ANTONIO MEUCCI - L'inventore del telefono

 

 

Category: Romance - Part I

Final part already published at the address below.

 

 

One day time fluttered the pages of a truth, and reality pilgrimaged in the arms of friendship, sometimes translating the exhaled silence into the agony of simple desire. Once in making a person smile and being able to talk about the temperature of emotions in any part of the planet. This simple man, Antonio Santi Giuseppe Meucci, was the most painful portrait of all the illusions that the human soul can carry in the intransmissible mysteries of life, immersing itself in the centurions and desolate ventricles of faith. Still, for the freedom beaten by the strong hope in the eyes when it opens in a panorama. Known as Antonio Meucci, he was born in those estancias of San Frediano, today a simple neighborhood of Florence in the great old Italy.

 

Sounding in the face of this fortress, Firenze is the dynasty of renewed thought of countless labors open to the universe of the starry blue mantle. The art of the geniuses of all times drips into each panoramic cloud of the eyes until it seems the sign of the gods in brotherhood. In the vastness immortalized in history where light is the past, present and future of each memory hoisted in this pavilion of knowledge. It shines to life and bathes in the mirror of every angle dipped in the fine sculpture of David by Michelangelo the spectacular and colossal center of Florence for all centuries in front of the Palazzo Vecchio until the year 1873, passing into the interior of the Academy of Fine Arts .

 

If there was a pure blood shed in the hands of Michelangelo, certainly a white veil descended from heaven in the form of peace in the centurion of this most noble genius who defied time and all seasons. Well, Florence is his face drawn in a thousand desires raised on the level of illusions where fantasy is the symbol of the reality of the Goliath of Florence. Fired at the doors of the imaginary, there, Michelangelo's David is the biblical defender and encourager of labors and conquests in the simple apparition of the soul with a sling in hand.

 

There is no doubt that during the passage of these centuries, Michelangelo's David bore fruit and groaned in protest as he clearly revealed the gentleness of the human being. And all of this is balanced in the dreams and bravery coated in the tiny human conscience. However, from the cultural art of the Renaissance itself, the most colorful sculpture of Florence in the region of Tuscany and the province of the same name can be seen. Thus, it seems possible for us to admire the most famous marble statue in the world of the giant of Florence. Silencing the preview of freedom that passes through the ages, raising the durability of all conquests in the eyes with the left hand holding the sling that fought with Goliath.

 

It was five o'clock in the morning, the sky still dark with dark clouds reflecting in the thin light that was reappearing on the horizons of small San Frediano. Right there, in the house at Rua Elucidação, nº 475, currently Via dei Serragli, 44 in Florence, marked by the calendar on Wednesday, April 13, 1808. A small scream alarmed the small street of the sumptuous city. And he wept in his mother's arms, the Italian genius opening his eyes for the first time to the world at the dawn of family and friends joy.

 

In his childhood among several siblings, the little boy learned the lessons of existence from his parents, smiling and sometimes playing with friends his age on Serragli Street. One night full of stars in the endless sky, at the age of three, the genius sat at the door of the house with his mother, observed the universe and asked:

 

-Why is the sky full of lights at night? And doesn't the sun come to light up the night like the day?

 

-Oh my son! You ask so many questions I don't even know how to answer.

 

He cast his pupils towards the cosmos, pointing with his finger, asking:

 

-Mom, why do the stars run from one side to the other and then disappear?

 

Startled, he put his hand to his head, leaning his body in the hardwood chair, he says:

 

-Do not ask me. Perhaps, they fall into the sea or are lost from view.

 

- You never know things. And what comes from the sky on rainy days like a thin tongue of light falling to earth?

 

- Lightning is a remarkable creation of God.

 

-Like this? And did God create all of this?

 

-Yes. He created everything in seven days. He first made heaven and earth and divided them into two worlds. The spiritual world and the material world that is passing, before there was nothing, everything was without form and without light. The earth looked like a ball of fire and light spinning in space until it cooled down and became what our earth is today. On the second day, God made the firmament, separating the waters, ordering and materializing the atmosphere in the sky and the earth. Third day, he formed the environment for life to arise. On the fourth day, he created light to penetrate the earth separating day, night and seasons by counting months, years and centuries. On the fifth day, he gave life to the fish in the seas, rivers, lakes and all birds and land animals. On the sixth day he created man, the only intelligent being on earth in his image and perfection. And on the seventh day, God rested and blessed reserved this day for man.

 

- How beautiful, mother!

 

Already counting on incomplete four years, after the midday meal, the excited boy asks his mother:

-When will dad take me to Milan? I want to go into the church of Santa Maria da Graça and appreciate the painting of the Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci on the wall of the convent's refectory. Ask mom to dad, please!

With the strange interrogation, she tries to explain:

 

-Son, things haven't been going well financially lately. And to tell you the whole truth, we are not in a position to undertake such a journey. We are concerned about the expense of your education.

 

Discount, the kid insinuated:

 

-I just said that I want to admire Leonardo's work. If I never go to Milan, I'll be like the Venetian Marco Polo, going around on seas and lands.

 

The mother, surprised by such an answer, becomes irritated:

 

-Don't say that boy! I don't aspire to have the same dreams as Marco Polo.

 

-He is well. - Said the boy leaving crestfallen.

 

At the end of the afternoon on September 18, 1813, the boy would run down the street to meet his friend, he was there with a cord of approximately twenty meters and two small wooden boxes. Improvising a rustic toy of talking through the thread coupled with a hole in the bottom. Since previously he had already left it for a few days to play through a stick without a cavity inside. Moment, he calls for his friend:

 

-Alan. Today we are going to play talk with this cord. Tomorrow, we play with the stick.

 

The boy in the long shorts, blue eyes, says:

 

-No problem.

 

-Then hold on to the end and I'll talk.

 

They stretched the line with the box at the end and Meucci asked:

 

-Are you listening to me, Alano?

 

-No.

 

- Stretch the line.

 

-And now?

 

-Yes. I can hear his voice very far away.

 

Meucci raised his head in a sudden movement, and asked:

 

-And now? Do you hear me well?

 

-Very little. Sorry! I want to play marbles.

 

-He is well. So let's go. Then we talk again, see?

 

-Combined.

 

-If you prefer, we can play teacher. If I'm going...

 

After a few years, the Infante aroused broad interests in science with inquiries about everything he saw, as soon as he started to attend the most important Academy of Fine Arts in the Tuscan capital. Countless reasons for the path of progress that he insisted on, exploring curiosities from a very early age with the pulses of his voice.

 

Among so many difficulties, Antonio Meucci struggled for a long period of six years studying at the majestic association, seeking other knowledge in basic disciplines such as: mechanics, design and chemistry whose studies included physics, acoustics and electrology, disciplines that were introduced at the time in academy under the French occupation.

 

With hope in his eyes that vented great admiration for reading and essays, he felt for the first time that the family's financial conditions did not support the advance of intellectual continuity, which resulted in part of his time. With no luck, he lamented every day, expropriating in imaginary latitudes the loss of not persistently enjoying his dreams.

Still tense, he chewed between the lines all the learning in the evolutions of his time and future transitions. At the age of seventeen, Meucci tempered his joys by performing chemical scrambles in the job of an agent capable of launching fireworks over long distances. In that energetic plane, Meucci was smiling as he set off his fireworks with bangs across old Florence.

 

At five o'clock on Sunday afternoon, in the dining room, Mecucci's parents were discussing their studies.

 

-Did you tell Meucci? So, can you say something to your son?

 

The boy's mother bowed her head, saying:

 

-Yes. I will work hard.

 

At that moment, Meucci asks:

 

-Say what?

 

With downcast eyes, she whispered:

 

-I don't want you to lose control. I'm suffering a lot. In fact, we will not be able to keep him at the Academy at the end of the course.

 

Said the father, fixing his eyes on the boy sitting at the table.

 

-It's unfortunate, my son.

 

-Stop. You don't have to hide it from me. I understand the situation. I hope you understand that I can't stop studying. Even at my young age, I can work a day and pay for my studies.

 

-Oh my God! Please have mercy on this boy.

 

-Don't worry about me. It is never enough to speak the truth. So I can help my brothers and open my own business in the future.

 

In 1823, with only fifteen years old, he ventured into an ardent daily life, sharing part-time work with technical knowledge and improvement at the Academy. Bold in working to maintain financial independence, he got a job in a government department entitled as customs in the control of entry and exit of goods. It didn't take long for him to find in the arm of Italy the deep roots that rebelled in the modifications of a fair price to freedom and patriotism. Logically, this burning fire in youthful thinking became fundamental to the cry of the actions of the Carbonari in a haughty uprising in their meetings with the purest truth. Apparently, the movement was abstruse in the strange imaginations of eavesdroppers. In that triumvirate of struggles, Meucci's genius was affiliated with the enigmatic Italian unification and social and political independence of its people.

 

At the end of his studies at the Academy, being dissatisfied with the insufficient earnings, he looked for a job and worked for a long time as a scenario technician in several theaters in the city, and finally at the Teatro della Pergola, where passion and tradition have always marked the fundamental ties. of beautiful Florence in the flammable mystery of the heat of the stage.

 

At the opening of the year 1833, Meucci was arrested for joining the revolution that defended the liberation of the Fatherland and, the advancement of free will imprisoned in the Italian bosom, accused of belonging to the Carbonario movement, he spent weeks imprisoned, when he left jail he sought for a new job.

 

On the morning of Thursday, February 14, 1833, in the capital of fashion in the past, winter descended on the Tuscan city, the temperature reached below zero, a soft snow fell. And the young inventor had woken up early, concentrating his last thoughts on the main door of the Teatro della Pergola. The upper windows of that majestic building were still closed, the light from the lamps did not open the eyes in that misty morning. And in the Florentine coldness, he wore a thick doublet-like garment in strong, vivid blue colors, hinting at a kind of short padded coat with a green over-tunic, tight and well-buttoned. On his head stood a hat curved on the front right shaded light bold blue. Arousing so much interest, there, he remained with intense cold, excited to immediately get a job. Inert, at the closed door, the employee of the opera house, upon opening it, immediately asked:

 

-What do you want?

 

Without giving an appropriate response, he pronounced the words in an exuberant and healthy way, said with a laugh:

 

-Before I explain it to you. I'm Antonio Meucci, an unemployed young man from Florence.

 

He held out his hand, expressing a strong handshake. And the server turning around said:

 

-The moment is very inappropriate to apply for employment. Do not you think?

 

-Certainly. Please tell me who is responsible for directing the sets?

 

- I'm sorry if I'm being rude. It's Mr Artemis Canovetti. What do you most want?

 

-I want to arrange a conversation with this gentleman. Is it possible today?

 

-I don't know if there will be odds today. We are very busy with the new season that is about to start.

 

Suddenly, Mr. Canovetti was crossing the stairs of the hall that gave access to the floor above. And Meucci found out bluntly:

 

-Is that Mr. Canovetti?

 

-Yes. It's himself.

 

- Let me talk to him.

 

-All good. Mr Canovetti, this boy is waiting for a chat.

 

He approached the young Florentine, and asked:

 

-May I help. What can I serve you?

 

-Mr. Canovetti, my name is Antonio Meucci. Complete my course at the Academy of Fine Arts, and during this time, I gained experience in various works, including in theaters in our city. I need to work. If you like it, I will be available immediately.

 

Canovetti looked and smiled.

 

-No. You know kid, we got our full frame.

 

Meucci insisted:

 

-Listen to me sir. I'm tired of wandering the streets of Florence looking for a job. I urgently need work to survive.

 

 

- Unfortunately, I can't. I recommend that you come at the end of the month to speak with our director, Alessandro Lanari. At the moment, he is traveling around Italy and Europe looking for talent to write the next season.

 

His eyes widened, and parting with the mist that fell outside, he said:

 

-Thank you sir for the information.

 

- I thank you, boy. I am very simplistic in what you want to know.

 

On the way out, Meucci crossed his arms, and then stood there pondering the abbreviations of time in the melancholy circumstances now seething in his mind. He aimed his pupils in the direction of the main hall, descending and inserting his hands in his lab coat, bowed his head. The household employee sensed that the young man was suddenly plunged into depression, and he immediately investigated:

 

-Everything is fine?

 

He turned around, shaking his head slightly. At that moment, the employee offers a bank, and says:

 

-Are you feeling bad? Don't want to sit? I'm sorry about that, maybe the next meeting with our director will be more promising.

 

-No. Thanks. By the way, each one has their convincing reasons for deliberating on personal issues or not. I go and come back with more force. A friendly hug.

 

He left with his face contorted in the fragile compass of the heartbeat that calmly hammered.

 

There in the main hall of the theater, there was the most varied information about the season, the premieres opened the picturesque point to the spectators. Dance companies, artists, choreographers, musicians and dancers immortalized the city of theatrical arts.

The image of the burning flame of Italian opera was shown to be without any repair, gallant and innovative in the secular constitution of shows, guaranteeing the alignment of traditions.

 

It is, and always will be, della Pergola, the magic open to the skies of our brilliant universe, or on the stairs resulting from the struggles and passions of each show. With so many timely renovations, the dance and song house has not moved away from the elective scene that makes art and culture on the linear until today. Marked in his features, it was up to the noble theater entrepreneur Alessandro Lanari to masterfully transform the theatre, attracting the best of classical Italian opera at this stage, and realizing the most arduous acceleration of the artistic world in Europe.

 

With the recent changes and definitions, the great painter Martellini, perhaps forgotten by the Arno River and all of Italy, had the task of carrying out an extraordinary work at the Teatro della Pergola in the year 1826, he painted the long curtain of the theater portraying the coronation (crown of laurels) by Francesco Petrarca in the Capitol, where mastery and finesse materialized with high technical knowledge, where renaissance roared, cultivating the glory of the greatest Italian poet and humanism. Without forgetting the enriched works of the engineer Canovetti who highlighted the possibilities in the development of a mechanism for lifting the curtains. And later, Gaetano Baccani, one of the best architects in Tuscany at the time, designed the decoration of the front of the theater and the Hall of Columns with marble dust.

 

He didn't procrastinate the hours, the days, nor the anxieties of the twenty-five-year-old youth who presented himself to the theater director. The famous Alessandro Lanari de San Marcello, born in this small commune in the Marche region of the province of Ancona. Known as the “Napoleon of entrepreneurs”, due to his effective knowledge of theatrical art in pioneering exciting works in favor of the theatrical universe. A strong man in research and a fervent stimulant of dramatic passions, innovative, very creative and sensitive in the scenic operations of his time.

 

He was the magical king of Italian operas, extraordinary in search of success and glory through which he fulfilled with love the vocation of potential among composers, writers, poets, to the bonds of the presthyman. Lanari was a merchant of embers on the peninsula, distilling his name across Italy and Europe in a veritable work of Hercules or Michelangelo's David. While expanding the name of the Teatro della Pergola, on that appointed day, he received the inventive genius who presented himself in the office of the house. Somewhat nervously reflecting on the proportionate reasons of that new world, he said with a hopeful air that shone within his pupils:

 

-Mister Lanari, I'm Meucci. Complete my training in mechanics, physics and electricity at the Academy of Fine Arts. I want to work in this big house. I have experiences in several theaters in the city as a scenario assistant. I looked for Mr. Canovetti and he pointed me to him.

 

-Boy, this problem of working on the mechanical part of the theater has been a serious problem for Canovetti. Most of these young people do not understand anything, causing enormous difficulties in the house. Many say they are used to scenarios and do not develop anything here. I'm with a team that gives me a lot of headaches. Sometimes I come across conflicting and analogous situations, which hurts me a lot.

 

Fixing his eyes on the director, the juvenile swallows his apprehension, stating:

 

-I understand your toils. The time has come to mechanize the instruments of the stage. What do you say to me?

 

-It is a breakthrough far beyond my imagination. And I find it difficult to do.

 

-No sir. There is no mystery. Right here working, I would greatly appreciate it if there were conditions to try out my mechanical innovations.

 

Lanari smiled, saying:

 

-You're kidding me, right kid?

 

-I speak the truth, and my veracity is pure without fibs.

 

-You are telling me that you have abilities to make mechanical modifications. Boy! Tell me the truth? I've never heard that from a stagehand. Please. Keep it confidential, because I want to preserve this idea so that we can improve it as soon as possible. The new season will start with Felice Romani. Do you know?

 

-Yes. He is a very famous poet.

 

-And truth. So I commissioned them to write an important work for our house. He is a cautious, studious man and has written fine librettos for the opera composers Donizetti and Bellini. There is no librettist like Romani around here. With the work already completed, we will soon have a full house. I want to put it to the test on the seventeenth of March, the third Sunday of the month. If the dream is a mixture of my illusions, I will fight and die this way.

 

-And what is the name of the opera?

 

-Parisina, a serious, very serious opera. What's your name again?

 

-Antonio Meucci. I'm from here in Florence and I need this job urgently.

 

-You know, I'm forty-six years old and I know theater and opera very well. After all, I live from it. The innovations of the drama and the compositions are what demarcate the brilliance in this set. If you have improvements for us to add on stage, submit a project to me.

 

-Sir. Here I am to honestly prove my simple work. Let me show you my experiences. I'm sure I won't do you any harm. If I don't give profits, losses will never happen.

 

-Do you want to earn money? AND?

 

-No sir. I would like to present my work for a week without charging you anything. Despite the fact that the man without work cannot provide what is necessary for the mouth.

 

-Very good. It turns out, as I said before, most of those who come forward have no idea that physics is important in the settings of this house. This here works like life and the sun is shining every day.

 

-And then? See anything?

 

-Yes. Start now, please.

 

With real appreciation and already as an assistant to the chief engineer, he showed the possibilities that were redoubled by evaluating the communication links and technical concepts used in the scenarios of the Teatro della Pergola in the year 1834. Among some means, the Italian genius built channels through of pipes provided in speech between the theater dependencies. Whose usefulness was the interchange of scenes without the public not noticing. The first sound of an acoustic telephone with a communication tube between the stage and the control room was born there.

 

It was a fluctuating situation ennobled by the arts of the Renaissance palaces submerged in the decorations of the salons and haughty glitter. Emerging sensations flowed in the opening of the colorful curtains between the stage and the fervent audience. There was the young man planning the unusual ideas that leveraged the prose scenes, sacred chants and poetry in the hindrance of backstage communication. A deified lesson in historical magic embedded in the many facets of each era in the clock of comfortable alterations and animated by the immature Florentine.

 

Tangling on the sides of fatigue, the genius assigned formulas and studies rationalizing better work angles in the experiences and fantastic creations he had conceived at della Pergola. The longed-for suggestion with a trivial smile circled around that conspicuous majesty of dreams, until one day backstage, a gentle look efficiently linked the pupils of the young Florentine.

 

The pleasant face in the tender look at the obliques forced the girl who sported the seams of the theater to cease activities in a sentimental line. And little by little, the eras did not share in this settlement of tenderness that plunged the great costume designer of the house into the anxiety spurred on by so much love.

 

From the accelerated courtship, and marked in the meeting on board from each threshold of the headlights that garnished the silence on the sidewalks, the contentment in the hands of those in love stepped on.

Dwelling on his yearnings for a light in his vision, the young man is enchanted by the theater seamstress casting a suspicious look. The attractions run through both their thoughts, and Meucci approaches the costume designer and says:

 

-You work very well in this art. I have observed his entire dedication to the invention of costumes, idealization with the texts, projects and so many drawings in the interpretation of each act.

 

-And you always chasing me. Is not it? Without the theater I wouldn't know how to live. Right now I feel tired with the research and this team that accompanies me in the production and organization of the wardrobe, they do not abandon me. The most difficult thing is the time that goes by so quickly and the demands of the director. For me, reality and illusion walk in the same wake as my doodles.

 

-Yes. I can say that without his ingenuity there is no theater and no audience. Alongside the dreams of each narrative, costumes and frames, a story is lived in each geographic space. And you make this world spin inside my eyes like the moon bathed in a rose. In fact, I'm thinking...

 

She smiled, and said:

 

-You are also a special man for our theater. Mister Lanari and Canovetti talk a lot about you. I don't like secrets, however, I feel something in you that attracts me a lot.

 

Surprised, he said:

 

And even? You are beautiful and you make me travel all over Tuscany with this glow. I stop. And I see that soul illuminating my thoughts.

 

-That's right. I think that sincerity goes along the same lines as the art of living and shining in peace.

 

- Can we arrange a meeting later?

 

She chuckled and said:

 

-Clear. First, I need to talk to Donizetti to study the last text. Without a costume designer, nothing works.

 

-He hasn't finished composing yet?

 

-No. The work is well advanced in its final part. Gaetano Donizetti is a genius, he keeps himself under uncompromising secrecy when he's writing in his bedroom. With ink, lined paper and a dozen coffee pots at his side, he becomes more than a sage. Man is really addicted to coffee! He just writes over coffee.

 

-That's why he composes beautiful operas. I believe that the melodrama Rosamund from England will be very successful this season with a full house, even more so with Romani.

 

-This legend of Rosamund from England is going to do a show in Florence. You know what. My work is redoubled with the language where the actor will have to identify with the character of the story with clothes, communications, theatrical aesthetics for each process on the scene. In the middle of winter, its premiere is scheduled for February 27, 1834. In a few days.

 

-And truth. Esther, I have a million facts to tell you about myself. The subject is about the two of us. Can I wait for you at the exit?

 

-Yes. No problem.

 

And it didn't take long for the stars to flash in the city of Dante Alighieri, delimiting the 7th of August 1834, where Esther Mochi and Antonio Meucci launched the ticket in the petals that perfume the union of the corollas in the fraternal and inseparable kiss.

 

The season ran around the corners with the breeze in freedom, associated with mysticism, becoming the emperor peak of the conflagrations of every young Italian who rebelled in spilling the pretension for the homeland. Sometimes he frequented the underground dais without outrage of honor, liberty, and fraternity, and they stood intact within the crossroads of the nation's innovations. For these nationalist pretexts, Meucci participated in meetings that were large on territorial political issues, said monarchical sovereignty was divided into several independent states, generating nonconformity among patriots. Such oscillations achieved the rise of bustling social classes, including the bourgeoisie in the northern and southern divisions. Since the shocks broke out in different parts of Italy.

And in this case, the Carbonarian agitation of Philippe Buonarroti was present with rebellious liberal values and anticlericalism. On another side, Giuseppe Mazzine and Giuseppe Garibaldi reappeared, who did not adhere to certain principles of the Buonarroti uprising, with Mazzine joining other nationalists in the formation of the Young Italy movement with a linked republican touch.

 

Notably, the pretensions, the agitations, the disputes were the unhealthy sources of the revolution against the absolutists in the preparation of unifying all of Italy in a monstrous conspiracy process from France and Austria, pouring out across Europe the overwhelming anti-monarchical protests starting in the kingdoms of Piedmont and Sardinia and in the southern part to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.

 

Some rumors were triggered by society, even with the use of codes, figures and meetings. Juvenile Meucci in two periods of the years 1833 and even longer in the year 1834, had his imprisonment decreed for three months for taking part in revolutionary tendencies. Taken to prison alongside the writer and politician Francesco Domenico Guerrazzi. Imposing that the Napoleonic power surrounded as a fortress between the reigns and the pertinence of the decisions of the papacy, beyond the Austrian ambitions. Sent to the military prison of Fort Stella located in Portoferraio on the Island of Elba, it was a safe place that prevented escapes.

 

One morning, young Meucci looked down between the fortifications of the walls overlooking the northern bay of the port in the full silence of pain. For him, the consternation was greater in the fall of the sunset, setting off the waves in the middle of the sea with the red ball that descended towards the infinity of endless days.

 

And if the advanced thinking of that genius was reflected in his pocket notes, he didn't lack hours to draw and scribble the projects before the lighting of the oldest lighthouses in Europe, built by the Grand Duke Leopold of Lorraine – Farol Portoferraio, a lookout star in Tuscany.

 

For these reasons, heartened by the friendship he enjoyed with Giuseppe Garibaldi and others in the Young Italy discussions, he suffered a severe blow in the provision of envisioning a new Italy. Leaving one of the eleven cells that make up the monumental mountain, Meucci arrived in Florence, depressed, shy and tired.

 

Without stretching, Esther receives him and hugs him, checking:

 

-Until justice is done in your name, I will not sleep watching over you. How are you? Lunch is on the table!

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed with his face twisted, he said:

 

-No dear. I have no appetite for food, and everything ruins me inside. It's like a sword has gone through my head. I fear that the persecution is continuous, I feel that I am in danger.

 

-What are you imagining?

 

With a disappointed look, he presumes:

 

-I find myself without wings and I feel as if someone had poisoned my soul. It's all disturbing what's spreading in my thinking. I cannot understand with maximum precision what happens in these instances, it is a long story that never ends.

 

The wife watched her husband and added.

 

-Don't be like that. Early this morning, I went to the chapel at the Church of Santa Maria Del Carmine. And my eyes never stopped appreciating Masaccio's paintings. I feel floating in the beautiful works of this genius, especially the depiction of Saint Peter curing the sick with his shadow as he walks down the street. It's amazing! And, I quickly remembered that term poisoning. So it seems logical to me to reflect that so young he left at twenty-seven. All for betrayal and greed.

 

Looking into his wife's eyes, he said:

 

-I don't know the direction of our existence. It seems as if Florence collapses inside me, and my expectations fly away to the sound of birds flapping their wings aimlessly. I am afraid of the persecution that washes the soul in betrayal. And maybe it shortens everything I tried to be in the best way to expand the spirit of freedom.

 

Tears rolled down Esther's sweet face. He got up and hugged him affectionately, saying:

 

-Although hope is late, my love for you rides in every piece of your heart. If with justice I approached the truth, nothing true I hear or see, and everything locks the doors of my dawn.

 

Confirming with her head, the wife approaches holding her right hand, encouraging him, she says:

 

-Yes. I understand all your struggles, so I'm forever on your side. No sleep during his absence, and my mouth didn't open for provision as I sobbed in his presence. My love! We need a safer place where we can enjoy our marriage. Let's eat some, love.

 

Tugging at his coat, the Florentine man follows the woman's steps to the dining table, and says:

 

-However, it is necessary to fly between the tiles of the sky, even if it is on the last broken roof of the interior of my passions. Though my steps are inappropriate for the dark. These squirm in my eyes like a serpent in the desert sands. I have the last passage at your side that bears me softly and encourages me in every minute of my life.

 

With her eyes fixed on her husband, she would remake a horizon line with brand new aspiration, encouraging him.

 

-True. She opens her eyes and follows. Yeah, the Italian vein won't open smiles and neither will a window where you can rest the ears of the heart. Dive like the heron and fly on the wings of the condor of the Americas. I feel every day that Florence will split into two bands in despair for the ambition of power. We have to leave and leave the sweetest of memories here. Remember Mazzini's suffering.

 

Turning around, he observes his wife saying:

 

-I can't let go of the pieces of my soil now and venture into a wave of illusions to sadden your life even more. With all the apparent difficulties, we don't have the money to pay for such a trip. I've been imagining that America has always been waiting for me. However, I reserve that the gates will not open to an adventurous and dreamy Italian immigrant. The fluency of the unknown language is still a surprisingly barrier in my life. In fact, opening a path without a thorn is like walking through a black light without a point of reference.

 

Trying to soften, she counters:

 

-Do not worry dear. I saved some of my savings. Maybe America is one of the best places in the world to live. I believe you will have many successes and glory.

 

Surprised, he lets out a slight smile, emphasizing:

 

-And even! So, can we accept the invitation of Catalan friend Pancho Marty? Dreams even if they are bucolic imaginations of the paths along which souls navigate. In principle, I did not count on this service on your part.

 

-Yes, and we can work together on fantasy theaters, allowing some time for your personal achievements. It's not that? Tell me more about Catalan. I just glanced at the profile briefly. Which hadn't given her enough time to learn more about the conversation.

 

Explains the young man:

 

-Dear! Pancho Marty is the same Spaniard named Francesco Martí Torrens. A small businessman who left for Cuba without any money is making his fortune there. He told me that business started with buying and selling slaves. Because he is without any reading skills and has entered into an extensive trade in fish on the Havana market. He wants to hire me to be the scenic designer for the theater where he directs.

 

-No. I didn't notice that.

 

-I thought you were paying attention.

 

-Now my memory does not fail me, I remember that tall and thin gentleman.

 

-Yes. That's right! What do you think about accepting his invitation to work at the Gran Teatro de Tácon?

 

-Ah!... It will be wonderful! I see many comments that the house is completely filled with the best opera artists. Do you remember the play Don Juan de Austria that was performed for the first time on April 15, 1838? Including the touching voice of Cuban actor Francisco Covarrubias.

 

-Yes, I have heard. He is very famous. But, life for Covarrubias is not as good as it is thought. After all, the family has been an Achilles heel in its brilliance. First, for fulfilling the family's wishes in medical school; second place for dealing a direct blow to the family by stating that his life was a vocation for the theater. It is so logical that Cuba enjoys this theatrical hero that the seas know him.

 

-I see in Havana a treasure trove of works of art, and we can build it all up again with the efforts that fall on our shoulders. And everything, everything can be achieved in love, breathing in a cradle of clouds scattered across the great America. Believe! It will be a truth in your life and in the best inventions.

 

-Oh! How you make my imagination the sweetest floor of my sad days. Sometimes I wonder what will become of me without Florence by my side and sailing through unknown lands alongside the flying serpent. I don't want Florence so beautiful to be fire on a merry-go-round, nor do carriage wheels allow me to disfigure my face. I have to work hard for people to use my inventions to improve their lives.

 

-Don't be like that, describing enemy forces at the edge of a corner with a sharp sword. No. You don't spill your blood on the Leaning Tower of Pisa and you can't stop its fall between the bells. Rejoice, the man I love is sweeter than honey and grapes from the heart. With the savings we can work in Cuban lands. Look! If agony falls in the center of your attention, I cry like the rain that falls in the middle of the street. Therefore, I ask you. Let's live in Havana! Don't let Michelangelo's dreams torment you with the figure of Saint Anthony with the demons. Rome will yet fall to the fate reserved for peace. I still believe that Garibaldi can light the candle for the crossings he so craves.

 

-I can never fight for my Florence and all of Italy. I am ashamed and thirsty for the humiliations that harbor despair. Thus, as I do not accept looking at the designs of traditions divided into several states, strength, empire, monarchies and the clergy mired in the influences of rulers to stay alive. May friend Garibaldi have faith in the highest degree of this battle for a united and young Italy. Certainty will fall back in his eyes. Everyone speaks of the death sentence in an unfair and dirty trial. Before everything happens, the sea will open the waves to Garibaldi - the great borel.

 

-It is not for this reason that we must remain in the shadow of these horrible events. You can fight in the name of the new Italy every day, earning many fortunes with inventions anywhere in America. Your fame is known, Meucci. Do not suffer in this darkness!

 

-I'm not sure about that. I need a lot of money to get where I can ally myself, showing the new world my knowledge. Who knows if it's not the United States of America? It's difficult to work in war with so much bitterness, and at the same time rest your head to sketch the drawings. Hard, it will always be the dishonor that accompanies me wherever I go because they evaluate me as a revolutionary. I don't want my patriots to think I've betrayed him by leaving Florence in a lake of blood. No. I feel the need as soon as possible to finish my interrupted works. The store and the cousins are disjointed, the men don't agree to harmonize the challenge among so many others.

 

-And know that the store did not honor your last minutes in prison. I could be wrong, but ambition grows between them to lead the Italian course in their hands. You have to accept that our life will be Havana, our grown up destiny, Meucci. I believe that even the flowers will open each dawn on that island. And if a rose lights a beautiful petal in the morning, I swear you'll be one step away from America.

 

-I doubt it. However, I don't want to go through the surroundings of the flower and then follow my judgment.

 

-What flower?

 

-The flower of the cathedral in the belfry of the Basilica di Santa Maria Del Fiore. I want to forget everything once and for all that burns in my eyes. I think of the freedom of this people sooner or later in the next costly summer.

 

After a day, Meucci and Esther went to the Ponte Vecchio, hand in hand, crossed the medieval arch of the bridge, and on the way back their gazes plunged into the dense water of the River Arno. Esther was wearing a huge bright red hat, a beautiful and creative corset, a light purple blue dress, fluffy sleeves making an effect on her thin waist, a wide skirt with ruffles and many embroideries made by her by hand since there was no sewing machine. sewing. On top of it a thin and transparent blouse shining the color of the dress with slits on the sides of the fabric. The silk purse on her left arm in a crimson tone between three golden dots. And her straight hair tied back was the wonder of a beautiful sight. She wore high heel shoes.

 

Meucci was elegantly dressed, wearing an open, long light gray coat with two gold bracelets on the side of the pants, wide-toed shoes from the latest releases, a hat in the hard shape of a country green beret. All under the influence of the fashion that spread throughout Italy.

 

Suddenly, Esther holds the side of her dress with her left hand and hurries to a shop on the bridge, acquiring a virgin padlock. husband centered in the middle of the bridge, she said, smiling:

 

-Meucci! Look at me! Tell me do you love me?

 

Leaning against the left side of the bridge, he contracted his facial muscles, asserting:

 

-Yes, I love you so much, as much as the waters of that river that flow down and never return to Florence.

 

Casting a hopeful air, she let go of the corners of her lips, absorbing all her grace in the light of alacrity, uttering:

 

-See how much I love you and am able to root our feelings for all centuries in this river. Only in this way, can we add to the waters the beauties and sweetness gathered in this key. I'm happy on your course, following the same prop that our hearts beat.

 

In addition, he asserted holding his hat with his right hand without the wind blowing, taking it down the waters of the Arno River.

 

-It is my rose, the consecutively delicate femininity that spills its five perfumed petals inside me. And for all that, confirm in my days and nights my acclamation for you. Hug me even if the gentle breeze lets us appreciate these moments.

 

And at that very moment, she threw the padlock key into the Arno River that remained trapped in the statue of the famous Italian. Then, the two embracing watched the magical flight of love that became eternal in the depths of the river, believing in the tradition that the great affection from that moment would be an eternity.

 

GOODBYE! – MOST BEAUTIFUL CITY IN THE WORLD – FLORENCE

 

The next day, in the misty morning sunk in indistinctness, Florence had woken up without the light of the empyrean, and the wind was blowing weakly between the trees in each street, dropping the green leaves of the vegetables. And the capital of Tuscany did not flourish among palaces, galleries, museums, squares and churches. It was the 5th of October 1835, the landscape was lost in the wide open color of the beauties. At the door of Signor Meucci's residence, two hired carriages were parked. Among so many leather suitcases and packages, the two coachmen were silent, just storing. Esther, already prepared and very admirable, called her husband, opening the side of the carriage window.

 

That same year, on November 23, 1835, the iron man, the man of both worlds, arrived in Rio de Janeiro at the port, in a spectacular escape from the Genoa prison in which he awaited the death sentence – Giuseppe Garibaldi.

 

Meucci walked around the house and buried the voice of reason in his soul. "Never again will my political enemies follow me." It was already past the time due for boarding, he climbed on the floor of the carriage, sitting next to his wife. As he drove away from the residence, he asked the coachman to return once more along the same street to keep the last souvenirs of the residence. Slowly noticing every detail of the streets, people, shops and trees, Meucci slowly wept without rubbing his eyes, pulling the side of the window curtain for some time. And anguish broke the fabric of the times, looming in the swaying of a mysterious river of emotions in the lagoon of the eyes.

 

Time closed the curtains on that amortized contemplation in the seeds of the pergola flower, taking refuge in the affliction of a single glance, now lowered in the circumstances of the flight that does not shelter the violence spilled over all of Italy. Moments later, the wife consoles by sliding her hands over the inventor's face, and the soft and affectionate voice says:

 

-Don't shed your tears, they weigh me down when they slide down your face. If I could, I would do anything to see him smile. Rest assured that our wishes will come true in the peaceful opening of the new land. Sometimes I think that all this is a golden dream among so many thorns. If my love for you is bigger than the sky, imagine the distance of the stars shining in the American dusk.

 

The young Florentine, just shook his head trying to cover up the whimpers that rolled from his eyelids. Ahead, the carriage moved slowly on a white horse with black spots on its feet through the streets of Florence. It was the most lugubrious cadence of that pious and pimpled season. The coachman cautiously took the most tearful journey of a farewell that leaves for a bottom of no return. The wife affectionately collected the magic drops of that great man with the white handkerchief. The instigating silhouette mingled with the light breeze that gently penetrated through the window, minutes in which the wife raised her left hand to the face of the Florentine nobleman.

 

The latter laments with his hand on his chin, whispering as old Florence passes by:

 

-I don't know why my life is so different. And I can barely lift my columns. No. I don't know how far my strength will be able to withstand so much pain in the bitterness of fantasies. If my towers fall from a flow, even when researching meticulously, I will fight for this daydream that opens up to me without borders. Sometimes I remain imaginative in everything I've done, even the hundreds of times I've observed the millimeter distances of my parents' basic needs. It is painful and it burns like a pepper in my eyes to leave Florence and all my beautiful Italy. Open my eyes and I don't see the River Arno gently crossing the beloved land. I need to get to North America, because that's where anything can happen and remake a brand new existence of business, invention and improvement in the pattern of our lives.

 

Esther, in pain, wet her face with colorless drops coming down from the corners of her eyes, and says:

 

-Yes. We will overcome the circles of imaginations, and we will carry memories in our chests in our hands like the most treasured trunk of memories. I understand that there will be no other way to get to New York if we don't go through the Caribbean. God will put a window on every horizon with a great exit door. Everything, everything will be booked.

 

CUBA – A HAVANA PRINCESS

 

It was not long before the terrifying opportunity in the port of the city of Havana on the sixth day of December 1835, on Illa de San Cristóbal de La Habana, as the haughty Cuban writer, novelist and musician Alejo Carpentier said – “City of Columns”. With the gleaming pubescent behind the emboldened swoon. Meucci and his wife get off the ship and are greeted by businessman Pancho Marty, who was waiting for him. With the tropical climate of the city stemming from a great economic and cultural development of the Caribbean, the couple found themselves in another paradise where the concept and immigration counted in the palettes involved by the strong winds in the insula between the Caribbean waves.

 

The cultural cradle of civilization Havana and the cultural upheaval of baroque arts, swayed in the magnetic needles of each survivor through colonization and enrichment. It was an engine of extravagant riches in trade to the Americas and the rest of the world. Havana divided the dawn and dusk with the sun's rays flooding the salty waters with the bare eaves of the white sand beaches. Among the strengths of the economic and military empire, the colony was a mine of traits in diversified handling of light, tradition, promoting elevation in the eyes of foreign greed.

 

Continue in part II

 

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