Chapter 6 - The Elder

After many years the big work from Giovanni had been finished, and it did not spread quickly at first, but every person who read it, from the ruling classes to the merchants and the craftsmen and those who heard it read out loud for them, would keep the stories in their hearts and remember them forever. There were stories of great wisdom and deep love, and stories of beautiful moments in the bigger and smaller days of a normal life, and of extraordinary lives. But most of all, they all had a sparkle of sunshine in them, a sparkle that all people could feel and that would carry the books and give them life through the years and decades in an ever  expanding circle of people in the Republic and Region of Florence, and with time also into the neighboring cities and in the whole of the Italian Peninsula. Many people would learn, and feel, and go back to Giovanni’s books throughout their lives, every time with a new perspective, or discovering a new detail, or a whole new area of knowledge or beauty. It would later be known as the biggest work of the Renaissance literature, defining and giving birth to tens of thousands of new writers and artists in the centuries the followed, all being inspired and having their eyes opened by the exceptional writings of Giovanni from Florence, Barberozzini Giovanni Rinozzo.

By the time he reached 70 years, life in Florence had changed a lot. Marcello di Barberozzini was still alive, but his first son Donatello was in charge of the city, a well-tempered and insightful young man, almost sophisticated, but with a natural authority and bestowed with a set of good instincts, especially in the areas of people and politics, and to some degree also within the arts. He was a product of the City of Florence, and he was a perfect hair to the throne. Marcello was proud of him, and felt that the city and Lordship would be left in good hands, when he one day would pass away.

  Donatello himself loved his city, and his father, and he ruled the Republic with a firm, unforgiving hand, but with a big heart and a resolute approach to the warring neighboring cities, which gained him a strong reputation, and less challenges and threats. He had studied carefully the philosophies of both his grandfather Ezio, and his father Marcello, and tried to draw from the best of both of them. And he gave a big grant to the young artists in the city, to secure a new season of beauty and creativity in his beloved city, a new flourishing and growth, of the flower.

And this was how, as Giovanni was approaching his celebration of 70 years, he received an official invitation to a special assemblage and banquet in the Palace, from the Lordship of Florence, Donatello di Barberozzini.

  Giovanni was sitting in his home reading the invitation, and remembering his first invitation 40 years ago, from Ezio. It seemed like a different life, a different time, a different people. And he felt fortunate and grateful for a long life in service of his treasured city, and the long life in meaningful contributions to the people of Florence, and from his family and friends. He felt very thankful, and looked out the window. The river was floating gently under the bridges, and the valley was quiet. He sat a bit longer to enjoy and feel the moment in peace. It had been seventy years of great life. He smiled softly.

The next week he stood outside the Palace walls and admired the building, before crossing the broad street, the little grass parcels with flowers and two fountains, and then was let in through the big main gates. “You have been expected,” the guards briefly said. “The Lordship humbly greets you.”

 And as he entered into the War Gallery for the assemblage, he saw Donatello, Marcello in his old age, and Cesario. Signore ™ had passed away a few years before, and the newer generation was now becoming in charge of the Republic, and Giovanni felt that it was in good hands. 

  “We wanted to show you the grace and honor of one last meeting with the assemblage,” Donatello spoke. “Please, have a seat.”

 Giovanni sat down, and as four decades before, the advisors and generals went through their reports, discussed their alternatives, gave some recommendations.

  “It will all be fine,” Giovanni thought. “These are better times.” And he enjoyed the rest of the meeting, mostly for the companionship of his life long friend Marcello, but also as a salute to the Republic, and gratitude for his long service. The whole meeting had an air of closure, of transition, as one layer of the city’s history was ending, and a new one was about the be founded and starting to grow. Giovanni just smiled, looked around in the room, and listened to the voices. “It will all be fine,” he thought again.

And as they later gathered for the banquet, they first had a luxurious meal with the best courses from all around the regions of the Italian peninsula, and then, towards the end of the evening, Donatello started to say: “I would like to begin with a toast to our patron and lifelong councillor to the Palace, Signore Giovanni Rinozzo. Everyone,” he lifted his glass, and they made a toast. “Firstly, my father would like to say a few words.”

  Marcello rose up, and started speaking with his strong, warm and beautiful voice.

  “My dear Giovanni, our long time Royal Councillor, and the author of the greatest testament and timeless tribute to our great Republic of Florence, and to our magnificent times. You have given your life in service to our city, and to the Lordship and to the Palace, and made our civilization and creative and artistic culture live forever through your works, for all time. You have also given me a personal friendship that has been one of the greatest and most dear treasures in my life.” The room was silent. “Thank you.”

  Giovanni was sitting there, in the middle of the room, feeling how his lifetime was being shaped by these words, and how something in him changed, his own time with the city becoming something beside himself, not leaving him, but being transferred to the history of the city, and the world, and not just being his own life anymore.

  He also felt like he received the value of his own lifetime once again as a gift, and something he could see from the outside, in the wider span of centuries before and then briefly after, his own time.

  He looked at Marcello, and it was like time froze, for a few seconds. Then Marcello sat down, and it felt like an era had ended. Donatello then spoke again: “And Cesario too, has a few words.”

  “Thank you. Giovanni, you have always had my utmost respect and admiration for your contributions and service for the Republic. I deeply commend you for your support to our family and Lordship. We might not have been here today if not for your council, and the city might not have been flourishing as it has for so long, without your help.” Cesario almost looked a bit moved. “So for that, a new toast, and with deepest gratitude.”

  Giovanni had not expected this praise from Marcello’s brother, but behind the hot temperament there had always been a different Cesario, which had come out gradually as his involvement in the Palace was smaller. And tonight, Signore fully gained the respect of Giovanni again, to a certain sweet and comforting feeling for Giovanni too. 

  “And then finally,” Donatello continued, “as a token of the gratitude from our House of Barberozzini as the Lordship of the Republic of Florence, and for the magnitude of your life, you will now be designated as the Artistic and Holy Patron of the City of Florence, with honors, for all time.” Giovanni was still sitting in the middle of the room, yet again feeling the warmth of friendships from his long time friends, the beauty of the banquet hall and the Palace, and how once again his own life was given a new shape and place, even in his own mind. It was somehow a feeling like it was given a new life outside of himself, and his own body, forever more. It became one with the city he loved, a city he always had been a part of, and he felt a clarity, and a relief, different from anything he had felt before.

 Giovanni rose, and briefly said: “Marcello, Cesario, Donatello. Guests and members of the Palace, and to the legacy of the Lordship and House of Barberozzini, my life is now complete. Through a long journey and with love for this city, there will from this day be a different Florence in my mind, a Florence of completion and of timeless beauty, love and friendships. Together we have given the world an eternally flourishing flower in this broad valley of sunlight. A toast to Lord Ezio, Niccoló, my parents Lucrezia and Tomaso, to all here present, and to the whole city and glorious people of Florence.”

Another toast, and the banquet had ended.

  As Giovanni walked home and into his house, his mind was empty. He went upstairs to his bedroom, picked up his diary, but there was nothing to write. He walked over to the window and looked at the river, flowing peacefully in the faint moonlight, but had no thoughts.

  It was all just an emotion. He was just what he saw through his eyes, and what he saw was his beautiful city.

And then he went to bed, and had a silent and peaceful night, only slightly thinking of his father. And then just a peaceful stable emotion of gratitude, and of warmth. Little Giovanni.

As he went to his favorite square the next day, he slightly felt like a guest in his own city, but then fully felt like a part of it again. It was sunny, warm, and half full of people in the streets.

  He went to the usual coffee shop and smiled to the owner. It was a big man with dark hair and a little belly, a broad smile and glowing brown eyes. It was the son of the late owner, and Giovanni’s good friend. “Good morning, Gio,” he said. “What can I get you?”

  “A coffee, my friend,” he replied with a smile, and sat down at a table. His sculptor friend was coming to meet him in a few minutes, to talk about his trips to Rome and other cities, and about life, people, the arts, history, and their daily lives in Florence. Giovanni sat back at the table, and the young owner, the new generation and his friend, put the coffee on the table in front of him.

  He looked at the people, lifted the coffee cup to his lips, closed his eyes, and could feel the sweet taste of the coffee. The sound of the voices, the beautiful sunshine bathing the square in a new, golden light, and stroking his face, his arms, his shoulders: “This is life,” he thought. “This is the joy and beauty, of love, and of life.”

  And then his friend came down and sat next to him, ordered a coffee, and they both enjoyed the sunshine for a while, in silence.

It was a good day day, for Giovanni.

David stopped at the last few words on the last page in the book, just holding it strongly. He felt numb. He looked around in the living room, at the tea cup that was now empty, and the sun was still filling the room with warm and a golden light.

   He felt young, and he felt inspired.

  And then he felt asleep, on the couch, soon dreaming himself back into the life of the Rinozzos, the Barberozzinis, the Palace life, and the magnificent city of Florence in the fourteen hundreds. Walking the streets, meeting with friends, drinking a coffee, and looking at the arts. David felt at home, and he felt happy.

The End.