( a fortnight has passed. twelve days, in actuality, and his mind has withered to an empty husk, dried and hollow, like the gourd that hangs above him. the cogs of his brain creak slowly and wearily, like the water wheel opposite the wall he lounges against. he waits for something to appear on the hazy horizon. a person or a sign to free him from the ennui, but he doesn't know what to look for. not knowing the path ahead β this cluelessness, listlessness, and helplessness are as stifling as the oppressive heat, an additional weight to his mind that makes it impossible to think.
spring has been warmer than usual with little rain for relief. the arno river is low, while the three minor rivers are dry or nearly dry. the sun bakes the florentine countryside. this heat makes it difficult to dredge up the motivation to move or even think.
sweat pops on the back of his neck, a slight breeze carrying his name, but no relief. someone is calling his name. it's signore fallaci, master of the house, and the irritation in his voice is as searing and uncompromising as the sun beating down on them. like the temperature, emotions are running high.
with considerable effort and a heavy sigh, he pushes himself off the wall. the dry grass crunches beneath his feet as he drags himself across the yard to the master of the house. once he arrives, the old man begins to yell at him for a loosely tied knot. he says, "old man", but he must be hardly older than forty; but years of hard fighting and even harder living have aged him. the finger he points in his apathetic face is gnarled and crooked like the olive trees that dot his property, modestly sized and prosperous for someone not connected to any of the ruling families in florence.
but signore fallaci's luck has run out. debts mount while his coffers ring like a funeral bell. perhaps that's why he allows the old man to scream and strike the rope against his legs. he knows when a corpse pretends to be human.
in the harsh sunlight, his blue eyes squint and flicker catch onto the signore's wife, signora fallaci, staring from the kitchen window, and her eyes dark with lust for him. perhaps her disinterest in her husband and obvious attraction to the young farmhand was another iron in the signore growing hatred and frustration. but the young farmhand says nothing, giving neither of them the reaction they desire. their hospitality is a kindness, so he avoids provoking them or being alone with signora. his heart longs elsewhere.
after a few minutes, the flames of the signore's anger die out, but they do not in his wife's eyes, so the young farmhand escapes to the stable to clean out the stalls. resolution strengthens his mind, sharpening it enough in the warm, musty air to form a plan. he could stay here a hundred years. the rains will come, the crops will grow, the walls of the house will fall, but he will remain as he is.
he has to do something, even if it yields nothing because something is better than nothing. something is movement. progress that he can grasp onto. growth that will lessen the weight and make it easier to breathe. something is something, and he can work with that.
night falls, and the heat slackens but only just. a silent, tense dinner passes. an argument between the husband and wife continues through terse glares and loud huffs, but the young farmhand neither notices nor cares. his mind is elsewhere as he carefully picks at the meal of bread, hard cheese, and salted meat. barely an hour later, and the candles are snuffed out. the soft hum of the crickets lulls the home's occupants to sleep. except for one.
pressing his ear to the thin, stone walls, he waits until he hears the slow, regular breathing of the signore and signora, and then he sneaks out from his small room, past theirs, and through the kitchen. the door barely creaks as he closes it behind him. they were kind to him when they didn't need to be. he was wearing a bedsheet in a way that resembled a toga when signore fallaci first stumbled upon him near his vineyard. without question or hesitation, the old man invited him in, clothed him, and fed him. he didn't have to show such kindness, but he did. which is why the young farmhand steals only a donkey when he flees into the night.
florence is less than ten miles away, and that's where he decides something might be. or, if not, it's where he'll make something and bend it to his will. but this is the medici's city, so his ambition and determination will not be seen as out of place.
travel lasts until dawn, when streaks of red and yellow creep over the surrounding hills. but he waits until the shops open and people fill the streets to enter the city. he wanders around the stone pavement for a while before selling the donkey to a passing farmer for a few florins. the donkey is old and tired, and he is hungry and tired. but rest is a gift bestowed to those who have completed their work, so he buys a loaf of bread and continues wandering. in the shadow of the medici and total freedom guiding his actions, the heat is a little more bearable.
finally, he sees the sign for a moneylender and, for reasons he can't explain, goes in. the store is empty, and that's perfect because there won't be any interruptions. the stone floor shines beneath his feet as he strides down the hall and to the desk, staffed by a dark-haired woman. he doesn't know her name β he didn't even bother to read the moneylender's name before entering β but that's not important. he places a hand on the desk, his hip leaning against the edge. his smile is restrained and modest, but it bursts with the unbridled joy and opportunity of a new day. he is a young and beamish bride on her wedding day. his voice is as clear and melodic as the bell above the door that heralded his arrival. )
I would like one thousand florins, please, Signora.
no subject
spring has been warmer than usual with little rain for relief. the arno river is low, while the three minor rivers are dry or nearly dry. the sun bakes the florentine countryside. this heat makes it difficult to dredge up the motivation to move or even think.
sweat pops on the back of his neck, a slight breeze carrying his name, but no relief. someone is calling his name. it's signore fallaci, master of the house, and the irritation in his voice is as searing and uncompromising as the sun beating down on them. like the temperature, emotions are running high.
with considerable effort and a heavy sigh, he pushes himself off the wall. the dry grass crunches beneath his feet as he drags himself across the yard to the master of the house. once he arrives, the old man begins to yell at him for a loosely tied knot. he says, "old man", but he must be hardly older than forty; but years of hard fighting and even harder living have aged him. the finger he points in his apathetic face is gnarled and crooked like the olive trees that dot his property, modestly sized and prosperous for someone not connected to any of the ruling families in florence.
but signore fallaci's luck has run out. debts mount while his coffers ring like a funeral bell. perhaps that's why he allows the old man to scream and strike the rope against his legs. he knows when a corpse pretends to be human.
in the harsh sunlight, his blue eyes squint and flicker catch onto the signore's wife, signora fallaci, staring from the kitchen window, and her eyes dark with lust for him. perhaps her disinterest in her husband and obvious attraction to the young farmhand was another iron in the signore growing hatred and frustration. but the young farmhand says nothing, giving neither of them the reaction they desire. their hospitality is a kindness, so he avoids provoking them or being alone with signora. his heart longs elsewhere.
after a few minutes, the flames of the signore's anger die out, but they do not in his wife's eyes, so the young farmhand escapes to the stable to clean out the stalls. resolution strengthens his mind, sharpening it enough in the warm, musty air to form a plan. he could stay here a hundred years. the rains will come, the crops will grow, the walls of the house will fall, but he will remain as he is.
he has to do something, even if it yields nothing because something is better than nothing. something is movement. progress that he can grasp onto. growth that will lessen the weight and make it easier to breathe. something is something, and he can work with that.
night falls, and the heat slackens but only just. a silent, tense dinner passes. an argument between the husband and wife continues through terse glares and loud huffs, but the young farmhand neither notices nor cares. his mind is elsewhere as he carefully picks at the meal of bread, hard cheese, and salted meat. barely an hour later, and the candles are snuffed out. the soft hum of the crickets lulls the home's occupants to sleep. except for one.
pressing his ear to the thin, stone walls, he waits until he hears the slow, regular breathing of the signore and signora, and then he sneaks out from his small room, past theirs, and through the kitchen. the door barely creaks as he closes it behind him. they were kind to him when they didn't need to be. he was wearing a bedsheet in a way that resembled a toga when signore fallaci first stumbled upon him near his vineyard. without question or hesitation, the old man invited him in, clothed him, and fed him. he didn't have to show such kindness, but he did. which is why the young farmhand steals only a donkey when he flees into the night.
florence is less than ten miles away, and that's where he decides something might be. or, if not, it's where he'll make something and bend it to his will. but this is the medici's city, so his ambition and determination will not be seen as out of place.
travel lasts until dawn, when streaks of red and yellow creep over the surrounding hills. but he waits until the shops open and people fill the streets to enter the city. he wanders around the stone pavement for a while before selling the donkey to a passing farmer for a few florins. the donkey is old and tired, and he is hungry and tired. but rest is a gift bestowed to those who have completed their work, so he buys a loaf of bread and continues wandering. in the shadow of the medici and total freedom guiding his actions, the heat is a little more bearable.
finally, he sees the sign for a moneylender and, for reasons he can't explain, goes in. the store is empty, and that's perfect because there won't be any interruptions. the stone floor shines beneath his feet as he strides down the hall and to the desk, staffed by a dark-haired woman. he doesn't know her name β he didn't even bother to read the moneylender's name before entering β but that's not important. he places a hand on the desk, his hip leaning against the edge. his smile is restrained and modest, but it bursts with the unbridled joy and opportunity of a new day. he is a young and beamish bride on her wedding day. his voice is as clear and melodic as the bell above the door that heralded his arrival. )
I would like one thousand florins, please, Signora.