What Remains of the Fair Simonetta

by Laura T. Emery

  As Wilbur introduced “Scarlet” to my remains, her bright green eyes stared curiously down at my urn. At first, I thought she was with Alex, appearing only a few years older than my disinterested son. But then, my Wilbur wrapped an adoring arm around her shoulder, and drew her into his chest in a loving embrace.

  Scarlet was blonde and perky, with rosy cheeks sporting a few accentuating freckles, and red lips that curled into a half grin. She was everything I wasn’t—or hadn’t been—and Wilbur brought her into my realm. I wanted him to move on, but I never meant to witness it so intimately. Though I understood why he brought her. It was clear Wilbur wanted to share every part of himself with her, and I was a big part of him.

  Wilbur and Alex strolled off to chat with Sister Josephine, and only Scarlet remained with her palpable contempt. Maybe it was only in my imagination, but I envisioned her reaching for my ash cozy, and hurling me into the nave. Just as I’d worked myself into an overwhelmingly paranoid frenzy, I could feel the comforting presence of Mariano. I sensed he wanted to say something to make it all right for me, but he remained silent, and for the first time, nothing was right.

  Scarlet continued to stare intently, examining every detail of my small, tarnished metal home, which rested upon the blue and white marble of Sandro’s tomb, at the feet of Simonetta. After a long while, she exhaled as if relieved to see I was no threat to her at all. Wilbur was now hers, and I was officially his soon-to-be-forgotten past.

  I suddenly felt a fiery sense of rage, more explosive than I thought my spirit was capable of producing. I wanted to protest the unfairness of it all. I wanted to jump up and reclaim Wilbur as my own. We still loved each other, after all. All my selfless devotion and quiet acceptance of my fate no longer made sense to me. Both disappeared, as I tried with all my might to force my way back into the earthly realm. But I was still only an invisible incorporeal presence swimming in a heap of ashes. I could do nothing but watch in silent protest, as the two most important men in my life and death left the Ognissanti with Scarlet.

  At that moment, I felt a strong connection to the other spirit in the Ognissanti; the invisible force that was always around us. I remember looking down at the graves of Sandro and Simonetta, suddenly understanding the helpless way he loved her from afar but could do nothing about it. We were both rendered powerless to control our own destinies. That thought was the last thing I remember before awaking in the palazzo in my new, Old World. My birthday had literally become my rebirth day. My own personal Renaissance.

  Chapter 7

  It took only minutes for Sandro and me to make the short walk from the Palazzo Vespucci, around two corners, to the Via della Vigna Nuova. There was a sprawling vineyard on the east corner where the future Palazzo Corsini stands, hosting illustrious events for modern day Florentines. It was obvious that the Rucellai Palace, just across from the vineyard, had just recently been completed, because it almost seemed to shine in the morning light.

  “The façade of the Palazzo Rucellai was designed by Leon Battista Alberti,” Sandro motioned towards the decorative frontage. “This was his first major architectural commission. See how he combined the pilasters and entablatures in such a proportional manner?”

  “It’s magnificent,” I replied, having no idea what pilasters and entablatures were.

  “I have read all of Alberti’s writings on architecture, poetry, and philosophy. His Treatise on Painting I have read three times. He is a bit of a hero to me. Born in Genoa, same as you.”

  “Oh, I haven’t met him.” Having no way of knowing for sure if that were true, I hoped for the best.

  “No, I would imagine you have not. He relocated to Rome, where he died several years ago,” Sandro chuckled. “When the Rucellai bought every building on this side of the Via, they had Alberti cover these three separate houses with one façade, and remodeled the inside to create a single great palace. The other houses he rents out to guild members, such as my father.”

  Sandro led me through the rustic door of his less than luxurious house, which shared a wall with the massive palace. The décor was bland, the furnishings sparse, and there was none of the palatial splendor of my new home.

  “Father! We have a guest!” Sandro called out, and cast a mischievous smile in my direction. My heart pounded when we heard the approaching footsteps, then Sandro hooked his arm inside of mine. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.” I attempted to remain demure, while also trying not to faint from the surreality of it all.

  As Mariano slowly approached, I realized he was already an old man—all gray hair, with matching gray eyes, and a snow white beard. His weathered, stained hands were those of a hardworking tanner, but it was his face that shocked me most. Even though I’d never laid actual eyes on my long time “soul” mate in the Ognissanti, I’d nonetheless seen Mariano’s countenance a million times before, without even realizing. Why hadn’t he told me? Sandro used his father’s likeness to depict Saint Augustine in his fresco on the west wall of the nave in the Ognissanti—the Saint Augustine in His Study.

  “I would like to introduce my father, Mariano Filipepi.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I muttered nervously, as I wondered whether I should curtsy or hold out my hand for him to kiss, but there was no need for either.

  Mariano looked at me, then to his son, then back at me again. It was so strange to see the Saint Augustine with whom I’d resided for eleven years out of his study, and living and breathing in the person of Mariano.

  “And who might you be?” Mariano snapped.

  I started to speak, but Sandro cut me off. “She is my findanzato,” he replied, squeezing my arm tightly.

  Findanzato? Fiance?

  Mariano leaned towards me, while he peered directly into my eyes. He sees me, I thought. He really sees me. I felt a rush of relief that all my questions would soon be answered, and my world would make sense again.

  “What is your name, my lady?” Mariano inquired, poker-faced.

  Sandro shook his head in one quick motion as if to signal me that I should not tell the truth—but that was exactly what I needed to do. Our souls were connected, Mariano’s and mine. We had shared our innermost thoughts with one another. And only Mariano could possibly have the answers to the questions at hand.

  “My name is Anastasia Uqualla, but most people just call me Stacia.”

  Sandro looked at me in disbelief, while Mariano peered closer into my eyes. He recognized me; I could feel it. And then, just as suddenly, the recognition evaporated. Mariano lurched back. “Is this not Simonetta, wife of Marco Vespucci? What kind of fool do you take me for, boy?” Mariano barked angrily, then turned his gaze to me, “And what kind of ridiculous name is this you claim?”

  The wife of Marco?

  I hadn’t noticed it before, but sure enough, when I looked down, there was a plain gold band on my left ring finger.

  “It was only in jest, father. I knew you would never believe I could attain such a fine lady.”

  “You best stay away from her, Sandro, lest Giuliano have you flogged!” Mariano bellowed, then stormed away.

  “Giuliano has asked me to paint her, father!” Sandro yelled to Mariano’s rapidly moving backside.

  If I was married to Marco, then who in the world was Giuliano? And why does he want Sandro to paint me?

  Sandro appeared almost distraught as he crouched down to grab a knapsack and some rolled-up pink paper, resting just inside the door. “My father does not understand my humor.”

  I felt compelled to rest my hand gently upon Sandro’s shoulder as he crouched. Mariano may not have known it was me, but unbeknownst to either of them, I knew Mariano very, very well. My mission was clear. I had to repair the relationship between Mariano and his son—and I was off to a lousy start.

  “Fathers are like food, or air, or the sun. We may not always desire them, but they are necessary for us to exist. I can see your father wants the best for you; he just doesn’t know how to show you.”<
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  Sandro paused for a moment, with his head tilted to the side, and gazed at me, my hand unable to remove itself from his shoulder. “You are wise beyond your years, my lady,” he lamented barely above a whisper, then sprang to his feet as though struck by a revelation. “I shall paint you as the Pallas Athene, goddess of wisdom!”

  He quickly tucked his supplies under his arm, then grabbed my hand and raced me back to the palazzo. Having apparently forgotten all about his father, he furiously set up his easel, then unrolled and attached a piece of the pink paper. With great difficulty, and with the help of Antonella, I returned to my place on the gold velvet chair. Sandro dug through the knapsack, retrieved a piece of charcoal, then turned back to me.

  “Could your hair be brought down upon your shoulders?” Sandro requested, clearly not realizing the effort it took to put the mass of hair up. “I know it would seem indecent, but it is necessary if I am going to portray you with any likeness to the goddess.”

  Antonella hesitantly began undoing what she had painstakingly done. I grabbed the goblet of wine and downed it, hoping it would help me endure the process. Once Antonella finished removing the many jewels and clips from my hair, I tried to sit passively through the agony of brushing it once again. Though, even the pain was good; it meant I was alive.

  Sandro watched, as I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair, still miserable from the torture of my hair, my corset, and my petticoat.

  “This will not do. Where do you keep your clothing?” Sandro demanded, though of course he knew, as he had frescoed the walls of my bedchamber before my/her arrival in Florence.

  When I didn’t immediately answer, he flew off to search for himself, power-walking towards the bedroom in which I’d awakened. Antonella panicked. “It is not proper for you to be in a lady’s bedchamber, Signore Botticelli!” she admonished.

  By the time we caught up with him, he had already made it to the wardrobe and was rifling through the trove of elegant gowns. Unsatisfied, he turned to the bed and picked up the thin, white, linen nightgown Antonella had neatly placed there after she’d made my bed. “This will do.”

  “You want her to wear her shift?” Antonella gasped, with a horrified look of confusion.

  “I wish to paint her not as an uptight noblewoman, but as a goddess—light and free.”

  “But, Signore…”

  “It’s all right, Antonella,” I replied, not only wishing to please Sandro, but also liberate myself from the confines of my strangulating dress. I turned my back to her, urging her to help me become “free and light” as the goddess he wished to re-create.

  “Very well, Monna Simonetta,” Antonella agreed sarcastically, as she aggressively unlaced the back of my bodice.

  Sandro stood there, mesmerized, as if he were watching a striptease at a gentleman’s club.

  “Signore!” Antonella barked.

  “Perdono,” he muttered as he snapped out of his trance, “I shall be in the sitting room.”

  He practically tripped over his own feet on the way out, causing Antonella to chuckle audibly.

  “It seems Signore Botticelli is as smitten with you as the rest of the Florentine men.”

  I felt my cheeks redden once again.

  “I should have undressed you in front of him, just to watch the color leave his face! It must be glorious to be you, my lady.”

  It truly was.

  The simple shift was not risqué in shape or size. It was long sleeved and gathered at the wrists. The rather high neckline was accentuated by a crisscross pattern of lace across my breasts, which bunched the sheer fabric. I was completely covered, and yet the shift was so delicate and transparent, it revealed the curve of my bosom and outline of my nipples. I was light and free—going commando in the presence of Sandro Botticelli in the City of Flowers.

  By the time I returned to the sitting room, Sandro was pacing back and forth across the marble floor.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “No. It is quite all right,” he stuttered, as he gazed at me once again.

  “I believe it’s you who’s blushing this time,” I replied boldly. He shyly averted his gaze with a smile, then started to sketch.

  Antonella sat quietly in the corner sewing; although she raised her head occasionally to shoot me a disapproving glare.

  I realized, rather than beguiling Sandro with my flirtation, I should be working out a plan to put him on better terms with Mariano. Then it occurred to me that enticing him might be exactly what I needed to do to get him to cooperate with whatever plan I would hatch. But then, there was also this elusive husband of mine to worry about, in addition to the pesky Giuliano character, either of whom might interfere with that plan.

  While I was contemplating, Sandro furiously sketched on the paper mounted to his easel. I had been standing there, staring off into space, rather than enjoying the one thing I’d always wanted to see—Sandro Botticelli at work. As I brought myself to full attention, I stood mesmerized, fixated on his every move, realizing at that moment, he could be creating a masterpiece—one that would last through the ages. He seemed not to care that I maintain any particular pose.

  His eyes moved quickly between me and his illustration, as a nervous flow of words streamed from his supple lips. “My father would have me study only the ways of God, but I am much more fascinated by humanist thought. Have you heard of the man, Marsilio Ficino?”

  I had, of course, though I possessed only a vague notion of him—and not in this life. For me to be completely honest with Sandro would be an unimaginable prospect; but as much as possible, I wanted to try.

  “Yes, I’ve heard the name. But will you tell me about him?”

  “My comrades and I study with him. He has translated the ancient works of Plato and speaks of a new Platonic idealism—the merger of the new and the old. That is why I do not wish to paint you as a stuffy noblewoman in side profile, or in one of the same, tired devotional themes. Giuliano has given me full license to paint you as I wish.”

  “Your wish is to paint me as a goddess?”

  “Yes, because that is how I see you. You possess strength through your beauty, and I have found wisdom in your words. The Pallas Athene embodies both strength and wisdom. She sprang from the head of her father, Jupiter, as a fully grown warrior queen, already clad in armor and bellowing a victory shout. She is a highly revered intellectual, equal to men; the virtuous companion of heroes.”

  The only virtue I had to offer at that moment was silence.

  “My master, Fra Filippo Lippi, has found greatness in his paintings because of his muse; his lifelong companion, Lucrezia Buti, mother of his children.”

  Filippo Lippi’s paintings were my second favorite; although my admiration had always been much more for the work, than for the man, unlike my devotion to Sandro.

  “Francesco Petrarca, and Dante Aligheri,” he continued, “They each had a woman who gave them inspiration to create. I feel as though my painting has lacked the motivation to excel the masters, and this is what I desire. Even though Giuliano feels that you are his muse, I know you are the muse of all of Florence. The muse for me. I believe you can provide me with the motivation I have been missing.”

  “But how?” I wondered aloud.

  “Simply by being alive.”

  Chapter 8

  It amazed me that I was in the presence of the great painter, Sandro Botticelli, and yet I was the celebrity. It had not been that way for me in life. Before I met Wilbur, I spent the better part of my first thirty-eight years in a loveless marriage, admired by no one—including myself. In fact, the marriage was beyond loveless, it was controlling, demeaning, and downright abusive. But I stayed. My single mother, Nova Uqualla, had died of ovarian cancer on my twenty-first birthday and at that point, I had nowhere to turn. So instead of standing my ground and marching out the door into the great unknown, I stayed, cowardly and miserable, hiding in the semi-luxury that my lawyer husband, Evan, had provided.

  One da
y everything changed. A series of events led me to finally walk out that front door and never look back, only to live the next two decades of my life in relative bliss. Living—not just existing. My life may not have been long by modern standards, but it was complete. I died a satisfied woman.

  I learned to enjoy each moment, take nothing for granted, and waste no time with self-pity, mundane tasks, or vanity. I never had a desire to be the center of attention. I’d been perfectly content living in obscurity, admired only by Wilbur and my son.

  In retrospect, it was a somewhat selfish life. Even though I’d spent quite a few years as a Registered Nurse in a newborn hospital nursery, I received much more joy from the babies, than they did from me. There were only a handful of times I really went out on a limb for someone outside of my immediate household. I was a good partner and a good mother, but now I realized it may not have been enough. Mariano was right. There was something else I needed to do.

  Chapter 9

  After hours of sketching and mind-blowing conversation on subjects such as religion, the ancients, and our common agreement that educating one’s mind was more important than following the herd, Sandro was suddenly possessed by another revelation which brought his drawing to a halt.

  “Where are your servant’s quarters? Are they downstairs?” He asked out of nowhere.

  “Yes.” I replied, assured to be correct. I’d been in enough Renaissance palaces to know that this was typical of the age. Also, as Sandro and I’d made our walk to Mariano’s house, I’d noticed the rusticated rooms on the first floor, or piano primo, had small, barred, glassless windows. Glass was reserved for the nobility residing on the upper floors—their large windows giving the upper crust household members a better view—while the inhabitants of the piano primo were subject to the dampness and odors of the street. The servants’ quarters of the palazzo were almost definitely lacking in any of the magnificence of the second floor, or piano nobile, where my bedchamber and sitting room were located.