My whole body trembled where I stood. I wanted to dance with joy; I wanted to dissolve into a shower of tears; I wanted to kiss him, to touch him; I wanted to pray to God in thanks and to ask for forgiveness; I wanted to scream with frustration; I wanted to commence undressing and let him take me on the floor of his workshop, if he would.
I wanted to speak, but I did not know what to say.
Yet he was, it seemed, taking my silence in entirely the wrong way. “If you do not wish to stay … if you do not wish to continue the work anymore, or if you never wish to see me again … then I understand. I am sorry,” he went on, fixing his gaze firmly on the floor. “But I had to say it. I could not go on without saying it any longer.”
I knew that if I did not find my voice right then, all would be lost. “You must let me speak, as well,” I said finally. “Know that of this chorus of voices you refer to, all of which claim to love me and desire me—know that yours is the only one I have heard, louder than the rest.”
He looked up at me again, as though scarcely daring to believe it.
“Know, too,” I went on, “that yours is the only voice I have cared to hear. Know that…” I trailed off, tears springing to my eyes, “know that I have loved you long, since before I was able to admit it to myself.”
“Simonetta,” he whispered. He stepped forward and cupped my face in his hands. “I have loved you since—”
“The moment you first saw my face?” I asked, then wished I had not.
He frowned for a moment, then chuckled. “No,” he said. “I could see that you are beautiful. But I did not love you until that day when I first asked you to pose for me, when we spoke of philosophy and the Church and learning.”
I felt as though my heart might burst from happiness.
We stayed there for a long moment, his hands gently cradling my face, our lips a mere whisper apart, breathing the very same air. He seemed to move closer to me, ever so slightly, and again I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to, craving his lips to close the distance between us. I wanted to do it myself, but something held me back.
He was so near … we were so near … and there was no longer any doubt between us.
But we both knew that if we kissed at long last, we would never be able to stop there. And so we must stop before we ever started.
My tears had returned before he spoke. “It cannot be,” he said, his voice ragged. “It cannot be, Simonetta. You know it as well as I do. Tell me you do.”
I nodded, even as my heart screamed at me to deny it. “We cannot,” I whispered. “I would not wish to endanger you. Marco, if he found out … I do not know what he would do. And you would lose the Medici patronage, surely, or…”
Sandro nodded. “Yes. And I fear for you, as well, if he were to learn you had been unfaithful. He does not seem a violent man, but … I cannot take such a chance with you, my beloved.”
My tears were flowing freely as Sandro wrapped me in his arms, holding me tightly against his chest.
This is as close as we shall ever be to one another, I thought, weeping harder. This close, and no closer. There is no way. It is not meant to be.
But if just this once, just tonight, we might be together and have no one the wiser …
No. I cannot endanger Sandro and his talent in such a way. I love him enough for that.
Bitterly, I thought Marco had been willing enough to whore me out for his own gain; could he really complain, truly, if I gave myself to the man whom I loved? But he could. He could, and he would. It was not fair.
But I pushed my thoughts aside, not wanting to ruin this one, too brief moment with such vitriol.
Finally, we drew apart. “I … what I said before still stands,” Sandro said. “If you wish to leave … I will understand.”
Drying my tears on my sleeve, I shook my head. “I will do no such thing,” I said. “You must finish this painting, Sandro. Even if no one ever sees it but the two of us. Someday we can tell the world that we loved each other, and your painting will be our message.”
He nodded, and I saw that his own eyes were damp as well.
“Now, away with you,” I said. “Gather your brushes and paints, maestro.”
He laughed and went to do as I said.
I removed my clothes, as I had done so many times before, yet this time it was different. This time, as I stepped onto the pedestal where I took up my pose, the truth was as naked as I. This time, I marked the look of desire in his eyes as he beheld me, as he began to work, and knew I was not imagining it. This time, I let my own love and desire show on my face; I looked at him and thought of all those forbidden things I had dreamt of but knew could never be. And this time, I let him see them as well.
Perhaps, I thought, it is enough to love, and know that I am loved, truly loved, in return. Perhaps that is all I need. Perhaps it can be.
34
The next morning dawned warm and fair, as though Mother Gaia herself was in love. I met Chiara’s eyes in the mirror as she dressed me and smiled. “Let us go out today, Chiara,” I said. “We shall go for a stroll. It is such a lovely day.”
She met my smile with one of her own. “Why, whatever you wish, Madonna. If you are certain that you are well enough.”
Today, even her well-meaning concern would not irritate me. “I have never felt better,” I said.
Her smile widened. “Indeed. I can see that is true. You seem exceedingly well, Madonna, and if I may…” She trailed off, and I nodded for her to go on. “Happier than you have been in some time.”
I could feel the warmth of Sandro’s words of love beneath my breastbone, where I carried them now and forever. “I am. Oh, I am.”
Chiara did not, as I half expected she might, inquire as to the source of my newfound happiness. Perhaps she had made her own conclusions, and I cared not if she had. All she said was, “Then by all means, Madonna. You are right; it is a beautiful day, indeed.”
Once we were both fittingly attired we left the palazzo, stepping out into the golden sunshine. “Perhaps a stroll along the Arno?” Chiara suggested. “Or did you have a destination in mind, Madonna?”
“I thought we might walk to Santa Maria Novella, to see Maestro Botticelli’s new painting,” I said. “It has been installed in one of the chapels there, I hear.”
If Chiara had any private thoughts on my wish to see this painting, she kept them well to herself. “That sounds most illuminating,” she said, and we set off through the narrow streets into the heart of Florence.
We were nearly sweating by the time we reached the Dominican basilica, presiding serenely over a large piazza. The exterior was adorned with geometric patterns in marble, and the interior—much like the Duomo or San Lorenzo with its plain, graceful arches—featured columns patterned in green-and-white-striped marble.
I had been in this church a few times before and had always liked it: it was simple but beautiful, and not so large that the light from its windows did not brighten and warm the interior. It was much less gloomy than the Vespucci family church of Ognissanti, where we usually attended Mass and which only let a minimum of light in.
As Chiara and I stepped inside Santa Maria Novella that day, I found that what I was looking for was not far to seek. We had just dipped our fingers in the holy water by the door when I saw the painting, adorning a chapel immediately to the left of the entrance.
I would have known Sandro’s style anywhere. Eagerly I approached it, gazing up at it like a child might at a tray of sweets.
The canvas was a good size, large enough to dominate the small chapel but not, I noted, as large as the canvas for Venus. The scene of the Three Kings paying homage to the Christ Child was a riot of color, of movement, of action. Gold lined the robes of the kings, their large entourage, and the Virgin’s blue mantle as well. The Kings knelt before the baby Jesus in the barn of crumbling stones and beams to which he had been consigned. The Blessed Mother, meanwhile, had eyes only for her beloved son, while Joseph watched ov
er them both protectively.
As I stepped closer, however, I began to find some familiar figures. The king in the red robe, kneeling directly before the Christ Child with his hat cast to the ground, his face in profile—why, he looked much like the late Piero de’ Medici. And in the far left corner was a handsome young man in a rich, gold-trimmed scarlet doublet, leaning on a sword with something of an arrogant expression on his face—Giuliano’s face. Then, as my eyes swept back across the painting to the other side, I saw a young, dark-haired man in a black doublet regarding Christ with a thoughtful expression: Lorenzo. And, finally, in the far right-hand corner I was surprised to see a familiar blond man in a plain yellow robe, staring straight back at the viewer: Sandro.
I smiled widely, stepping so close to the painting that my gown brushed against the chapel’s altar. I began to laugh, softly, almost gleefully, as I studied the figure of Sandro gazing out of the canvas, his painted eyes meeting my real ones. Slowly, I reached out and, ever so briefly, touched my fingers to his painted image.
For just a moment, I felt as though I might weep at the beauty of it all.
PART III
IMMORTAL
Florence, April 1476
35
“Good morning, Chiara,” I said as she came in to open the shutters one morning.
“Good morning, Madonna,” she said. “Why, it is so good to see you looking well. You are better every day!”
“I do not know if I should hope that it lasts, this time,” I said. I bit my lip. “It has been so long…”
Chiara sighed and crossed herself. “Have faith, Madonna. God hears our prayers. Perhaps you shall finally be well again now.”
“Perhaps,” I said. I got up from the bed. “Send to the Medici palazzo, if you will, and see if Clarice would like me to visit her this afternoon.”
“Si, Madonna.” Chiara bustled away to send my message.
I heard a few cheers from the street below when the window opened, but nothing like it had been. My illness—a long one, this time, with only a few intermittent days of good health—had kept me out of the public eye for some months.
As though God were punishing me for my many sins, I was stricken again early the previous summer, soon after Sandro and I had declared ourselves to each other. Marco and I had not been able to go for a visit at the Medici villa, as we had been wont to do in years past. My world had shrunk to my bedroom; there were no more parties and dinners—or, rather, there were, but I was always too ill to attend. There had been a few frightful bouts, days of fever and coughing up blood that I scarcely remembered. Each time Marco—looking so haggard and worried, as though he still had some love for me left after all—told me both he and the doctor had thought it was the end. Yet always I rallied, always I came back from the brink. Then there would be some days—weeks, even, if I was lucky—where I felt perfectly well before the illness struck me down again.
What no one told me, but what I could divine for myself, was that I could not go on much longer like this. We had not known, when first the doctor had given his diagnosis, how much time I might have left; yet what seemed to be plain was that the consumption was determined to claim me before too much longer. It felt as though there were an hourglass lodged inside me, and the sand was beginning to trickle down at an alarming rate.
I had had much time to consider this on the days when I lay in bed, much time to rage and weep and beg and bargain with God. I had accepted my fate as fact, had accepted that my fears now seemed more likely than my hopes. Yet that did not mean that I was at peace with it.
If only I might live to see Sandro’s painting. To see The Birth of Venus. If only I might live that long, at least.
Our work together had been very infrequent over the past year, since that one night that was seared on my memory. Perhaps only three more times after that had I gone to his workshop. We could correspond but little; only when I could send Chiara with a note—when I was well enough to write one—and when she could find him at home to deliver it in person.
Chiara returned to help me dress, and I went downstairs to break my fast. Meanwhile, I received a reply from Clarice that she would love for me to join her for the noon meal, if I desired. I sent back a reply in the affirmative, and went upstairs to gather the last few books I had borrowed from the Medici library—I would take them back and retrieve a few new ones while I was there.
Clarice, when I arrived, was well, if a bit harried from the demands put upon her by the ever-growing brood of Medici children. It had ceased to pain me quite so much that I had never conceived—no doubt due to my poor health, even if we did not know early on that this was the reason.
And perhaps it was just as well that I did not leave a child—or children—without a mother.
“You are looking quite well, Simonetta,” she said, when she had passed off the children to their nursemaid. “I was so glad to receive your note. I have missed you.”
“And I, you,” I said. “I have been a poor friend of late, I feel.”
“Do not say that,” she said. “You have been ill.” She reached out and took my hand. “I hope you know that I pray for you every day,” she said softly. “I pray that God…” She broke off abruptly. “No, quite enough of that,” she said briskly. “Quite enough gloom when you are looking so well.”
“No, Clarice,” I said. “Tell me what it is you wanted to say.” I hesitated. “You may not have as much time as you think.”
“Oh, Simonetta, no,” she said. “Do not say that. I only meant—”
“Please, amica,” I said. “Do not play false with me. When I am not ill, Marco acts as though I am as well as I have ever been, and … somehow that is more grating than the consumption itself. Let us speak plainly to each other.”
And so Clarice, with her quiet strength, took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye. “Every day I beg God not to take my only friend,” she said. “Because you are, you know, Simonetta. The only true friend I have had since I left Rome.”
This time it was I who reached out and took her hand. “Then perhaps God will see fit to spare me after all, since it is you who beseeches Him,” I said. “For I know of no better, kinder soul than you.”
She smiled, blinking away tears. “If He hears any of my prayers, I hope it is this one.” She shook her head slightly. “Now, though, it is enough of that. No doubt one day when we are old women together we shall look back on this day and laugh.”
I smiled, releasing her. “Perhaps,” I said.
I spoke the words, even though I did not believe them.
36
Later that night, I began to wonder if I should write to Sandro. I had last had word from him some weeks ago, when I was still ill, and thought he should know that I was recovered—for the time being, anyway. If there was a space of time when I might pose for him, we must take it while we could.
I went into my dressing room and opened the locked drawer in my dressing table. I pulled out Sandro’s latest note and smoothed it out to read again. I knew I should burn such correspondence, but I could not bear to be rid of his letters right away. I had to save them for a short time, at least.
He had written that he hoped I would get well soon; that he prayed for my recovery. He wished that he could visit me, but knew Marco would not take kindly to such an overture. He ended by saying that he had continued work on the painting when he was able, and had begun to work on some of the other figures. Venus, he wrote, could wait for me.
Suddenly, Marco’s voice came from the doorway. “Simonetta, Chiara says that—”
But I was never to know what Chiara said. I jumped when I heard him so near, and tried to hide the note back in the drawer, an instinct that only served to arouse his suspicion.
“What do you have there?” he asked, stepping closer to where I sat at the dressing table.
“Nothing,” I said, trying to slam the drawer shut. “Just some old letters from home.”
“Then why are you hiding them from me
?” he asked.
“I am not hiding them—you startled me, that is all…”
“Then let me see,” Marco said, catching the drawer before I could close it. He pulled out the note I had just been reading and quickly read through it. “This … this is from the painter?” he asked in disbelief. “He writes to you?”
“No—that is, not regularly, he just wanted to wish me well, since I’ve been ill, as you see yourself,” I said. “We correspond about when I might come to pose for him, look there…”
“Then why lie to me, Simonetta, if it is as innocent as all that?” he asked. “‘I have been on my knees day and night praying for your recovery’ … that sounds a bit familiar, does it not?”
“He is a friend, that is all,” I said. “I have known him for many years, as you well know—oh, Marco, no! Just leave it alone!”
But he had pulled out the rest of the contents of the drawer—another two notes from Sandro and, at the bottom, the sketch he had given me of his vision for The Birth of Venus.
Marco stared at it for a long time, and I could see by the way the paper shook that his hands were trembling. “This,” he said at last. “He drew this.”
It was not a question, and so I did not feel the need to answer him. I remained silent.
“Is this … is this the great, mysterious painting you are helping him with?” Marco demanded, his voice low. “This … this pornography? This is what you are posing for?”
Still I did not speak.
Marco slammed his hand down on the dressing table, and the sharp noise made me jump again. “Is it?” he shouted. “You have been posing for him without your clothes on all this time?”
The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence Page 24
