Chapter II: No guidebook
It was pleasant to wake up to the church bells of Florence. Hermione opened her deep brown eyes upon a lambent sunbeam upon her bed. The ceiling was painted with bronze eagles and gold lions in a forest of green hornbeam and silver-apricot trees. It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows. She leaned out into sunshine. There were beautiful hills and trees of olive, Lebanese cedar, magnolia and mulberry, and marble churches opposite. Close below, the Arno was gurgling against the embankment of the road.
Over such sights time slipped away. Hermione might return home remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women under it. So it was as well that Madam Pince tapped and came in. She reproached the girl for having left the door unlocked all night. Hermione was hanging out of the window in a loose, long, melting-snow nightdress. 'Hermione, get dressed, dear, or the better part of the day would be gone.'
Hermione put on a floor-length, pale blue summer dress with high neckline. Trimmings lined the bodice along the body curves. They ran down the front, across her shoulders and along the back. The long sleeves puffed slightly at the cuffs. By the time Hermione was ready her aunt had finished her breakfast, and was listening to Miss Skeeter among the crumbs. Hermione saw the two women off to spend a long morning in Santa Croce. She promised her anxious aunt she would not go far from the hotel.
As it happened that Hermione found daily life rather chaotic. She entered a tranquil world whenever she opened a piano. She was then no longer either indifferent or patronised. She was no longer either a rebel or a captive. The realm of music is out of this world. It would accept and free everyone equally.
Hermione was no dazzling pianist. Her scales were not strings of pearls. She didn't strike more right notes than her age and ability permitted. But, passion was there. It could not be easily labelled. It slipped between love, hatred and jealousy, and every other forms of emotion. But one thing was certain that she was not tragic. She loved to play for Victory. Victory of what and over what-- that was more than words could tell.
This quiet morning at the Bertolini found her to do what she really liked. After breakfast she opened the little upright Steinway. A few people lingered around and praised her playing. She made no reply; and they dispersed. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the ivory keys. They were fingers grazing her own. Not only by sound but also by touch, she found her desire. -
Sitting unnoticed behind Hermione, Mr. Lupin mulled over an illogical element in Miss Granger. She loved reading. She loved going to concerts, and museums. She loved her thirty-acre home of down hill gardens and lush woods in Surrey hills. She loved iced coffee and meringues. And yet one day Mr Lupin had discovered this element. It was at one of those charity events at Tunbridge Wells. Among the promised entertainment was "Miss Granger, Piano, Beethoven." He was wondering what it would be. Would it be one of the composer's light pieces? Adelaide, or the march of The Ruins of Athens? The opening bars of Sonata No. 3 disturbed his composure. He was in suspense all through the introduction. With the roar of the opening theme he knew that Miss Hermione was playing extraordinarily. In the chords that started the conclusion he heard the hammer stroked of victory. The audience started clapping with respect. It was Mr. Lupin started the stamping and thumping. It was all they could do.
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Madam McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey returned from their morning stroll. They waded into the pool of music made by Hermione's piano. In their apartment, they found Mr Black and Harry wand in hand, directing stems of blue cornflowers onto the furniture and mirrors.
'You said you like cornflowers,' began Mr Black with laughter in his voice.
'So we brought you cornflowers,' smiled Harry. He conducted some on to Minerva's hat.
'Oh, How kind!'
Mr Black simply waved a few into Madam Pomfrey's hair.
'Mr Black,' touched the women were, smiling 'Ah!'
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Lupin clapped twice after the last note sounded. Hermione turned absent-mindedly towards him.
'May I say something rather daring?' breathed Lupin.
'Oh, Mr Lupin, you sounded like Miss Skeeter. Don't say you are writing a novel, too.'
'If I were, you would be my heroine.' he took a breath, 'and I would write: "If Miss Granger ever takes to live as she plays, it would be very exciting, both for us and for her."'
Hermione smiled slightly. She detached herself from the stool, puzzled. She paced a couple of steps, then said, 'Mother doesn't like me playing Beethoven. She says I'm always peevish afterwards.'
'Naturally one would be… ' murmured Lupin, 'stirred up? Won't you play some more?'
'No, I think I'll go out.'
'Alone? Is that wise, Miss Granger?'
'Too wise, one might have stayed at home in Summer Street.' Lupin nodded.
Hermione reassured him, 'I'll not go far. I promise ' She headed towards the door and collided with Madam Poppy Pomfrey, 'I'm sorry,' then she hurried out.
'What is the matter with dear Miss Hermione?'
'I put it down to too much Beethoven.'
'I heard her beautiful playing.'
'Miss Poppy, you have flowers in your hair,' bemused Lupin. He showed the lady to the mirror.
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'Buon giorno, Ferdinado.' cried Miss Skeeter to the statue, 'We salute thee.'
'The bronze is from Turkish cannons, captured by the knights of St. Stefano,' announced Rita to the ear of awed Irma, then bumped her on the shoulder, 'come on!'
'Stop a minute,' commanded Rita when they approached the entrance of Santa Croce.
'Hmm?'
'Let that man goes on, or I shall have to speak to him. British abroad! It's very naughty of me, but I would set an examination paper at Dover, and turn back any tourist who couldn't pass it.'
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Hermione entered Basilica of Santa Croce alone, without a guidebook. It was a wonderful church. Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto. She walked about over monuments of uncertain creator or date. The sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts were really beautiful. The dangerous charm of Italy worked on her. Instead of asking for information, she puzzled out the Italian notices. A notice forbade people to bring dogs into the church. Santa Croce was so cold, she was glad she chose a warm dress.
'Miss, these fresco no very good.' A native tour guide approached her, 'you'll go see gli fresci di Giotto. Peruzzi and Bardi are very good.'
'No, thank you.'
'Kept the sheep on the mountain,' persisted the guide with Italian words in between his English, 'Make a picture of the sheep. I very good speak English.'
'Look, do go away, please.' said Hermione, trying to ignore him. He pleaded in rapid Italian. Hermione turned and speeded up to another direction away from him.
There she met Mr Black and Harry Potter.
'Are you looking the church? Are you through with it?'
'No,' complained Hermione, 'I came in by myself and forgot my guidebook.'
'Why shouldn't you?' said Mr. black.
'Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?' said the godson, speaking to Hermione for the first time.
Hermione was nonplussed. She was again aware of something new. She was not sure where it would lead her.
'If you've no guidebook,' said Harry, 'you'd better join us.'
Was this where the idea would lead? She took her caution, 'thank you very much, but I shouldn't. Please do not suppose that I came to join you. I don't want to cause any inconvenience.'
'Dear girl,' said Mr Black impatiently, 'Don't be silly, and tell me what part of the church you want to see. We'll go with you with pleasure.'
She gazed at Harry before replying, 'I am not silly, I hope. It is the Giotto's that I want to see if you will kindly tell me which they are.'
Harry nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of elder brother about him. She felt like a younger sister who had answered a question right.
The chapel was already filled with tourists. A lecturing voice was directing them how to worship Giotto by the standards of the script.
'And there he is undergoing a trial… by fire… before the Sultan' said the lecturer, 'And here…'
'Ah, Mr Lockhart, Morning!' said Mr Black loudly, 'You see I lead a private tour of my own.' Hermione smiled uneasily.
'Here he is on his deathbed…' continued Mr Lockhart, after giving Black a nod.
'Mr Lockhart is our English chaplain here for Florence,' said Mr Black to Hermione.
'Observe,' said Mr Lockhart, 'how Giotto in these frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more tragic, beautiful, and true? …'
'Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh a ton, and he is floating in the sky like an air balloon,' pointed Mr Black, referring to the fresco of the 'Ascension of St. John'. Hermione tried to suppress her amused smile.
'Remember,' said Lockhart, 'the facts about this church how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, -'
'Built by faith indeed, ' exclaimed Mr. Black too loud for a chapel, 'That simply means the workers weren't paid properly.'
Lockhart's voice faltered considerably. The audience shifted uneasily, and so did Hermione.
'Pardon me,' walked Mr Lockhart up to Mr Black, in a frigid voice, 'the chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will trouble you no longer.' His audience filed out after him in silence.
'Mr Lockhart' called Mr. black. 'There's plenty of room for all of us. You don't have to...'
Soon Mr Lockhart could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.
'Sirius has that effect on nearly every one,' smiled Harry to Hermione, 'He's only saying what he thinks.'
'I hope we all are,' said she, smiling.
'He is telling the truth because he loves them. But people find him odd, and are offended or frightened.'
'How silly of them!' said Hermione, though in her heart she sympathised, 'I think that with a little tact--'
'Tact!'
Harry threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched him, the singular creature of a kind, pace up and down the chapel. For a young man his face was chiselled, and hard. When the shadows fell upon it, it sprang into tenderness. Healthy and muscular, but he gave her the feeling of greyness. A depression might only find solution in the night. The feeling soon passed. It was unlike her to dwell on darkness, of silence and of unknown emotion. She re-entered the familiar world of rapid talk.
Mr Black and Hermione together watched Harry brooding. The tour guide came to try his scheme on Harry. Harry took one look of him, dropped to his knees in front of a marble tomb. He closed his eyes, holding his hat under his cleft chin and refused to move. Hermione smiled at the scene.
Mr Black anxiously watched his godson, 'Harry has brains, but he is very depressed.'
'But why should he be?' inquired Hermione.
'Well, may you ask. It's the way we are living,' said he, 'free from the superstition that leads men to hate one other in the name of God.'
To this Hermione found no answer and uneasy, 'I must go, my aunt would be most anxious...'
Quite suddenly Mr Black busted out, 'I don't require you to fall in love with Harry, but please try to help him. If only anyone could stop him from brooding. On what? The things of the good and the evil, and the universe. Do you believe in this world's sorrow?'
Miss Granger shook her head. Her brow knitted 'No, I don't, not at all, Mr Black.'
'Well, there you are. Then make my boy realise that at the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes. And a Yes and a Yes!'
Hermione beamed. She became protective and anxious, 'has Harry a particular hobby? I mean, I generally forget my worries at my books and the piano. Collecting frog cards did no end of good for my cousin Ron.'
She collected herself, 'You must excuse me, Mr Black. My aunt will be most anxious if I don't get back this instant.'
Mr Black sighed, 'poor girl!'
'Poor girl? On the contrary, I think myself a very fortunate girl. I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time,' huffed Hermione, 'Thank you very much. Good-bye.' She matched toward the door.
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'Look at that adorable wine-cart!' Miss Skeeter turned to look at the owner, 'how he stares at us, dear simple soul!'
'I love these dark alleys' said she, close to Irma.
Rita dashed to the right along the sunny Lung' Arno. How delightfully warm! But a wind down the side streets cut like a knife didn't it?
'They're all peasants, you know. Come along!' said she, seeing Irma's nervousness.
So Miss Skeeter proceeded through the streets of the city, short, fidgety, and playful as a kitten without the grace of the kitten. It was a treat for Madam Pince to be with any one so clever and so cheerful. Rita sported a blue military cloak, such as an Italian officer wears. It only increased the sense of her frolicking.
Then Miss Skeeter darted under the archway of some white bullocks, and she stopped, looked around, and she cried: 'I do declare, We are lost!'
Madam Pince took out her guidebook.
'No, Madam Pince, you will not look into your guidebook.' said Rita, 'Two lone females in an unknown city. Now, this is what I call an adventure.' She nodded twice while Irma put away her guidebook, 'We will simply drift.'
They wandered arm in arm.
'One has always to be open, wide open. I think Miss Hermione is.' chatted Rita.
'Open to what, Miss Skeeter?'
'Physical sensation.'
'Ah-' Irma covered her heart and then her mouth with her hand.
'I will let you into a secret, Miss Irma.' whispered Rita, 'I have my eye on your niece, Miss Granger.'
'Oh, for a character in your novel, Miss Skeeter?'
'The young English girl transformed by Italy.' Her eyes flicked from left to right, 'And why should she not be transformed? It happened to the Goth.' Rita fixed an ominous look to Irma.
They went pass some street vendors. The Italians greeted them, which delighted Rita, but unsettled Irma.
Suddenly Rita stopped. 'The smell! A true Florentine smell. Inhale, my dear!' called Rita, and she checked on Irma, 'Deeper! Every city, let me tell you, has its own smell.'
Madam Pince covered her nose with her handkerchief when Rita turned to set off again.