Eternal Perfection

I’d finally done it, and my heart was bursting with emotions to which I could not lay a name. My nearly lifelong dream had manifested into a reality. And what a wonderful, amazing, and unforgettable reality! I had waited years for it, and it had not disappointed in the least. It 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 not too far from the Vatican. I was relishing each sip of the burgundy, fruit enriched, yet spicy wine. It was delicious and spread its warmth through my somewhat numb body with quick measure. It was as if the rich essence of the wine only added to the depth of my emotions, and indeed, that with which my entire being was still reverberating.

My love affair with Italy and with one man most likely began when I was about nine years of age. I don’t precisely remember the first time I saw a picture of the sculpture of the Pietà by Michelangelo, but I do recall the immense fascination, appreciation, and love of his realistic work that initiated at that point of my then short life. Even at such a young age, my mind wondered if there was anything more beautiful by comparison.

My love for the artist grew after my Mother gifted me with a book of the Renaissance Master’s entire collection of work on Christmas of 1968. “Because you love beauty,” she had inscribed inside the large book. I was only ten years of age then, but 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 drinking my glass of Merlot, I recalled how I’d read somewhere 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 in the nineteen-hundreds. The story reported that as she’d done so, so overcome with emotion was she at the realistic nature of the piece, she had wept uncontrollably. There was little doubt at this moment that such had been the case. I could only imagine the greater depth of emotion had I been allowed the same. In fact, my mind wondered as to the possibility of ever recovering from such a thing as touching the Pietà. It would be unlikely.

As I continued to sit, I also recalled the shock and horror that had infused my being when I’d looked at the cover of a Life Magazine in 1972 and seen the damage a crazed individual had done with a hammer to the Pietà after jumping the railing at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. How could this horrible and unforgiveable thing have happened, I had wondered? I was then fourteen years of age, but the love I’d had for this piece of art and for Michelangelo had grown by leaps and bounds, and I knew deep within my heart that one day I would see it even though it would now be housed behind plexiglass to prevent such damage in the future. My young heart was thankful that it would be protected in whatever way necessary to ensure that such atrocities never, ever occurred again.

My eyes were puffy and red from crying, my body infused with the uncontrollable emotion I’d experienced that day. I removed my glasses and used the cloth napkin in my lap to dab at the remaining residue of tears. I did not care who saw me. At this moment, I only knew that my heart was full, and I was thankful that I had achieved my dream.

I’d been very brave and traveled to Italy alone. At sixty-two years of age, there was little I was afraid of but traveling alone had been a bit intimidating. Still, I was thankful I’d done it. I was very proud that I had manifested my dream into a reality far beyond the imaginable.

As I sat, an older gentleman approached and stopped at my table.

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

I looked up and nodded. “I am fine. Grazie.”

He smiled, and I immediately saw kindness displayed in the depths of his brown orbs. “I am so glad,” he said. “I saw the tears on your cheeks.”

I returned his smile. “Just the experience of a lifetime,” I murmured quietly.

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

“Si,” I gestured to the empty seat at my tiny table.

As he settled comfortably into the wooden chair, he smiled again, but his eyes grew a bit more serious. “You have been to the Vatican, no?”

I nodded.

“Si, it is an experience like no other,” he commented before also ordering a glass of Merlot after the waiter approached. With the wine in hand, he continued, “I know only privilege to have always been near these things all my life. What was your favorite? Tell me.”

I glanced down at my glass of Merlot, a bit nervous about sharing my truest love with a stranger, but his eyes were so kind and serious, 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’s work since I was young. His Pietà is so special. But now, in the face of such immense 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. Truly, signora,” he said as he reached his hand across the table and touched my forearm to reassure me that what I was feeling 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 Merlot 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 idea.

A glance at him told me that he felt the connection, too. I smiled, a bit timidly, but my green eyes deepened and grew warmer, more open to him in the skip of a heartbeat. I had been divorced for twenty years, so this feeling was a bit new to me.

“What is your name?” I asked. “I am Diane.”

“Lodovico,” he said. “Are you staying in Rome long?”

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

“Ah, then you must allow that I take you to dinner tonight. Per favore. It will be my pleasure,” he said, a light surfacing within his eyes.

I took note of 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, older gentleman, and he seemed to share a connection of some sort with me. My heart skipped a beat, before I answered, “Yes, that would be lovely.” It had been years since I’d been on a date, and I could not quell the nervous butterflies that flitted about in my stomach.

After a continued conversation for nearly an hour about all the art I’d just seen, 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, and it was easily discernable in our brief conversation that we shared many common interests. A short while later, he stood and took my hand for a moment before saying the same before he left, as if he’d read my mind yet again.

Nine o’clock arrived, and I found Lodovico back at the quaint, little restaurant where we’d first met 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 barely discernable plaid jacket with a crisp white shirt.

After we were seated, he ordered more of the delicious Tuscan Merlot that we’d enjoyed earlier. The trattoria was unbelievably romantic at night and embodied the beauty of Italy in its ambience. Candles shimmered on the crisp white tablecloths that were adorned with beautiful yet simple arrangements of purple and yellow flowers.

After the waiter poured the wine, Lodovico raised his glass. “To a beautiful evening with a beautiful signora,” he said, his eyes slightly flirtatious. We mildly clinked our crystal glasses together. 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 had ensued. We were enjoying a fruit and cheese tray for dessert with more of the same wine when Lodovico suddenly looked at me, a deeper seriousness in his eyes before he spoke.

“What?” I questioned him.

“I must tell you something,” he began. “I promise - it is completely true. I tell you this because I feel I know you – as if I know you for always.”

“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. I thought my heart might break if he told me he was married.

“You love Michelangelo, no?” he questioned.

A bit confused by his question, I nodded.

He smiled, a very handsome smile. It was beautiful.

“I am 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 was named for the greatest master of the Renaissance.” A fierce pride was all too evident in his eyes as he spoke. “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? But Lodovico, as if reading my mind yet again, immediately pulled out his wallet and showed me his identification to prove the truth of his name.

I looked up at this beautiful, kind man with a new understanding. Was there in fact more to this than even I could comprehend? Indeed, 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 heart over his jacket before I spoke. His eyes grew wide in surprise at my 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 covered my hand with his own. From that moment forward, neither of us saw anything or anyone else. And although I returned to the States for a brief time, I quickly rejoined Lodovico in the eternal city of Rome where my fascination, heart, and truest love had always resided. At long last, I had come home.