Gabriel's Rapture by Reynard, Sylvain (best pdf reader for ebooks .TXT) 📗

After a relatively restful sleep and a shower, Gabriel contacted his old friend Dottore Vitali at the Uffizi Gallery and met him for dinner. They spoke of Harvard’s new chair of Dante Studies. They spoke of Giuseppe Pacciani and Gabriel was marginally gratified to learn that although Giuseppe had been offered a campus interview while Gabriel had not, Giuseppe’s lecture had been regarded as poor by the Harvard faculty. It was cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

The next day Gabriel sought to distract himself from his troubles by engaging in pleasurable activities—breakfast on a piazza, a walk along the Arno, a lengthy afternoon at his tailor’s in which he ordered a hand-made black wool suit, and an hour or so spent looking for the perfect pair of shoes to match his finery. His tailor joked that the suit was so fine Gabriel could be married in it. The tailor had laughed, until Gabriel held up his left hand and showed him his ring.

“I’m newly married,” he explained, much to the tailor’s surprise.

No matter where Gabriel walked in the city of Florence, he was assaulted with memories of her. He would stand on the Ponte Santa Trinita, hugging the sweet and sour feelings tightly to his chest, knowing that they were preferable to chemical alternatives.

Late one evening, slightly drunk, he wandered by the Duomo, retracing the path he’d taken with Julianne months earlier. Tortured by his memory of her face when she accused him of fucking her, he stumbled across a familiar looking beggar, who sat in the shade of Brunelleschi’s dome.

Gabriel approached him.

“Just a few coins for an old man,” the beggar cried in Italian.

Gabriel grew closer, eying the man suspiciously. The scent of unwashed flesh and alcohol assailed him, but he grew closer still. Recognizing the beggar as the same man who’d inspired Julia’s charity back in December, Gabriel stopped, swaying on his feet.

He felt for his wallet. Without bothering to look at the denominations, he withdrew several bills and held them in front of the man.

“I saw you last December. Yet, you’re still here.” Gabriel’s Italian was only slightly accusatory.

The man eyed the money hungrily. “I’m here every day. Even Christmas.”

Gabriel dangled the Euros closer to the man. “My fidanzata gave you money. You called her an angel. Do you remember?”

The man smiled toothlessly and shook his head, never allowing his eyes to leave the cash.

“There are many angels in Firenze, but more in Assisi. I think God favors the beggars there. But this is my home.” The man hesitantly held out his hand, uncertain that Gabriel would actually give him the money.

In his imagination, Gabriel could see Julia’s face as she compassionately argued the beggar’s case. She wanted to give him money even if there was a strong possibility that he’d waste the money on drink.

As Gabriel regarded the beggar, no better off than he’d been before Julia’s generosity, he was struck by the fact that she wouldn’t have hesitated to donate again and again. She would have given the man coins every day, because she thought the act of charity was never wasted. She would have lived in hope that one day the man would realize that someone cares for him and try to get help. Julia knew her kindness made her vulnerable, but she was kind anyway.

Gabriel placed the bills in the man’s hand and turned sharply on his heel, the echoes of the beggar’s joy and blessings ringing in his ears.

He wasn’t deserving of a blessing. He hadn’t committed an act of charity the way Julianne would have done it, out of compassion and kindness. He was simply doing justice to her memory, or purchasing an indulgence.

As tripped over a cobblestone, he realized what he had to do.

* * *

The next day he tried to secure the house in Umbria that he’d shared with her, but it was already occupied. So he traveled to Assisi where he checked into a small, private hotel that was simple in its furnishings and populated with pilgrims.

Gabriel had never styled himself as a pilgrim. He was far too proud for that. Nevertheless, there was something in the air in Assisi that allowed him to sleep peacefully. In fact, it had been the best sleep he’d had since leaving Julia’s arms.

He rose early the next morning and made his way to the Basilica of St. Francis. It was a place of pilgrimage for persons of all faiths, if only for its medieval frescoes and the peaceful atmosphere that pervaded it. It was no little coincidence that he found himself retracing the steps he’d taken with Julianne prior to Christmas. He’d taken her to Mass in the Basilica superiore or upper part of the church, and had even waited patiently while she went to confession before the Mass began.

As he wandered through the upper Basilica, admiring the images and drinking in the comforting quiet of the sanctuary, he caught a glimpse of a woman with long, brown hair disappear through a doorway. Intrigued, he decided to follow her. Despite the crowd of tourists and pilgrims, it was easy to pick her out, and so he found himself descending to the Basilica inferiore.

Then she vanished.

Distressed, he searched the lower church. Only when his search proved fruitless did it occur to him to descend deeper into the bowels of the Basilica toward the tomb of St. Francis. There she was, kneeling in front of the crypt. He slipped into the last row of pews and out of respect, knelt. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

It wasn’t Julianne. The young woman in front of him was a little fuller in the hips and wider in the shoulders and her hair was darker. But she was beautiful, and her beauty reminded him of how much he’d lost.

The room was small and primitive, a studied contrast to the wide-open and elaborately frescoed upper Basilica. Gabriel was not alone in finding that the simplicity that was St. Francis’s life and mission was more