300 Years on the Erasmus
The low, ochre hills passed by through the window of the train. Thumbing through the menu, she decided not to eat on the train, but told a passing waitress that she wanted Chianti. It was unsettling how well – how easily – he had come to understand her feelings. The day before had changed her feelings about the entire trip, possibly for the better.
***
“Tell me about the woman over on the right.”
April had not noticed her at first, but she was suddenly the most interesting of all of them. The woman was leaning against her companion, perhaps for support, because she was turned away from the rest of the group, staring up and over her left shoulder. What transfixed her gaze was not certain, but she seemed out of place with the serenity that seemed to permeate the others. It seemed she was frightened, or simply crazy. Why else would she be chewing on a long tendril of ivy? The old gentleman smiled and gave April something of a crazed look himself.
“Frightened, you think? I’ll concede she may be trembling, but trembling from excitement. Do you see a theme throughout the painting?”
“Sure. Everybody is outside enjoying the weather. Three ladies are dancing, and the one guy over there is picking an orange. I wonder about him, though, because he seems pretty disinterested in all the voluptuous women prancing around.”
He laughed softly. “You are quite right, that everyone is enjoying the weather, but look closer. Those figures are not just enjoying the weather – they are the weather, or rather, nature itself. See how the figures blend into scenery? And the ivy in the woman’s mouth you mentioned? She did not pluck it from the ground. It is growing from her mouth!”
“What was Botticelli trying to say with this painting?”
“This is where a smattering of Italian would help. The title is “Primavera,” or “Spring.” Now the clear pregnancy of this woman, the ivy, and the cupid up here instantly make more sense, yes?”
“Of course. I wonder why I saw fear on the woman’s eyes and not joy?”
The Italian smiled at her ruefully. “That, I suppose, is more a reflection of how you are feeling today.”
It hadn’t ended with Tom in fiery Hollywood fashion. In her most pensive moments, April could admit that it wasn’t even all his fault. But it was epic enough to propel her to a travel agency and prepare a hasty two-week trip to Europe. She and Tom had been dating for almost three years, and it was assumed by friends and workmates, and April as well, that they were moving inevitably toward marriage.
They simply hadn’t worked hard enough at the relationship, was her ultimate, pathetic conclusion. They had made so many assumptions, the worst of which was that they were in love, but they kept pretending until they could barely stand to be with each other, and it was painful for April that it had been Tom who raised the courage to end it. Her friends had rushed in to comfort her, and demonize Tom, but it rang hollow and false, and she soon found herself on a flight to Rome. Rome, Florence, Arles, Paris, and London made a full itinerary, but the activity would occupy her mind, she thought.
“Arles is not a typical stop for a first visit to Europe,” the old gentleman said.
She smiled. “The travel agent almost swooned when I told her that I had studied art in college. She insisted that I see the town in Provence where Van Gogh lived. I take the train there in the morning.”
“Smart agent. Wonderful! I was there many years ago, before the fast train. Maybe the sun of southern France will take you from your melancholy.”
Stunned by his comment, she had strolled with him through the Uffizi, telling him the reason for her travels. She reasoned through the end of the relationship with him, and he pulled it all out of her without offering any opinions or advice.
“So, you practically have my life story. What do you think?”
He smiled. “Me? I’m just a man who told you where the Botticelli room is. You want me to give you advice?”
“Sure. What do I do next?”
He paused, and then looked her in the eye. “What you should do next, is get on that train in the morning.”
“What?”
“You are in the wrong country, my dear. You are in the epicenter of the Renaissance, where art exploded after the Dark Ages with the likes of Leonardo, Michelangelo, and our friend Botticelli. For a large part though, their efforts were an attempt to recapture the glory of Greek and Roman artistic ideal that had been nearly lost after years of barbarism. My point is, this art looks backwards, and you need art that looks forward.”
“That will help me move on with my life?”
“Every bit helps, as you Americans say. I have lived my entire life in Florence, always with the dome of Brunischelli outside of my window, but I never tire of this city’s art. I still come here many times every year to be captivat
ed all over again by the achievements of the 1500’s. You need art that is looking forward, and what better place than Arles, where you can still walk among the sunflowers and windswept trees that Van Gogh painted.
“I think my hotel is on the square with the café he painted.”
“The Place du Forum. I like your travel agent more and more.”
***
Momentum shifted from one side of the train to another as it turned gently to come parallel with the Rhone. The intercom announced that the “Erasmus” would arrive in Arles in fifteen minutes.
Interesting, she thought, how the old Italian never asked for her name, or offered his. She emptied her glass and wished for love in the 1800’s.
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