Chapter 7
Almost two months into Aida’s tenure with MODA, she and Trista boarded a train to Florence, occupying a first-class car all
to themselves—a MODA standard, as Trista informed her. The revelation that all her journeys would either be in a privately
reserved train car or by private jet brought a blend of amazement and guilt, especially considering the environmental ramifications.
Yet, for someone like her, who thrived in bustling settings and loved people-watching, this exclusive mode of transport felt
oddly isolating. Sure, there was always Trista, but sometimes Aida found solitude preferable to her aide’s dreary company.
Nevertheless, the allure of champagne, gourmet food, and impeccable service wasn’t lost on her. As the Italian landscape blurred
past her window, Aida made two silent pledges: never to become numb to such opulence and never to morph into an entitled snob.
Aida had thought they would be going over their itinerary on the way, but Trista settled into a seat at the back of the car
and put headphones on, clearly not interested in chitchat. Aida found this strange, but she was also glad for the hour and
a half until they arrived and headed to the hotel to dedicate to working on her personal research.
The Presidential Suite at the St. Regis Firenze was far too large, but it looked out upon the Arno and the famous Ponte Vecchio, where one of Aida’s favorite Renaissance artists, Benvenuto Cellini, was memorialized with a bust tucked amid all the gold shops lining the bridge.
A suite between her room and Trista’s would be used for their headquarters while in the city.
Trista busied herself setting up her laptop at the dining room table while Aida took in the view.
A rowing team was practicing on the muddy river, their colorful shirts made brighter by the sun. Aida watched them for a moment,
delighting in the way they synchronized each movement of their oars, how their bodies moved in time, and the way the boat
cut through the river and left ribbons of water behind. When she turned away, she found Trista watching her.
“What?” Aida asked her assistant.
“You were smiling,” Trista observed.
“There’s a rowing team out there. It’s nice to watch them.”
Trista cocked her head. “Why?”
Aida tried to explain, but Trista only looked at her blankly.
“I suppose this is why you are doing the research and I’m not,” she said.
Aida wasn’t sure what to make of that statement. “Anyone can delight in a small thing. I liked watching the rowers. It made
me smile. Surely there are many things that you delight in, Trista.”
She frowned. “No, I don’t have time for that.”
“But you don’t need to have time—” Aida began, but Trista cut her off.
“The first place you’ll be going today is a car park.”
Aida paused a moment to take in what Trista was saying. “Wait, a parking garage?”
“The Garage Nazionale. Founded in 1959. It’s on the Via Nazionale, next to the Central Market in San Lorenzo. There are frescoes
of cars all over the walls.”
Aida watched her pull up Google Maps.
“It’s a thirteen-minute walk. Once you’re settled, I’ll have lunch served and then we can go.”
Aida looked out the window. The day was gorgeous. “It’s warm today. Why don’t we go out for lunch? Have what the locals are having instead of room service?”
Trista straightened in her chair, visibly tensing. “We have work to do. I’d prefer not to waste time over lunch. Of course,
you may choose to go out tonight on your own to have what the locals are having.”
Aida returned to the window, not wanting Trista to see her frustration. “Very well. Go ahead and send for lunch.” She still
knew barely anything about her assistant. She was efficient and anticipated problems before Aida ever encountered them, but
Trista was all business, all MODA. She refused to share meals unless they were working sessions. She never talked about anything
other than work, even if Aida tried to get her to open up her shell.
Aida didn’t understand it—they lived and worked under the same roof. Their schedules were largely the same. Not for the first
time did Aida find herself missing Yumi and Graham. It reminded Aida of what Mo had called her. Funless. While Trista certainly lived up to her name—triste meant sad in Italian—the made-up adjective fit her so much better. She was less sad than she was no fun.
The garage was a strange place, and just as Trista had said, there were frescoes of modern and vintage cars lining the walls of the access ramps.
To give some oomph to the place, in 1987, the garage commissioned an artist, Carlo Capanni, to paint the two long frescoes.
It immediately enlivened the typically sterile, industrial garage environment.
Aida spent time recording her observations, and also observing both passersby that peered in and the cars driving past the paintings.
Trista left after she had helped the photographer set up, but promptly reappeared at the agreed-upon time to take Aida to the next destination—the Borgo Pinti garden, a little hidden jewel of greenery in the heart of the city, known for having the first jasmine plant in Italy centuries past, and today for its rare plants, sporting field, and community vegetable garden.
The following days found Aida researching all sorts of other wondrous Florence destinations. There were the centuries-old
buchette del vino—wine holes—that were essentially places to get takeout for glasses of wine. This aspect of the research was something Aida
took great pleasure in, interviewing Florentines and tourists, wineglasses in hand. She visited Casa Guidi, the palazzo where
poets Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning spent many happy years, and Liberia Antiquaria Gonnelli, an antiquarian
bookshop that first opened in 1875. Aida loved the fact that these treasures weren’t on every tourist’s radar; their obscurity
added to their charm.
Trista usually shadowed her during the first hours of an excursion, then left her alone to work. It was during these moments
of solitude that she’d reach out to Yumi through texts or video calls, ensuring their bond remained strong despite the miles
between them. However, when it came to Graham, their interactions were growing more sporadic and subdued. The excitement of
her days in Florence contrasted sharply with the terseness of their conversations. The difference in time zones didn’t help,
making their calls feel more like obligatory check-ins than heartfelt conversations. Graham was bound by the constraints of
his time teaching, whereas Yumi could text or call her anytime.
A week into her Florence adventure, Trista revealed a change in travel plans. While she would be boarding a train back to
Rome, Aida’s journey would follow the winding roads of Tuscany, making a stop at the fabled Chapel of the Madonna di Vitaleta.
A driver would bring her there and back to Rome, and a photographer was set to join her at the chapel, capturing its image
for MODA’s archives.
Aida spent a few hours the day before researching the chapel before she went, so she was familiar with the history of the little church.
Set against the verdant expanse of Val d’Orcia, near the town of San Quirico d’Orcia, the chapel stood resplendent, its silhouette accompanied by six stalwart cypress trees.
A UNESCO World Heritage site, the church was one of the most photographed spots in Italy.
Aida had glimpsed this scene in countless photos and films, including the dreamy Elysian Fields of Gladiator.
The weather that day couldn’t have been more perfect. Mid-morning rays bathed the landscape, the air was a cool embrace, and
the sky—well, there were precisely what Graham would’ve cheekily dubbed “Simpsons clouds” after the clouds in the cartoon’s opening credits. She wondered what he was doing. She snapped a photo of the church
and sent it to him.
The photographer and the guide she was to meet had not yet arrived, but Aida wanted a few moments to experience the church
alone. She left the driver in the car and walked up the dirt road through the fields to the chapel. It was a Monday and there
weren’t any other tourists. With no other visitors in sight and the neighboring restaurant’s doors firmly shut, solitude enveloped
her. It was just her, the soft rustling wheat, and the timeless beauty of the Madonna di Vitaleta.
Gently pushing the chapel door, Aida’s gaze wandered into its luminous white expanse. Three tall windows and modern recessed
lighting showcased a minimalistic interior: several benches and an altar. At the center was a radiant Madonna statue—a pristine
replica of the famed glazed ceramic Madonna crafted by Andrea della Robbia. Legends whispered that the original was, astonishingly,
“commissioned” by the Virgin Mary herself during the Renaissance. As the tale went, she materialized before a shepherdess,
guiding her to gather the townsfolk and seek a Florentine workshop. There, they would find the destined statue for a church
they were to erect right on that very location.
For the next few centuries, the statue remained in the church, and a number of miracles were attributed to it. For some reason
that Aida wasn’t able to determine, the chapel upkeep was scant, and by the late 1800s, it was falling apart, so the statue
was moved to a church in San Quirico d’Orcia.
The chapel was empty, but the lights were on. Aida stepped into the sunlit warmth and looked around. She stood in the center of the aisle, taking in the light and the clean stark lines of the arches.
“It’s a bit boring, don’t you think?”
Aida whirled, her heart pounding. There had been no one behind her, and no one in the chapel, of that she’d been fairly sure.
It was Mo, in jeans, a black leather jacket, and a white button-down shirt. If his personality weren’t so ugly, Aida might
have found him handsome.
“Where did you come from?”
He pointed upward. “From the heavens, you stupid cow.”