The Pathway to Florence

 

 

The Pathway to Florence

By: Mohamed Ahmad al-Suwaidi

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As I made my way towards Florence, I drove with a purpose, trying to blend in with the rhythm of the city. And yet, there was something missing, a certain sense of connection that I yearned for. So, I turned on the sweet, melodic voice of Luisa Tetrazzini, allowing her notes to unfurl like a plush carpet, carrying me along the road like a prayer that only Muhsin Suleiman could truly comprehend. With every passing moment, the sound of her voice grew stronger, and I could sense Muhsin's presence beside me, moving with us towards Florence. 

I watched the only recording of Italy's First Lady of Song, Luisa Tetrazzini, singing "M'apparì tutt'amor" from Friedrich von Flotow’s opera Martha, or The Market at Richmond. The lyrics of the aria include the words: 

“She appeared to me, all love,

my gaze met hers;

never have I seen anyone so beautiful,

no, never will I see anyone more beautiful!”

That song, a timeless masterpiece, proved to be a benchmark for two distinct voices, each with their own tale to tell. The first belonged to Pavarotti, whose soaring vocals carried the aria to unprecedented heights and immortalized his rendition. The second belonged to Michael Bolton, whose attempt unfortunately fell short, failing to capture the essence of the Italian original.

As we traveled towards Florence, Muhsin's presence lingered in the air like the echoes of a long-forgotten melody. It was as if he spoke to us from a world beyond our own. "Let it be known," his voice seemed to whisper, “that Italy, a land that bestowed upon the world of opera the magnificent voices of Luisa Tetrazzini and Amelita Galli-Curci, shall never acquiesce to any other”. 

In a single photograph, Luisa Tetrazzini was immortalized, surrounded by a sea of 200,000 adoring fans at a San Francisco square in 1890. Her voice enchanted and enraptured, her talent undeniable. But, despite soaring to the highest echelons of fame and fortune, her light eventually flickered and dimmed, leaving her with almost nothing after a disastrous marriage to a young playboy who drained her wealth. As she contemplated her circumstances, burdened by a shameful secret, she confided in a close friend, lamenting that she could only afford a third-class ticket to return home to Italy from South America. "Is this what I have come to?" she cried, "To return after all that glory in such a miserable state?" Yet, her friend's soothing response echoed the sentiments of admirers worldwide: that Luisa Tetrazzini was still Luisa Tetrazzini.

Muhsin Suleiman had often regaled his audience with this tale, delighting in their amazement. He conjured it from the depths of memory, reliving the moment with each retelling. And now, as we approached Florence, I couldn't help but recall his words, as if spoken from beyond the veil.

Luisa had an unorthodox approach to breakfast, insisting that a whole chicken with broth, salted fish, and shellfish be included in the meal. Her rationale for such a hearty breakfast was her fear of sagging skin, as she would often say, "If I don't eat like this, my body will lose its tone.”

Alfredo, who once played the amorous role opposite Luisa Tetrazzini's Violetta in La traviata, would often lament about his chronic back pain caused by carrying the weight of his sickly lover. The burden of his performance was no mere acting, as a bulging blood vessel in his back became a constant reminder of his former costar's heft. "She was as weighty as two Michelin tires," he'd quip, "and she ruined my back."

Luisa's only known video recording was captured in London in 1932, a mere eight years prior to her passing. It is a rare treasure, preserving her voice alongside that of the great Caruso, with whom she once shared the stage.

For decades, the female stars of opera were known to retain a certain heft, a fact embodied by the likes of Luisa. Yet the advent of the 1960s brought a change in aesthetic, led by the incomparable Maria Callas. Henceforth, audiences demanded a different kind of beauty, leaving the plumper opera divas of yesteryear to fade into memory.

Illuminated by Andrea Ponsi's "Florence, A Map of Impressions," the city takes on a new form in my mind's eye, seen through the soaring perspective of a seagull. With this bird's-eye view, I can compress the city into a single point and then expand it out into a web of interconnected parts, a tapestry woven with threads of Florentine life.

Leonardo da Vinci pondered the density of the moon, believing that anything that was dense was heavy, and therefore, he wondered about the moon and its nature. 

 Today, as I gaze up at the clear blue sky over Florence, the moon hangs brightly in the midst of the day, its full crescent almost reaching its first quarter. As the earth's shadow casts a distinct arc over its surface, I can't help but marvel at how our ancestors were unable to grasp the spherical shape of our planet, despite the moon's reflective mirror revealing the truth to them.

The Arno river, a ribbon of life that snakes through Florence, has always been a symphony of water. It springs forth from Mount Falterona in the Apennine Mountains, where winter snows blanket the peaks and the rains dance down to meet the river's current, feeding its endless melody. The Arno flows through the city with an unyielding roar, a rhythm of water that echoes for eternity, one that captivated Leonardo da Vinci's imagination. He dedicated countless pages in his notebooks to the river's ebb and flow, observing its reflections of the moon and the ballet of seagulls above it. The Arno's discharge rate ranges from a steady six cubic meters per second to a roaring 2,000 cubic meters per second, carrying with it the scent of beech trees and a timeless spirit. 

I take flight above the Arno River, my wings gliding just above the surface. I ascend, reaching a height of around 50 metres, allowing my gaze to survey the city sprawling below me. From the Porta San Gallo in the south of Piazza della Libertà to the English Cemetery in the north, and from the south-facing Porta Romana to the edges of the city. My eyes scan the urban landscape like pages in a book, and I catch sight of the famous Old Bridge, known as the Ponte Vecchio.

There, in the distance, I see the Roman Gate beckoning me with all its ornate decorations, as if stretching out its hand and saying, "Come, cross over to me." My eyes then follow the road leading to the Pitti Palace, one of the magnificent Medici residences in Florence, and then to the Old Bridge, Uffizi Palace, and the Palazzo Vecchio, which are interconnected by a secret passageway designed by Vasari for the Medici family's exclusive use. Florence's social structure was based on class distinctions, and this trait was deeply ingrained in the society. The Palazzo Vecchio is a symbol of the city's wealth and beauty, treasured by its people.

As I soar above Florence, my gaze lands upon the grand Uffizi palace. Originally built as a set of offices, it has since been transformed into a world-renowned museum. Surprisingly, during Medieval times, it was also home to the city's first post office.

But it is the Piazza della Signoria that truly captures my attention. At the heart of Florence, this bustling square is adorned with a stunning collection of some 30 statues, including the awe-inspiring Neptune Fountain. And there, standing tall and proud, is a replica of Michelangelo's David. His gaze is so lifelike, one might imagine him to speak, but it is said that only the master himself, with chisel in hand, could summon the statue's voice.

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Revised by: Jameel salah