Fainting Over Dafydd
Prologue
Or at least books of information – for provided
that nothing like useful knowledge
could be gained from them, provided they
were all story and no reflection,
she never had any objection to books at all.
~ Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
Catharine sat outside her advisor’s office and waited nervously. She hadn’t called this meeting. Her advisor had and no good could come from that.
Dr. Walker came walking down the hall with a sheaf of papers in her hand, a briefcase thrown over one shoulder and three students trailing after her clamoring for her attention; each one trying to talk to her at once. Catharine recognized the students as grad students in the English department. Dr. Walker dealt with each one. One was told to make an appointment and the other two were given a one week extension on their respective theses. After they left Dr. Walker looked at Catharine and smiled.
“Ready to come in?”
Catharine grabbed her red leather laptop/brief case and put her cell phone on vibrate in her pocket and stepped inside Dr. Walker’s office.
The office was warm; it had no windows. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with books and Dr. Walker had to move a pile of papers so Catharine could sit down.
“Now Ms. Moore, let’s talk about your literature review.”
Catharine smiled nervously. Dr. Walker was her new advisor. Her old one had retired after having two heart attacks brought on by students like Catharine or so he had claimed. Dr. Walker had become Catharine’s advisor three months ago near the end of March. It was now almost June.
“Dr. Born let you cover a great deal in your original proposal, but I’m wondering if you’ll ever finish. I haven’t received anything new from you except the literature review Dr. Born gave me, which you turned in last September. What have you been doing since then?”
Two hours later a numbed Catharine stepped into her office three floors up from Dr. Walker’s office. Catharine also had no windows, but she had a desktop fan and she turned that on and plopped down in front of it. The meeting with Dr. Walker was worse than she had anticipated.
Catharine needed an escape. She logged onto her favorite website in hopes that her friend was there. Her fingers flew at she typed in www.thefirstmodernman.com and put in her username and password. She checked to see who else was online: Belladona was there. Catharine began to chat.
Botticellibabe : crap. am in serious trouble. SOS
Belladonna: whats up?
Botticellibabe: just met with advisor. thinks dissertation too large. thinks i can’t finish. thinks my research is too weak.
Belladonna: what would niccolo do? u need to prince it up!
Botticellibabe: u r right. i will prince it up. isis, i’m going to seek my adventures abroad.
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland
in her infancy would have supposed
her born to be a heroine.
~Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
Catharine Moore, or Khaki as her friends called her, was on the third and last leg of her journey. The day before she flew out of the San Francisco International Airport on her way to Florence, Italy. Her mother had insisted she fly home from New York for a week before leaving the country. The weather in San Francisco had been mild and nice for a June day. She was delayed in Philadelphia because of severe thunderstorms. Twenty-four hours after she had left San Francisco, she landed in Rome. Originally she had thought to take a train straight to Florence, but after a long night of not sleeping, there was a crying baby on board her flight, and a surly customs agent, Khaki decided Florence could wait one more day. She went to the nearest hotel and crashed, without even eating.
“I know to avoid jet lag I should stay awake until later tonight, but I just can’t,” Khaki said to an empty hotel room.
She briefly thought about going sightseeing, but the bed looked so comfortable she fell on it and was asleep in seconds.
When Khaki awoke the room was dark. She fumbled for the light switch and winced as the room was brought into light. Her bedside clock said it was 3:30 AM. It was 6:30PM in San Francisco: dinner time. Khaki’s stomach grumbled.
Khaki swung her body to the side of the bed, rubbed her eyes and stretched. She stood up to go to the bathroom and tripped over one of her many bags.
“Oooof!” she cried as she face-planted on the floor in an ungraceful manner her high school ballet teacher would have been shocked at, but at 29, Khaki was no longer a dancer. Instead she was a doctoral student studying English with a minor in art history. Five years ago, when she started the Ph. D., she had thought she could finish in four years and teach. Now the big three-oh was staring her in the face and her dissertation was just a bud eagerly awaiting a spring rain to really make it grow. After a year of starting and stopping she decided to take the plunge and dive headfirst into her research and into her luggage it would seem.
This meant traveling around Europe to visit destinations where the books she was writing about were written. She also should have been traveling to the Middle East, but her mother had firmly said no since the area was in turmoil.
“I won’t have you running around that region researching. Look what happened to Daniel Pearl when he did!” Khaki’s mother argued.
“Mom, Daniel Pearl was killed in Pakistan. Plus he was researching terrorism for a major newspaper. I would be researching The Epic of Gilgamesh for a dissertation. I doubt anything would happen with me holed up in a library, but you’re right. I won’t go. Instead I’ll go to Italy and Wales.”
Secretly Khaki was glad her mother had said no to the Middle East. It meant maybe she could cut down her dissertation.
Khaki pushed herself off the floor and went into the bathroom. She splashed water on her face and dried it off. She walked back into the room and looked for her carry-on bag, which she new had some Special K chocolaty drizzle bars in it. She found them at the bottom of the bag. A little smushed, but still good enough for a late night snack.
She sat back on the bed and turned on the TV. Everything was in Italian, but she did find a late night showing of “Some Like It Hot” dubbed in Italian. Khaki thought it was funny how Marilyn Monroe managed to still sound breathless in a foreign language.
Khaki fell asleep again in a bed littered with Special K wrappers and a bottle of water next to her.
When she woke for the second time that day she showered and pulled on some comfortable travel clothes: a fitted black t-shirt, a long black sweater and khaki pants. Khaki loved to wear khaki pants and she often became the brunt of a joke because her parents nicknamed her Khaki. She put on comfortable sandals, a pair of Clarks she’d had for years and tied her long brown hair into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.
She picked up her cell phone and decided she should call her mother. She should have called her when she got in, but she was just too tired. She dialed. Her mother picked up on the first ring.
“Catharine Jane Moore! Why have you not called before this? Your plane got in yesterday! I was worried sick. I called CNN to see if any planes had crashed. And let me tell you, those people are not very nice. I was all worried about my baby girl and did they care?! No. Now I want to know….”
Khaki cut her mother off. “Mom, it was late. I was tired. Do I have to remind you that I’m twenty-nine? I can take care of myself.”
“Sure you can. If your plane starts to fall apart like it did in Lost you can just use your Go-Go Gadget arms to keep it together? Or perhaps you can grow wings. Should I alert to media that my only daughter can fly?”
“Mom, I promise next time I will call in a timely manner. And no, I do not have gadget arms and I did not grow wings. I need to catch a train to Florence. I promise I’ll buy you a genuine Italian leather purse when I get there.”
“Okay, but make sure it’s not too expensive and that it matches my brown loafers and you know how I like the straps to be….”
“I know, Mom. I love you.”
“Love you too, dear. Be safe.”
Khaki rolled her eyes. She loved her mother, but sometimes she could be a bit much. After gathering her bags, she checked out of the hotel and walked the few short blocks to the train station. In broken Italian she was able to purchase a train ticket to Florence. Machiavelli and the de Medici were in Florence and while Ovid was in Rome, Khaki was thinking of cutting The Metamorphosis as well as The Epic of Gilgamesh from her dissertation. She thought about her dissertation:
Fabulous Beast: From Gilgamesh to Machiavelli: Cyclical representation of the unicorn in mythic cautionary tales and the decline of pantheistic cultural ideologies in Mesopotamian, Ancient Roman, Medieval Welsh and Renaissance Florentine civilizations.
Her advisor, Dr. Walker, had said it was ambitious. Now Khaki thought it might be a little too ambitious.
“Surely, just focusing on two of the books would be acceptable and I might actually finish if I change my dissertation a little.”
Khaki boarded her train and chose a window seat near the front of the train. This was her first time in Italy. When she had studied abroad in Wales during undergrad she hadn’t made it to Italy. Not staying a few days in Rome to see the sights was a very tough decision, but she reasoned she could always take the train back to Rome and stay a few days before heading off to northern Wales. She had taken off three months from her teaching responsibilities and she planned to use every day of it to research and study.
The train wasn’t filled, so she had two seats to herself. She opened her messenger bag, which had served as her carry-on during the flight. She pulled out a well-worn copy of The Prince by Machiavelli and opened it to the first page.
“To the Magnificent Lorenzo Di Piero De’ Medici: Those who strive to obtain the good graces of prince are accustomed to come before him with such things as they hold most precious….”
A large, rumbling laugh interrupted Khaki’s reading. She looked around the train car and saw it came from a dark-haired man sitting a few seats in front of her. He was by himself and holding a book, which Khaki assumed had made him laugh.
“I remember when I used to laugh at books” she thought.
She hadn’t done that for a while. Now it was constant reading of criticism and symbolism and tons of other isms. Her American Puritan roots were starting to catch up to her. All work and no play. She took one last look at the laughing man and opened Machiavelli again.
***
If adventures will not befall a young lady
in her own village, she must seek
them abroad.
~ Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
Four hours, three cups of coffee and a pre-package sandwich later, the train coasted to a stop in Florence at Santa Maria Novella. Khaki went to collect her bags. The laughing man was getting his bags as well. Khaki reached for her large suitcase and pulled on the handle. It was stuck. She tugged again and almost fell backward when the bag dislodged itself. Strong arms caught her. Khaki looked up and saw amazing blue eyes and what she would call a $10,000 smile looking down on her.
“Careful, there,” the laughing man said.
Khaki smiled ruefully. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
He grabbed his own bag, a very nice and small leather carryall and got off the train.
Khaki watched him leave and noticed how nicely his jeans fit him. She also wondered where he was from. His English was good and his accent strange yet oddly musical. She shook her head and left the train. Her hotel, the Hotel Pensione Ferretti, was supposed to be 200 meters away.
It was a beautiful day in Florence, seventy-nine degrees with a slight breeze blowing through. She found her hotel with little difficulty.
She stepped into the lobby and was greeted by a tall, thin, dark man.
“Buona sera, signora.”
“Hello.”
“Ah, you are American. You checking in?”
“Yes, the reservation is under Catharine Moore.”
“Here it is. Catharine Moore. You supposed to arrive yesterday.”
“I know, but my flight was delayed and by the time I got to Rome I was just too tired to continue. Do you still have a room for me?”
“Bella signora, yes we have room for you. If you fill this out, I get you your key.”
Khaki took the pen and started filling out the form. The receptionist returned with her key.
“Here you are. Room 216. My name is Pietro. Let me know if I can be of assistance.”
Khaki looked at her key. It was an old-fashioned looking key with an ornate chain.
“I love that it’s a real key and not one of those plastic cards,” she enthused.
Pietro just smiled.
“Can you recommend a quiet place where I can eat a light dinner?”
“The Café Sandro in the Piazza della Signoria. Is also the entrance to the Uffizi, which I think you most want to see?”
“Actually I’m here to study Machiavelli and the de Medici. But I do want to go to the Uffizi.”
“Tomorrow I give you directions to Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale or the National Central Library. Largest library in Europe. “
“Grazie.”
“Signora di buona note.”
Khaki took her key, picked up her bags and went to her room. The room was clean and airy. The bed had a brightly colored comforter and the floor was tiled and covered with area rugs. She had requested a double bed with an ensuite bathroom. It meant it cost a little more, but Khaki figured sleeping well and having her own bathroom was worth the expense. Besides she would hopefully be in Florence for three or four weeks if her research was successful.
Khaki changed out of her khaki pants and t-shirt. The evening was warm so she put on a knee-length linen skirt, a white button down blouse with some frills and tied a jaunty purple silk scarf with yellow daisies on it around her neck. She took out her pony-tail and shook her hair. She grabbed her travel jewelry case and her make-up case and walked into the bathroom.
The bathroom was small and had a stand-up shower instead of a tub, but it did have a bidet. She went to the sink and opened her jewelry bag. She put on her silver door-knocker earrings which looked like they belonged on a Turkish princess. Then she grabbed her lucky charm necklace. When she was studying in Wales during her senior year of undergrad she had purchased a small sterling silver charm from each place she visited. She wore the charms one at a time on a necklace. Which one she wore depended on how she felt when she awoke. Because she was traveling she hadn’t worn any jewelry. This evening she felt like she needed a little mystical help, so she put on her Welsh lovespoon charm. After applying a light amount of make-up she put on some strappy sandals, grabbed her messenger bag and left the room.
She remembered to turn her key into the desk clerk, something she didn’t know she was supposed to do during her first European adventure and went to find the Café Sandro.
***
And now was the time for a heroine,
Who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the
events of the evening, to be noticed and admired.
~Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
As Khaki walked to the Piazza della Signoria crowds of people began walking to and fro about her. Strangers bumped up against her and barely said a word in return. She began to feel something of a disappointment – she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives.
Khaki finally managed to find the Café Sandro and picked a seat outside overlooking the piazza. The café wasn’t buzzing with activity. A look at her watch told Khaki that the Italians hadn’t begun their evening yet. She ordered coffee, crepes Florentine and mozzarella caprese.
After her coffee came she reached into her bag and pulled out Iain Pears’ The Raphael Affair. It was her second love. Her first being mythology and her second being art theft. Not that Khaki wanted to commit art theft, but she was intrigued by it. She wanted to read the stories about how paintings were stolen, why they were stolen, and how they were retrieved. She remembered reading Robert Spiel’s art theft manual, which is used by the FBI Art Crimes Unit and it had said that art theft fiction was normally well researched and quite accurate in details even though the story was fictitious. She had read the Jonathan Argyll series before, but now while in Italy she thought she should start again.
Her food arrived and she set the book aside to eat. The café was starting to see some more customers. Just as Khaki bit into her mozzarella caprese, she heard a strangely familiar rumbling laugh. She looked over her shoulder and there was the laughing man from the train. He was sitting a few tables away with a very beautiful woman. She was dressed in a black sundress with high wedge sandals that tied up her tan, supple legs. Her dark hair was glossy in the evening light and fell around her face in soft, flowing waves. She had huge Sofia Loren sunglasses on and a radiant smile that showed expensive lipstick and nice, even, white teeth.
Khaki stared at the couple for a few more seconds. The stranger from the train did not even look in her direction. He was so caught up in his companion. Khaki felt like she was intruding on a private moment and went back to her meal. Little did she know that for the rest of the meal, the stranger had been watching her as well.
Khaki ordered an espresso as the sun was beginning to set on Florence. The pinkish hues turned the sky into an Impressionist painting with soft light extolling the beauty of the city around her. She remembered an April evening so long ago. She had been in Paris with her three traveling buddies. They were having a picnic in front of the Louvre at dusk. The sun was setting and the flowers were in bloom. They were playing the alphabet game. “I’m going on a picnic and I’m going to bring….” She couldn’t remember everything they brought. She remembered Hieronymus Bosch, Sandro Botticelli and the Wish of Amanda’s heart: to bring her finance Tim. Then all of a sudden the Arc d’Triumph lit up, then the Eiffel Tower and then the Louvre. It was beautiful and magical. It was perhaps Khaki’s most perfect evening. When she returned from Wales she had redecorated her bedroom in a Paris theme finding cute Eiffel Tower table lamps and wallpaper made to look like a map of Paris.
In Florence she was alone. No traveling buddies and no alphabet game, but she did have Jonathan Argyll and the beauty of Florence.
Khaki stayed at the café to watch as the Italian city came to life at night. Groups of men and women all dressed up for a night of fun came streaming into the square. At eleven o’clock Khaki paid her bill and walked back to her hotel. She briefly thought about going to a club, but knew that would be a silly idea. She hadn’t like clubs when she in college. She doubted she would like them now.
“No, a quiet night with Machiavelli or Jonathan sounded good.”
***
Not one, however, stared with rapturous wonder on
beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran
round the room, nor was she once called
a divinity by anybody.
~Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
Khaki woke early the next morning. She hadn’t spent the night with Machiavelli or Jonathan as it turned out. Morpheus had taken her to a dreaming sleep. She had dreamt that she was in Ancient Rome and being accused of patricide, or killing her father. She fought as the centurions put her in a bag with a snake, a dog and a rooster and tied it shut. Suddenly she felt the cold of Tiber River and just as chaos ensued she woke up.
“I have been reading too much Ovid,” she thought. “Tonight I’m sure Zeus will come to visit and turn me into a swan and I’ll lay two eggs that will become more of his illegitimate sons who live a half-mortal life.”
Khaki reflected on the day ahead. She had planned on starting her research immediately. But now that she was in Florence, she was drawn to the touristy attractions. She wanted to visit the museums and the piazzas and the churches. She wanted to see where so many famous people had lived and died. Where great art work had been burned by an over-zealous monk trying to save the soul of Florence. She wanted to see where corruption and beauty ran hand in hand to create a mecca of culture, religion, history and tragedy.
After opening her bedroom window and seeing what the temperature was like outside Khaki decided to dress in an inverted pleat knee length denim skirt with a white t-shirt and a light corduroy jacket. It was warm outside, but Khaki knew from experience that museums were cold. She put on small white gold earrings and chose to wear one of her favorite charms, a bathtub from Bath, England. It always made her smile.
The Hotel Pensione Ferretti had a breakfast buffet and Khaki took her time. She drank the dark, syrupy coffee as she mulled over what research she would need for the day. She wanted to start out with Machiavelli and The Prince since it was freshest in her mind. Some of Machiavelli’s correspondence would be available and Khaki knew she needed to review it.
“I wonder if I’ll actually be able to touch what Machiavelli touched.”
Cornell was an impressive school to be receiving a Ph. D. at, but Khaki knew many libraries gave all but the well known researchers archival quality copies of original documents. Not that Khaki could blame them. The documents had survived centuries, floods and fire. An over ambitious researcher could damage them in seconds.
“Or a thief could spirit them away,” Khaki thought.
Her mind drifted Stephen C. Blumberg, one of
The Hotel Pensione Ferretti had a breakfast buffet and she ate quickly before setting out for the day. She knew that the lines for major museums were always crazy unless one got there very early. Khaki began walking toward the Piazza della Signoria, but she stopped when she heard music and applause.
Impulsively she walked toward it. She ended up in the Piazza della Repubblica. A square famous for a meeting of the minds in the past and now there were exhibitions and street artists. As Khaki looked around, she didn’t see a scene, she saw an Oscar award winning cinematic masterpiece. People were juggling and racing around on unicycles. Groups of musicians were scattered around the square playing everything from polka to reggae to rock to opera. Artists were painting or drawing tourists as well as the buildings surrounding them. Khaki felt like she was in a Disney musical. She forgot about the Uffizi and walked toward the Giubbe Rosse Café and grabbed a table with a prime seat overlooking the square. She ordered an espresso and just people watched while she took a few notes in her journal.
At one o’clock after a light lunch Khaki left the Piazza della Repubblica and made her way to Uffizi. It was as she feared: a long line awaited her. She took her place in line behind two teenage boys. The boys were obviously American and were wearing their pants so low that their underwear could be seen. Khaki couldn’t help, but overhear their comments.
“That chick is hot.”
“Man, she’s outta your league. Ugh, those three are dogs.”
“I know. I thought Italy was supposed to have hot chicks. Where are they all?”
Khaki coughed. The two boys turned around and looked at her.
“Don’t you think you’re a little old for us? It’d be like dating my mom.”
A smart retort was on the tip of Khaki’s tongue. She was going to put these boys in their place. But she decided against it. Instead she pulled out Jonathan Argyll and waited patiently for the line to move.
An hour later she had paid her admission fee and was in the Uffizi. Her first stop was the museum store. Going to the store was Khaki’s first and last act in a museum. First to buy a guide book and check out the postcards to make sure she didn’t miss anything important and last so she could buy some souvenirs. She glanced quickly at the jewelry while she was checking out with her guide book. She saw some interesting earrings she thought she might want to purchase when she was finished touring.
She walked into the lobby of the Uffizi, opened the guide book and looked to see where the Botticelli’s were. She’d always wanted to be a Botticelli girl. Botticelli’s women were beautiful, but also blonde and Khaki’s dark brown hair prevented her from becoming one. Plus she didn’t have the virtue that Botticelli’s women seemed to possess even if they were rising naked from a half-shell. Khaki definitely showed her Irish decent, dark brown hair with pale skin and intriguing blue eyes. Eyes that changed colors depending on the color of her shirt. They ranged from emerald green to deep sea blue to stormy grey. She was tall for a woman at 5’ 10” although she still loved to wear heels, but not when traipsing around a museum. Her style was certainly classic, but more of a 1940s Hollywood icon. She didn’t consider herself beautiful by today’s terms although she did think she was pretty in a quirky Katherine Hepburn/Ingrid Bergman kind of way. Not the classic beauty of Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, but beauty in her own way nonetheless.
She started making her way to the Botticelli room. Some of Botticelli’s most famous paintings were here. Primavera and The Birth of Venus. Khaki walked into the room and saw how crowded it was. She smiled to herself and wondered what Botticelli would think. He was not all that popular until the 19th century. Now everyone was clamoring to see a Botticelli. The National Gallery in DC had done a show about virtue and beauty where Botticelli was prominently featured. Although Khaki hadn’t been able to see it, she read about it and purchased a “virtue and beauty” poesy ring from the online store. She walked over to The Birth of Venus. It was said that Venus was based off of Simonetta Vespucci, a married woman that Botticelli might have been in love with.
The painting was breath-taking, but the years had certainly taken their toll. Khaki could see areas were repairs had been done. Unlike most people she liked to get up close and personal with a painting much to the chagrin of many museum guards. In fact, there were several times she was almost kicked out of museums all across Europe and America. She had found out that museum security guards did not have the best sense of humor especially when an American tourist was hanging on a security gate blocking her entrance to the wing that held the Vermeers in the Louvre.
“It made for a great picture though,” Khaki thought and smiled to herself. She wondered what antic or habit would get her warned at the Uffizi although most of her museum shenanigans were cheered on by traveling buddies. Here she was alone.
While she was looking at the intricate brush strokes that created Venus’ hair Khaki noticed a blonde woman whose hair was almost like Venus in the painting. It was long and curled perfectly around her face framing in it in a way Khaki knew her thin hair never would. The woman was tanned and sheik with skinny jeans mostly covered by thigh high brown leather boots and a flowing white halter top which exposed lean, dark shoulders and a razor sharp collarbone. The outfit was completed with lots of gold bangles and dangling gold hoops which had a gypsy quality about them. The out fit was completed with a bright green handbag that looked like it cost a semester’s worth of tuition. The woman turned and smiled at Khaki.
“I knew I’d find you here,” she laughed.
Khaki’s eyebrows lowered as she wondered if the woman was speaking to her.
“Do I know you?”
“Yes and no,” the woman smiled. She stuck out her hand “I’m Isis although when we normally talk I’m listed as “Belladonna.”
Khaki looked confused. “What are you doing in Italy?”
“Rescuing you.”
“That’s great, but what do I need rescued from?”
“Khaki, I know you. You’re going to spend your entire Italian vacation researching. I’m here to help you have a little fun.”
A sterling silver charm of the statue of David caught her eye. She made a mental note to pick it up before she left the museum.
Book in hand, Khaki opened it to the map of the galleries and made her way to The David by Michelangelo. In one of her art theft mysteries she had read about Stendhal Syndrome, a disease that caused people to faint in the presence of great beauty. Most often it happened when people saw The David. She couldn’t wait to see some unsuspecting tourist collapse. Granted, she had never seen The David either, but she had seen enough beautiful pieces of art work in her first European tour, The David would probably not affect her.
“Ahhhh, I guess everyone wants to see The David,” Khaki sighed.
She took her place in line. No one seemed willing to chat. That was one thing Khaki hated about traveling alone. It got boring sometimes. Khaki was the type of girl to start up a conversation about anything and everything when she was in a line. The people in the Accademia didn’t look like they wanted to talk. People were sighing loudly, complaining about the wait and checking their watches.
