The Gilder Read Online Free PDF Page B

apartment. “It’s the bottom bell. There’s no name.”
     
    Marina found their street adjacent to the church of Santa Croce. A narrow sidewalk ran along the base of the tall, shuttered apartment buildings, but it was easier to walk in the street. If the buildings had been brownstones, with leafy trees planted at regular intervals, it could have been Greenwich Village. Joey’s Bakery would be up ahead, and Elsa would be sitting on a stoop, smoothing her collection of fabric scraps, her shopping cart heaped with rags. Marina passed a small latteria that sold milk and cheese, and a tiny bar with a clientele of toothless, white-haired men who sat on rickety chairs heatedly debating some topic. Out of nowhere, a wave of homesickness swept over her, and she blinked back the sting of tears. “You are in Florence,” she admonished herself. “This is your dream. Get a grip!” It wasn’t so much a longing for home as it was apprehension. Having the dream was one thing, but having it manifest was another, and things seemed to be moving quickly. She’d met her first friends and they seemed genuinely interested in her, her language course was about to start, and she was going to look at an apartment to rent. But what if she’d dreamed the wrong dream? Taken the wrong path? How would she know?
    She found the number Sarah had given her and stood on the sidewalk looking up at the building, a sheer façade of gray stone with skinny windows. Larger than those surrounding it, it was without balconies or decorative elements of any kind. The entrance was a set of doors painted poppy red, each with a heavy iron handle. To the right of the doorway, set into the stone, was a highly polished brass plate with seven bells, running from top to bottom. Each bell had a name alongside it except the bottom one. Marina pushed the button. A moment later, the buzzer sounded and the latch released. Stepping through the doorway, Marina found herself in a cool, dark vestibule. A set of wide stone steps with a wrought iron handrail was dimly lit by light filtering down from a skylight on the top floor. As Marina looked up, she heard Sarah’s voice echo down the stairwell.
    “Come up. We’re on the second floor.”
    Marina climbed to the landing where Sarah stood like a flower blooming in a cracked pavement against the backdrop of gray stone and drab walls. The ankle-length Indian dress reminded Marina of the hippies at NYU, except this dress, with its heavy celadon skirt and multicolored woven bodice, had an air of authenticity. Sarah’s hair was caught up in a bright silk scarf fringed with tiny mirrored discs, and enameled earrings hung from her ears like miniature chandeliers. In her jeans, boots, and sweater, Marina felt as dull as the stone floor, but at least she had on her Guatemalan sweater, which she hoped counted for something, if not style, a progressive attitude or something to that effect.
    Sarah took her hand and pulled her into the apartment as if she were a reluctant child on the first day of kindergarten, which was actually not far off, since Marina had been wrestling with doubts the whole way there. After all, she didn’t know these people, and while she was intrigued and attracted, if for no other reason than they were interested in her, she had sworn not to get sucked into the ex-pat scene. But she was here, and the room in which they now stood was amazing. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this. The room was at least forty feet long, with a high ceiling and two sets of French doors that opened onto a terrace. Oriental rugs were scattered like stepping-stones across the tiled floor, and large abstract paintings and framed black-and-white photographs covered the walls. At the far end of the room, a bed was partially visible through an archway draped with a red velvet swag.
    Marina turned in a circle. “Wow. This is beautiful. I didn’t realize there’d be so much light. From the street it looks like