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Chapter One

IN THE SUMMER of my fiftieth year as a member of the human race, the stress of overwork had pushed me to the edge, and I was feeling very close to a mental breakdown. Like you, Dear Dante, I had lost my way in a dark wood, and if you or anyone else had told me I was going crazy, I might very well have believed it. I think a part of me wanted to go tumbling into the abyss just to get all this complicated business of living over and done with, to get this lust for life out of my system, so to speak. Most families have a little insanity running around the gene pool, and it’s bound to get into the mix on occasion. On top of this, odd things began happening that could not be explained in rational terms. I had always prized reason above all things, but I’d never realized until then how great was my fear of falling.

It started with the flowers. The flowers in our garden were dying. No matter how much care we lavished upon them, they continued to wither. Special fertilizer seemed to make little difference. We sought the advice of neighbors with green thumbs. We did research in the best horticultural references. We even consulted professionals from the University of Florence who tested the soil.  The results turned out to be normal for this part of Italy, and the experts were baffled.

Then a treasured photograph disappeared from our house. I questioned my wife and daughter, both of whom said they knew nothing about it. It was there on the shelf where it had been since we had bought the house five years ago, and then one day it was gone — vanished into thin air, as they say. I kept repeating this line, both to myself and out loud, which didn’t help make the situation any better. Of course, I didn’t believe that an object could disappear into nothingness, and became convinced that my wife was somehow responsible. I began to formulate theories. The most cogent argument I came up with was that she had taken it with her on a business trip and left it behind in a hotel room somewhere. When I explained this to her, she laughed — a loud burst of scoffing laughter, the kind she knew I hated.

“Why would I do something so idiotic? Why would I take a picture of a tree with me to England, for God’s sake? What, they don’t have trees in London? I might forget what they look like? You’re losing it, John.”

Unflustered, I shot back with, “And if you had, would you admit it?”

“Now you’re getting nasty and suspicious. Don’t talk to me anymore about this ridiculous thing. I’ve got work to do.”

But I wouldn’t let it go. I managed to find out by stealth which London hotel she had stayed in and telephoned them. They were very courteous and told me that such a photograph had not been found. They took my name and phone number, saying they would be sure to contact me if the lost object turned up. I thought I detected some irony in the desk clerk’s tone of voice but I ignored it. What could I say?

I then settled on a secondary notion which was that one of Julia’s many friends had pinched it at our summer solstice party. I thought I knew who it was — an actor with a strange sense of humor. It would have been a typical prank for him to “borrow” something he liked and then return it when he had grown tired of it with no apology or explanation, just the simple statement that he had taken it and thought we might like to have it back.

A week later the photograph had reappeared in its  accustomed place on the shelf. No note, no explanations. Nothing. And there it was again. When I asked my daughter if she knew anything about it she said no. I explained what had happened. She shrugged and said, “Possibly poltergeists.”

“Poltergeists? Do you really believe in such things?”

“Of course.”

“Why would a spirit want to hide a photograph from me?”

She shrugged again. “Just to have some fun, I guess.”

I examined the photograph carefully and now wasn’t completely certain that it was the same one. There seemed to be a slight rearrangement of some of the branches of the tree, and I thought I could just make out a word in the pattern of the leaves. The word was “morte.”

This shook me a bit. I asked my wife and daughter if they could see it. My wife’s patience with me was clearly exhausted. She only glanced at it before shoving the photo back at me with a sarcastic remark. My daughter was a bit more gentle. She studied the photo carefully. We got out a magnifying glass and she scrutinized it very closely. Her conclusion: “I don’t really see anything, but I know a photographer who does restoration work. She could analyze it for you.”

“I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

That night as we were getting ready for bed, Julia broached the subject with a little more sensitivity.

“I’m sorry, John, for being so brusque with you about the photo.”

She knew I would usually welcome the chance to open up to her and only needed to be gently prompted. “The deadline for this book has got me very stressed,” I said, “and now all this crazy stuff is happening . . . My nerves are shot.”

I snuggled up beside her in bed and we held each other. Julia could be snappish during the workday and then very soft and seductive at night. Most likely it gave her a sense of control to push me away and then pull me back with a melting look. Although I was aware that she held this power over me, her animal sensuality was extremely hard to resist. It felt so damn good to be in the arms and kissing the neck and breasts of this beautiful woman that by some stroke of good fortune I happened to be married to. I’m not sure we were still in love, but we had been crazy about each other once, and it was as much for the memory of our youth as it was for the great sex that we stayed together.

So I forgave her little cruelties, as she had often forgiven mine, and we made love without much passion but with some success nevertheless.

The next morning, however, the frustrations of my daily life returned full force. And I was still bothered by that photograph. So, while I was enjoying my second cup of coffee on the terrace, I suddenly dashed inside and snatched it off the shelf, took it outside, and examined it for the umpteenth time. The word “morte” was even less visible in the natural light; in fact, it seemed to have faded away considerably. As I was peering at it I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped about an inch off the chair.

“Oh, it’s you, Mona. You startled me.”

“Sorry, Papa.”

“I thought you’d left already.”

She hesitated a beat. “I need to talk with you. Are you busy?”

“No, not really. Just looking at this again.” I waved the photograph and put it on the table.

Mona sat down and remained silent for a few moments as she collected her thoughts. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Are you having some kind of personal problem?” I asked with the tenderness I kept in reserve for her.

“I’m worried.”

“What about?”

“About you and mom. There’s something wrong.”

“What do you mean? We’re fine, health-wise.”

“You guys seem very unhappy.” After another pause, she said, “There’s something very unhealthy in your relationship. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

She paused again to give me a chance to offer some information, but I had always kept quiet on that subject. I was very open and honest with my daughter about almost everything else, but the intimate details of my relationship with her mother were much too personal.

“I’m worried about what’s going to happen to you when I leave,” she continued. “I know you’re only staying together because of me — I’ve known that for a long time. Why haven’t you been able to work things out? Why don’t you guys get some help, like from a marriage counselor or something?”

This frontal assault was so unexpected from Mona that I was slightly thrown off balance. She rarely, if ever, demanded answers and explanations from me or her mother. She always seemed to understand without our needing to explain. “Well, maybe we should. We haven’t tried that yet.”

“I wish you would. I think it might help.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“You would have split up years ago if not for me, so when I leave for college this fall you’re probably going to go ahead and get a divorce, aren’t you? That’s why you need to get some help if you want to stay together. Do you still love her?”

I thought as quickly as I could, searching for the right answer, but the only right answer was the one I couldn’t bring myself to say. “Your mother and I have a very complicated relationship, and there’s no simple way to resolve our differences. Therapy is not the answer for everything and every relationship. Your mother and I have a pretty good life together as far as creature comforts go. Most people would kill for our lifestyle. If we did go our separate ways — and I’m not saying we would — your mother will do fine. She’s a very strong woman.”

“It’s not her I’m most concerned about — it’s you.”

“Me?” I replied with no small chagrin. “Whatever for?”

“You’ve been on edge lately, kind of obsessive about unimportant things, like that picture, and I’m concerned about what’s percolating in that big brain of yours. Is this the beginning of your mid-life crisis or something?”

I smiled. “Bless your sweet, sensitive soul, daughter. I’m very touched that you take notice and care so much about your old dad. Yes, I’ve been rather high strung lately, I admit, and a tad obsessive, too. To be honest, I don’t know what’s going on with me. My whole worldview seems to be shifting. I’m being asked to reconfigure the map of my inner geography and I don’t even know the coordinates. Some anonymous entity is challenging me to justify myself. Some inner demon is mocking the principles by which I have lived my entire life up till now.”  I paused when I saw the anguished look on Mona’s sweet face. “I’m sorry. This has upset you.”

“Well, just a bit. It hurts me to see you in pain.”

“I don’t know how to hide it from you. You’ve always had the gift of insight, especially with me. I’ll explain all this better when I understand it better. Don’t worry about me. I’ll sort it out. Let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s it going with that boyfriend of yours?”

She shrugged. “So-so. He’s getting too possessive. I really like him and we have a lot of fun together, but then this ownership thing kicks in and spoils everything. Why are guys like that? Why can’t he just enjoying being with me?”

“That’s a very tough question. Probably has something to do with the fact that you’re leaving for college. He’s afraid of losing you.”

“Yeah, well the more he tries to hold on to me the more he pushes me away.”

“I know. It’s the hardest thing for young men to grasp about young women. It’s one of the great paradoxes of love, at any age.”

She smiled, kissed me on the cheek, said she was feeling better now, called me her wise old papa bear, and departed.

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

“Into town with mama bear,” she called back.

Happy to have reassured her, I did not, however, feel in the least like a wise old papa bear. I did not know with absolute certainty that I was not going to kill myself. One of the ways having a child can change you profoundly is by motivating you to create a better world. It can also motivate you to become a better person. For the last eighteen years, I had been fighting to make some sense of my life as much for my daughter’s sake as for mine. I believed I had the responsibility to show Mona by example that life had meaning and purpose. People throughout the world committed acts of courage, kindness, and compassion on a daily basis, and I had wanted her to know that. But had I done anything of special significance? That was the crucial question. What brave acts had I performed? What major acts of kindness could I list on my curriculum vita? Sure, I was nice to people, I had good manners, and when confronted by those whose views differed sharply from mine I treated their ideas with respect. I was a humanist, I was open-minded, I was generally amiable, but was I a good person? I believed that people were capable of greatness, but I had not done a single thing that could be considered great. I had wanted my life to amount to something, and that “something” took the form of career goals and professional accomplishments. Now that I had achieved the level of success I had always envisioned for myself, I realized that I had done nothing to inspire or improve the lives of others. I had not demanded very much of myself on a human, creative, or spiritual level. What had I contributed to society? Some young people may have a better appreciation for Italian literature because of my teaching, but did that really matter much? What had I done to enrich the lives of my fellow human beings? Sadly, I had nothing to offer as evidence in my own defense. Was it you, Dear Dante, who had prompted me to ask these hard questions of my frightened soul?

* * *

At about the same time, after months of galloping along at a breakneck pace, my book on your life, Dear Dante, came to a sudden halt. This could have sent me into a deeper panic, a downward spiral from which I might never have recovered, at least not without some serious therapy, as Mona had suggested. But somehow I was “saved” by an expansion of my consciousness, a transformation in knowledge and awareness that I do not understand.

In the midst of this crisis we had an unexpected visit from a former student of mine.  I had taught a course on the Italian Renaissance as a visiting professor at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut a few years ago. His name is David DeVita, and what follows is mostly the story he told me on that weekend in Tuscany, the story of how he was driven to commit a murder by his obsession with a woman.

My flowers were dying, my writing was blocked, my marriage was failing, I was on the verge of a breakdown, and I had a guest with whom I felt uncomfortable because he had worshipped me when I was his professor — I was a complete mess. And the irony, which you will appreciate more than anyone, Dear Dante, is that although David had come seeking my help, he was the one who helped me.

David and I had stayed in touch over the years after my return to Florence. I enjoyed reading his letters and e-mails that kept me up to date on his private life, and I was mystified when they had abruptly stopped. Now I was about to discover the reason for his silence.

I gave him a quick tour of the villa, which was in fact an old stone farmhouse and not a villa, but I had spent so much time and such a good deal of money renovating it that I felt I had earned the right to name it whatever I chose. Whatever we called it, my family and I could now enjoy the best of both worlds — the rustic charm of the country and the amenities of city life that our years in Rome and New York had accustomed us to and made us unwilling to live without. I told him about the flower phenomenon, and he agreed it was strange. David was particularly delighted by the kitchen, la cucina — like all Italians food preparation brought out his creativity and love of life. As my father used to say, rub an Italian and you’ll find an artist. We moved quickly through the other rooms, David dropped his backpack down on the bed in the guest room, and then I took him to my cluttered study.

After taking a step inside he paused, closed his eyes for a moment, and said in a quiet voice without a trace of irony, “This is it: The sanctuary of sanctuaries.” I do not think his reverence was much exaggerated. I wanted to say something dismissive, but I have refrained from making self-deprecating remarks of late; however, I could not keep my gesture from acting out my thought.

“There it is,” I said, indicating a stack of paper on my desk. “My Dante manuscript . . . a work in progress — that is to say, much work and little progress.” He went right up to the desk and stared at the manuscript in a kind of rapture, with a reverential look that my book hardly deserved. He had a good deal more respect for it than I did, and I doubted his attitude would remain unchanged after he’d finished reading it.

“Please, professore, would you read some of it now?”

I would have let him read all of it to himself later on that weekend if he insisted, but he was so eager and excited that I found myself replying that I’d be honored to share it with him right away. I picked up the manuscript and we went outside onto the terrace.

It was my favorite time of day, ten in the morning, and it was especially fine. The brilliant sunlight poured down and the fragrant breeze from the valley below washed over us. As you well know, Dear Dante, everything about this country is generous and life-giving, from the local working people to the weather. After years of living in the countryside outside of Florence, I couldn’t  imagine living anywhere else, certainly not back home in dank and dreary old London, where my mother and father had emigrated and where they had done their damnedest to raise me as a proper Englishman. But they could never Anglicize my Italian soul and I returned here, drawn back by an irresistible force, to embrace my heritage with a  vengeance, though I know I needn’t explain this feeling to you, who spent twenty years in exile from your beloved Firenze.

We settled onto the wooden chairs and the housekeeper brought our coffee and biscotti. Unfortunately, the perfect moment was spoiled by my fear that my manuscript would not live up to David’s expectations. His eyes were glittering with excited anticipation, and his whole face glowed with the love and trust of a true disciple. Neither I nor my work was worthy of this worship, and the sooner he found this out the better. I knew that if I made excuses and postponed the inevitable, the book would become more potent in David’s mind and the disappointment would be that much more terrible for him. I knew that his illusions of me would be shattered, but I did not want to delay the process of rebuilding our relationship on the solid ground of honesty and the bond of kindred spirits. What I wanted most was an old-fashioned friendship. The student-teacher or master-sycophant arrangement was a kind of relationship I found very unappealing at this point in my life. When I had been a newly-minted Ph.D., an embryonic academic, I wanted desperately to be the most popular professor on campus. I wanted plenty of student groupies and an entourage of eager young minds ready to lay themselves supine at the feet of their demi-god, and just as willingly lay themselves out upon my bed and spread open those lovely young legs for my priapic pleasure and a trip into realms of ecstasy that would be the culmination of every idea and every sexual fantasy with which I had striven to stimulate their inchoate minds. This was not the way it had turned out, and I had given up that unworthy goal long ago.  Unfortunately, however, I had committed a few indiscretions and became entangled in an imbroglio which had some rather nasty consequences for my career, resulting in the denial of tenure at a school where, until then, I had been especially happy. Academia is plagued by vicious politics, and, although I loved teaching and had my share of adoring students, I soon discovered that, like you,  I was woefully inept at the political game which was truly what mattered most when it came time to apply for tenure . . . And so, here was one of my adoring students from my year at Trinity, a gifted young product of the Italian American working class who, as I recalled, had completed two years at that uniquely American experiment in higher education — the community college — and here I was poised on the verge of destroying his perception of me. I had to pause to savor the final moment that I would hold his mind in the palm of my hand, so to speak. I had to risk losing his idolization of me in order to gain a deeper and more meaningful friendship. After all, I was an educator by vocation, and I had to encourage him to break away from my influence and teach him to think for himself. However, I hesitated, unwilling to relinquish this power I had over him and relishing those youthful sensations it stirred up in me, feelings that I’d thought were dead but were evidently merely dormant.

David was a very handsome young man, his beauty a living work of art, and looking at him was a great pleasure made greater by the setting and atmosphere that enveloped him. The sunlight spilling into the valley created a golden green mist rising up in a frothy luminosity onto the pinkish-white stones of the terrace and the walls of the farmhouse and infusing everything with a quality of light that can only be described as lambent, the kind of light you can see in Botticelli’s paintings, that is somehow a blend of rosy solar rays and spiritual radiance. It’s a special quality of this light that brings out the soulful beauty of its subject, and it takes my breath away. As in your description of the effect of seeing Beatrice for the first time and being overcome by the power of Love, I felt deprived of will, speech, animation, and sight. I sat frozen in a kind of paralysis of ecstasy, a swooning if you will, that lasted for an embarrassingly long interval until David finally asked me if I were okay and if there was something I needed. I recovered my senses sufficiently to reply that I had been blinded by the sunlight which triggered a little fugue state, and went on to explain that it was medically innocuous, was, in fact, a thoroughly enjoyable minor mental phenomenon that some hypersensitive individuals might experience when their sensory circuits were overloaded, when people who love art or music are overcome by the pure esthetic joy of the experience. He said he found this fascinating and hoped that he too could have one of these fugue states while he was here in Firenze. I replied that it was very likely he would, and he looked at me again with intense expectation and I knew it was time to begin reading.

I had already decided to read the section on your political involvements, the struggle for power between the two Guelph factions, the Blacks and the Whites, as they were known in your day, that led directly to your exile under threat of burning at the stake, but changed my mind at the last moment and read instead from an earlier period in your life, the time when you wrote the Vita Nuova.  I had to tell David that this is a small collection of love sonnets with the narration and expository writing that accompanies them elucidating how the poems came to be written and explaining what they mean. I also pointed out that this was the period in your life when you were totally enthralled by Beatrice, were sent into a rapture by her greeting, thrown into despair by her subsequent refusal to acknowledge you due to a misunderstanding, and when you arrived at your unshakeable conviction that there was something truly divine about her. The more I read the more disturbed I became by how turgid the prose sounded, but David was nevertheless an avid listener and I wanted to continue on to the end of the chapter if only for the aforementioned reason, so we could reconstruct our relationship, but I grew anxious that anger and disappointment would be the only result.

My commentary on your use of the number 9 caught his attention, how it’s used 22 times in the book, how Beatrice was 9 years old when you first laid eyes on her outside the church in Florence, and how the narrative events occur 9 years after this initial meeting. David interjected that cats are said to have 9 lives, Greek mythology has 9 muses, there are 9 planets, and that the Beatles had a song using the number 9 on the White Album. I said that was interesting, remarked that the human gestation cycle takes 9 months, and then went on with my reading.

The next passage dealt with my theory about your narrative accompaniment to the sonnets being an ironic commentary on your own romanticism. Later on, through the visionary experience of the personified figure of Love, you realized that it was your own selfishness and self-involvement that brought about your misery and that you must learn to adore Beatrice for her Christ-like qualities and not for any romantic notions about what a woman should be like for a man. This epiphany, as I put it, was a major step in your maturity both as a man and a poet and directly opened the way for you to write The Divine Comedy.

When I had come to the end of the chapter I looked up, expecting to hear a tepid response or forced praise. Instead I saw something which surprised me greatly, the face of a man ignited from within, glowing with an inner truth that had nothing to do with the quality of my writing.

“Yes, I understand completely about selfishness getting in the way of spiritual growth,” David said. “I’ve just been through something like that myself. And I’ve just realized why I was so compelled to come here — because you are the only man on the face of the earth to whom I can make my confession.”

I was startled to say the least. “Your confession? What have you done, killed someone?”

His face turned solemn and he replied, “Yes, in a manner of speaking.” He paused. “I have stared into the heart of darkness.”

I was more than a little surprised by his response. “Well, if you feel you must tell me, go ahead. We’ve got an hour or so until lunch and by then my wife and daughter should be back. Do you want some more coffee?”

“Yes, please. That’d be great.” He paused, staring down into the valley. “I’m sorry. I feel like I’m imposing on you. You’ve got important work to do and here I come along barging into your life and assume you’ll be willing to be my confessor . . .”

I found myself smiling like an indulgent sage. “Dearest David, please sit down. I would love to hear your story. As far as my work is concerned, I’ve been spending too much time at the computer and I’m due for a reprieve.”

He sat down again, leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs, studied his open palms, and, after a moment of silence to gather his thoughts and collect his strength, he launched into what turned out to be a remarkable story, one of the most remarkable I had ever heard.