What Remains of the Fair Simonetta

by Laura T. Emery

  My heart stopped for a moment as I realized we were approaching one of my most cherished spots in the universe; the place I would go in my head whenever things were going wrong. But when we reached the summit of the winding dirt road, the Piazzale Michelangelo was nowhere to be found.

  I paused for a moment to conjure the image of modern times. The bronze replicas of Michelangelo’s most prominent sculptures that would surround a flowing fountain in the middle of a square and would always be filled with budding artists and musicians. The panoramic view from that spot, with the Duomo as the centerpiece of all the red rooftops of Florence, would be magnificent beyond compare. Seeing that image was really the beginning of my life the first time around. I was determined never to forget the intense happiness I felt when I’d first stood there. After that, whenever life got me down, I would mentally bring myself back to that place; to that perfect hour.

  We continued up the hill, through the inky darkness, until we finally approached a long set of stairs with an iron gate at the summit. We climbed up and Sandro opened the gate, allowing us to pass through, only to be confronted by a second set of stairs that made their way through a small cemetery. At the top of those steps, the magnificent Basilica of San Miniato al Monte was illuminated by torches, giving it almost a glowing aura.

  The façade had intricate designs of green and white marble, and atop a high window was a gold mosaic. I strained my eyes in the dark to make out the subject of the mélange of tiny tiles.

  “Minias was an Armenian prince in the year 250,” Sandro began. “He left his home to become a Christian, and make a pilgrimage to Rome. On his way, he stopped for a while to live as a hermit in the cave on this hill. He was soon persecuted by the Roman Emperor Decius for his Christian beliefs. The Emperor ordered him to be thrown to the beasts in the amphitheatre that once stood in Florence near the Piazza della Signoria. There, a panther was released, but refused to devour him. The Emperor became so enraged, he instead had Minias beheaded, to ensure the task was done. At that point that Minias is said to have picked up his own head and placed it back on his shoulders, before crossing the Arno and walking up this hill of Mons Fiorentinus to his hermitage, so he might die in his cave. This church, representing Minias, was built shortly after the year 1000, and is the oldest in Florence.”

  As I stared up at the mosaic imbedded in the façade, I thought about how bizarre it was that the church was so old then, and yet is still in existence in my time. It was also strange that it was one of the only places in Florence I’d never been.

  My best friend in the twenty-first century Florence, Graziella, had married her husband, Michael, in the Miniato al Monte, and refused to ever go back after they were estranged. I had illogically avoided the place out of respect for her, but now as I looked at the marvel of the church, I was glad to have seen it first in this time—this realm. It was like saving the best for last.

  “The mosaic is a portrait of Minias with Madonna and Christ,” Sandro continued, as I stood mesmerized, thinking there couldn’t possibly be anything more beautiful at that moment, when Sandro gently pulled my arm, and guided me to turn around and look behind me. “This is why it is my favorite place,” Sandro sighed.

  I instantly understood when I saw the magnificent view that dwarfed even the site of my precious Piazzale Michelangelo. Being even higher above Florence, we could see the muted, but breathtaking, candlelit rooms of all the homes of Florence. I imagined if it were daytime I’d be looking at field after field of red irises surrounding the small city-state. This Florence was a miniature place, compared to the one I knew.

  “Shall we go inside?” Sandro proposed.

  I hesitantly followed him into the place of worship, fearing I might vanish from my new realm upon entering a place so similar to my churchly home. But I had a special fascination with the art and architecture of Italian churches, and the beauty of this sanctuary, glowing in the torchlight, erased any fears from my mind. Every inch was ornately decorated, even down to the crossbeams that held up the ceiling. The patterned floor composed of green marble imbedded with opus sectile in a complex, white lacy design represented the signs of the zodiac.

  “The Chapel of the Crucifix in the center of the nave is new. It was designed by Michelozzo,” Sandro added.

  “It’s beautiful,” I marveled, having difficulty with the concept of anything in Florence being new. Even in this time period, Florence seemed full of relics from the past, including the already several-centuries-old bones of Minias himself.

  The warm sound of the Gregorian chant of the monks resonated through the air as we walked into the oldest part of the church, which contained a crypt and the displayed remains of Minias. I crept up to the corpse as close as I reasonably could, but it was impossible to tell whether his head was attached or not. Despite the macabre view, I felt a certain kinship with the inhabitants of the crypt. And while I didn’t long to go back to my quiet resting place in the Ognissanti, I was at peace with the knowledge that it was my destiny to return. This day was a unique privilege, and I’d be eternally grateful for it—literally.

  After a good deal of time in the church, Sandro migrated back out through the large wooden doors. I stood for a short while on the stairs of the Miniato, allowing my dress to blow in the wind so that Sandro could sketch the folds of fabric. However, he immediately noticed that the heavy velvet wouldn’t take the breeze the same way my transparent shift would.

  “I suppose that means we must return another time,” Sandro mused, as he sat on the steps and motioned for me to join him. I nervously planted myself beside Sandro, as he opened the wine cask and poured the Chianti into a goblet for us to share under the starry sky, while soaking up the view of the magical skyline once again.

  Though we had technically just met, I’d spent a lifetime loving Sandro, even if it was from a place that was as far as one person could get from another; a place so distant, it could never be reached—until now. I realized that in my lifetime, I had really just loved the idea of him, the mind behind the beautiful paintings, the face staring out from The Adoration of the Magi. I imagined how much love he had for Simonetta, having painted her face over and over again. But the actual man was just as intriguing as the fantasy version, and he sat so close to me, I could feel the warmth emanating from his body. He was real; tangible; not just brush strokes on a canvas, but flesh and blood. Yet, what could I do? If I risked telling him the truth of who I was, it would surely send him bolting as fast as he could to hide from me in the cave of Minias. I wasn’t about to scare the hell out of him as my last act on Earth.

  It wasn’t as though I was in any position to express my feelings to Sandro. Putting aside my alleged husband, I would’ve never met him if he were not painting my image for Giuliano. Most importantly, it wasn’t about me and what I felt. I was here for him and his father. I had succeeded in my mission. It was over.

  We returned to the Palazzo Medici where Antonella remained, bored in the courtyard with the retinue, completely unaware of our departure. Sandro led me back to the armory room, where I’d posed earlier that evening. He grabbed the sword I had used to shadow-stab the imaginary Giuliano, and a shield that was on display close by.

  “Poliziano has given me an idea,” he explained.

  Together with the retinue, we walked back through the streets of Florence as a silent group, despite the fact that a million questions almost slipped from my tongue.

  Why did you paint the waves that way in the Birth of Venus? Why does St Augustine look like Mariano? Did you really love Simonetta?

  Unfortunately, I didn’t think even he knew the answers to any of those questions…yet.

  When we approached my front door, sure to never see Sandro in the flesh again, I threw my arms around his neck, and closed my eyes to avoid whatever judgmental glares would come from Antonella and the retinue. Sandro’s stiff posture should have given me the clear message to back off, but I didn’t. And within a second or two, his arms slid around my waist,
and embraced me tightly. It brought enough joy to my spirit that I was ready to accept my fate and return to my realm. But, as I pulled back from Sandro and our eyes met, tears burned to push forward. It was such a strange sensation. One I could barely remember having felt before. Irrationally crying at such a moment would have everyone rightfully fearing for Simonetta’s sanity, so I quickly turned and fled into the palazzo before the tears began to pour.

  Sobbing, I ran up the stairs towards my bedchamber, and immediately fought my way out of the green velvet dress, wondering how more Renaissance women didn’t die of self-strangulation during the disrobing process.

  By the time Antonella came knocking at my bedchamber door, I’d pulled myself together somewhat. I didn’t want to be rude to her, since she had put up with my crap all day, but luckily she really didn’t seem to think anything I did was all that unusual for Simonetta. I hoped my emotional outburst came off as routine behavior for her as well.

  As I opened the door, she entered in silence and washed me with a sponge and warm water from a bowl she’d brought with her, ignoring my swollen, wet eyes. Even though I hadn’t known Antonella before that day, and she’d spent much of it scolding me, I would miss her almost as much as Sandro.

  When it appeared she was finished with the washing process, I gave her an overly-zealous hug. Then she quietly exited into an adjacent room, seemingly aware that words weren’t needed.

  Truly exhausted in mind and body, I was ready to face my fate and go back. I’d been restless in the Ognissanti, but not unhappy. Perhaps now I could go on with more contentment—having this one day to hang onto, as I’d clung onto the memories of my life for all those years. Because when it comes right down to it, our memories are what we are.

  I had met Sandro Botticelli, and could now calm Mariano’s fears that he’d been a bad father. I had the added bonus of parading around Florence as the greatest beauty the city has ever known. I’d even managed to avoid an encounter with Marco, my alleged husband.

  After putting on the clean shift Antonella had left for me, I crawled into the cold, hard bed—which somehow felt amazing— as I once again admired the ornate ceiling. I hadn’t felt tired in eleven years, but now I was ready for my mind to shut off—if only for a moment—before vacating this wondrous place.

  Chapter 16

  I lay on my back, in hopes of avoiding bed sheet creases on my beautiful face. I pulled the covers up to my chin, and closed my eyes, letting my flaxen hair fall around my shoulders. But a sudden thought forced me to reopen them.

  If I’m here, where the hell is Simonetta?

  Sandro rested at the feet of Simonetta in the Ognissanti, with my urn placed atop his gravestone. Sandro and Simonetta were quietly bonded together so near to me in the Church, and yet I couldn’t sense their presence in the afterlife. Dead or alive, their bond was something I would never know or understand, so I resolved to return to the task of sleeping.

  I shut my eyes again, and before I knew it, I found myself back in the Ognissanti—safely returned to the dark, cross-shaped church. My vacation from my cold reality had ended. But in the church, I could sense nothing but profound silence. No nuns or monks roaming the aisles or chapels, the visitors gone for the night.

  I absorbed the familiar sights before me: Giotto’s newly found crucifix in the left transept, Botticelli’s Saint Augustine in the nave, and the many frescos by Ghirlandaio scattered about. The now more recognizable faces of the Vespucci family were again surrounding me. The graves of Sandro, Simonetta, and even Amerigo Vespucci, the great explorer, all fixtures of my environment.

  Trying to embrace my inevitable reality, I called out, “Mariano! I’m back! And I have so much to tell you!” I received no reply. Instead, I perceived only cold, eerie silence. “Mariano! I met you in person! And I met Sandro!”

  I desperately wanted Mariano’s gratitude for saving his relationship with his son. I wanted him to know where I’d been, and what I’d done. I wanted to tell him everything. Mariano. My only friend.

  “Mariano! Where are you? Are you angry with me?”

  Still no reply. The deafening stillness made me feel so alone.

  Could Mariano have moved on to the afterlife? Had he found the light he always talked about?

  He had no more unfinished business to resolve. I dreaded the thought of spending eternity without him, an infinite number of days and nights alone and restless once again. Even though I’d not longed for Mariano’s ghostly company while in my fantasy existence, I needed it now. I needed him to know.

  I examined every crevice and nook of the small church for something different, some clue as to what was going on, but everything was the same as I’d left it—except the spirit of Mariano was missing; gone from this realm.

  Then I sensed a different presence, and instantly knew it wasn’t the spirit of Mariano. The stagnant air became tense, as my earthly home had been invaded by the unwanted. I felt it all around me, lurking somewhere in the Ognissanti. I searched the darkness for fear that the presence was an evil spirit. But then I heard the familiar howl, and realized the spirit was mischievous, but not overtly malevolent.

  The trickster materialized, appearing in the form of the coyote. There was no doubt this was because of my Native American origin; the essence of my mind creating the trickster in the tangible form to which I was accustomed. The coyote of Native American folklore is sometimes portrayed as a creator, or a warrior, or even a clown, but for me, he was always the sage messenger of truth in his convoluted and annoying way. He strutted his beautiful, multicolored coat through the nave, and howled again.

  There were only two periods of time in which I’d seen the trickster before; times when I was ignorantly blind to the obvious truth—during my life, but never in the afterlife.

  What was he here to tell me this time?

  The coyote sauntered through the church and reached the Vespucci Chapel. He jumped the small fence that prevented tourists from defacing the graves, and pawed at the resting place of Sandro and Simonetta, then sniffed for a moment at my urn.

  “What do you want, trickster? Why don’t you just show me what I should obviously know! Where is Mariano?”

  The coyote just looked at me with that coyote grin I’d learned to hate, and strolled away into the darkness. I seethed with the same anger I’d felt when Wilbur brought that woman to my ethereal home. I wanted to break out of my ghostly prison again, and reclaim Simonetta’s body. I missed being her and I longed for my beloved Sandro.

  Was it all a dream? Was any of it real? I was dead, after all, that much I knew, and I’d never dreamt in the spirit world before. I’d been fooled in life, and the coyote had set me straight, but what was he trying to tell me this time?

  What was it?

  I searched the cold, empty darkness for the answers. I searched within everything I knew to be true. I spiraled into a vortex of confusion; not knowing anymore what was real and what wasn’t. And then a hand was upon me. Flesh and blood.

  But how could I feel it?

  “Simonetta! He is here!”

  Chapter 17

  I opened the eyes I once again possessed, and found Antonella standing over me.

  “He arrived earlier than expected,” Antonella proclaimed.

  “What? Who?” I questioned in my foggy confusion.

  “The painter! He is here!”

  “Holy shit!” I bellowed, to the shock of Antonella. I jumped out of bed, now accustomed to my legs. My legs. Somehow this had become my world. The Ognissanti was the dream. I could hardly contain my excitement at being back, but realized I’d never really left. “Wait, Sandro is here?”

  “Oh, is he Sandro now?” Antonella tsked. “You are to sit for him. Remember?

  Oh no. Now I was in a time loop, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, doomed to relive the same day over and over until I got it right. What did I do wrong the last time? I shouldn’t have hugged Sandro. That was it! Or maybe, I shouldn’t have made him leave the Medici’s to
go to the Miniato. Giuliano could have become horribly angry about our departure from the Palazzo Medici, and prevented Sandro from ever painting again. Or there was the possibility that I just hadn’t done enough to fix the relationship between Mariano and Sandro. The more I thought about it, it could have been anything I’d done or didn’t do.

  I made up my mind to get it right this time. And yet, if I had to live any day again and again, it was a glorious day to be chosen.

  “What should I wear for the sitting, Antonella?”

  At least I knew what she was talking about this time around.

  “I suppose the same thing as yesterday. Nothing!” she laughed.

  Yesterday.

  It was the most beautiful word she could have uttered. The fact that there was a “yesterday” meant that there could well be a tomorrow. I wasn’t in a time loop after all. I was in Simonetta’s body for the foreseeable future. Then, the inevitable thought struck me.

  What am I still doing here?

  Perhaps my day with Mariano hadn’t done the trick. Or was there was another reason. But how was I to know? I was ultimately alone in this world with no one to guide me.

  “What are you waiting for, my lady?”

  I was waiting for answers that would never come. Still groggy, I stood up wearing only my shift and made my way to the door.

  “He has asked that you pose in his studiolo this time, so you may want to don clothes for the short journey,” Antonella laughed.

  “Oh, right.”

  She helped me into a royal blue gown with gold brocade, and began to pinch, brush, and pin me in a hurried fashion.

  “He wanted my hair down, remember?”

  “You know it is improper to go outside with your hair loose and uncovered, flaunted like that!”

  Even though it was less than a five minute walk to the Via della Vigna Nuova, and the whole pinning and unpinning thing seemed ridiculous, I decided not to argue and just go along with it.