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It’s only a moment. No epic fascinates me, simply those moments that distinguish themselves - enough to be called moments -to define what moment means.
I’ll begin with the setting, give it a context. This was last summer, in Florence. Despite the humidity, the day was overcast. Clouds slowly undulated together and apart, formless and unfixed. Grey spread out to white and masked the morning. It was early. The leather marketers set out their stalls, and the tourist groups circled the outskirts of the city like vandals planning a skirmish. We follow one tourist group in particular.
The Seekers International tour group entered Florence on a single decked coach. The tourists poured out and came together as a mass of sunglasses, cameras, straw hats and T-shirts. We follow one tourist in particular.
Michael was thirty four and over weight. Not obese, nothing carnival, individual or special. He wasn’t with anyone, but neither was he distinguishable from the group. He wore sandals, khaki trousers, a plain white T-shirt, sunglasses and a black baseball cap. It is easier to describe him in terms of objects. His T-shirt tucked into his trousers, and clung tightly to his gut. On leaving the coach he squinted. It looked like a smile.
The tourist group flowed through the side streets like cells through veins. The first attraction was the chapel where Dante’s tomb rested.
The chapel was nothing impressive from the side alley through which the group approached. Red brick surged upward toward the apex of triangles. The facade, however, impressed. A statue of Dante, austere and ascetic, guarded, his stare transfixed on some unknowable point, never meeting human gaze.
Michael looked at the statue and briefly tried to see what it was that fascinated Dante. He couldn’t. Instead, Michael saw that the piazza was under renovation, the square only being accessible from the side street he had just walked. High metal fences separated the public from the work area, and workmen were already digging up concrete and pulling down fountains this early in the morning. Michael looked on as two Italian workmen pointed over to the group, said something incomprehensible, and laughed. Michael turned back to face the chapel.
Impressive in the daunting sense of sublime. The size impressed, but the fact that the elaborate and ornate design filled the facade fascinated. It was in contrast to the stark statue of Dante. There were four turrets, the two on the extreme ends being equal in size, the two in the middle leading upward. Each turret was topped by the entire facade in miniature. Triangles joined the turrets, each having a golden cross adorn their face. The middle section, which raised above the two side sections, has an eye in the centre of a blue star look out. The eye was the shape of a burning sun. Below this motif, a huge circle of purple-blue stained glass allowed the outside in. Below this a huge marble doorway enclosed the oak door. Dark greens and pinks crossed the grey-white of the chapel front, and the faces of saints observed every entrance, every exit.
The group spent a few minutes trying to find the right camera angle, but the road works stopped them from retreating far enough away, so that they could only capture a part and not the whole.
Michael wheezed in lastly and went immediately cold. He took off his sunglasses and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He could hear tourists arguing with the man selling tickets. They could not see why they had to cover their knees and shoulders, and what is the point in not being allowed to take photographs?
The chapel smelt dark and enclosed. Michael was unconcerned by the atmosphere and went through the turnstile, briefly wondering why they had a turnstile in a chapel, who are they afraid they are going to let out? He wandered away from the group disinterestedly, the tour guide’s voice fading into all the other echoes.
He walked up to tombs and sloughed over them momentarily, mentally ticking off Dante, Galileo, Macheavelli. He arrived at Michealangelo’s tomb and stopped.
At first he was struck by its familiarity. Bizarrely, it reminded him of his grandmother’s fireplace. It appeared to have a hearth, fireplace and mantelpiece, all made of the same dirty white marble of the chapel front. It even looked like a picture on top of the mantelpiece, a picture of two people beating a third. A russet mantle draped down over the sides of the tomb.
Michael slowly pushed the idea of it being his grandmother’s fireplace from his mind. He looked at the three statuettes, all facing away from the casket, non looking at him. And Michael stood there. Maybe for a moment, maybe for a minute. He followed the name with his eyes, Michealangelo Banardotio. Michael looked down at himself and froze with surprise. Red tear drops had stained his white T-shirt. He didn’t think he had been crying.
The moment of confusion, of no explanation passed. He had a nose bleed, which had already stopped. He untucked his white shirt and held the edges out with both hands. Blood had fallen like tears and stained him.
Outside, Michael slumped onto the steps. One foot was on a higher step, and he rested his arms across his knees. He raised one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. His fingers then brushed through his hair and came to rest on the back of his neck. In this pose he looked down on the stains. He did not know. Michael stirred, looked at the sky, and walked away.