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Italian," she instructed. "I can't." "Then listen: 'Quando e stata costruita?'
Repeat that for me." Marco repeated it four times before she was satisfied. "I
don't believe in books or tapes or such things," she said as they continued to
gaze upward at the vast cathedral. "I believe in conversation, and more
conversation.
To learn to speak the language, then you have to speak it, over and over and
over, just like when you were a child." "Where did you learn English?" he
asked. "I can't answer that. I've been instructed to say nothing about my
past.
And yours too." For a split second, Marco came very close to turning around
and walking away. He was sick of people who couldn't talk to him, who dodged
his questions, who acted as if the whole world was filled with spies. He was
sick of the games. He was a free man, he kept telling himself, completely able
to come and go and make whatever decision he felt like. If he got sick of
Luigi and
Ermanno and now Signora Ferro, then he could tell the whole bunch, in Italian,
to choke on a panino. "It was begun in 1390, and things went smoothly for the
first hundred years or so," she said. The bottom third of the facade was a
handsome pink marble; the upper two-thirds was an ugly brown brick that hadn't
been layered with the marble. "Then it fell on hard times. Obviously, the
outside was never completed." "It's not particularly pretty."
"No, but it's quite intriguing. Would you like to see the inside?" What else
was he supposed to do for the next three hours? "Certamente," he said. They
climbed the steps and stopped at the front door. She looked at a sign and
said, "Mi dica."
Tell me. "What time does the church close?" Marco frowned hard, rehearsed
some words, and said, "La chiesa chiude alle sei." The church closes at six.
"Ripeta." He repeated it three times before she allowed him to stop, and they
stepped inside. "It's named in honor of Petronio, the patron saint of
Bologna,"
she said softly. The central floor of the cathedral was big enough for a
hockey match with large crowds on both sides. "Its huge," Marco said, in awe.
"Yes, and this is about one-fourth of the original design. Again, the pope got
worried and applied some pressure. It cost a tremendous amount of public
money, and eventually the people got tired of building." "It's still very
impressive." Marco was aware that they were chatting in English, which suited
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him fine. "Would you like the long tour or the short one?" she asked. Though
the inside was almost as cold as the outside, Signora Ferro seemed to be
thawing just a bit.
"You're the teacher," he said. They drifted to the left and waited for a small
group of Japanese tourists to finish studying a large marble crypt. Other than
the
Japanese, the cathedral was empty. It was a Friday in February, not exactly
peak tourist season. Later in the afternoon he would learn that Francesca's
very seasonal tourist work was quite slow in the winter months. That
confession was the only bit of personal data she divulged. Because business
was so slow, she felt no urge to race through the Basilica di San Petronio.
They saw all twenty-
two side chapels and looked at most of the paintings, sculptures, glasswork,
and frescoes. The chapels were built over the centuries by wealthy Bolognese
families who paid handsomely for commemorative art. Their construction was a
history of the city, and Francesca knew every detail. She showed him the well-
preserved skull of Saint Petronio himself sitting proudly on an altar, and an
astrological clock created in 1655 by two scientists wh o relied directly on
Galileo's studies at the university
.
Though sometimes bored with the intricacies of paintings and sculptures
, and inundated with names and dates, Marco gamely held on as the tou r inched
around the massive structure. Her voice captivated him, her rich slo w
delivery, her perfectly refined English
.
Long after the Japanese had abandoned the cathedral, they made it back t o the
front door and she said, "Had enough?
"
"Yes.
"
They stepped outside and she immediately lit a cigarette
.
"How about some coffee?" he said
.
"I know just the place.
"
He followed her across the street to Via Clavature; a few steps down an d they
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