The Competition

by Donna Russo Morin

  “Is this better?” Rudolfo returned.

  Viviana barked a laugh, palms slapping her cheeks as she shook her head.

  He stood before her, changed, yes, but not necessarily for the better. He wore brocade breeches now, but instead of ending just below the knee, they ended just above it. He’d replaced his leather farsetto with a deep gold silk one, unbuttoned, for the ends would not meet, wrists exposed as the cuffs ended far too soon. With one fist on one hip, the other behind his head, his pose was as comical as his clothing.

  “No, no,” Viviana laughed more, harder, unable to speak anything else.

  “Well, you’re looking fine, brother.”

  Mother and son spun. There they stood. In the door, opened without notice amid Viviana’s laughter. There she stood.

  In the time it took Viviana to walk the few steps to them, first impressions of the girl were painted into life.

  Tall and willowy, dressed finely but modestly, her lustrous raven hair fell in soft waves to her waist. Large black eyes shaped like almonds slanted up just a bit at the corners. Her Roman nose ended just slightly above full lips, lips curved in a smile.

  A beauty. The thought skipped across Viviana’s mind. She reached out to the lovely young woman, kissing both of her smooth, soft cheeks.

  “Welcome to our home,” she said.

  She would always call it “their” home. In truth, in the eyes of the law, the entire building belonged to her sons, as dictates decreed at the passing of their father. Not once had either son uttered a single word of her vacating it, of her returning to the vineyards where she grew up, where she would be but an unwanted guest in the home now run by her uncle and his wife and their five children. To her boys this would be, forever and always, where she lived, her home. Viviana had intoned more than one prayer of gratitude for it, for them.

  Marcello leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheeks; she caught just the wisp of sweat on his upper lip. It told her all she needed to know.

  “Mama, this is Carina di Tafani. Carina, please make the acquaintance of my mother, Viviana.”

  The young woman dipped a slight curtsy. “Buongiorno, Signora del Mar—”

  “Please, dear one, call me Viviana.” She still could not bear the name she carried, far heavier than any burden a donkey had ever lugged on its back. “If I may call you Carina?”

  “Oh, sì, of course. It is my honor,” the girl gushed, voice as bright as the twinkle in her eyes.

  “Let us to table, shall we?” Viviana suggested, with a gesture of welcome into the dining room.

  Her son and his guest stood with stiff twitchiness; such nerves needed a good dousing of wine.

  It didn’t take very long for them to fill themselves with food and wine, to fill the house with laughter as Viviana told Carina all the silly, oftentimes stupid things her sons had done over the years. She boasted too of their bravery and their accomplishments; both sorts of tales embarrassed her sons equally. She asked Carina only a few questions about her life, her family; Viviana did not want to appear a prying old widow, a parent overly concerned with petty details. There would be plenty of time to learn all her truths, if Viviana was meant to learn them. It was a merry table, a joyful time.

  Rudolfo and Marcello chimed in, trying to best each other with increasingly embarassing stories about the other.

  Viviana picked up her goblet, made as if to sip slowly. Instead, over its rim, she watched them, her sons and this new, wondrous creature coming into her life. She felt the branches of her tree stretch and blossom with glorious blooms.

  Time slipped away unnoticed beneath the warmth of enjoyment, until the sky began to darken.

  Marcello stood and embraced his mother. “I do so hate to end this merriment, but I must return Carina to her family.”

  “Of course, of course,” Viviana rose in his arms, walking the couple to the door, noticing Marcello’s proprietary hand on Carina’s lower back. She had raised a gentleman, indeed.

  “It was the greatest pleasure to meet you, Carina,” she said without a trace or twinge of artifice, for she felt the need for none. “It was lovely to have you here.”

  As they kissed each other’s cheeks, Carina assured her, “It was quite the loveliest day. Thank you, Sig…Viviana. Thank you so very much.”

  “You’ll come back? We did not scare you away, I hope,” Viviana laughed, though her question was not wholly jocular; she knew herself to be gregarious, overly so at times, especially when her nerves tingled.

  “I will count the days till I may return,” Carina replied with genuine grace.

  “Buona notte, Mama.” Marcello leaned down once more to kiss his mother. “Thank you, so very much, for everything.” These words he whispered, words of gratitude for her alone.

  Viviana felt them pull on her heart as she put palm to his cheek. He made for the door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Marcello turned back, his lopsided, childhood grin spreading from ear to ear. “Did I tell you, Mama? Carina, she is a painter.”

  Marcello’s laughter carried him down and out the door as his mother stood utterly still at the top of the stairs.

  • • •

  He left them with a wink, a cuff to his brother’s shoulder, and a jaunty step.

  “Tomorrow, brother,” Rudolfo bid them farewell as he ran off to wherever he cared. “Carina, bellisima!” He whirled around, kissed the tips of gathered fingers, and tossed them in her direction.

  Carina giggled, sneaking a look at the sweetly handsome man beside her. His eyes deep brown in the growing dusk, twinkling as he tossed a smile at his brother.

  “Sì, tomorrow, my silly brother,” Marcello chuckled, as he watched his brother’s form fade into the night. “He is silly,” he jested.

  “He is young and loves life,” Carina murmured. “You all do.”

  Marcello turned to her, a wondering look on his face. “Did you enjoy yourself today?”

  “Oh, yes, very much. Your mother is delightful.” She grinned and kicked a stone with her toe; it jangled away from them over the cobbles. “It is lovely to see sons so close to their mother.”

  “When people survive great challenges together, there is a bond formed unlike most others.”

  They strolled in a peaceful cocoon of amiable silence. The city simmered in its summer glory; the chirp of crickets kept time to a man singing somewhere close by; laughter wafted out of opened windows upon the stream of aromas of cooking food; feet pattered here and there. Few stayed indoors on such a night.

  Carina relived the day, the meal, meeting his family. There was so much more to them than she knew, she was sure of it. What she did know, with absolute certainty, was that she wanted to know all of it, all of them.

  “We know who we are by how we survive,” Carina replied thoughtfully, eyes unblinking as they held his firmly.

  Marcello took a step closer to her; she tingled at his nearness, warmed at his grin.

  “My mother has often said the very same,” Marcello whispered.

  Carina closed her eyes as he leaned down, as his lips softly met hers.

  • • •

  Dumbfounded, her heart still thudded in her chest. Viviana felt the same twitch of her fingers as she did before plying brush to canvas. What did it mean? What did Marcello mean by tossing such words at her? Perhaps more than one family would grow.

  “Your boys are good men.”

  Viviana whirled round. Her knees almost buckled, but not in fear.

  He stood upon the balcony, tall and lean, sinuously sensual; he stood in the opened door that welcomed the warm summer breeze.

  “You’ve come.” It was all she could think to say.

  He said nothing. Nothing of where he had been, why he had been gone so long.

  Sansone crossed to her, closing the gap between them in a few long strides. Grabbing her by the back of her hair, he pulled her gently to him. Her mouth opened in welcome. He kissed her, kissed her as she had dreamed he would, as she imagined he wo
uld for all those years. His tongue was a food on which she had longed to sup, on which at last she had been fed.

  He kissed her face, her ears, her neck, the pleasure of it a wave of tingles that ran through every pathway of her body. Her knees quaked, no defense against the pleasure of his onslaught.

  At last in his arms, and I am to faint. The passing thought made her laugh, an unfeminine guffaw. A second thought stifled her. Would he think she laughed at him?

  But she felt the rumble in his chest, the firmness pressed against her.

  His hands reached round to the back of her, and with the whoosh of fine ribbon he pulled on her laces, slowly and ever more slowly as he reached lower and lower.

  O Dio mio, she thought, I wear my oldest chemise. It was the very worst sort of thought for the moment, and once more, she laughed; she sounded like a donkey.

  He pulled back from her. His eyes searched every inch of her face; she felt them wash over her. What he saw there, she could not tell, but whatever it was forced his lips upon hers, harder this time, not to be denied.

  The door left ajar allowed egress for a breeze, sweeping the tangle of clothing and ties and laces and lace in a scatter of petals, whooshing softly as they fluttered down onto the stone.

  Viviana stood before Sansone, now in nothing more than the cursed chemise, but its state had long been forgotten. He swept his hands down the sides of her, the tender skin between arm and breast, inward along the sides of her waist, outward over the full roundness of her hips. Then up again to cup her face, green eyes ablaze.

  “Your room, Viviana. Your bed,” he whispered.

  She stood rooted, confused. With a shake she gathered herself, for she had almost laughed again, her nerves the cruelest foe, playful though they may have been. Instead of laughing, she led him to her study and the settee. She would not yet lie with him, not in that bed, no matter the ownership she had taken of it.

  Viviana sat and patted the cushion beside her, tilting her head at the puzzlement writ so clearly on his sharp-boned face.

  Sansone stood over her. With a gaze that never left hers, he slowly shed doublet, boots, breeches, and his linen undershirt, revealing slim firmness, hard curves, and glorious edges. In his naked splendor, he brought his hands to his hips, lovely creatures topped by the loveliest of dips between muscle and bone. Her eyes moved lower, bulged.

  Her thoughts must have been etched upon her face, for he blushed, but not without a sensual half smile.

  Viviana giggled, bit her tongue, bit off the frustrating urge to laugh that would not stop pestering her.

  “Really, Viviana, this is not the reaction a man hopes for in such a situation.”

  She giggled again, helpless. She drew in her bottom lip and bit it hard. The pain dashed the cackles away. Once more, Viviana rubbed the space beside her.

  He shook his head. He did not sit. He knelt, knelt before her, face-to-face. With a single kiss, he began to move. Pulling her chemise down, pushing it up, he revealed her body as the fabric puddled at her waist.

  Oh thank the lord, she thought, so very pleased that the fleshiest part of her was covered, and again laughed. Viviana’s eyes rolled up in her head. Why, oh why, did she keep laughing?

  His lips, his tongue, traced the curves of her, the pointed tips of her breasts, the curve of her hollowed stomach, the edges of her hips, and then lower still.

  She gasped. She planted her feet and pushed. She scurried up the small couch.

  “What…what do you do there?”

  Sansone dropped his chin, but not before she saw the twitching of his lips. Playful nerves became playful no more.

  “Worry not, cara. It is the best place I could be.” With smile unhidden, he pulled her back toward him by her ankles, opened her legs, and lowered his moist mouth to her once more.

  She gasped yet again, but neither from shock nor nerves. She gasped until she cried out.

  Above her trembling body, he rose in one long, lithe movement, until he held his head inches from hers. She dropped her eyes.

  “Look at me, Viviana.” Sansone nuzzled her neck with his nose.

  Viviana shook her head, tangled hair swooshing softly upon silk.

  “I have sinned.”

  “Open your eyes, tesoro mio.”

  She heard the chuckle in his voice as he called her his treasure. Her cheeks burned as she raised her head, as blue eyes found green.

  Beneath his gaze, she could hold her tongue no more.

  “I did not know.”

  He shook his head, the playful smile shrinking. “That, my dear lady, is truly a sin.” Sansone lowered his lips to hers. “Taste yourself,” he whispered into them.

  She groaned. She could not squelch it, though she did try. Her hands threaded through his hair; her desire wound her fingers tightly through the dark gold floss.

  Lowering his hips to meet hers, to match a rythm she did not know she beat, with slowness he allowed himself to dance in her forest. Viviana shivered with each pass of the smooth hardness. He tended her need; it was a creature she had not met, not for all her years.

  She laughed. And this time so did he.

  “You really shouldn’t make me laugh while we do this,” were the last words she heard him say. The rest, if there were any, were lost, as she was lost.

  • • •

  They talked deep into the night, as it turned and began its inevitable trudge toward dawn.

  Sansone told her of the battlefield, of his wounds, showing her the deep scar that ran down the length of his right thigh. Viviana kissed it with a sigh, thanking all she believed in that it was only this wound he had needed to recover from, that he had not succumbed to infection as so many soldiers did.

  They talked, wrapped in each other’s arms, holding tightly as if afraid to let go, afraid they would not come back to this place, afraid they would fall off the small settee but not caring to move from it.

  Sansone asked many things of her; of the years of her widowhood he had missed, of how much his absence had pained her.

  “It seemed so unfair,” Viviana whispered. She felt his head nod above hers, which rested on his chest. To have longed for him for years, to have the freedom to fulfill such longing, only to be separated by something as stupid as war.

  “But you have been working, yes? You have been painting?”

  Viviana raised herself up to gaze upon his face. Would she not share all, could she not, after what they had just shared?

  She rose, pulling her chemise up with irrational modesty. Without a word, she left him, only to return with two goblets and a bottle of trebbiano. She filled both their cups with the white, light, fruity wine, and as they drank, Viviana told him all, sitting in her favorite chair across from him.

  Her tale told, Sansone sat motionless. He had sat up halfway through her story; he had continued to drink.

  When he finally spoke, she wished he hadn’t.

  “You put yourself in danger again,” he said, almost flatly except for the jumping of his jaw.

  Viviana swatted the air. “There is no danger in it. Yes, we may be ridiculed. We may lose whatever standing each of us has in the community. But that is not danger. Such things hold no true weight in a true life.”

  “You have not thought of all the consequences and repercussions.” Sansone shifted forward on the settee. “If you succeed, if you win this commission, you will be taking work from other artists, men.”

  Viviana shrugged dismissively.

  He grabbed her by the hand. She felt the jolt of both attraction and tension in the single touch.

  “Do you know what I think? Do you know why Florence bursts with such artistic magnificence?” His green eyes pierced her. “Because they are hungry. Because there are so many artists here and only so many concorrenzi to be bid on. Their hunger drives them to be greater. A good thing. But men who lose work, lose money, and to women?” Sansone shook his head, looking away from her, to what she could only imagine. “Such men can be dangerous, far m
ore dangerous than you think.”

  Carina’s face burst into Viviana’s mind. She is a painter, Marcello had said. One who, no doubt, painted as a pastime, as Viviana had done, longing for it to be more than that. She knew it was true by Marcello’s laughter.

  She answered Sansone with the same words she had said to the women, words of legacy, words of freedom. Viviana watched the effect they had on his beautiful face, watched his shoulders fall.

  “You are not a normal woman, tesoro mio,” he said at last.

  She heard neither happiness nor sadness in his conclusion.

  “Is it so very bad that I am not?”

  Sansone studied her face for a long time. “If we love,” he finally spoke, “we cannot love only parts of someone but the very whole of them, or it is not love at all.”

  Viviana breathed, as she had not when he studied her, a breath trapped by fearful premonitions. One word she heard loudest, as if he had screamed it louder than all the others. The word had never passed between them before. In her mind, what they had just done together had answered the question for her. Had it for him? She hated to ask, hated to feel the need to ask, hated the hidden weakness that lived within her that needed to be assured. But ask she did.

  “And is it? Is it love?”

  Sansone rose, comfortable with his nakedness, far more comfortable than Viviana was with it, for it captured her, brought a rush of desire she thought had surely been stoked. Looking at him, she realized it might never be. How did one satisfy seven years of longing? How could such longing ever slacken? Could such longing ever be satisfied?

  He came to her, pulled her up to him, and pressed her to him tightly. Such an embrace she had never felt before.

  Sansone’s sharply carved face hovered inches from hers. “It is all that and more, tesoro mio.”

  His mouth found hers; their bodies sealed the pact.

  Chapter Nine

  “At times, it is easier to face the dragon than to slay it.”

  They looked up before the palazzo that Cosimo I had built, the Medici palazzo. It punctuated the intersection of the Via de’ Gori and the Via Larga where it bent slightly to the right, at the corner with the Via de’ Gori. As one approached, the palazzo’s form elongated diagonally, as if reaching out to the baptistery and cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. Palazzos in the Santa Maria Novella quarter of Florence were not merely palazzos but communes, connected blocks of palazzos inhabited by those who could afford to build them.