The short story "You're in Florence."
Author: Olga Sorokina
You are in Florence. Or better - in Firenze... How delicious it sounds in Italian!
You live with two friends two minutes walk to the Duomo in a 13th century stone house. This flat is rented to you by a classy Italian woman of about 45, she smells strongly of expensive perfume and you really like her large earrings. In a white trouser suit and heels, she shows you around this chic apartment and casually mentions:
- You even have your own access to the roof. Behind this door, up the stairs to the top.
The flat still has historic wooden beams in the great hall with three huge windows and even two stone fountains with lion masks built right into the wall. The view from your bedroom is like a postcard: hundreds of terracotta roofs of the hot daytime city, pigeons cooing just outside the window, and you already imagine waking up early tomorrow, sitting in a silk shirt by the window, putting your elbows on the sill and watching the city wake up, listening to its sounds, soaking in the colours.
It's a very hot summer this year, +40 C, you and your friends even seriously considered switching to living at night and sleeping during the day. Climbing Giotto Tower this morning up the narrow endless stairs was a challenge for everyone (you were really worried about the old lady who bought tickets after you) but the view from the top was worth it. There's a reason they call Florence "the stone bag." It's also hot.
My friends say:
- We're going to go buy bread, wine and slices.
You close the door behind them and run to that door.
Climb a few steps up a very narrow and short stone spiral staircase, open the heavy old door, hear the sounds of dozens of wings of disturbed pigeons and say on an exhale:
- Wow!
In front of you is a mosaic of the city in all shades of terracotta and ochre. You suddenly understood why these colours have Italian names: siena, umber... And the main thing is the dream view of the Palazzo Vecchio. You drew it in the second year of the academy in perspective classes, and now you see this tower, these proportions with your own eyes. It's like you're in your old art history book. It's breathtaking.
Your feet are already touching the warm and rough tiles and your mind is flashing :
- I hope it's not as old as this house, just as long as it doesn't go!
You tread carefully on it. You sit down, enchanted by this moment and stare at the city for a long, long time. You want to paint, but you don't want to go anywhere, not even for a moment to lose this view. You're alone with the city. It's as if you were in a Vrubel painting now.
It's evening, the heat of the day is gone. You think of the Renaissance, of all those old masters who lived here. They were young, they loved and they created. History was being made in this city in the 15th century: the kind of culture and painting that would influence art for centuries to come. And you are here now.
Painting like the old masters... friends barely got you out of the Uffizi Gallery yesterday. The bells of the Palazzo Vecchio are ringing, the long diagonal feather-like clouds are coloured apricot pink.
You squeeze your eyes shut:
- It feels so good!
You suddenly realise that Florence is your favourite city in Italy. You hear the front door open, the voices of friends and the rustle of packages and, anticipating the taste of ciabatta with salt and olive oil, you run downstairs.
From my Italian memories.
Olga Sorokina, June 2024
Please write your feelings, impressions from this story in the comments below and let me know if you want more such short stories from me in the future.
© Olga Sorokina
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