Dark Water_ Flood And Redemption In The City Of Masterpieces Part 7

At eight o'clock on the morning of November 8, the Casa del Popolo of Santa Croce officially opened as the de facto relief center of the quartiere. quartiere. Food tables were set up on the right, clothing tables on the left, and an infirmary at the back. It should have been easy by then for the residents of the neighborhood to make their way there: the city had said that six hundred men would be out with shovels to clear the streets. But thus far perhaps a tenth of that number had turned up in Santa Croce. b.u.t.ter, cheese, fruit, pasta, and meat had been promised, but only bread and milk appeared. Elsewhere in the city, it was said, cafes were already serving cappuccinos and croissants. Perhaps just as vexing to the Marxists of the Casa (who would have preferred that all the blame go to Bargellini and the Christian Demo-crats and their capitalist masters) was the report that the Seventh Day Adventists were distributing free copies of the Book of Revelation, St. John's Apocalypse, as the key to everything that had befallen the city and the Food tables were set up on the right, clothing tables on the left, and an infirmary at the back. It should have been easy by then for the residents of the neighborhood to make their way there: the city had said that six hundred men would be out with shovels to clear the streets. But thus far perhaps a tenth of that number had turned up in Santa Croce. b.u.t.ter, cheese, fruit, pasta, and meat had been promised, but only bread and milk appeared. Elsewhere in the city, it was said, cafes were already serving cappuccinos and croissants. Perhaps just as vexing to the Marxists of the Casa (who would have preferred that all the blame go to Bargellini and the Christian Demo-crats and their capitalist masters) was the report that the Seventh Day Adventists were distributing free copies of the Book of Revelation, St. John's Apocalypse, as the key to everything that had befallen the city and the quartiere. quartiere.

Santa Croce, or at least the Casa, had had enough. The people took to the streets. Paolo and Menzella got a loudspeaker and a crowd gathered, urged on by the plea "What's there to lose?-the only thing you have is mud and water!" At 2:30, some two hundred persons marched on the Palazzo Vecchio, "united," the Casa a.s.sured, "not by ideology, but common misfortune." They were going to see the mayor and they wouldn't leave until he'd talked to them. Bargellini's deputy finally agreed that three delegates from the marchers could come in, which Paolo negotiated up to five.

The mayor met them seated in an antechamber and asked them what they wanted. They wanted to know, Paolo replied, how things really stood; they wanted to know why Bargellini kept saying that Florence had met the flood with a smile on the lips, that its citizens were heroic, and that the city was now already on its way to recovery. That, Bargellini responded, had been said in the interests of morale; people needed hope, did they not? But how, he asked again, could he help them?

To start, they wanted the streets cleared. They wanted bas.e.m.e.nts pumped out. They wanted the whole quarter treated with disinfectants. They wanted all the supplies they'd requested-food, clothing, tools, and medicine-and they wanted official recognition of the Casa. Bargellini tried, by his lights, to be kind and good-humored. But according to Paolo, Bargellini hedged and chuckled and then slipped away, having only agreed that his deputy would accompany the demonstrators back to Santa Croce for an inspection.

When they got to the Piazza Santa Croce, there were indeed some of the workers promised, a bedraggled squad that had been furnished with spades too small to penetrate the mud effectively (although by now some five thousand shovels had reportedly been delivered to the city); and even if they'd had the right tools, they looked too exhausted to lift them. The deputy made excuses and promised to look further into the matter when he got back to the Palazzo Vecchio. But before he could make his exit he was seized by a group of neighborhood women and, pulled by the arms, marched down the Borgo Allegri, bootless, his suit spotted with more and more mud as he was forced to rendersi conto- rendersi conto-to take in and acknowledge-the extent of the chaos and misery. Then he was set loose.

Late in the afternoon, however, like a revelation, the heavy equipment the Casa had been promised by their fellow party members in Perugia appeared, not only bulldozers and backhoes but lights and generators that would allow them to work into the night. With the rose window on the front of the basilica illuminated by the spill from the lamps, Santa Croce was finally being dug out, overseen by the statue of Dante in the center of the piazza, beleaguered these four days and just now emerging from the underworld, blinking in the sudden glare.

Inside the basilica, in the refectory, people had been coming to visit the Crocifisso Crocifisso they'd been hearing about. Nick had come with his camera. Workers were putting up scaffolding on the west wall so that restorers could get a closer look at the damage to Taddeo Gaddi's immense they'd been hearing about. Nick had come with his camera. Workers were putting up scaffolding on the west wall so that restorers could get a closer look at the damage to Taddeo Gaddi's immense Cenacolo Cenacolo fresco. The Cimabue still lay where Procacci and Baldini and their crew had set it down, lying flat on the cl.u.s.ter of benches they'd sc.r.a.ped together from the furniture scattered in the mud. To one side, there was a section of gold picture frame molding they'd used to wedge the cross into position. fresco. The Cimabue still lay where Procacci and Baldini and their crew had set it down, lying flat on the cl.u.s.ter of benches they'd sc.r.a.ped together from the furniture scattered in the mud. To one side, there was a section of gold picture frame molding they'd used to wedge the cross into position.

Nick photographed the Crocifisso Crocifisso upside down, the head and the halo inverted, and from that position it was no longer clear that there'd ever been a face, or even a body. It was still recognizably a cross, awaiting, perhaps, a victim. He took another shot from the front, the upside down, the head and the halo inverted, and from that position it was no longer clear that there'd ever been a face, or even a body. It was still recognizably a cross, awaiting, perhaps, a victim. He took another shot from the front, the Crucifix Crucifix supine before the iron wall mounting that had once supported it, which itself looked like nothing so much as a gibbet, a cross upon which to crucify the supine before the iron wall mounting that had once supported it, which itself looked like nothing so much as a gibbet, a cross upon which to crucify the Crocifisso. Crocifisso. Anyone could come and look at it. Anyone could come and look at it.

There were also still people from Procacci's staff at work. They'd turned from the Cimabue-no one quite knew what was going to be done with it yet-to the other artworks in the refectory and the rooms adjoining it. In addition to Taddeo's fresco, there was an important Deposizione Deposizione by Francesco Salviati and another by Alessandro Allori, as well as a by Francesco Salviati and another by Alessandro Allori, as well as a Descent into Limbo Descent into Limbo by Bronzino, all from the mid to late 1500s. A little later someone noticed a severely damaged painting from roughly the same decade in another room, by Bronzino, all from the mid to late 1500s. A little later someone noticed a severely damaged painting from roughly the same decade in another room, The Last Supper The Last Supper of Giorgio Vasari. of Giorgio Vasari.

That day, November 8, Marco Gra.s.si and his friends Thomas Schneider and Myron Laskin-an international, polyglot group, as angeli del fango angeli del fango always seemed to be-were sent by the coordinating office at the Uffizi to Santa Croce. They were a.s.signed to doing always seemed to be-were sent by the coordinating office at the Uffizi to Santa Croce. They were a.s.signed to doing velinatura velinatura, covering damaged areas of paintings with j.a.panese rice paper attached with Paraloid, an acrylic resin. Each sheet of velina velina (tissue) covered about a square foot and was held in place with the fingers while the Paraloid was brushed over it. Like everything else a.s.sociated with the flood, the process was sticky and smelly, although the aroma was synthetic rather than fetid. It was a stopgap measure, a way to put a painted surface in suspension, intact (including any dirt, oil, and mud) until restorers could begin working on it. (tissue) covered about a square foot and was held in place with the fingers while the Paraloid was brushed over it. Like everything else a.s.sociated with the flood, the process was sticky and smelly, although the aroma was synthetic rather than fetid. It was a stopgap measure, a way to put a painted surface in suspension, intact (including any dirt, oil, and mud) until restorers could begin working on it.

Velinatura, then, was the art conservation equivalent of sandbagging, ubiquitous and effective up to a point. It didn't make things better, but it stopped some of them from getting worse. Baldini's staff and the mud angels used up all the rice paper in Florence, Bologna, and then all of Italy in a matter of days, and when it was gone they switched to Kleenex tissues.

It fell to Marco and his friends to do the velinatura velinatura on the Vasari. The painting had been thoroughly soaked and at about eight by twenty feet it would be a long and tedious job, like pasting a billboard with handkerchieves. Swollen with water, the five panels had begun to pull apart: Bartholomew, James, and Andrew from Thomas the Doubter; Simon, Jude, and Matthew from Philip and James the Greater; the apostles dispersing, going their own crooked and various ways. The central panel of Jesus, Peter, and John was in the best condition, the one to its left, Iscariot's-performing his fey, devious pirouette-in the worst. While the Paraloid was still wet you could see the painting as through a veil, and then, as the resin dried, it slowly disappeared beneath the cloud of tissue. That was the last time anyone would see it for a long, long time. on the Vasari. The painting had been thoroughly soaked and at about eight by twenty feet it would be a long and tedious job, like pasting a billboard with handkerchieves. Swollen with water, the five panels had begun to pull apart: Bartholomew, James, and Andrew from Thomas the Doubter; Simon, Jude, and Matthew from Philip and James the Greater; the apostles dispersing, going their own crooked and various ways. The central panel of Jesus, Peter, and John was in the best condition, the one to its left, Iscariot's-performing his fey, devious pirouette-in the worst. While the Paraloid was still wet you could see the painting as through a veil, and then, as the resin dried, it slowly disappeared beneath the cloud of tissue. That was the last time anyone would see it for a long, long time.

Marco and the rest were at it for some hours, long enough to be photographed a half dozen times and to be caught in a panning shot by Zeffirelli's crew during its final hours in Florence. Marco himself remained for another two weeks daubing lesser masters with Paraloid before he returned to the Thyssen collection in Switzerland. The baron had telephoned to ask what he might do to help, and Marco told him he supposed clothing would be much needed and appreciated. Within a week box after box of slightly worn cashmere sweaters, tuxedos, velvet dressing gowns and jackets, and Charvet neckties arrived at the mayor's house. All but the most unprepossessing items went undistributed: what the Casa would make of handing out smoking jackets to the working folk of Santa Croce Bargellini could by now easily imagine. Instead, the mayor opened a depot to dispense more functional clothing on the ground floor of his palazzo. In exchange for donating a large part of her own wardrobe, he allowed his daughter to take a camel-hair coat from the baron's hand-me-downs.

Beyond the press and his political opponents (who certainly had no intentions of halting their own agendas during the emergency), Bargellini had to deal with sudden shifts in public feeling caused by rumor. The talk about the jewelers on the Ponte Vecchio wouldn't go away nor would the suspicions about the La Penna and Levane dams as well as fear of their potential for bringing another flood. That same morning La n.a.z.ione La n.a.z.ione had published ENEL's denial of having any role in the disaster. But people would believe what they wanted to believe, and Bargellini was, in his optimism, his piety, his bookishness, and aristocratic humility, not entirely of the perennial Florentine temperament, even if he was a native son. He was not well equipped to sustain, on the one hand, cynicism about ENEL and the goldsmiths and, on the other, sentimentality about the survival of the pet boar Esmerelda in the Cascine zoo. But the cla.s.sic Florentine-the one whose soul Dante had anatomized and upon whose governance Machiavelli prognosticated-could. All that, bound by the love of had published ENEL's denial of having any role in the disaster. But people would believe what they wanted to believe, and Bargellini was, in his optimism, his piety, his bookishness, and aristocratic humility, not entirely of the perennial Florentine temperament, even if he was a native son. He was not well equipped to sustain, on the one hand, cynicism about ENEL and the goldsmiths and, on the other, sentimentality about the survival of the pet boar Esmerelda in the Cascine zoo. But the cla.s.sic Florentine-the one whose soul Dante had anatomized and upon whose governance Machiavelli prognosticated-could. All that, bound by the love of quartiere quartiere, denari denari, and bellezza- bellezza-neighborhood, money, and beauty-was the Florentine's essential character.

And how could Bargellini or anyone know what was true in the midst of all this chaos in a city marked by deviousness at the calmest of times? It was true, for example, that there were still fifty-eight prisoners from the Murate unaccounted for, but it was false-so far-that cholera had broken out; and as to whether there were scuba divers salvaging gold under the Ponte Vecchio, you couldn't put it past somebody to have thought of it, not in Florence.

There were even rumors about art, about the Crocifisso. Crocifisso. It was said-it even got into the newspapers-that when Procacci and Baldini arrived at the refectory, they found the cross drifting like a derelict raft in the mire and watched helplessly as it shed its pigment before their eyes. It was also said that the fragments the monks were supposed to have sieved from the It was said-it even got into the newspapers-that when Procacci and Baldini arrived at the refectory, they found the cross drifting like a derelict raft in the mire and watched helplessly as it shed its pigment before their eyes. It was also said that the fragments the monks were supposed to have sieved from the melma melma had been left (for lack of any other receptacle) on a platter that a laborer, looking for something to eat his lunch from, subsequently sc.r.a.ped into the trash. had been left (for lack of any other receptacle) on a platter that a laborer, looking for something to eat his lunch from, subsequently sc.r.a.ped into the trash.

The next morning's edition of La n.a.z.ione La n.a.z.ione extrapolated some anxious comments by Ugo Procacci into the headline "No Hope for the Cimabue Crucifix." A subheading on the prognosis for all the damaged art estimated "Twenty Years Needed to Complete Restoration Efforts." Another page reported, for the first time, the phenomenon of "Groups of Students Working on the Recovery of Artworks." Bargellini had already wondered, "Where will we put them all?"-there were now a thousand of them in Florence-and struck a deal with the state railway to bunk them in idle sleeping cars and coaches. extrapolated some anxious comments by Ugo Procacci into the headline "No Hope for the Cimabue Crucifix." A subheading on the prognosis for all the damaged art estimated "Twenty Years Needed to Complete Restoration Efforts." Another page reported, for the first time, the phenomenon of "Groups of Students Working on the Recovery of Artworks." Bargellini had already wondered, "Where will we put them all?"-there were now a thousand of them in Florence-and struck a deal with the state railway to bunk them in idle sleeping cars and coaches.

The mayor had to concentrate on these and other practical details, but by now other voices began making the case for Florence: in London, the Observer Observer, echoing the global media from Paris to New York to Tokyo, insisted that to allow the city to fend for itself without "the entire world doing everything possible would be unpardonable." The paper had noted the dead, the ruin, and the homelessness, but it was "the finest fruits of the Renaissance . . . abandoned to decompose in the mud" that clinched the argument and would become the focus of the world's outrage and pity.

That same day, November 9, the weather turned against the city again. The sky lowered and grayed and the temperature fell. By noon it was bitterly cold. People said that the Arno might now freeze: it was already thick with the mud and refuse that was being dumped into it from every corner of Florence. There were still 18 million cubic feet of debris to be cleared from the streets, enough to dam the river to Leonardo's specifications. An old man with a pail, trudging back and forth across the Lungarno from the riverbank to the cellar he was bailing, chuckled, "It's a good thing we have the Arno" as he dumped another bucket into the stream.

Mayor Bargellini made his way on foot around the city that afternoon, past the lines of people queuing up for typhoid shots, and even down to Santa Croce, which was, after all, his quartiere quartiere too, despite the hotheads at the Casa. In the piazza, someone mentioned the too, despite the hotheads at the Casa. In the piazza, someone mentioned the Crocifisso Crocifisso yet again and, perhaps a little exasperated, Bargellini said, "Enough about Cimabue's poor Christ. Now we must think of the poor Christians." yet again and, perhaps a little exasperated, Bargellini said, "Enough about Cimabue's poor Christ. Now we must think of the poor Christians."

Later, in his study, in his journal, alone in the night, he could still dream his Florentine humanist dreams: "We'll be free at last to remake [the city] on our terms, more beautiful than now-like it was once-upon-a-time! Like it was in our golden age."

3.

A week after the flood, on Friday, November 11, young Giovanni Menduni's mother finally let him out of the house. She was going to the Casa del Popolo to volunteer on the breadline, one of a growing number of people from outside the neighborhood who wanted to help. That they did not come from the week after the flood, on Friday, November 11, young Giovanni Menduni's mother finally let him out of the house. She was going to the Casa del Popolo to volunteer on the breadline, one of a growing number of people from outside the neighborhood who wanted to help. That they did not come from the quartiere quartiere was not a problem, but that they did not belong to or support the Party often was. A debate was surging among the leaders of the Casa about whether the organization was losing its Communist ident.i.ty. In the end Carlo and Daniela, who'd been putting people in positions of responsibility regardless of affiliation and who were now being criticized for it, walked out. was not a problem, but that they did not belong to or support the Party often was. A debate was surging among the leaders of the Casa about whether the organization was losing its Communist ident.i.ty. In the end Carlo and Daniela, who'd been putting people in positions of responsibility regardless of affiliation and who were now being criticized for it, walked out.

Giovanni and his mother were bourgeois, from the middle of the middle cla.s.ses. Giovanni attended Florence's elite Pestalozzi academy-he was an able student if rather less well-off than most of his fellows-situated a few blocks east of the basilica. Cooped up at home and for days having had to listen to his elder brother's exploits in the disaster zone, he was eager to pitch in but also curious about the fate of his school. So Giovanni got himself a rastrello rastrello, propped it on his shoulder, and, leaving his mother at the Piazza dei Ciompi, set off for the Pestalozzi.

The Borgo Allegri and its adjacent streets were now cleared of mud although scarcely free of smaller debris-the Casa's own dented and mud-encrusted blue Fiat 500 had blown five tires in two days-but to Giovanni they looked like a battlefield, like Berlin after the war, not that he'd ever seen a war. One thousand houses in Santa Croce had already been condemned, and much of the rest were propped up with timbers, the walls plastered with mire and oil. He might have expected to smell powder and cordite, but the pervasive smell was sour where it was not sharp, a mix of dirt, petroleum, and rot. The army had succeeded in incinerating almost five thousand animal carca.s.ses and tons of meat, but there was still the reek of rehydrated and now decomposing baccala baccala, the dried cod that was a staple of the Italian diet and of the poor in particular.

Giovanni traversed the mud-slicked steps of the Pestalozzi and made his way into the vestibule. Around the landing of the stairs he'd ascended each day for the last two years was a knot of furniture and enslimed jetsam, and standing nearby, as though presiding over it, a woman. Giovanni could not say if she was old or simply exhausted. Indicating his rastrello rastrello, he said he wanted to help. It had been his school after all. He'd come as soon as he could.

The woman spoke to him, flinging out her hands in irritation. "Can't you see there's nothing-nothing to do, to be done?" Giovanni thought he'd better leave. Outside the morning went on; the sunlight strong and cold, angling up the street from the east, past Azelide Benedetti's barred window two doors down from the school, the curtains hanging stiff with dried melma. melma. He turned west, across the Piazza Santa Croce, and in the Via dei Benci found a shopkeeper who was willing to let him push some mud around the pavement with his He turned west, across the Piazza Santa Croce, and in the Via dei Benci found a shopkeeper who was willing to let him push some mud around the pavement with his rastrello. rastrello.

Around lunchtime he went back to Piazza dei Ciompi. He and his mother walked toward the centro centro, toward the Duomo. Just beyond the Baptistry was the music store, hollowed out, the metal shutters over the windows and doors sucked inward by the water pressure; b.u.t.ted and nosed, perhaps, by the twenty thousand cars Giovanni's brother had told him were floating everywhere a week before.

Men were working inside the store, carrying sheet music and LPs out to the street. Giovanni went to look more closely, and he saw that, just then, four workers were wresting a mud-clotted crate out of the showroom. It was the Hammond B-3, his his B-3. It was too big and too awkward to pa.s.s up the stairs and out the door easily, so the men simply shoved it through, battering the case, which was now split open. Giovanni could see inside it, see the ninety delicate "tonewheels" that gave the B-3 its inimitable sound, now sheathed in mud. B-3. It was too big and too awkward to pa.s.s up the stairs and out the door easily, so the men simply shoved it through, battering the case, which was now split open. Giovanni could see inside it, see the ninety delicate "tonewheels" that gave the B-3 its inimitable sound, now sheathed in mud.

They got it outside and dumped it on the street, splayed with its wires and guts hanging out, alongside the other junk from the music store: horns and bra.s.s instruments plugged up with mud, guitars and violins swollen and split like melons. It was then that Giovanni understood the meaning of the flood: that this was how things ended up, this was how the world is. is. Never mind the money his mother didn't have: they could have just Never mind the money his mother didn't have: they could have just given given him the Hammond ten days ago and everything would have been different, would have been better. This one beautiful object would have been saved and Giovanni himself would have been happy beyond measure. There still would have been a flood and of course that would still have been terrible, but this one small hope wouldn't have been lost, would have stayed true. It was a lesson in him the Hammond ten days ago and everything would have been different, would have been better. This one beautiful object would have been saved and Giovanni himself would have been happy beyond measure. There still would have been a flood and of course that would still have been terrible, but this one small hope wouldn't have been lost, would have stayed true. It was a lesson in lacrimae rerum, lacrimae rerum, the tears of things, that phrase Virgil had come up with for the the tears of things, that phrase Virgil had come up with for the Aeneid Aeneid and taught Dante. They would be studying that in Latin at the Pestalozzi, if there had still been a Pestalozzi. and taught Dante. They would be studying that in Latin at the Pestalozzi, if there had still been a Pestalozzi.

The angeli angeli were still pulling books out of the underworld of the stacks at the Biblioteca n.a.z.ionale, still removing the bindings, washing the pages, and hanging up the leaves on clotheslines in the boilerhouse at the railway station. Other were still pulling books out of the underworld of the stacks at the Biblioteca n.a.z.ionale, still removing the bindings, washing the pages, and hanging up the leaves on clotheslines in the boilerhouse at the railway station. Other angeli angeli were stacking volumes and folios from the Archives of State under the arcade on the piazza of the Uffizi. You could hear music from someone's transistor radio-it was the Beach Boys, usually-and the angels needed music, just as they needed to stop and smoke a cigarette, not just to relax but to keep warm, heating themselves from inside out. It was always cold and always damp where they worked, and often where they ate and slept. There was, of course, a surfeit of Chianti dispensed from immense demijohns just as there was limitless talk and laughter. People fell in love: with art; with one another; with themselves, because how often did you get to be a hero, much less an angel? were stacking volumes and folios from the Archives of State under the arcade on the piazza of the Uffizi. You could hear music from someone's transistor radio-it was the Beach Boys, usually-and the angels needed music, just as they needed to stop and smoke a cigarette, not just to relax but to keep warm, heating themselves from inside out. It was always cold and always damp where they worked, and often where they ate and slept. There was, of course, a surfeit of Chianti dispensed from immense demijohns just as there was limitless talk and laughter. People fell in love: with art; with one another; with themselves, because how often did you get to be a hero, much less an angel?

For example, an art history student named Silvia Meloni was working in the Uffizi, wiping mud off pictures that had been set aside as insufficiently important to require expert handling. She swabbed at one for some time, and then she wiped it down until a bit more of the paint emerged, and then she exclaimed-perhaps only to herself, perhaps to the whole world-"This is the self-portrait of Velazquez!" And so it proved to be. Miracles were for the asking.

Across the river in the Oltrarno, Nick was counting his losses. He and Amy could manage without electricity and they'd never had heat. Their household and kitchen could cope with boarders like Art Koch and the usual pa.s.sersby, even if their number seemed to swell each day. But Nick was supposed to have a show of drawings and woodcuts at the end of the month. It went without saying that it would have to be postponed, but there would probably be no work to show anyway: on November 4 most of Nick's art had been at the printer's being photographed for the catalog. The shop had been flooded up to the second floor, and even now the printer was still mucking out.

More likely than not, the work would be ruined, a.s.suming it was found: he'd done half the drawings with a ballpoint pen on butcher's paper the previous year when he and Amy had been particularly short of cash. Last summer he'd managed to buy india ink and rag paper after he'd sold some work in America. Almost all the drawings were on the theme of Icarus. Nick had been dreaming about him, and in the dreams Icarus melded with other subjects and traditions: Annunciations, Depositions, and, most recently, Pietas. Nick drew Icarus, dead and shattered, draped in the lap of a female figure, a mother, a lover, a G.o.d-you couldn't say. The image was only a shard of a dream Nick had had. But maybe it meant that Icarus wasn't just ambitious, foolish, or vain; maybe in his ruination Icarus's drowned and crumpled body warranted love, or at least pity.

A week after the flood the printer turned up with Nick's portfolio. He'd found it wedged between the ceiling and some pipes in his bas.e.m.e.nt. The earlier drawings were indeed reduced to pulp, but the ones on rag paper were intact, albeit muddy. As was true of so much of the art that survived the flood, the Old Masters were never wrong about materials. Nick washed the drawings off, the mud lifted, and the images-perhaps a little depleted and weary-were still there.

In the drawings Nick had willfully mixed traditions-he was very big on the unconscious, the serendipitous chance or collision, the cla.s.sical and the Christian swallowing each other's tails-and under the circ.u.mstances, who could object? Only the day before, Frederick Hartt had told another group of reporters that "there were two cities that occupy the most special place in the history of human civilization: Athens and Florence." So why not put Icarus and Mary together in a Pieta; why not make Icarus into the crucified Christ? Maybe that was precisely the art the moment called for, just as it called for the world's help. That was what Hartt had meant about Athens and Florence: "When something happens to one of them, all civilized people have a moral obligation to run to their aid."

With that final remark, Hartt flew home to America. He and Fred Licht, the art historian from Brown University who'd accompanied him to Florence, had been busy consulting with Ugo Procacci and when they arrived in New York they set about getting him what he needed most: expert restorers and money. Within two days, sixteen restorers headed by Professor Lawrence Majewski of New York University's Conservation Center were on their way to Florence. That same week they helped found a fundraising and coordinating organization, the Committee to Rescue Italian Art (CRIA), with Licht, his Brown colleague Bates Lowry, and Millard Meiss of Princeton's Inst.i.tute for Advanced Study in charge in the United States and Myron Gilmore of I Tatti as their liaison in Italy.

Mayor Bargellini was meanwhile struggling with the third and fourth waves-he'd lost count-of the angeli angeli, who now numbered well over a thousand: "What should we do with all these kids?" he pleaded, and found more railroad cars, dormitories, and spare rooms outside the city.

If there was no place to put the angeli angeli, Ugo Procacci had found shelter for the art. He seemed to have recovered from the devastation so apparent to Hartt during the first week after the flood and was now marshaling the considerable wherewithal he'd exhibited when they'd met twenty-two years ago. Panel paintings would be sent to the Limonaia of the Palazzo Pitti; canvas paintings to the Accademia; sculpture and objets to the Palazzo Davanzati; and books to the Forte Belvedere.

Much had been accomplished in a little more than a week after the flood, and it had happened very quickly. Some people had done what they could and were moving on, or resting up before another tour of duty. David Lees had already left Florence on November 8, the Tuesday after the flood, to take a load of film and submit his expenses: 6,000 lire for high boots and 5,000 lire for cleaning his mud-spattered suit. The helicopter ride from Pisa had been free, courtesy of the army. He stocked up on film and returned to Florence on the eleventh and would stay for the rest of the month.

Franco Zeffirelli left for Rome that same day. He would edit, script, and score his film Per Firenze Per Firenze, "For Florence," in one week. To narrate it, he rounded up Richard Burton, with whom Zeffirelli had been filming The Taming of the Shrew The Taming of the Shrew at Cinecitta with Burton's wife, Elizabeth Taylor. Burton recorded the soundtrack twice, once in English for global distribution and again in Italian. He spoke no Italian but read from phonetically transcribed cards in a convincing accent and with visible, near wrenching emotion. Burton spoke of the recent landslide at Aberfan in his native Wales. Twenty-eight adults-almost as many as in Florence-had died. So too had over one hundred children. But Florence was worse, Burton said. at Cinecitta with Burton's wife, Elizabeth Taylor. Burton recorded the soundtrack twice, once in English for global distribution and again in Italian. He spoke no Italian but read from phonetically transcribed cards in a convincing accent and with visible, near wrenching emotion. Burton spoke of the recent landslide at Aberfan in his native Wales. Twenty-eight adults-almost as many as in Florence-had died. So too had over one hundred children. But Florence was worse, Burton said.

Such testimonies and appeals were, of course, just the beginning. Asked how much and how long the restoration of the artwork would take, Ugo Procacci estimated $32 million and twenty years. Conscious of the need to underline the gravity of the situation he allowed himself to be a little pessimistic. As it turned out, he was off by millions and by decades.

In Santa Croce the disorder had taken on a certain order of its own: when supplies arrived, there was a flash of voices, a shock wave that went around the neighborhood, reporting that at this instant there was milk or bread or clothing or blankets. A line would form, like iron filings swarming around a magnet, and then when there was nothing left-there was never enough; someone always went without-the clot of persons would dissipate, and the quiet, the slow drip of Santa Croce would begin again until the next truck arrived.

And what of the river? By mid-November the level of the Arno had fallen back to normal, even a bit below average for the time of year; too low, in fact, to carry away the detritus that both nature and man had dumped into the riverbed. The Arno channel looked like a junkyard, heaped with mattresses, furniture, and tons of lumber, paper, and cars. Along the banks you might spy a rivulet of purses or shoes or a cascade of cafe chairs. All this was ugly or morbidly striking, even bizarrely beautiful: Dante's infernal ditch brought to life through a cornucopia of sullied consumer goods.

But it was also dangerous. City engineers repeated their earlier warning that dumping raised the floor of the riverbed and might cause the Arno to disperse the next flood even less effectively than it had on November 4. People rather than nature could make a deluge. Perhaps they'd even had a hand in the one that had just happened: on the weekend of November 13 the Sunday Times Sunday Times of London published an exclusive: "Our investigation has reached the conclusion that the disaster of the flood in Florence was made even more grave by a ma.s.s of water released from a hydroelectric dam." The newspaper claimed that at nine o'clock on the evening of November 3 ENEL opened the gates of the Levane dam "releasing five million cubic meters of water." It concluded that "this means that all the civic authorities knew that the flood would strike Florence at least eight hours before it happened." of London published an exclusive: "Our investigation has reached the conclusion that the disaster of the flood in Florence was made even more grave by a ma.s.s of water released from a hydroelectric dam." The newspaper claimed that at nine o'clock on the evening of November 3 ENEL opened the gates of the Levane dam "releasing five million cubic meters of water." It concluded that "this means that all the civic authorities knew that the flood would strike Florence at least eight hours before it happened."

ENEL had already done its own preliminary investigation and responded to the Times Times article the next day. You only had to do a little arithmetic, ENEL argued, to see that the charge was false: 250 million cubic meters of water had struck Florence, but the reservoirs had only ever contained 13 million, and even then the gates had never been completely opened. Moreover, there were now conflicting accounts about when or even if the supposed "ma.s.s of water" had been released. The residents of the village below the dams were a little fuzzy on the time they'd heard sirens or at what hour the flood first swept by. article the next day. You only had to do a little arithmetic, ENEL argued, to see that the charge was false: 250 million cubic meters of water had struck Florence, but the reservoirs had only ever contained 13 million, and even then the gates had never been completely opened. Moreover, there were now conflicting accounts about when or even if the supposed "ma.s.s of water" had been released. The residents of the village below the dams were a little fuzzy on the time they'd heard sirens or at what hour the flood first swept by.

Lorenzo, Ida, and the rest of the village would maintain they had every right to be a little confused on November 4: it was the middle of the storm, it was the middle of the night, and then it was total chaos. They were still picking up, not to say recovering their sanity. You could pa.r.s.e cubic meters until you were impazzito- impazzito-driven mad-but they'd seen and heard what they'd seen and heard.

The villagers' story and all its kin, its vague but shapely logic and thrust toward tragedy and complicity, was more satisfying than the mathematics of ENEL. It was organic and whole. It possessed a kind of beauty. The calculations were something you could know, but the story was something you could believe.

It was the same with the rumors and recriminations about the jewelers on the Ponte Vecchio. Maybe they'd been warned early because the guard had been specifically instructed to issue a warning if the water rose any farther and had also been especially vigilant about floods on account of coming from Vajont. But it was also a.s.suredly a conspiracy, conspiracy being one of the arts of Florence. It was a matter of smarts, information, and connections, the neural net of political economy. Capitalism Medici-style (and who was more a capitalist than a goldsmith or a jeweler?) was a higher form of awareness, the equal of religion and philosophy.

4.

Although the streets were neither flooded nor engorged with mud, Florence was scarcely dry. The city had taken a soaking worthy of Noah and no one would quite shake the damp from their bones until spring, even as electricity and gas returned. An enormous quant.i.ty of the city's fuel oil had gone into the floodwaters, but most people in places like Santa Croce or Nick Kraczyna's neighborhood in the Oltrarno didn't have central heating anyway. You were better off, for once, with a scaldino. scaldino.

Even then, much of Florence was literally moldering away. The pervasive damp fostered several varieties of mold, and within weeks walls all over the city were felted with white, green, and blue-gray spores. Mold fed on melma melma, rich in organic materials from the river and the sewers, and also on paint, especially the kind of colors and media used in traditional Florentine wall painting. Sustained by moisture and by the paintings themselves, the mold-it had a certain beauty, a soft, embracing patina-was eating artworks alive.

Nor would the water simply run off and the walls dry. A vast quant.i.ty had been absorbed into the ground (particularly in low spots like Santa Croce) and in the aftermath of the flood began to wick its way upward, carrying much of what was in the soil with it. Bricks and stucco were porous and behaved like a sponge. When underground water and damp surfaced under a building, they continued to rise through the masonry.

Moisture alone, together with the pervasive mold, could do tremendous damage to wall paintings. Fresco had an advantage in that the paint was part and parcel of the plaster to a certain depth, but in the presence of enough damp, the plaster surface itself would crumble. In the case of secco- secco-color applied directly on dry plaster as Giotto had done in the chapels at Santa Croce-the paint simply blistered and flaked off.

The problem was exacerbated by dissolved salts, phosphates, sulfates, and nitrates: as the walls dried, these compounds migrated to the surfaces of both fresco and secco secco, forming crystals under the color that erupted and burst, carrying the paint away with them.

The problem was probably most grave in the refectory of Santa Croce, which, in addition to the Crocifisso Crocifisso, contained another major artwork, Taddeo Gaddi's immense frescoed Cenacolo Cenacolo on the west wall. Only its lower edge had been immersed on November 4, but it was now under a triple a.s.sault from moisture, mold, and salts, flayed from its wall by their crystallization. Santa Croce, in addition to being the dampest ground in Florence, was also especially rich in phosphates and nitrates: the soil beneath the basilica, the cloister, and the refectory were the repository of a seven-hundred-year acc.u.mulation of bones, the cadavers and skeletons of thousands of Franciscan brothers. on the west wall. Only its lower edge had been immersed on November 4, but it was now under a triple a.s.sault from moisture, mold, and salts, flayed from its wall by their crystallization. Santa Croce, in addition to being the dampest ground in Florence, was also especially rich in phosphates and nitrates: the soil beneath the basilica, the cloister, and the refectory were the repository of a seven-hundred-year acc.u.mulation of bones, the cadavers and skeletons of thousands of Franciscan brothers.

At the Biblioteca n.a.z.ionale, Emanuele Casama.s.sima had help, almost a surplus of it, and it was perhaps the most cosmopolitan volunteer rescue effort in history. But after nearly two weeks of excavating books and materials, Casama.s.sima found himself in a position akin to Mayor Bargellini, puzzling out where he was going to find bed and board for the angeli. angeli. Thanks to Casama.s.sima's own organizational skills and the seemingly spontaneous and unconscious efficiency of the angels, a tremendous quant.i.ty of items had been removed and relocated, and were now being washed and dried. All told, there would be around one billion leaves or sheets of paper to deal with, and the question of what to do with them next seemed suddenly to arise: Should torn and fragmented pages be somehow mended or sutured? Should oil and mud stains be bleached out, cosmetically restored, or left untouched? Should some or all of the millions of volumes be rebound? How did you balance the utilitarian needs of future readers and scholars against the integrity of books and ma.n.u.scripts as aesthetic and historical objects? a.s.suming time and money were not infinite, was it more important to have a continuous collection of every newspaper published in Italy during the nineteenth century or a letter in Machiavelli's own hand? Casama.s.sima realized that he simply didn't know. Nor did he have much time to consider the matter: mold fed even more eagerly on paper than paint. Thanks to Casama.s.sima's own organizational skills and the seemingly spontaneous and unconscious efficiency of the angels, a tremendous quant.i.ty of items had been removed and relocated, and were now being washed and dried. All told, there would be around one billion leaves or sheets of paper to deal with, and the question of what to do with them next seemed suddenly to arise: Should torn and fragmented pages be somehow mended or sutured? Should oil and mud stains be bleached out, cosmetically restored, or left untouched? Should some or all of the millions of volumes be rebound? How did you balance the utilitarian needs of future readers and scholars against the integrity of books and ma.n.u.scripts as aesthetic and historical objects? a.s.suming time and money were not infinite, was it more important to have a continuous collection of every newspaper published in Italy during the nineteenth century or a letter in Machiavelli's own hand? Casama.s.sima realized that he simply didn't know. Nor did he have much time to consider the matter: mold fed even more eagerly on paper than paint.

No one knew more about paper, printed texts, ma.n.u.scripts, and binding than a small group of experts in London and Oxford, and what the Americans were to artworks, the British would be to books. On November 25, three weeks after the flood, Casama.s.sima called his counterpart at the British Museum, who in turn contacted Peter Waters of the Royal College of Art. The next day Waters, accompanied by the restorer Anthony Cains, arrived in Florence and they were later joined by Christopher Clarkson of the Bodleian Library, Oxford. They found Casama.s.sima at the Biblioteca cooking lunch for the angeli. angeli.

The British spent two days watching and listening. The makeshift operation Casama.s.sima had improvised worked much better than the British might have expected: books were being covered with sawdust and interleaved with blotting paper, which was good, but also, to their horror, with colored mimeograph paper, whose pigments leached into the pages the interleaving was designed to protect. Nor was it sufficient to let the interleaving absorb the moisture and then leave it inside the book: once it had blotted up water, it had to be replaced with a dry sheet, sometimes up to a dozen times. Otherwise the interleaving itself would turn the book into a sodden brick of pulp, which mold would quickly begin to consume. Fortunately, the weather had remained cold: warmer conditions would have fostered an epidemic of spores. But many books might decompose with no a.s.sistance from mold: the extremely fine-grained mud of the Arno had not only coated the pages but worked its way between the very fibers of the paper, abrading the leaves from both inside and out. Other books, impregnated and brittle with glue from their bindings, might simply crumble.

On the Tuesday after their arrival, the British had a meeting with Casama.s.sima. They outlined all the problems they'd observed and suggested solutions. But at the end of the meeting they proposed something more radical. The entire salvage program of the Biblioteca to date consisted of washing, drying, and wrapping books in paper to await action to be determined at some future date, regardless of their condition. This was no way to run a library, Waters diplomatically suggested, backed up by the rather more acerbic, chain-smoking Cains. Why not aim to restore and rebind every book that needed it? Set up a kind of production line in which each volume would be disa.s.sembled, washed, dried, photographed, wrapped in fungicide-treated paper, and sent on to whatever specialist treatment it needed-repair or rebinding-and then reshelved as quickly as possible. Money could be found. Angeli Angeli could be taught the necessary skills. Waters would agree to stay not for a week but ten months, and then Cains would take over for what would prove to be three years. To the surprise of the British, Casama.s.sima accepted the entire plan. could be taught the necessary skills. Waters would agree to stay not for a week but ten months, and then Cains would take over for what would prove to be three years. To the surprise of the British, Casama.s.sima accepted the entire plan.

What was needed immediately was streamlining, organization, and more technical know-how. In short order the British devised and improvised forty stainless-steel washing stations, a program to chemically inoculate books against mold, and a visually coded card system-many angeli angeli, for all their enthusiasm, spoke neither English nor Italian-to track each item and the treatment it required. The least damaged volumes needed washing-it took about four hours per book-but others needed their mud sc.r.a.ped away with surgical blades, one page at a time. A large number had to have each leaf pried apart from the next, stuck together by the dissolved and redried glue from their bindings, the entire volume now an impregnable block.

Drying was as problematic as washing, given the absence of electricity and fuel. Christopher Clarkson had taken charge of the railway station boilerhouse and its crew of angeli angeli washing and drying pages. The ceiling of the building extended up several stories and ropes had been stretched across the vault in rows and layers, each a few feet higher in alt.i.tude than the next, folios of paper draped over them like densely packed Neapolitan laundry lines. When David Lees came to photograph the washing and drying pages. The ceiling of the building extended up several stories and ropes had been stretched across the vault in rows and layers, each a few feet higher in alt.i.tude than the next, folios of paper draped over them like densely packed Neapolitan laundry lines. When David Lees came to photograph the angeli angeli in the boilerhouse for in the boilerhouse for Life Life, the book leaves looked like an enormous flock of doves descending. Once, a door was left open, a gust of wind entered, and the papers did exactly that, sailing through the air and falling by the thousand.

In a week forty book restorers and binders were at work, backed up by several hundred angeli. angeli. Waters and his team were inventing the science and techniques they needed as they went along; they realized, for example, that it wasn't enough to sterilize a book and its wrapper against mold. The storage units and stacks in which it would be deposited also had to be sterilized, and so they sterilized the entire Biblioteca, not once but three times. The compounds and treatments for this and other problems were devised by Joe Nkrumah, a young chemist from Ghana by way of the British Museum. Nkrumah, his beard a nimbus of wiry hair, was as pa.s.sionate about Florentine art and culture as any of the Waters and his team were inventing the science and techniques they needed as they went along; they realized, for example, that it wasn't enough to sterilize a book and its wrapper against mold. The storage units and stacks in which it would be deposited also had to be sterilized, and so they sterilized the entire Biblioteca, not once but three times. The compounds and treatments for this and other problems were devised by Joe Nkrumah, a young chemist from Ghana by way of the British Museum. Nkrumah, his beard a nimbus of wiry hair, was as pa.s.sionate about Florentine art and culture as any of the angeli. angeli. He would stay for almost seven years, working both in book conservation and in a lab funded by the Australian government to rescue and restore prints, engravings, and lithographs. He loved company as much as he did art, and soon he and Anthony Cains found their way to Nick and Amy's apartment in the Oltrarno. He would stay for almost seven years, working both in book conservation and in a lab funded by the Australian government to rescue and restore prints, engravings, and lithographs. He loved company as much as he did art, and soon he and Anthony Cains found their way to Nick and Amy's apartment in the Oltrarno.

To underwrite this and other projects the British would develop their own fundraising network: Zeffirelli's Per Firenze Per Firenze had premiered the previous week in London before Queen Elizabeth, raising $25 million. Meanwhile the American founders and organizers of CRIA were achieving extraordinary things-they would send Procacci his first check for $70,000 only twelve days after they'd established themselves. CRIA was freighted with had premiered the previous week in London before Queen Elizabeth, raising $25 million. Meanwhile the American founders and organizers of CRIA were achieving extraordinary things-they would send Procacci his first check for $70,000 only twelve days after they'd established themselves. CRIA was freighted with grandi signori grandi signori, drawn not just from the realm of art history and museums but from American business, politics, and high society: Jacqueline Kennedy agreed to serve as honorary chairwoman and Clare Boothe Luce and David Rockefeller were directors. CRIA was in a position to stage high-profile art auctions, fashion shows, and society galas and b.a.l.l.s as well as secure bountiful media coverage, booking, for example, Marchese Emilio Pucci on the Today Today show to make a nationwide appeal on their behalf. show to make a nationwide appeal on their behalf.

CRIA was officially launched with an announcement on November 28 in the New York Times New York Times, a full-page advertis.e.m.e.nt festooned with the names of the great, the powerful, and the chic (many of whom would be attending Truman Capote's legendary Black and White Ball that same night). For all their excesses-and how blameworthy were these if the result was the salvation of a large portion of Western culture?-they chose to place David Lees's simple image of Mary standing marooned on the mudflat inside Santa Croce at the center of their announcement. Lees and his employer, Clare Boothe Luce's husband, Henry Luce of Time-Life, donated the rights to the photo to CRIA, and it, too, helped save Florence.

Or rather its art. The Paleys, Rockefellers, and Whitneys were not sending checks to the Piazza dei Ciompi and the Casa del Popolo. But the Casa was, in any case, winding down its activities. After a month, life was returning to normal in Santa Croce; to ordinary poverty, at least, where the basic provisions necessary to sustain life were in reach, most of the time. Sandra, Macconi, Federico, Carlo, Daniela, and the rest had done an extraordinary thing with no resources whatsoever beyond their sweat and pa.s.sion, a small, briefly lived but transcendent work made ex nihilo ex nihilo. Now they could return to the perennial struggles of ideology and politics, capital versus the proletariat instead of the Arno versus the poor. The poor will always be with you, as the son of Mary-she of the embracing, futile gesture, blessing the mud-had once said.

5.

The Arno was running cold, cold enough to freeze. It had been nearly a month since the flood-the lights were on almost everywhere-but as happened every ten days or so, a fresh outbreak of rumors erupted, efflorescing throughout the city like the spores of the now pervasive mold.

On December 2 it began to rain and the river to rise. It never got any higher than ten feet below the Ponte Vecchio. But it was enough to make the rumors seem credible, even prophetic. By evening the roads out of town-some people already had their new Fiats-were clogged in response to a story that the dams had been breached, or were about to break, or one or another variant on the tale. Running alongside or under it-a ba.s.s line of dread as counterpoint to the hysteria-was the report that there'd been an outbreak of cholera.

The angeli angeli had their own rumors, which tended to bear on the art they were rescuing. With tremulous conviction, an American student maintained that the floor beneath the had their own rumors, which tended to bear on the art they were rescuing. With tremulous conviction, an American student maintained that the floor beneath the David David in the Accademia was buckling; that the towering statue was heeling over, on the verge of toppling. She'd seen it, or someone else had seen it and told her, or the superintendency knew it and didn't want anyone else to know it. in the Accademia was buckling; that the towering statue was heeling over, on the verge of toppling. She'd seen it, or someone else had seen it and told her, or the superintendency knew it and didn't want anyone else to know it.

Perhaps these weren't mere rumors, loose words skylarking through the city or, more darkly, circling overhead like vultures. Maybe people, maybe even the press, were having visions and hearing voices, like madmen or saints. But almost none of these stories were true. David Lees had photographed the David David twice since November 4, once a few days after the flood and again ten days later. The statue had stood impa.s.sively, the languid c.o.c.ked wrist slack on the hip, the sling over the back, the whole body gathering itself to push back the flood by merely looming, depthlessly beautiful, over it. In Lees's first photograph there were only a few inches of water on the floor of the museum; in the second, a skin of tan dried mud. twice since November 4, once a few days after the flood and again ten days later. The statue had stood impa.s.sively, the languid c.o.c.ked wrist slack on the hip, the sling over the back, the whole body gathering itself to push back the flood by merely looming, depthlessly beautiful, over it. In Lees's first photograph there were only a few inches of water on the floor of the museum; in the second, a skin of tan dried mud.

In fact Procacci had arranged for a temporary reopening of Florence's museums on December 2, a kind of Christmas gift, as he'd described it, a return to normalcy designed precisely to militate against despair or panic. That afternoon, the Cimabue Crocifisso Crocifisso, supine in the Santa Croce refectory for four full weeks, was moved to the Limonaia of the Palazzo Pitti. People had been visiting it and photographing all that time, as though it were undergoing an extended lying in state. Now, after the deposition on November 6, would come the entombment. Twenty people carried the cross out to a flatbed truck and strapped it down. The truck set off, never faster than fifteen miles per hour. It crossed the river at the Ponte San Niccolo, and in the Piazza Ferrucci a woman dropped to her knees before it and made the sign of the cross.

The truck had to climb the hill to the Piazzale Michelangelo, past the viewpoint where Barbara Minniti watched her Zio Nello's library seem to sink into the Arno. Then it descended the serpentine slope to the Limonaia. The truck stopped on the road outside and the cross was raised up on grappling lines, almost silently. A meager rain fell. Procacci and Edo Masini, vested in their lab coats, sprayed the cross with Nystatin fungicide, sweeping up and down it like priests with censers. They took measurements: the Crocifisso Crocifisso was still waterlogged, with a humidity level in the wood of 147 percent (normal would be about 18 percent), enough to almost double the weight and add three inches to its length. Then it was hoisted through the doors and laid down just beyond the chief restorer's office, gla.s.s-walled like a nurse's station in an intensive-care unit. was still waterlogged, with a humidity level in the wood of 147 percent (normal would be about 18 percent), enough to almost double the weight and add three inches to its length. Then it was hoisted through the doors and laid down just beyond the chief restorer's office, gla.s.s-walled like a nurse's station in an intensive-care unit.

The Limonaia was a hothouse, constructed in order to furnish oranges and lemons to the Medicis and the grand dukes of Tuscany. It was one of those Florentine building projects that was less an edifice than a gesture, a demonstration that the mighty possessed the wherewithal to conjure up and enjoy citrus fruit in the dead of winter. Now Baldini had had the heat turned up for several weeks and the orange trees were dying or dead. That didn't bode well for the paintings, as it turned out. The whole notion of using the Limonaia was founded on its being potentially both a large, well-lit work s.p.a.ce for the restorers and a kind of dehumidifying chamber for damp artwork. But even after improvements funded by CRIA, it was at once too hot and too moist, fostering excessively rapid drying on the one hand-fast enough to make panels crack and to harden Paraloid on their surfaces into an epoxylike varnish-and mold on the other.

Procacci's goal had been to move in everything destined for the Limonaia before Christmas, and he and Baldini managed it by December 18. More funds were coming from CRIA: in New York they'd auctioned off Pica.s.so's Rec.u.mbent Woman Reading Rec.u.mbent Woman Reading for $110,000 and the proceeds were on their way to Florence. In the New Year the real work of restoration could begin. Procacci and, more particularly, Baldini were still swamped, but soon they would be able to sit down and figure out how to proceed. The paintings, from the Cimabue to the obscure, unvisited Vasari for $110,000 and the proceeds were on their way to Florence. In the New Year the real work of restoration could begin. Procacci and, more particularly, Baldini were still swamped, but soon they would be able to sit down and figure out how to proceed. The paintings, from the Cimabue to the obscure, unvisited Vasari Last Supper Last Supper, were safe.

6.

Mayor Bargellini was a devout Catholic, but he was not sure the Pope should come to Florence. The pontiff was a complicated figure for Italians, the beloved (or at least respected) head of their church but also the representative of an ancien regime that had crushed-often ruthlessly and cruelly-their aspirations to become a people and a nation. Even now, after Vatican II and the liberalizing pontificates of John XXIII and, now, Paul VI, the arrival of the Pope anywhere could have the quality of a state visit, the reception of a sovereign by a subjugated people.

So there would not be a Papal Visitation, but merely a visit by the Pope. He would look around, say a ma.s.s, and go home. But he would do it on Christmas Eve, bestowing an honor that normally belonged to Rome and St. Peter's upon Florence and the Duomo. The Pope wouldn't be deigning to honor Florence with his presence, but coming to pay tribute.

Christmas Eve was cold, almost bitterly so, but clear. Paul VI entered the city about nine o'clock, standing up in an open-topped black Mercedes. His first stop was at Santa Croce, where he was received by the mayor and the Franciscans of the basilica. He was then immediately to be driven to the archbishop's palace, but instead he descended into the crowd, shaking hands, patting cheeks, offering blessings, and in at least one case, exchanging a bear hug and a kiss with a burly laborer from the quartiere. quartiere.

In those days there was little concern about the Pope's personal safety, but Bargellini didn't want things to get out of hand, particularly not in Santa Croce with its pride, resentments, and political volatility. Perhaps the Pope's instincts were surer than the mayor's: the crowd in the piazza swelled, almost pulsed, and there were boys hanging off Dante's statue at the heart of it all. It seemed they wanted the Pope, as much as they'd ever wanted bread, blankets, and shovels.

Finally they yielded him up, gave him back to the civic dignitaries and the Mercedes. At the Palazzo he and Bargellini exchanged gifts: a decorated copy of the Gospel of John for the Pope, a rare volume of Dante for the mayor. Then they moved to the Baptistry, where Paul VI put on his vestments and walked in procession to the Duomo, opened that night for the first time since the flood. At the end of the midnight ma.s.s, the Pope again departed from the agreed program. He asked to be brought the Gonfalone, the official city banner, the symbol of its independence, its emblem of defiance against outsiders, tyrants, and, yes, popes. Paul bestowed a papal medal upon it and then blessed it.

The Pope's last stop was supposed to be San Frediano, Santa Croce's Oltrarno twin in poverty. But after blessing the crowd there, he asked to be taken one more place. It was two o'clock in the morning and the Pope was due in Rome to say ma.s.s at St. Peter's at ten. But he wanted, he said, to go to the Limonaia, to see la vittima piu ill.u.s.tre la vittima piu ill.u.s.tre, the flood's "most ill.u.s.trious victim," the Cimabue Crocifisso. Crocifisso.

Ugo Procacci was located and br