I study and admire the King’s Bataille tapestries. My private gallery. My autumn sun, as well. Sometimes Francesco makes the gallery a gallery for two. With autumn rain or wind. He sketches a Mazzoni bust; I sketch a Mazzoni figure. I am learning to appreciate the man’s skill: it helps my exile.
Yesterday, as I left the château, the handsome horse re-appeared, trotting along a path that leads into the forest. Bobbing his head as if in recognition, he walked toward the manor house with me. He’s a grey, with mixed mane. It was growing dark and his color blurred into the dusk.
I came to Amboise three, or was it four years ago?
The easel of time totters against invisible walls.
I grow thinner.
Maturina urges me to eat more.
“Give up your vegetarian food. Let me fix you a strong beef soup...let me casserole a chicken!”
A letter from Salai.
He is completing his house on the vineyard property. As usual, his letter is brief—painfully brief. Where is the love we once shared? I know that friendships are like old clothes, they wear out. But we were more than friends.
If we live long enough we may achieve maturity: we will have the past to guide us: we will confront the future more wisely: I write this, wondering about myself: is this something, this saying, that applies to someone else? I know that blind courage sustains me. I know that somehow we must circumvent the Cesares and Savonarolas.