Short Story Monday: John Evans and the Medici Paradox

John Evans had always been a history buff and often dreamed of traveling to places he'd read about. Whenever asked where he'd go first if he were able, he said he'd always felt an inexplicable pull to Florence, Italy. On his 30th birthday, he made up his mind. He was single again. He had no debts and was done with grieving over his latest failed relationship. It was time.

For months, he immersed himself in books about the city’s Renaissance glory, captivated by its art, architecture and the powerful Medici family. His luck in securing an Airbnb only a block from the Uffizi, in a building dating to the fourth century, seemed almost fated.

On his second morning in Florence, John woke disoriented, his head pounding. The modern comforts of his Airbnb—including his iPhone and the outlet he’d plugged it into—were gone. The room was stark, with stone walls and heavy wooden furniture. A chill gripped him as he stumbled to the window. Below, horse-drawn carriages clattered through narrow streets, and people in Renaissance garb bustled about. This wasn’t jet lag. Nor was it his Airbnb. Had he slipped into a dream—or another time?

Heart racing, John stepped outside, dodging piles of horse dung. The air was thick with the scent of leather and woodsmoke. Passersby gawked at his modern clothes, their archaic Italian unintelligible despite his rudimentary language skills. “Mi scusi, parla inglese?” he tried, but their rapid replies left him lost.

Wandering into the Piazza del Duomo, John spotted a group of finely dressed men in heated discussion. Desperate, he approached. To his shock, they welcomed him warmly, though their eyes lingered on his strange attire. “Non capisco,” John said, shrugging. The shortest man, clearly the leader, laughed and said, “Venire. Unisciti a noi.” He gestured to another. “Lorenzo.”

John froze. “Lorenzo Medici?” The men stepped back, eyes wide. “Conosci i Medici?” one asked. Before John could process, he blurted, “Do you know Machiavelli?” in English.

The short man’s gaze sharpened. “Niccolò Machiavelli? Sono io. Cosa vuoi?”

John’s knees buckled. He was in Renaissance Florence, face-to-face with Machiavelli and the Medicis. Stranger still, words began forming in his mouth in their archaic Italian. “Ho studiato il tuo libro,” he said, awestruck.

Machiavelli’s eyes narrowed. “My book? No one has seen it.” The Medici, Lorenzo, chuckled. “Niccolò, you’ve written a book?”

John, realizing his mistake, stammered, “Chiedo scusa. One day, it will be read worldwide—even in America.”

“America?” Machiavelli scoffed. “Did Amerigo Vespucci send you?”

John hesitated. Should he mention the continents named after Vespucci? Instead, he let the moment pass, overwhelmed by the vibrant city around him—palaces, statues, bustling markets, and the moment.

Within weeks, he adapted, his newfound fluency in archaic Italian easing his way. The Medicis, intrigued by this odd stranger, took him in. He befriended artists and merchants, and fell in love with Maria, a sharp-witted woman enchanted by his tales of the future—flying machines, world wars, and a baffling thing called the “Internet.” She laughed off his mention of Galileo as “that madman from Pisa.”

John grew to love this world, marrying Maria and naming their newborn son Leonardo. But a dream of his mother urging him to return home cast a shadow over his joy. He sensed his time was running out.

One evening, dining with Machiavelli behind the Uffizi, Niccolò leaned in. “The world is stranger than I imagined. I’m starting to believe you’re not mad. Last night, I dreamed of you—here, in this very spot.”

John’s gaze drifted to a cluster of buildings. He’d been here before. Machiavelli clasped his hand with both of his. “Grazzi,” he said, voice heavy with farewell, pointing to a door. An unseen force pulled John forward. He stepped through—and found himself in the foyer of his Airbnb, iPhone still plugged into the outlet, modern Florence humming outside. Tears welled as he thought of Maria and Leonardo, now centuries gone.

On his flight home, John read an article in The Atlantic about a discovery: a folio of Machiavelli’s unpublished writings, describing a man named John from the future who lived among the Medicis. Experts, initially skeptical, confirmed the paper and ink matched Machiavelli’s time period. The article also revealed Leonardo DiCaprio’s genealogical research, tracing his lineage to a Florentine couple from the Medici era: a woman named Maria and a man named John, who claimed to be from America.

Back in the States, a memory nagged at John. In the 1990s, he’d traced his family tree, uncovering no royal roots. Still, he found it a satisfying experience. Years later, at a 2008 cocktail party, friends raved about genetic ancestry tests. Curious, John submitted his DNA to Ancestry.com. The results revealed an Italian lineage tied to a sailor shipwrecked off Dover in the Napoleonic era. Tracing further, John’s heart stopped. That sailor’s roots led back to Renaissance Florence—to a man named John, married to a woman named Maria, father of of a son named Leonardo.

Could this really be, that he was his own ancestor, caught in a paradox of time?

copyright 2025: ed newman