Chapter III: The beginning
The air became brighter. The colours on the trees and hills were clearer. The Arno lost its foam and began to twinkle. There were chromatic streaks of blue, green, and grey among the retreating white clouds. Patches of shining rainwater were upon the earth. The dripping facade of San Miniato glistened in the afternoon sun.
Hermione was never so sure of her mind after her music making. She played hours on end during the earlier rain. She wanted something big. She believed that it would come to her. In her heart strange desires were springing up. She grew to love the heavy winds, vast panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She thought of the world. How it is full of life, beauty, and war. A radiant crust of blue, green and white built around the central fires. It spins towards the receding heavens. Before the show ends she would like to go there as her true self.
This afternoon she was peculiarly restless. She would really like to do something, something her mother disapproved of. She went out alone and visited Alinari's shop. There she bought prints of Botticelli's 'Birth of Venus' and Michelangelo's 'David'. Arts of course signify the nude. Giorgione's 'Tempesta,', the 'Idolino,' some of the Sistine Chapel's frescoes and the Apoxyomenos were added to her purchase. She felt a little calmer. She bought Giotto's 'Ascension of St. John,' some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas.
She spent quite a small sum on the photographs. Yet the gates to freedom and liberty seemed still closed to her. She was discontent. It was new to her. 'The world,' she thought, 'is certainly full of wonderful things. If only I could come across them.' Mother was right. Music had left her impractical, and touchy, 'Nothing ever happens to me.'
She entered the Piazza Della Signoria. The great square was shining in the sun. Neptune loomed high, half god and half ghost. His fountain splashed noisily. Human and satyrs potter around its marge. An ordinary person at such a time and in such a place might be content with life. Hermione wanted more.
The sculptures under the Loggia Dei Lanzi caught her breath. The decapitated head of Medusa hung in Perseus' left hand, the short sword in his right and his nude male body roared in her head. The beautiful 'Rape of the Sabine' threw her in a crescendo to a resounding triple-forte. It was the hour of the heat. Unfamiliar things became real.
She fixed her eyes to the tower of Palazzo Vecchio. It rose out of the lower shadow on the palace like a pillar of gold. It seemed no longer a tower. The earth no longer supported it. It was an unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerised her. It was still dancing before her eyes when she turned and started homewards.
Then something did happen.
Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering. They had shouted. They sparred at each other. One of them pushed another to the ground and kicked him. He was hit at the stomach by the latter. He frowned. He staggered towards Hermione and stared at her. He seemed have an important message for her. He opened his mouth to deliver it. But he collapsed. A fountain of deep red came out of his mouth and oozing down his unshaven chin.
That was all. People glided out of the heat. They blocked the fallen man from her. They bore him away to the fountain. She caught sight of Harry Potter, a few paces away. He looked at her across the spot where the man had been. How very strange! Across something he grew dim. The palace itself grew dim. It swayed above her. It fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly. The sky fell with it.
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She thought, 'what happened?' and opened her eyes.
Harry Potter still looked over her, but not across anything. He was fanning her with his hat. She had complained of boredom, and look! One man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. Her right side leaned to his chest. His left arm was around her back and waist. He must have caught and carried her here.
'How are you now?' he asked gently, with concern.
'Perfectly well--a-absolutely well,' nodded she. Straightening up, she moved a little away from him.
He took another look at her and stood up, 'then let's go home. There's no point in our stopping.' He held out his hand to her. She peered at it and didn't take it. The cries from the fountain had never ceased. It sounded empty now. The whole world seemed pale and lost its original meaning.
'How very kind you've been! I can go alone, thank you.' His hand was still extended.
'Oh, my photographs.' she looked up at him and furrowed her brow to the blazing sun.
'What photographs?'
'I must have dropped them out there, in the square.' She bit her lip once and looked at him innocently, 'Would you be so very kind, ah-?' He turned to look at the square and then smiled at her. He set off to retrieve them. As soon as his back turned, Hermione got up, and tiptoed softly down the arcade towards the Arno. She had not walked ten steps.
'Miss Granger!'
She stopped her hand over her heart, like a child being caught.
'You're not fit enough to go alone.' Harry strode back and his brow was knitted lightly.
'Yes, I am,' retorted Hermione in a quiet but clear voice.
'No, you're not.' said Harry firmly and indulgently.
'But I'd rather go--' said she, a young girl again.
'Then I don't get your photographs,' said he patiently. His eyes were on her intently. He coaxed gently, 'besides, that way you'd have to fly over the wall. Now, please, sit down. Don't move till I come back.' She watched him go and sat down on a nearby bench.
In the distance she saw men with black hoods as in dreams. They were moving the wounded on to a cart. The palace tower had lost the shimmering. It joined itself to the earth. Harry picked up the envelope and turned his head her direction. She was still waiting for him. He went to see what had become of the victim. The black hooded men pulled the cart away with the wounded covered. The transgressor howled in grief, taken away by the officers. Harry cleaned the blood off his hand under the fountain.
What would she say to Mr. Potter when he was back from the sun-lit square? Oh, what happened? Hermione thought. She as well as the dying man was crossing some invisible boundaries.
Being strong physically, she soon overcame her shock. Harry returned. She stood up without his hand. Wings seemed to flutter inside her. She walked with him steadily enough towards the Arno.
She talked of the Italian over the incident. It had made her faint five minutes before. Surprisingly, it was an easy topic. They were close to their hotel. She stopped and put her hands on the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise and folded his arms.
'Isn't it extraordinary? I mean, Italians are so kind, so loveable. And yet at the same time, so violent.' She smiled at him. He glanced at her, deep in thought. She leant her elbows against the parapet. There was something magical in this place at this time. It radiated an eternal comradeship. She put her elbows on the parapet too.
'Mr Potter?' asked she. He turned towards her frowning slightly, as if she had disturbed his pensive. 'I've never been so ashamed. I don't know what came over me.'
'That's perfectly natural. I was shocked myself,' assured he.
She had to explain, 'Well, I owe you a thousand apologies. And, I want to ask you for a great favour. You know how silly people are, gossiping, women especially, I am afraid. You understand what I mean?'
'No' said Harry simply.
'I mean, would you not mention it to any one, hmm-, my foolish behaviour?' He didn't reply. He was deep in his own thoughts again. Then he drew out something from his pocket and threw it into the stream on the river.
' --What was that?'
'Things I didn't want,' he said vaguely.
'Harry, where are the photographs?'
He was silent.
'I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.'
'I didn't know what to do with them,' he admitted boyishly, and his voice was anxious. Her heart warmed towards him.
'They were covered with blood.' Then the boy morphed into a man, 'There! I've told you.'
'Something tremendous has happened.' He gazed at the horizon.
She ignored her own ominous feeling, 'Well, thank you, again.' she continued, 'how quickly these accidents happen, and then one returns to the old life.'
'I don't.' claimed he, ' I mean, something's happened to me. And to you.' His vivid-green gaze turned to her.
Moving her elbows from the parapet, she watched the River Arno. It was cascading some new melody to her ears. It was rushing below them almost white in the advancing rapids. He had thrown her photographs into it. He had told her the reason. He was trustworthy and intelligent. He was frank and kind. He respected her. It was useless to say to him, 'And would you--' and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms. He remembered it just as he remembered the blood on the photographs. Today was not exactly about that a man had died. Something had happened to the living. They had come to a junction. Childhood merged into the branching paths of youth.