THE STATUE GARDEN

Chiesa di Santi Quattro Coronati

The roofless enclosure is silent and still. Four walls surround the manicured garden in the center, but straight above is fresh, open, unadulterated air. Arches cut into the four walls, giving them breathing space. The arches become niches; each one houses a statue. Most of the statues are posed in mid-thought. Some stare at the fountain in the center of the courtyard, lost in contemplation. Others smile at the beauty surrounding them, while a few scribble furiously in a notebook. These are not the typical Renaissance statues; they are much too well preserved, with an explosion of vibrant colors instead of merely faded remnants of once-vivid fresco paint.

Now they are more than mere painted Renaissance statues; one moves! The Junko (I checked the sign) stands up and paces around the courtyard. Her movement is so realistic; she must be baroque! A Bernini, perhaps? I wonder. Her action is like wildfire; soon, other statues begin to stir. The Henry, seated in a niche wielding a notebook and pen, suddenly gazes up at the fountain with a look of fierce concentration. A thought emerges from his head; it floats up and circles the courtyard before fading into the gentle breeze. The Matthew stands up, revealing his glorious height, and strolls around the courtyard. To my right, The Elice snaps a photograph.

From above, I hear the faintest whirring sound. My gaze turns upward, resting upon a tiny, unremarkable grey animal flapping its wings. As it descends, I recognize it as a pigeon. A pigeon! Those filthy, squalid creatures have no place here. They belong in the blaring artificial lighting of cities, amongst the rumbling traffic of angry drivers slamming their obnoxious car horns. They belong in the slimy green water of abandoned fountains. They do not belong in the unassuming beauty and peaceful solitude of the simple courtyard. The statues stir uneasily; they can sense the impending arrival of the intruder.

The creature flies lower and lower, past the invisible threshold separating the courtyard from the surrounding city. The statues all look up now; unrest moves through the living marble. My eyes follow the pigeon as it moves closer and closer to the grassy floor. I wince as it nears the moment of impact, fearful that it might spread its disease of urbanity to this garden, so beautifully untouched by time. I need not have worried! The garden is enchanted; as soon as the pigeon’s gnarled feet meet the sacred ground, a spark shoots up through the pigeon’s body. It is a piece of healing energy- it transforms the pigeon into a part of the garden. Living and stone breathe the same air here. As the city bird transforms, it sheds its grey husk and fades into white marble. Layers of filth peel away, and the bird’s features are purified, until I find myself face to face with a dove.

I stare in awe, amazed at the power of the secret garden, but something feels strange. Slowly, I tilt my head downward, only to find a tide of liquid marble rising to surround me. I feel as if I should panic, but only calm and serenity settle in my veins, even as I realize that the marble is not rising around me. I am becoming a part of this garden. Soon, I will be The Kelsea. I wonder if my companions have noticed. With one last effort at mobility, my eyes take a sweeping glance around the courtyard, but I see none of my fellow students or my professor. Instead, I find twenty-one other marble figures, frozen in their various poses, and one statue of a dove. One lone dove.