24. Chapter Nineteen George Devereaux
Chapter Nineteen: George Devereaux
I n the lobby, the students all introduced themselves to each other. There were four female students and the one guy—aside from myself—was Hunter, our TA. Since we were going to be spending a week together, we decided to do some icebreakers.
Isabella, a brunette, introduced herself as an English major who was taking this class for fun. Then there was Natalia, an engineering major who was in this class to finish her degree since she still needed another arts option. Jamie, a pre-med student, had a friendly, bubbly demeanour reminded me of Abigail. Georgia introduced herself to the group as an Anthropology major.
Natalia and Isabella were rooming with one another—they seemed like close friends despite their disparate degrees—and Jamie was in a room by herself. We all exchanged contact information in case of emergencies.
Georgia made small talk with them about the class as we walked to our first sightseeing destination .
As our group walked from the hotel to St. Peter’s Basilica, I tried to stop worrying about Georgia. Maybe she had changed. Maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. Maybe I wasn’t the man for her.
It wouldn’t do me any good worrying about her if she was unwilling to accept my concern, anyway. And as long as she refused to admit she had a problem, my pointing it out to her wouldn’t help her.
So, I tried to enjoy myself. I was in a city I had once loved with students who were presumably eager to learn about Italian art—that is, if they weren’t lying and handing in essays generated by AI.
I struck up a conversation with Hunter, my teaching assistant, who wore a black hoodie even in this heat. I noticed a Latin inscription in white font on the back of his sweater.
“Cool hoodie,” I said, and he brightened.
“Thanks! I appreciate you organizing this trip. I’ve always wanted to go to Rome, but the few times I’ve been in Italy, we were always in Venice or Milan.”
“That’s a shame. It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?” As I made conversation with Hunter, I began to feel more like myself, the old self I’d thought had died with my father. The one who could easily wander from city to city, traipsing from country to country, painting art and living life without a care in the world.
Part of me missed the man I had been. Another part of me knew and accepted he would never come back.
“So, Latin, huh? You’re a Classics major, right?” I asked Hunter.
“Yeah.” He lifted up his hood to show me the full image on the hoodie, a white cross on black with the inscription I.N.R.I. on the bottom.
“Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews,” I translated as I read the text. In Latin, it stood for Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum , since there was no letter J in Latin. “Did I get that right? ”
Hunter laughed. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”
“Why the Classics?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to learn Latin so I could become a priest.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone who wanted to become a priest before.” I hastily added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“It’s okay, I get that a lot.” Hunter chuckled. “Believe me, it wasn’t an easy decision.”
“I bet.” I tried to imagine how I would have turned out if I had tried to become a priest.
“I just always felt my faith was more important to me than anything else. I never felt particularly strongly about getting married and having a family—sure, I had a few crushes back in grade school, but who doesn’t?”
“Is that why you’re wearing all black on a day as hot as this? Preparing for your priestly uniform?” I joked.
“Something like that.” He shaded his eyes with one hand. “What about you, Mr—I mean, George?”
“What about me?” I echoed, unsure of his question. Or maybe I knew exactly what he was talking about, and I was putting off answering so I could formulate an answer.
“Are you married? Or do you have a partner?”
“If I did, I think she would be concerned with me leaving her for a week to gallivant off to Italy without her,” I tried to joke. “I’m not seeing anyone right now. But, there is someone…”
Hunter’s nonjudgmental expression made me think he’d be an excellent confessor.
“There’s a woman I care about, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t feel the same way.”
“How sure are you about that?”
We were at the front of the group, and I shot a glance over my shoulder to make sure Georgia was still lagging behind at the back, pulling out her camera to snap pictures.
She was.
“Percentage-wise? I’d say… seventy-two.”
“Well, then maybe you should ask her out. For the other twenty-eight percent.”
I shook my head. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not? You’ll never know until you try.”
“I’ve tried.” Was I really talking about my romantic life with my TA? Future priest or not, this was probably a bad idea. “Listen, you wouldn’t get it. She’s… It’s… Everything’s complicated.”
“Often, I think we tell ourselves things are too complicated to stop ourselves from having to take action on them.” Hunter gave me a knowing look. “This might be one of those things.”
***
Knowing Sebastian Cavalli had come with one perk.
He had introduced me to many influential and well-connected people, one of whom was the curator of St. Peter’s Basilica, who graciously agreed to let us cut the line. While the Basilica was still full of tourists, we could avoid the two-hour wait time.
I felt bad for those waiting outside, some carrying umbrellas to shield themselves from the harsh midday sun. But as my students and I walked through the Basilica with a tour guide, I was relieved that we didn’t have to stand outside for hours.
Before we had left this morning, I’d reiterated the dress code to the students—shoulders and knees needed to be covered—and had ensured that my own attire was appropriate for visiting the Basilica. But I’d failed to prepare my heart for the sheer sense of awe that would wash over me. Now that I was here, I was struck by the immense grandeur of the centuries-old building. Everywhere my eyes landed was another beautifully crafted mosaic or painting or sculpture, and there was so much to absorb that I could barely take it all in.
“St. Peter’s Basilica is home to many famous artworks,” explained the tour guide, a young man who couldn’t be more than seventeen. This must have been his summer job. “Such as Michelangelo’s Pieta, Bernini’s Baldacchino, the Dome, and St. Peter’s Chair.”
The students began furiously taking notes. I’d assigned an essay that was due one week after we returned from the trip. They would have to write about three of the artworks we viewed during our time here.
First on the list was Michelangelo’s Pieta . The image of the Virgin Mary cradling her son on her lap after his crucifixion had always stood out to me. I’d seen similar statues replicated half a dozen times, but never like this.
Michelangelo’s was larger than the others I’d seen, and he’d intricately carved the folds of her garments in such a lifelike way. I fought the urge to touch the statue and see if my fingers would leave indents in soft clothing and flesh rather than the cold stone I knew it was. Mary’s expression was sorrowful over the loss of her son, but also oddly serene.
There were a few quirks to the statue, too. Mary was proportionally much larger than her son—I assumed it was so the statue could allow her to support his body—but her features certainly didn’t look old enough to have a thirty-three-year-old son.
The tour guide rambled on about the facts and particulars of the statue, explaining that this was the only piece Michelangelo had ever affixed his name to .
It wasn’t the artist’s life I was interested in. What struck me was the tender serenity on the Virgin Mary’s face. Here was a woman who had just suffered one of the worst tragedies imaginable, losing her child, and yet she appeared tranquil. Accepting God’s will.
Even after she’d agreed to the consequences of being the mother of Jesus: almost being divorced by Joseph and living a life of suffering. Even after she’d nurtured Him, raised Him, and no doubt grieved when she saw His agony. Still, she accepted the loss of her son.
It was a loss I could not imagine bearing, yet Michelangelo depicted her bearing it with more grace than most people could bear a much lesser grief.
If she could suffer all that and still have peace, perhaps I could finally find peace after all I had gone through. If she could accept God’s will, maybe I could, too.
We moved on to the other artworks: the chair of St. Peter. I almost had the urge to kneel briefly in front of the Pieta before reminding myself that I was no longer in a Catholic church and didn’t have to bend the knee in front of the altar whenever I passed by it.
Still, perhaps my father had been onto something. Not that worshipping an image or a sculpture was the best way to go, but that having the representation of God there could be helpful. That we weren’t merely spirits made up of abstract ideas, worshipping a God of spirit only, but that we were also flesh and blood. And the God Christians believed had come down in human form.
I still wasn’t sure if I was fully ready to submit my life to Christ like Pastor Tony had talked about. It was one thing to believe that God existed; it was another thing for that to affect how I lived. But being in Italy and engulfed in beautiful artwork inspired by the Bible didn’t deter me from that path, either .
We followed the tour guide toward St. Peter’s Chair, looking at the incredible stained glass window behind it, which had a dove to depict the Holy Spirit. The golden oval of stained glass with the dove centred in the middle was flanked by gilded decorations and sculptures of angels. However, the dark bronze chair itself looked almost small and unassuming amidst all the gilding and ornamentation around it. It was supported by four statues of men I couldn’t recognize.
“The chair of St. Peter represents the seat of the pope, and the four statues around it are the four doctors of the Church…” the tour guide said, launching into an explanation of the various features of the chair. “The chair is meant to show the unity of the church, and the chair itself is less than five feet tall.”
“What is it made of?” one of the students asked.
“Originally, it was made of wood, but as that decayed over time, it was encased in marble. The statues are made of bronze.”
As I kept one ear on the tour guide’s explanation, filing away the information for later, I kept my eye on the students. One, two, three, four… Wait a moment.
Where was Georgia?