Urban Venus

by Sara Downing

  ‘Somehow I doubt it, Lydia,’ Vincenzo goes on, seriously. ‘He is one of the most respected historians we have in this country.’ My thoughts entirely.

  ‘Anyway, read it,’ I implore, before planting myself excitedly in one of the comfy chairs to one side of Vincenzo’s office. He joins me on the other chair, first tugging it a little closer so that our knees are almost touching.

  Vincenzo places a hand confidently on my knee. I look down at it pointedly and then up at his face and he removes it, coughing slightly to hide his embarrassment at over-stepping the mark. When sober, he can behave honourably, see? He asks me if I’ve had any more dreams, and once again advises me to be careful. Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah. Unfortunately, such words of wisdom tend to fall on deaf ears these days.

  Our tutorial goes on to be a good one, though. We get into a heated argument about the validity of the inspiration of Homer and Virgil on the work of Botticelli, with Vincenzo admitting at the end of the debate that he was purely playing devil’s advocate for the sake of a good discussion and to push me to air my views fully – actually he agreed with everything I’d said. I am close to thumping him with frustration but I do appreciate that he has a certain way of bringing the best out of his students, even if slightly unorthodox in his methods, so I manage to restrain myself.

  Once we’ve had our officially allotted time, I contrive to bring the subject back to Signore Di Girolamo and his book, as I’m convinced Vincenzo must know more about it than he does, and I offer to read him an excerpt from it. Fortunately he agrees, and for once drops his air of competitiveness and relaxes back into his chair to listen.

  I read him the section about the prostitute Titian encountered on his travels in Bologna. Di Girolamo goes on to explain how she was the love of his life, and how he moved her to Venice, despite his family also living there and him having to live a double life and keep her secret for so many years. The depth of emotional detail he goes into is amazing, almost as if he knew this girl – presumably Maria – himself.

  ‘She has to be my Maria,’ I say to Vincenzo, imploring him to back me up and by doing so give my own personal story a stamp of validity. ‘But why, if Di Girolamo knows so much about Maria, doesn’t he name her in the book? Surely someone with so much insight into Titian’s life must know who she was and where she came from? How he possibly could know is beyond me, but with the level of detail he gives on other stuff it just feels like he should.’

  This is the part which is really frustrating me. I know I haven’t read even half the book yet, but if ‘Maria’, as I think she must be, is already a feature in the story, why would he wait until later in the book to name her? Maybe he doesn’t name her at all; maybe he doesn’t know her name? But she is so pivotal, so influential in Titian’s life that she warrants a title, thank you very much Mr Big Historian Di Girolamo. He simply refers to her for the moment as ‘The Girl from Bologna’. It’s so frustrating to think I’ve found her at last, only to lack any definitive confirmation.

  Vincenzo has very little to say on the passage I read to him, shrugging his shoulders and admitting that, whilst Di Girolamo writes with great insight, he needs to be able to provide his sources to give it any credibility. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised as it has been quite obvious since he loaned me the book that there is more than a hint of professional jealousy involved here.

  I realise I’m getting nowhere with Vincenzo, and what I actually need as I leave his office is another ‘fix’ of Maria, another chapter in her life story, to convince myself that she is, or rather was, real. I pack up quickly and head straight for the Uffizi and room twenty-eight again.

  ‘Calma, cara mia!’ Tito exclaims as I fidget and twist on the lettuccio, trying to settle myself into a comfortable position. I may only be in the first few months of my pregnancy, but already my belly feels ripe and swollen, my body no longer entirely my own. And I am so pleased at that! How delighted Tito was to discover that we have made a new life between us, a child who is to be part of his body and soul, and part of mine, a new life to cherish and to love!

  Tito approaches me and removes the shawl which until now has covered my nudity. He sits beside me and gently caresses my growing belly, bending to kiss it and softly saying, ‘Mio figlio.’ ‘My son.’ But I have no inkling that this is a boy-child within me. Never before have I experienced the joys of being with child and therefore I have no knowledge of how it should feel, but there is such a strong sense that the life within me is female. I could be mistaken of course, and we will both have to wait for the day of delivery to discover what the Lord has chosen to bless us with. But even so, I am gently preparing Tito for the fact that our child may well be a girl. In any case, he already has sons, and not being a legitimate provider of his heir, I do not feel any pressure at all to provide him with another. Whether male or female this child will be loved like no other.

  My girl-child. She lives within me, growing every day, and how I love her so already! I run my hand once more over my smooth, firm stomach before readjusting myself into the position which Tito requires for this painting. I am to lie demurely on the bed, which is draped with a silk cotton sheet, crumpled as though I have just awoken from a dream. Bella is to be painted too, curled up at the foot of the bed, although for the moment she refuses to perform her artistic duties, and remains where she is, obdurately dozing in front of the fire. She has no calling to this artistic way of life, bless her! Occasionally she deigns to peep at me from one eye, as though she knows what is required of her but today has chosen not to participate. It does not matter, Tito can paint her in at a later date; there will be plenty more days like this, posing for this same painting. Tito has proclaimed that it will be one of his finest, and as ever he is approaching his work with the utmost dedication and perfectionism.

  Tito comes to me and adjusts my pose so that I am in the position in which he sketched me yesterday. He flits to and from his canvas, comparing still life to real life, adjusting a hand here, a lock of hair there. He ruffles the soft, downy pillows behind my head and bends my elbow, which has the effect of turning my body towards him a little more. In my hand he places the posy which I am to hold, a small bunch of pale pink roses, so fragile that they look as though they should crumble to dust as I touch them. In fact they do crumble a little, and I exclaim as one bloom drops to the bed, believing I have ruined the impression.

  ‘Never mind,’ Tito says. ‘We will leave them like that. In fact the effect is more natural. It looks as though you are crushing the roses, as though you do not want to hold them, and I like that. It sits well with the somewhat defiant expression on your face, my dear,’ he adds, smiling.

  Clara had braided my hair around my head this morning, provided me with my drop pearl earrings to wear and added a little rouge to my cheeks to give them a glow fit to complement the shade of the roses. With one final adjustment to my tresses, bringing some more soft curls to sit around my face and tumble over my shoulder, Tito declares he is ready to begin today’s work on his masterpiece.

  He has told me what the backdrop to the painting will be, but for now I am positioned in front of a plain black canvas so that there is no distraction, better to capture each small detail that he needs, so he says. Everything else will be added in later. My dear Clara is to be immortalised on canvas too; this will be a veritable portrait of our household! She will be to the rear with another maid, and they are to be pictured in their duties, preparing my trousseau, or some other such domestic chore. Clara is to be clothed in a fine, red velvet gown, the wearing of which she is utterly giddy with excitement about. The other maid, who will be a pure figment of Tito’s imagination, is to be quite obviously of lesser standing within the casa, her dress fashioned from simple calico, as she fumbles in a wedding chest, in search of some garment or other.

  The outlook through the window at the back of the room is to show a hint of the setting sun, with a myrtle plant silhouetted in the vast frame of the aperture. I cannot wait to see it!
I know I have posed for countless paintings for my Tito, yet this one incites so much enthusiasm in him that I am expecting something very special indeed. He paints with a small smile playing at the corner of his lips, as though he can barely contain the excitement as the work takes shape; the knowledge that ultimately this is to become a great masterpiece.

  ‘Who is this painting for, my love? Who has commissioned you this time?’ I venture to ask.

  ‘It is for a new client,’ he replies mysteriously, although he does not look me in the eye, and once again I suspect that it is purely for his own whim. All this effort, and such perfectionism, when it will more than likely be seen by none other than our immediate household. He earns a very handsome living from his work, but on occasion he cannot bring himself to part with a certain painting, especially if it is of me and therefore very dear to him. I envisage this one will soon be hanging on the walls of my casa, along with the multitude of other such works….

  I laugh as my contrary little Bella rises from her position at the fireside, stretches languidly and comes towards us, pausing to yawn and have a little scratch of her ears as she makes her short journey across the room. She jumps onto my bed, circles around a few times in search of the comfiest position, first in one direction and then the other, finally choosing her spot just beyond reach of my feet, and settling down into the most perfect pose for the painting.

  ‘Well, would you ever believe it,’ Tito shrieks in mirth. ‘I swear that dog must be related to you, for all she is stubborn and single-minded. If we ask her to come, she will not come. No, this little creature must decide for herself and then she will deign to bestow her presence on us. She is such a funny little thing, just like you, my dear.’

  I wake up with a jolt and a sudden realisation. I have to write this down, and quickly. I do believe I have just dreamed my way into the very moment in time when Maria sat for the Venus painting! I can’t quite believe my luck. Have I really just experienced first hand Titian painting ‘me’ as Venus?

  All that stuff with the black canvas was interesting; that sumptuous background, the embossed fabric wallpaper, those cloths, those ladies-in-waiting – all added in later…… And I can’t believe I’ve never noticed before that the chief maid is in fact Clara! How could that have slipped through the net, when now it seems so blatantly obvious? OK, so she doesn’t normally wear such sumptuous costumes in the dreams when she’s going about her daily business, but that face, that poise – it’s most definitely her. I really do feel like I have just been the most privileged and fortunate onlooker into the making of a piece of history. I gasp at the enormity of it all. Surely no fantasy alone could conjure up something which seemed so lifelike – this really is pure insight into someone else’s life, five centuries ago. What a shame that the snapshot ended so suddenly, but at least I have had that much.

  I scribble down as much as I can in my notebook and leave the gallery, calling Stefano as I run down the steps into the piazza. ‘Can you meet me?’ I ask breathlessly. ‘Just had the most amazing dream.’

  I know he isn’t all that keen on me pursuing the dreams, and I know he worries about me and what I might find out and what it might be doing to me and all that sort of concerned boyfriend stuff. But this is momentous; I have to share it with him, whatever he thinks. I need to bounce it all off someone before I burst with excitement.

  Stefano has just finished a lecture, so we meet up not long afterwards for coffee in a side-street bar off the Piazza della Signoria.

  ‘So, tell me,’ he says, a wary ‘what’s-she-done-this-time’ expression fleetingly crossing his face before he covers it up with a more welcoming smile.

  ‘You’ll never believe it,’ I begin. ‘It was only Titian painting me, or rather Maria, as the Venus of Urbino! I was there, on the couch, naked,’ I look at him for a reaction but he’s fairly deadpan, ‘roses in my hand, hair braided, dog at my feet – well, eventually,’ I add, ‘but that’s another story. The WHOLE package. JUST like in the painting. UNBELIEVABLE!’

  ‘Lydia, don’t you think this has all gone too far?’ he begins. ‘Can’t you see it’s just all wishful thinking on your part? It has to be all in your head. OK so for some reason you do fall asleep in front of this painting, maybe there’s a logical explanation for that, maybe not, but don’t you think it’s just your imagination running wild with you? You’ve gone and developed a fixation on this painting, and every time you go and visit it you drift off, have some lovely dream or other, but it must only be because you’re obsessed with it. Your brain’s working overtime to conjure up all these stories, and when you wake up you think they’re real, because you’ve dreamt you’re the woman in the painting. Don’t you think it’s all starting to sound a bit mad? Time to give it a rest now, I think. Don’t you?’

  Well, I’d never expected a tirade like that. Last call, Stefano was on my side with the whole dreams thing. I thought he supported me, that he understood that it really was some kind of weird insight into real history, not just his totally bonkers girlfriend and her hyperactive imagination. I hadn’t even got as far as telling him the momentous news that Maria was pregnant…

  I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I just grab my things quickly and leave the café without a backwards glance, humiliation burning on my cheeks.

  Eighteen

  ‘Stefano is really worried about you, Lydia,’ Sophia says as we sit across the kitchen table from one another on Friday morning, each nursing a cappuccino. Both of us have lectures to get to, but neither is showing much inclination to actually head for the door. I have the feeling she’s been leading up to this; clearly nominated by the group as official spokesperson, she just needed the courage and a shot of caffeine to launch in and come out with it.

  ‘Huh, well he would be, wouldn’t he?’ I reply with sudden vehemence. ‘Bet you all just think I’m mad, don’t you? Go on, tell me you think I should stop, why don’t you? It’s all in my head, blah, blah, blah. That strange English girl and her crazy dreams.’

  I am still fuming with Stefano, and haven’t seen him or spoken to him since storming out on him earlier in the week. He’s been trying to text me, and there have been a multitude of messages in several different veins: the worried ones, the angry ones, the sad and sorry ones, the begging-you-to-contact-me ones, but I have just ignored them all, hard-nosed, stubborn person that I am. Only I’m not hard-nosed and stubborn; I know it’s a sorry state of affairs to be in, and aside from the fact that I really, really desperately miss him, I’m worried more than anything that I might have completely blown the status quo of our little group of six fabulous friends. I remember when I first arrived here and met them all, I was adamant that I wouldn’t get involved with any one of them for fear of spoiling the friendships we all have. But there you are, it looks like I have done just that.

  I don’t know if Stefano and I will survive this as a couple or not – somehow I doubt it – but either way it’s going to be hard for us to go back to being ‘just good friends’ without some serious baggage clogging up the space between us.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Lydia, of course we don’t think you’re mad,’ Sophia says softly, as I realise just how viciously – and unjustifiably – I’d snapped back at her. ‘We’ve always supported you, you know that. And yes, you are slightly, well, unusual, aren’t you? But we’re your friends and we’re behind you and we love you and….. Do I need to say any more?’ She gives me a huge smile which proves just how much she cares, but serves to make me feel even more of an undeserving grump.

  ‘Do you think Stefano hates me?’ I ask, deflated again, knowing full well that he could never hate me, but wanting to hear it from someone else’s lips.

  ‘Of course he doesn’t hate you. He’s just worried about you. And he wants you back. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but he called a meeting with us all last night to talk about you.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have told me,’ I say, back on the defensive once m
ore, jumping up from my seat and furiously pacing the room. Sophia is out of her chair in a flash and grabs me by both arms to still me.

  ‘Don’t be angry, Lydia, he just wants us to keep an eye on you, that’s all. You have to admit, this whole thing is taking over your life a bit, so it’s no wonder he’s concerned. Don’t be cross with him, and don’t hold it against us either, will you, we just want to help you through this, really we do.’

  I slump back into my chair with a sigh. ‘Where do we go from here?’ I ask.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ she replies. ‘Do you want Stefano back? I have to warn you I got the impression from what he was saying last night, that it’s either the dreams or him. He’s not prepared to share you with ‘some sixteenth century bloke’, as he puts it.’

  ‘Well you really did have a good old chat about me,’ I say in a sarcastic tone, anger rising in the back of my throat again as I take my seat and strap myself in for the next choppy ride on this emotional roller coaster. ‘Funny how I get to hear about all of this from you – he hasn’t even spoken to me.’ Rage subsides again and hurt takes over as I crumble once more, my head slumping into my folded arms on the table. ‘But he was so supportive at the start, when I first told him about the dreams.’

  ‘He hasn’t had the chance to speak; you’ve been avoiding him, Lydia. He’s tried so hard to get hold of you, and short of turning up here and forcing you to see him, which he didn’t want to do, he hasn’t had a lot of choice. Talk to him. Talk it through, explain how you feel and see what happens. Go from there.’

  She’s right, I know. I can’t avoid him forever. ‘I’ll call him after my lecture,’ I say. Sophia looks deeply into my eyes to make sure I really mean it.

  ‘Do,’ she says.

  ‘I promise,’ I reply, pulling myself up to head off and face the day.