The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence

by Alyssa Palombo

  For further reading on the Medici family, Botticelli and his work, or the Italian Renaissance in general, I recommend the following books, which are just a few of those I consulted in writing this novel.

  Basta, Chiara. Botticelli (Art Classics Series). New York: Rizzoli, 2005.

  Frieda, Leonie. The Deadly Sisterhood: A Story of Women, Power, and Intrigue in the Italian Renaissance. New York: HarperCollins, 2013.

  Lee, Alexander. The Ugly Renaissance: Sex, Greed, Violence and Depravity in an Age of Beauty. New York: Doubleday, 2013.

  Lucas-Dubreton, J. Daily Life in Florence in the Time of the Medici. Trans. A. Lytton Sells. New York: Macmillan, 1960.

  Tinagli, Paola. Women in Italian Renaissance Art: Gender, Representation, Identity. Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 1997.

  Unger, Miles J. Magnifico: The Brilliant Life and Violent Times of Lorenzo de’ Medici. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2008.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book was not an easy one to write for many reasons, and as a result there are many people to whom I owe my thanks now that it has all finally come together.

  First, of course, my infinite thanks to Lindsay Fowler, friend, critique partner, and writing therapist. Your input has made this book orders of magnitude better than it was, and your friendship has made my life better than it was, too. And thanks for all of the Hamilton, Game of Thrones, and Pirates of the Caribbean reference-laden banter.

  All my thanks and appreciation to my fabulous, one-in-a-million agent, Brianne Johnson, for loving Simonetta as much as I do and for believing in this book even in those moments when I didn’t. Your support, insights, and pep talks keep me going when the going gets tough. I can’t thank you enough for all that you do.

  I am so, so fortunate in my editor, Vicki Lame. She is the actual, literal best. Thanks for completely getting my work and giving me the best notes so that it can shine brighter than I ever thought it could. Let’s do this again sometime!

  Thank you to the whole team at St. Martin’s for being so supportive of me and of my work, and for bringing my books to different countries around the world. Thanks especially to Staci Burt and Jessalyn Foggy for doing such a great job spreading the word about The Violinist of Venice. And my undying gratitude to Danielle Fiorella for the absolutely gorgeous cover—I think I am the luckiest author ever when it comes to covers!

  Thanks, as always, to the Canisius Alumni Writers, aka CAW: Joe Bieron, Cara Cotter, Brittany Gray, David Klimchuk, Caitie McAneney Klimchuk, and Ryan Nagelhout, for all the support, pep talks, and hilarious off-topic conversations over wine/beer/pizza/brunch/all of the above.

  Thank you to the Wednesday night writers for keeping me on track and making me show up and get the work done and for all the encouragement and publishing talk: Adrienne Carrick, Jenn Kompos, Kate Karyus Quinn, Dee Romito, Claudia Seldeen, and Sandi Van.

  Infinite gratitude, love, and appreciation to my friends, family, and friends who may as well be family for your unending love and support: Amanda Beck, Andrea Heuer Bieniek, Bob and Marcia Britton, Alex Dockstader, Jen Hark Hameister, Sandy Hark, Lisa Palombo Moore, Jen Pecoraro, and Tom and Mary Zimmerman. You all keep me sane, make me laugh, and are always there when I need you. I am so, so fortunate to have so many people in my life who wish me well and are always up for sharing a bottle (or two) of wine.

  My heartfelt thanks and appreciation to the Canisius College English and creative writing departments for their continued support, especially to Mick Cochrane and Janet McNally. I owe so much of who I am as a writer to your wisdom!

  Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t give a shout-out to all the amazing bands whose music inspired me while writing this book: Nightwish, Delain, Kamelot, Flyleaf, Xandria, In This Moment, Epica, Evanescence, Stream of Passion, and Serenity.

  Thank you to the guys and gals at Public Espresso in downtown Buffalo, for letting me work in your beautiful space and for keeping me deliciously caffeinated with cappuccinos just like the ones in Italy.

  Thank you to my brother, Matt Palombo, for always being happy for and supportive of me. Sorry this book still doesn’t have any duels, car chases, or explosions—but there is a joust, so we’re moving in the right direction.

  Thank you to Fenway, the very ferocious silky terrier, for sometimes keeping me company while I write and sometimes making me get up from my chair, because someone has to.

  Thank you to my grandparents, Mike and Kathy Zimmerman, for telling everyone about my books and for being so proud of me. I love you guys!

  There are no words for the love and gratitude I have for my parents, Tony and Debbie Palombo. Infinite thanks to my mom for being my biggest fan and for being an excellent publicist—I’m going to have to start paying you soon! Boundless thanks to my dad, who went to Florence with me while I researched this book and took excellent pictures of everything we saw. Thank you both so, so much for everything you have done and continue to do for me. I couldn’t do any of this without you.

  And last but certainly not least, thank you to everyone who has bought, read, reviewed, or recommended The Violinist of Venice. Your love and support for that book have meant so much to me, and it’s so amazing to see my work resonating with so many. I hope you’ve enjoyed The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence just as much.

  Discussion Questions

  1.   What do you feel was Simonetta’s strongest motivation for marrying Marco? Do you think she truly loved him, or did she only convince herself that she did? Could she realistically have refused to marry him?

  2.   Simonetta is sometimes frustrated by the effect that her beauty has on those around her, and at other times she uses it to her advantage. Did both of these reactions feel reasonable and realistic to you? How might you have felt in her situation?

  3.   Simonetta is widely proclaimed the most beautiful woman in Florence, and men wait outside her house, leave her gifts, and recognize her in the street. Do you see any similarities between the Florentines’ reaction to Simonetta and our own celebrity culture today?

  4.   What do you think Marco hoped for in marrying Simonetta and bringing her to Florence? Do you think he got what he wanted?

  5.   Simonetta is a friend of both Lorenzo de’ Medici and his wife, Clarice. How is her friendship with each of them different? How is it similar? What does she value about each friendship?

  6.   Simonetta feels as though, by posing for Botticelli, she becomes a partner in his creative work. Do you think he sees her that way as well? Why or why not? How do you see her participation in their artistic relationship?

  7.   At one point in the novel, Simonetta asks herself the following questions, only to realize she does not have the answers: “What is it about beauty which makes men think they have the right to desire you? That beauty means you automatically agree, somehow, to be coveted, to be desired? That your beauty belongs to everyone?” Do you think these questions are still relevant to the way in which our culture perceives beauty, especially female beauty? How are women who are considered beautiful still treated similarly to Simonetta? Where is the line between objectification and empowerment?

  8.   Simonetta refuses Giuliano de’ Medici’s advances and claims that she cannot violate her marriage vows. Yet she later does just that with Sandro. How did you feel about her decision? Did you feel she was justified?

  9.   In the last line of the book, as she is dying, Simonetta says, “Sandro promised me that I would live forever.” Do you think she has, in fact, been immortalized? How do you think she would feel about the fact that The Birth of Venus is one of the world’s most famous and beloved works of Western art?

  10. Were you familiar with any of the works of art described in this novel before reading it? How did your familiarity (or lack thereof) influence your reading of the novel? Did you look up any of the artwork as you read? Which were your favorites, and why?

  St. Martin’s Griffin

  Discover a wo
rld of unforgettable passion, music, and secrets in Alyssa Palombo’s The Violinist of Venice.

  Read on for more.

  Available now from St. Martin’s Griffin

  Copyright © 2015 by Alyssa Palombo

  1

  THE MAESTRO

  The gondola sliced silently through the dark water of the canal. My hired gondolier pressed the craft close against the wall of one of the buildings that lined the waterway, allowing another boat to pass us.

  “Ciao, Luca!” he called to the other gondolier, his voice echoing loudly off the stones of the narrow canal, causing me to start.

  I drew the hood of my cloak closer about my face, hiding it as we passed the other gondola.

  We drew up to a bridge, and I spied a set of stone steps leading up to the street—the street. “Stop,” I said, my voice low from within the hood. “Let me out here, per favore.”

  The gondolier obliged, bringing the boat close to the steps and stopping so that I could gather my skirts and step out, giving me his hand to assist me. I pressed some coins into his palm, and he nodded to me. “Grazie, signorina. Buona notte.”

  I started down the street, peering at the houses, looking for the one where the man I sought was said to reside. I crossed a bridge over another small canal, the water beneath looking deep enough to swallow both my secrets and me and leave no trace of either.

  Just beyond the bridge I found it. I took a deep breath, banishing the last of my nervousness, pushed open the door and, without knocking, boldly stepped inside.

  The room I entered was not large, and appeared even smaller by its clutter. Sheets of parchment covered the table a few paces in front of me, some written upon, some blank, and many with bars of music scrawled on them. A harpsichord sat against one wall, scarcely recognizable beneath the papers heaped on it. I counted three instrument cases throughout the room that each looked to be the right size to hold a violin, or perhaps a viola d’amore. A lit lamp sat on the table amongst the papers, and another on the desk against the wall to my right. These, plus the slowly dying fire in the grate to my left, were the only sources of light in the dim room.

  At the desk, bent over a piece of parchment, quill in hand, sat a man in worn-looking clerical robes. He looked up, startled, and I was able to get my first good look at him. He had hair as red as the embers in the hearth and wide dark eyes that, when they caught sight of me, narrowed on my face in anger, then bewilderment. From what I had heard, he was only in his early thirties, yet the strain of childhood illness and—or so I guessed—the trials that life had seen fit to deliver him had given him the weary demeanor of a still older man. And yet beneath his somewhat haggard appearance there was a spark of liveliness, of fire, that made him appealing all the same.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” he demanded, scowling as he rose from his chair.

  I took another step forward into the room, pushing my hood back from my face. “I seek Maestro Antonio Vivaldi,” I said. “The man they call il Prete Rosso.” The Red Priest.

  “Hmph.” He snorted derisively. “You have found him, although I do not know that I rightly deserve the title maestro anymore. After all, I have been sacked.”

  “I know,” I said. All of Venice knew that about a year ago, Maestro Vivaldi had been removed, for reasons largely unknown, from his position as violin master and composer at the Conservatorio dell’Ospedale della Pietà, the foundling home renowned for its superb, solely female orchestra and choir. He had spent the past year since his dismissal traveling throughout Europe—or so the gossip said. Having heard of his return, I took the first opportunity I could to seek him out. “I was thinking that as you are currently out of a job, you might be willing to take on a private student.”

  His gaze narrowed on me again. “I might be,” he said.

  Clearly he was expecting me to bargain. The corners of my mouth curled up slightly into a smile as I reached beneath my cloak and extracted a cloth purse that was heavy with coins. I closed the remaining distance between us and handed it to the maestro. His eyes widened as he felt its weight, and grew round with disbelief as he opened it and saw how much gold was within.

  “I trust that will be sufficient for my first month of lessons,” I said, “as well as your discretion.”

  He looked back up at me. “Who are you?” he asked again. When I failed to answer immediately, he went on. “If you can afford to pay me so much, then surely you can afford to have some perfumed, mincing fop or other come to you in the comfort of your own palazzo and teach you. Why come here—in the middle of the night, no less—to seek me out?”

  “That is quite a lengthy tale, padre,” I answered. “Suffice it to say that I have heard that there is no better violinist in all of Venice than yourself, and that is why I have gone to such lengths to find you.”

  He frowned, not satisfied with so vague an explanation, but he let the matter rest. “You wish to learn the violin, then?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I used to play, years ago…” I shook my head. “It has been a very long time.” Five years, to be exact; five years since my mother had died and taken all the music in our house with her.

  Vivaldi nodded absently, then turned to remove a violin and bow—which I took to be his own—from a case that sat open on the floor next to the desk. He handed them to me. “Show me what you know,” he said.

  Oh, it had been so long since I’d held a violin in my hands, had felt the smoothness of the wood beneath my fingers, had smelled the faint, spicy scent of the varnish. I had not practiced before coming to see the maestro, thinking it best not to tempt fate before I could secure his help. I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling of being reunited with an old friend I had believed I might never see again. Then I began.

  I started with the simplest scales: C major and A minor. My fingers were stiff and clumsy on the strings, but after playing each scale twice, the old patterns and habits began to return. When I felt more comfortable, I began to play a simple but pretty melody I remembered playing when I was younger. My memory was imperfect; there were several points where I forgot what note came next and simply skipped ahead to the next one that I could recall. It was rather unimpressive, but it was all I could think of to play. When I came to the end, I began again, this time improvising to repair the sections I’d forgotten. So intoxicated was I with simply playing a violin again that I forgot Vivaldi’s presence altogether, until he lightly placed a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

  “Good,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Good; not bad at all. I can tell that you have a natural talent. And you certainly play with passion.” He smiled, and the expression transformed his face. “I shall teach you. I assume you have an instrument of your own?”

  I nodded, thinking of the untouched violin I had stolen from my brother Claudio’s room. It had been given to him as a gift and was of the finest craftsmanship, though he had never played or shown any interest in learning. “Yes, I do,” I answered. “Though it will be … difficult for me to bring it here with me.”

  The maestro waved this aside. “I have one that you may use. You wish to come here for your lessons, then?”

  “Yes,” I replied quickly. “Yes, if that suits.”

  “Very well,” he said, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Shall we say two days hence, around midday? If that is agreeable to you?”

  I thought for a moment. I could perhaps get away unnoticed for a time then. “Yes, that is agreeable.”

  “Though I do not suppose you will tell me the reasons behind such need for discretion?” he asked.

  I smiled. “As I said, that is quite the long story, padre, and one that would be better saved for another time.” Or never.

  “I see,” he said.

  “Two days hence, then,” I said, moving toward the door.

  “Wait,” he said, and I stopped. “May I at least learn your name, signorina?”

  I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Adriana,” I said. I could not risk him recognizing my surn
ame; so, before he could press me further, I pulled my hood over my face again and stepped outside into the late April rain, leaving him to think what he would.

  ALSO BY ALYSSA PALOMBO

  The Violinist of Venice: A Story of Vivaldi

  Praise for

  The Violinist of Venice

  “This panoramic novel of composer Antonio Vivaldi’s life sweeps readers into a world of beautiful melodies and forbidden passion. Palombo allows music, more than the characters, to be the key to her sumptuous novel. One can almost hear the sweet notes while reading of the passionate and tragic star-crossed lovers. Those who adore the music and history will find what they desire in these pages.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Mesmerizing … So gorgeous are the relationships and music reflected here that the reader will want to spend hours listening to truly beautiful music created by both Antonio Vivaldi and Adriana d’Amato. Stunning, lovely historical fiction that is a must-read!”