Page 43 of The Artist and the Muse

“I bet.” I tried to imagine how I would have turned out if I had tried to become a priest.

“I just always felt my faith was more important to me than anything else. I never felt particularly strongly about getting married and having a family—sure, I had a few crushes back in grade school, but who doesn’t?”

“Is that why you’re wearing all black on a day as hot as this? Preparing for your priestly uniform?” I joked.

“Something like that.” He shaded his eyes with one hand. “What about you, Mr—I mean, George?”

“What about me?” I echoed, unsure of his question. Or maybe I knew exactly what he was talking about, and I was putting off answering so I could formulate an answer.

“Are you married? Or do you have a partner?”

“If I did, I think she would be concerned with me leaving her for a week to gallivant off to Italy without her,” I tried to joke. “I’m not seeing anyone right now. But, there is someone…”

Hunter’s nonjudgmental expression made me think he’d be an excellent confessor.

“There’s a woman I care about, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t feel the same way.”

“How sureare you about that?”

We were at the front of the group, and I shot a glance over my shoulder to make sure Georgia was still lagging behind at the back, pulling out her camera to snap pictures.

She was.

“Percentage-wise? I’d say… seventy-two.”

“Well, then maybe you should ask her out. For the other twenty-eight percent.”

I shook my head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not? You’ll never know until you try.”

“I’ve tried.” Was I really talking about my romantic life with my TA? Future priest or not, this was probably a bad idea. “Listen, you wouldn’t get it. She’s… It’s… Everything’s complicated.”

“Often, I think we tell ourselves things are too complicated to stop ourselves from having to take action on them.” Hunter gave me a knowing look. “This might be one of those things.”

***

Knowing Sebastian Cavalli had come with one perk.

He had introduced me to many influential and well-connected people, one of whom was the curator of St. Peter’s Basilica, who graciously agreed to let us cut the line. While the Basilica was still full of tourists, we could avoid the two-hour wait time.

I felt bad for those waiting outside, some carrying umbrellas to shield themselves from the harsh midday sun. But as my students and I walked through the Basilica with a tour guide, I was relieved that we didn’t have to stand outside for hours.

Before we had left this morning, I’d reiterated the dress code to the students—shoulders and knees needed to be covered—and hadensured that my own attire was appropriate for visiting the Basilica. But I’d failed to prepare my heart for the sheer sense of awe that would wash over me. Now that I was here, I was struck by the immense grandeur of the centuries-old building. Everywhere my eyes landed was another beautifully crafted mosaic or painting or sculpture, and there was so much to absorb that I could barely take it all in.

“St. Peter’s Basilica is home to many famous artworks,” explained the tour guide, a young man who couldn’t be more than seventeen. This must have been his summer job. “Such as Michelangelo’sPieta,Bernini’sBaldacchino,the Dome, and St. Peter’s Chair.”

The students began furiously taking notes. I’d assigned an essay that was due one week after we returned from the trip. They would have to write about three of the artworks we viewed during our time here.

First on the list was Michelangelo’sPieta. The image of the Virgin Mary cradling her son on her lap after his crucifixion had always stood out to me. I’d seen similar statues replicated half a dozen times, but never like this.

Michelangelo’s was larger than the others I’d seen, and he’d intricately carved the folds of her garments in such a lifelike way. I fought the urge to touch the statue and see if my fingers would leave indents in soft clothing and flesh rather than the cold stone I knew it was. Mary’s expression was sorrowful over the loss of her son, but also oddly serene.

There were a few quirks to the statue, too. Mary was proportionally much larger than her son—I assumed it was so the statue could allow her to support his body—but her features certainly didn’t look old enough to have a thirty-three-year-old son.

The tour guide rambled on about the facts and particulars of the statue, explaining that this was the only piece Michelangelo had ever affixed his name to.

It wasn’t the artist’s life I was interested in. What struck me was the tender serenity on the Virgin Mary’s face. Here was a woman who had just suffered one of the worst tragedies imaginable, losing her child, and yet she appeared tranquil. Accepting God’s will.

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