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Plenty More Fish in the Sea
I’m looking at a portrait of a young woman, hung on the wall of an art gallery. And washing over me is the oddest kind of déjà vu, a dizziness that’s making my head spin a little. I can see my own face reflected in the glass, overlaid on hers, and it’s reminding me, suddenly, of the last time I saw myself inside an ornate gold portrait frame. Of how my summer Italian adventure started.
I’m in Italy, on a hot July afternoon, grateful for the thick stone walls of the Siena art museum, cooling the air. And the reason I’m in this country is that a few months ago, back home in London, in another museum, I saw another painting--of a girl who looked so like me that it made me feel something I had wondered about for most of my life might be true after all. That portrait sent me on a search to find out how I could possibly have had a twin in eighteenth-century Italy.
Thank goodness, this picture doesn’t look anything like me. Quite the opposite, in fact. The girl, or young woman, is pale, with a long nose that seems to follow straight down from her high, extremely plucked, winged eyebrows. There’s a flush in her cheeks, and her lips are dark pink, pressed firmly together, set with determination, the same determination that comes through clearly in the firm jut of her chin. And when you look down to the baby she’s holding in her arms, you understand why she looks so resolved. Because that’s not just any baby; it’s Jesus.
“I like her,” I say quietly to Kelly, who’s standing next to me.
She nods, looking dazed. Kelly isn’t used to going around proper museums. Unlike me, lucky enough to have been taken on trips and to lots of art galleries and sent to an expensive private school, Kelly isn’t from a privileged background. These extraordinary paintings and sculptures we’ve seen in Siena today have hit her like a ton of bricks; she’s staring in absolute awe at each one.
This Madonna and Child is definitely having a powerful effect on us. As I lean forward to look at the mother’s expression, my face appears in the glass again, and I feel it’s a reproach for having abandoned my quest. I came to Italy to find out why, when I don’t look anything like my parents, I have a Tuscan double from the eighteenth century--only to find myself tangled in a web of family secrets that I had never anticipated. I thought I might have been adopted, or was maybe some weird kind of genetic throwback, and I was prepared for that. I love my mum and dad with all my heart, but I still needed to know why I look so very different from them.
What I hadn’t expected--how could I have?--was to find myself falling for the son of the family that lives in the castle where the portrait was painted. And to have to face the fear that Luca, the boy I find so desperately attractive, might be--dare I even think it again--my half brother. That his playboy dad might be my biological dad too. I backed off my search when I realized that awful possibility.
But looking at the Madonna in front of me, at the strength of purpose I read in her face, I feel ashamed. I let myself be distracted from my quest by my feelings for a boy. I pushed the whole thing under the carpet, pretended it never happened, because I was scared to find out that Luca and I are blood relatives.
Well, time to get back on track, Violet! I tell myself decisively. There are plenty more fish in the sea besides Luca di Vesperi! You have to woman up, as Paige would say. Finding out the truth about who you are is much more important than spending time with a boy you fancy. Boys come and go, but knowing who you are and where you come from is priceless.
I feel myself setting my chin decisively. I have to write to my mum. I can’t put it off anymore. I thought I could find out the truth without upsetting her; I was too scared to ask her before, since she’s never said anything to me. We love each other so much that I’ve been afraid of doing anything that might make her sad. But I need to know the truth about myself. I can tell her some of the story--not that I came to Tuscany on this mission, but that by coincidence, we visited the castello and I met the principessa--who blurted out that I looked just like the people in her husband’s family. It’s raised the question even more strongly of why I don’t look anything like Mum or Dad, anything at all. . . .
I heave a deep sigh, fully understanding for the first time in my life the expression about a weight falling from your shoulders. The sense of relief is overwhelming. I feel as if I could float off the ground, like smoke rising gently into the air.
“I’m going to write to my mum and ask her to tell me everything,” I say to Kelly, who knows the whole story and is quick enough to grasp immediately what I mean.
“I think that’s a brilliant idea, Violet,” she says seriously, and takes my hand. “You need to know. Do it as soon as we get back.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
“Omigod, look at that hair!” Paige exclaims, coming up behind us. “It’s like they had hot rollers in ancient times!”
She’s not talking about the Madonna, whose hair is pulled back under a translucent white veil, but about the angel standing behind her. The angel’s tresses are an impressive riot of golden curls. It’s typical of Paige to focus on the most frivolous aspect of the painting.
“Painted by Francesco di Giorgio in 1471,” Kelly says, reading from the plaque.
“They all look exactly the same,” Paige continues, looming over us. “All these girls.”
“It’s what was fashionable then,” Kelly explains. “Their ideal of beauty. They only painted women who looked like you were supposed to look.”
“That’s harsh,” Paige says, her wide mouth opening in surprise. “And unfair. Kendra?”
She turns, and with a wide swing of her arm, her bangles jingling, waves over the fourth member of our summer course, who strolls over to join us. Heads turn to look at Paige, mostly with disapproving expressions at the noise she’s making, but Paige is oblivious. These two American girls are unself-conscious in public, with none of the self-effacing, be-quiet-and-don’t-call-attention-to-yourself manners we British have.
“Hey, Kendra!” Paige continues. “Did you know that long ago you had to have a certain look for people to think you were beautiful?”
Kendra raises her eyebrows. “Times haven’t changed that much,” she says dryly. “I don’t see many girls my color on the cover of fashion magazines.”
Kendra is African American. I haven’t thought about it before, but now that she makes the point, I see what she means.
“There are some girls like you on magazine covers,” says tall, blond Paige. “Aren’t there?”
Kendra says tersely, “Hardly.”
Kelly, who’s redheaded and definitely on the curvy side, says pointedly, “But all the girls in magazines are thin like you, Kendra.”
A sharp clap interrupts my thoughts. We all turn as one, conditioned now by the sound that Catia Cerboni, our guide, uses to summon our attention. You don’t mess with Catia, especially when it comes to the cultural side of things, the art visits and the language lessons that are the essential part of our summer courses. She takes those responsibilities seriously, though in other areas she’s considerably more lax.
“Girls! We will move on now,” she announces. Thin as a rake, her linen shift dress miraculously uncreased even on this hot and sweaty day, wafting Chanel Cristalle perfume, Catia is the epitome of Italian chic. Which, under the circumstances, is pretty ironic.
“We have seen the best of Sienese icon paintings, and now we go to the Duomo,” Catia announces. “The cathedral. It is in the Italian Gothic style, one of the most perfect examples of medieval architecture.”
Paige complains. “We’re walking so much today! Is it far? Can we get a cab?”
“Honestly, Paige,” Kendra says impatiently. “Everything here’s really close. Siena is tiny.”
“It’s so hot . . . and my feet hurt . . . ,” Paige whines, but she perks up as we leave the museum and emerge again into crowded and utterly fascinating Siena. It looks as if there hasn’t been anything new built here since the Middle Ages. Its sun-warmed gray stone buildings are packed closely together, and because it’s on a steep hill, the narrow streets are almost all sloped. No sidewalks, and when one of the orange city buses swings around a corner, perilously near, we all follow the lead of the locals and squish back against the wall of the closest shop. The bus turns within a foot of us, the driver calculating the angle perfectly.
We gasp at how close the bus comes. Our reaction would be enough to identify us as tourists even disregarding the obvious physical evidence that we aren’t Italian. Well, I look Italian: olive skin tone, dark curling hair and dark eyes. Because of this, no boys give me a passing glance; their attention is for the exotic threesome I’m with.
I wonder if I fell for Luca because he was the only boy who noticed me. That’s all, no other reason. I wish I could believe that.
“Shoes!” Paige is sighing, her face lit up with the same kind of ecstasy Kelly showed when she was looking at the Madonna and Child. “Look at those stunners in that shop! Can we--”
“After the Duomo, perhaps we visit some shops,” Catia says, whisking us up the street, past so many enticing places to spend more money: leather goods, stationery boutiques, lace makers.
We find ourselves in a little piazza with a church looming in front of us, and on the left, a steep flight of marble stairs leading high up the hill. Catia climbs briskly, calling, with the voice of a woman who has led many groups of excited teenage girls up these very dramatic steps, that we can take photos later. And at the top of the stairs, we go through a high arch and reach our destination, right at the top of Siena: the Duomo.
It does take your breath away.
“It’s like a wedding cake!” Paige breathes, and actually, I know what she means. It’s the layers. The cathedral, looming above us, is built of white and greenish-black marble, layered in stripes, and as we reach its fac¸ade, our heads tilt back almost as far as they can go to take in the icing on the cake, ornate carvings and sculptures and gargoyles, red marble added into the mix. Catia’s voice flows over us with an impressive array of information she’s clearly trotted out many times before. It’s impossible to separate her descriptions of which bits are French Gothic, which classical, and which are Tuscan Romanesque, and I doubt any of us are even trying.
As we walk inside, we gasp in unison at the sheer scale of the cathedral. The breathtakingly tall marble pillars, striped in black and white--Siena’s civic colors, Catia is telling us--the dome above, the ceiling painted in rich blue with golden stars. In the center of the opulently gilded and carved dome, a golden lantern lets in the bright light, like the sun itself. Jewel colors dazzle as the sun pours through the round stained-glass windows. I swivel around, feasting my eyes, as silent as the rest.
We wander down the nave, into the chapel, into the library, following the sound of Catia’s voice. Our heads go back to look at exquisitely painted ceilings, tilt down again to stare at elaborately inlaid marble floors. Oxblood-red, sapphire, emerald-and-white marble glow like mother-of-pearl in the mosaic work, which Catia informs us is called intarsia. Finally, we take in the bright frescos wrapping around the walls. We are completely quiet, overwhelmed by this much lavishness, by the incredible amount of work that has gone into creating this place of worship.
Catia is so pleased by our subdued demeanor that she lets us stop for photos on the marble steps, plus visit the shoe shop Paige spotted on the way up here. Paige is actually the only one who goes, and she can’t focus enough to buy anything. In the gelato shop next door, we don’t agonize loudly over our choices, either: we’re quiet, still under the spell of the Duomo. We look down at the amazing shell-shaped Piazza del Campo as we pass, walking back up the Banchi di Sopra, our heads full of beauty, quite ready to drive home.
But then, crossing Piazza Matteotti, the day takes a totally unexpected turn. There’s a staircase on the far left with an iron balustrade, leading up to a church. It’s Kelly who spots them, nudging me excitedly, as the boys vault over the railing, whooping, and land lightly on the warm stone of the piazza. Two lean, handsome Italian boys, slim in their pale shirts and tight jeans, their hair falling forward over their foreheads, and just behind them, an American, much more casual in a T-shirt and loose jeans, his hair cropped close to his head, his blue eyes bright in his deeply tanned skin.
“Andrea!” Kelly exclaims. If we didn’t know already that she has a huge crush on him, she’d have completely given herself away with the squeal of excitement with which she calls his name. “Leonardo,” she adds swiftly, “and Evan! What’re you doing here?”
Leonardo is Catia’s son, and Andrea is his best friend; they’re party boys, out for a good time, nothing more, in my opinion. They’re fun but shallow. I’m always a little wary of boys who know exactly how good-looking they are. Evan, one of Paige’s many brothers, just arrived two days ago. He’s been backpacking around Europe with friends on his summer holidays, and came to crash at the villa while the friends go to a folk-music festival in Umbria that he didn’t fancy.
There’s an Italian word I’ve learned, “solare.” It means “sunny” and it’s used to describe people. That’s Evan. He’s sunny. He has a lovely big smile that crinkles his eyes and lights up his whole blunt-featured face; like his sister, he reminds me of a golden Labrador: friendly, good-natured, easygoing. But he’s also clearly more mature than Paige, and not just because he’s three years older. Paige is wild, uninhibited, gets drunk and falls over; I can’t imagine Evan behaving like that. He seems sensible, sober, reliable. I haven’t had much chance to get to know him, but already I like him a lot.