We had moved to Florence the previous August, renting an apartment on the first floor of an old villa. Entering through a red wooden door, we faced the kitchen with table and chairs and wood burning stove, the only heat source for the three-bedroom apartment. My parents did not fully register the small size of the icebox, the oven that had to be lit with matches, the steep hill they would have to climb with bags of groceries and heavy water bottles. Nor had the reality of heating with wood set in—my mother’s asthma was triggered by smoke.
What charmed them was the eccentric landlord, Giancarlo, a ceramic artist who owned the villa and lived in the grander quarters above us. Right away, he insisted on giving us a tour of the garden, drawing our attention to the posted sign: RENTERS ARE NOT ALLOWED IN THE GARDEN WITHOUT PERMISSION. He led us through the labyrinth of olive and lemon trees, bougainvillea full of pink blossoms. Tiered stone paths opened onto patios, each containing a diorama: foot-high ceramic figures portraying scenes of a family—mother, father, and son—in a hospital room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, and finally a train station, where the son stood alone without his parents.
“My mother was American, my father Italian.” Giancarlo spoke in a halting voice. “They resided here in Florence.”
“Here in this villa?” my mother asked.
“No, no, over there,” he stammered, pointing toward the hill known for its large palazzos. “They disappeared when I was seven.” He kept his gaze averted when he spoke. “It was during the war, and I was sent to a boarding school in England. That’s when I began to draw. It was an escape, you see, from the cruelty of other boys.” He explained he’d bought the apartment in 1974 so that he could open a ceramics school. “We depended on the kiln.” He nodded at the brick structure at the back of the garden. “Ten years ago the city shut us down because of new pollution laws.” He stopped to pick dead leaves off the tree. “All my art was purchased.” He glanced at the ceramic figures nearby. “Except for what you see here.”
My father seemed amused by Giancarlo, who invited us inside his quarters to see his new masterpiece, a large thick sketchbook of architectural ink drawings through the perspective of ants— Egyptian tombs, French bridges, English Cathedrals, drawn with ants in the process of construction.
“He’s either brilliant or crazy,” my father said later, unpacking his suitcase.
“Maybe his parents sent him to England for safety,” my mother said. “Maybe he’s Jewish.”
“Or maybe they were fascists caught by the partigiani.”
Later, when my mother came to kiss me good night, I stared out my bedroom window at the dioramas lit with strung bulbs and thought about Giancarlo’s parents. “Could you disappear?” I asked my mother.
“Of course not.” She closed the curtains and kissed my forehead. “That was during the war, a long time ago.”
Once he came to trust us, Giancarlo granted us permission to use the garden, stipulating that children had to be accompanied by an adult. My mother took to gently mocking him. “You may use the bathroom with permission.” “You may heat the stove with permission.” “You may lie awake, freezing at night, with permission.” By then the temperatures had cooled, and my parents understood why the apartment had been vacant for two years and was rented at such a low price.