Memory №6: The Renaissance. Florence. Lorenzo di Albani. (The Art of Play and the Enjoyment of Life)

The air changed again, so abruptly it took my breath away. The heavy smell of wet wool and fear dissolved, giving way to the intoxicating aroma of blossoming lemon trees, young wine, and freedom. I opened my eyes and squinted now from the bright sunlight streaming through the tall windows into a bright loggia.

After Gottfried's gloomy castle with its perpetual twilight and fear of sin, Florence seemed like the Garden of Eden. I found myself at a villa in the Tuscan hills, where every stone, every leaf breathed life and beauty. My guide into this new world was Lorenzo di Albani-a young man with eyes full of mischievous fire and a mind as sharp as a blade.

We met in a sculptor's workshop. He spoke not of duty and recited no prayers. He discussed perspective in painting, quoted Dante, and effortlessly shifted to the bawdy tales of the Decameron, which made the ladies blush and laugh simultaneously. His courtship was not a ceremonial, as in Japan, nor a spiritual practice, as in the East. It was a light, elegant, merry game.

"Madonna Yana," he would say, kissing my fingertips with the air of performing a great mystery. "God created us in His own image and likeness. How can we offend Him by failing to appreciate all the perfection He has created?"

One evening we sat in the garden. He read me Petrarch's sonnets, while his hands wrote far bolder and more comprehensible verses on my skin. We laughed like children who had found a forbidden treasure room. After centuries of grime, prayers in the dark, and fear, this was a breath of fresh air, seasoned with a glass of aromatic Vin Santo.

His touches lacked Eastern spirituality or Japanese ceremonial formality. They were… playful. Curious. He explored my body with the delight of a discoverer, admiring every curve as he would a beautiful statue.

"The art of love, Madonna," he said, his lips brushing my neck, "is the art of enjoying the moment. Living here and now. And thanking God for every second of this joy."

For him, there were no forbidden topics or shameful desires. Everything was part of the great Book of Life, meant not to be judged, but savored. Sex became neither sin nor duty. It became art. Poetry. A natural part of the beautiful whole called Life.

But somewhere deep in my soul, even as I immersed myself in this festive atmosphere, I felt a slight sadness. It was a rebirth, but not a resurrection. A beautiful, elegant shell, devoid of the ancient, sacred essence. They worshiped the body but forgot the spirit that dwelled within it. They saw the form but lost the knowledge of the energy that fills it. It was not the high, sacred art I had known before. It was rather a skillful craft. But after centuries of darkness, even this seemed a miracle.

I opened my eyes. The coffee shop. The guy by the window was filming his companion on his phone, and she was posing coquettishly. I looked at them with a smile. They were playing. Like Lorenzo. Perhaps not as elegantly, not as poetically, but they were not afraid of their desire to please, of their right to beauty and joy.

The Renaissance did not return the lost secrets to the world. But it gave it laughter. Colors. The right to pleasure. And in that lay its great, albeit incomplete, victory.

And ahead of me, cold, gloomy London and the icy fingers of Pastor Jonathan were already waiting. But that is a completely different story.