The Gilder Read Online Free

She had an apartment to find and a future to get on with.
     
    As it turned out, the consulate had no leads on apartments. The man behind the highly polished desk under the Stars and Stripes suggested Marina ask at the American school on the other side of the river. They might know of something. If all else failed, she could try one of the local rental agencies, but he warned that the prices would be exorbitant. The elation that had carried her from Santa Croce to the consulate ebbed. She’d already scrutinized the rental ads posted in agency windows, and while she fantasized about alfresco meals on rooftop terraces and leisurely soaks in marble baths, they were all beyond her price range. He also suggested she might check at the university, but she was not anxious to jump back into student life, with its late nights and sloppy habits. Besides, she wanted to live alone, simply. One room with a hot plate would do, as long as she had space for a workbench. She wanted a real life, an artisan’s life, not some rehashed student life. Nor did she want to fall in with a community of transplanted Americans. That was not why she had come to Florence.
    The next morning, as soon as it was light, Marina put on the same black turtleneck sweater and beige corduroys she’d worn to the consulate, hoping she looked presentable enough, in spite of the wrinkles, for her appearance at the American school. But first there was something she had to do.
    The streets were quiet as she made her way across town, only the occasional buzz of a taxi or three-wheeled truck disturbing the stillness. She passed block after block of the blank metal shutters and decorative grills that rolled down at night, sealing the storefronts. About halfway across town, she came upon a coffee bar that had its shutter raised enough to see chair and table legs, an occasional pair of shoes going about the morning preparations, and to let escape the scent of fresh coffee and pastries just out of the oven. But breakfast would have to wait. She’d woken at dawn with the gilded altar on her mind, and she needed to see it again before the day was set in motion.
    Piazza Santa Croce was empty except for the ubiquitous flock of pigeons. Marina stopped on the far side of the square and considered the church’s geometric, pink and green marble façade, not unlike that of the Duomo, more austere, but pretty. On impulse, she lifted her arms, flapping them as she ran down the center of the square, scattering the birds. At the top of the church steps, three massive wooden doors rose two stories high across the front of the church. She stopped there, panting, and composed herself before entering through a smaller door cut into one of the larger.
    She stopped just inside the little door, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the dusky light. The silence pressed on her. Quietly, she removed her boots and began her walk to the front of the church, the floor icy even through thick socks. When she reached the velvet rope, she put down her boots and fixed her eyes on the altar. Looking around and seeing no one, she stepped over the barrier.
    Even at this proximity, the intricacies of shape and texture under her fingers informed her far better than her eyes. Closing them, she let her fingers take her back, and for the first time, she knew without a doubt that she’d been right all along. Right to petition her high school’s board to allow her swap out of Domestic Sciences and into a boys-only woodworking course. Right to stick it out, ignoring the stares and sniggers, cherishing the feeling of completeness when she used a carving knife. She’d been right about it all: leaving home, coming to Florence, learning Italian, the gilding course. Now all she needed was a place to live.
     
    Following the directions she’d obtained from the consulate, Marina caught a bus up to Bellosguardo, where the American school sat on a hill overlooking the city. The gray-haired secretary, in a twin-set and