finally done it. My heart was bursting with emotions to which I could not lay a name. My lifelong dream had manifested into a reality, and what a wonderful, amazing, and unforgettable reality! I’d waited years for it, and it had not disappointed in the least and 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.

I sat drinking a glass of Tuscan Merlot on the outside patio of La Soffita Renovatico, a restaurant near the Vatican, watching as the sunset slowly formed, creating an array of colors in front of me. I was relishing each sip of my café latte. It was delicious and spread its warmth through my somewhat numb body with quick measure. It was as if the rich brew only added to the depth of my emotions which my entire being was still reverberating.

My love affair with Italy and one man began when I was nine years of age. I don’t remember the first time I saw a picture of the Pietà by Michelangelo, but I do recall the immense fascination, appreciation, and love for this realistic sculpture that began for me. Even at such a young age, my mind wondered if there was anything more beautiful. My love for the artist grew by leaps and bounds through the years. At only ten years of age, my mother gifted me with a book of Michelangelo’s entire collection of works. “Because you love beauty,” she’d inscribed inside the book. 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 with my café latte and delicious slice of Italian chocolate cake, I recalled how I’d read 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’d wept uncontrollably. There was little doubt that such had been the case. I could only imagine the greater depth of emotion had I been allowed the same.

My eyes were puffy and red from crying, my body infused with the emotions that I’d experienced that beautiful day. I removed my glasses and used my cloth napkin to dab the remaining residue of tears. I didn’t care who saw me. At this moment, I only knew that my heart was full, and I was thankful that I’d achieved my life’s 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 and proud that I’d manifested my dream into a reality.

As I sat alone, enjoying my latte, an older gentleman approached my table.

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

I looked up. “I am fine. Grazie.”

He smiled, and I immediately saw kindness in the depths of his brown orbs. “I’m 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.

I immediately returned his smile. “Grazie. I’ve just had the experience of a lifetime.”

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

“Si,” I gestured to the empty seat. The sunset had grown and a shimmering glow filled the entire space of tables and chairs where we were.

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

I nodded.

“Ah! It is an experience like no other,” he said before ordering a cup of coffee. 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 latte, a bit nervous about sharing my heartfelt, truest love with a stranger, but this man’s eyes were so kind 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 since I was young. His Pietà is so special. But now, in the face of so much beauty, it seems incredulously difficult to choose.” Despite my attempts to the contrary, my eyes filled with tears again.

He nodded, a simple one of understanding. “Si, I know, signora, I know,” he said as he reached his hand across the table and touched my forearm to reassure me that what I felt 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 coffee 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 thought.

A glance at him told me that he felt the connection as well. I smiled, a bit timidly, but my green eyes deepened, growing warmer and more open to him. 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. We agreed on Michelangelo and the beauty of the art housed in the Vatican. I could not imagine that it would be more than something such as that.

“What is your name?” I asked. “I’m Isabelle.”

“Lodovico,” he said. “Will you be in Rome long?”

I smiled. “Another week, but then I return to the States.”

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

I noticed 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 gentleman and there was the connection we seemed to share. I quickly 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 they shared in common. Still, I was definitely looking forward to seeing him again later that evening.

After a few minutes, as 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. A short while later, he stood and took my hand for a moment before saying goodbye and that he would see me again very soon.

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 soft plaid jacket with a crisp white shirt.

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

After our wine glasses were filled, Lodovico raised his glass. “To a beautiful evening with a beautiful signora,” he said, his eyes mildly flirtatious. We softly clinked our crystal glasses of wine together and smiled. 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 and Michelangelo as much as I did. He, however, had lived a life growing up surrounded by the immense beauty embodied in so many different artistic works. I envied him.

We were enjoying more of the same chocolate cake I’ve indulged in earlier that afternoon with demitasse cups of espresso when Lodovico suddenly looked at me, a seriousness in his eyes.

“What?” I questioned, curious.

“I must tell you something,” he began. “I promise - it is 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.

“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 the most 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. And each year, time and time, it was as if in some small measure, I had at last come home.