by Sara Downing
Oh, but how I have moved up in the world since then! Today I am to be introduced to some of the grandest people in society; in the past I had met such people, but my place was to serve them with my body. Today it is my beauty, grace and demeanour they will admire, I am sure, not what feelings of lust I can inspire in them. Today I come before them as a lady, not as a whore.
The guard leads us up a vast flight of stairs and through a corridor to the most magnificent room I have ever set eyes upon. Tito whispers in my ear to inform me that this is the Sala del Maggior Consiglio. I would not like to speculate how many important decisions of City and Republic have been made here, when the Great Council meets to discuss its business. Tito has been here on many an occasion, to participate in such meetings.
Today the room is not set out for a council, however. With great awe I see before me a huge throne, fit for a king. A long line of finely-dressed citizens forms a slow and stately procession from that throne to the door by which we have just entered. We join the back of this body as each waits patiently for their own moment of presentation to the Doge, before moving to the end of the room where the less formal aspect of the reception is taking place. Here, a number of servants, also dressed in bright colours, flit amongst the crowd like exotic birds, serving titbits and small morsels of delicacies, whilst others follow behind more sedately with wine, which flows from their ewers into elaborate golden goblets.
Tito turns to me to ensure that all is well, and sees my face lighted up in wonderment, as I gaze from painted ceiling to gold-embossed chair, from vast window with breathtaking views of the lagoon to the fine robes of the crowd before me. It is too much for a simple girl such as me to absorb, despite the relative opulence in which I now reside.
I too am attired in the finest robes money can buy, and therefore feel I can match these grand people, at least in appearance. My gown is of the most exquisite silk and lace, my hair dressed in the most fashionable style of the day, with small braids around my face, interlaced with delicate pearls and other precious stones. My darling Tito is so generous in providing them for me, and my dear Clara is indeed a skilled artist to create this masterpiece of a coiffure that I sport this day.
Slowly we make our way along the line, exchanging small snippets of conversation with the persons around us. Already I have been introduced to so many people of superior class, some of whom have such important roles to fulfil within this great city. I feel very honoured to be here, as finally we near the great throne.
I am not surprised to see that His Serenity, Pietro Lando, is dressed in the finest garments of all, as befitting his status as our esteemed leader. He wears luxurious golden robes and slippers, but his headdress, the corno ducale is the most striking aspect of all: a strange horn-like bonnet made of gemmed brocade, beneath which I can see peeping out a white linen cap. It is a camauro, Tito informs me, not unlike the ones that the Sisters at the convent are required to wear to cover their hair. Its modesty contrasts vividly with the opulence of the rest of his outfit, and indeed the surroundings.
As we draw nearer to him he notices me studying him carefully, and to my surprise, holds my gaze for a few seconds. Is it that he recognises my face from the images covering his walls? And then it is our turn:
‘Serenissimo Principe, may I present to you Signore Tiziano Vecellio and Signorina Maria Rossi,’ the guard announces. I sweep into a deep curtsey before him, only looking up at the great man once I have paid my compliments and he has requested that I rise.
I rub my eyes as I wake up in room twenty-eight, hastily gathering my things together and heading for the door. I never feel like I want to hang around after a dream; I need to get outside and back to reality, clear my head with some fresh air.
So Antonio was right; the woman I need to search for in my family history is Maria Rossi.
But where do I start?
Twenty-Two
Vincenzo is not in his room when I arrive. But then he wasn’t expecting me; I have called by unannounced. Maybe he’s taking a lecture, or off doing whatever else it is he does in the name of being a tutor – which probably involves drinking coffee and chatting up pretty students somewhere, knowing him.
I decide to wait and plonk myself in one of his armchairs. I pull out my ‘Dreams’ notebook; I might as well put the time to good use and update my journal for the dream I’ve just had. So, Maria is genuinely Maria Rossi, it would seem, although why I should ever doubt Antonio is anyone’s guess. I suppose it just feels good to have it confirmed, via my own dreams, before I launch off into what could be an absolute bottomless pit of a family tree hunt. Let’s face it, I have no idea whatsoever in which direction I should be heading.
What am I doing here? Well, for some reason I felt a strong urge to tell Vincenzo all about my conversation with Di Girolamo. Antonio did say it would be fine for me to share what he’d told me with my tutor, provided I stipulate that this gem of information about his dreams isn’t then to be beamed across the art world. He doesn’t want to see it up in lights on any of the social network sites, or have anyone from the press contact him about it. Actually I’m amazed he trusts Vincenzo – I know there’s always been an element of academic rivalry between them, and they are like chalk and cheese – but at the end of the day I suppose they’re both professionals and each strongly respects the other’s abilities, artistic and personality differences aside. I’m glad he did give me permission, as I think being able to confide in Vincenzo will make things a lot easier for me.
That last dream – the scene at the Doge’s palace – was amazing. I really must plan in a trip to Venice one day soon – before I leave Italy, otherwise it could be years before I can afford to come back. I’d love to visit some of the places I’ve been to as Maria, see them as they are now but with the advantage of insight into how they were then and what took place within the walls of some of the most historically significant buildings in Venice. Structurally, they’re probably not intrinsically different, I imagine, other than that they are now overflowing with tourists instead of lords, ladies and gentlemen – well, maybe still a few of those, or the modern-day moneyed equivalent thereof, staying at the pricier hotels.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and run a quick internet search on Pietro Lando. And there he is – there’s even a picture of him – Doge from 1538 to 1545 it says, so that would fit in just right with the period. I have to say he doesn’t look half as formidable on my nine centimetre touch screen as he looked in the flesh.
And that look he gave me, or rather Maria. A look of recognition, I think. After all, his walls were heaving with images of her in one form or another. Maybe – just maybe – despite all those strong Catholic ethics kicking around, he was just giving Maria ‘the eye’. Looking a pretty girl up and down. With looks like hers, she must have stood out like a rose in a bed of weeds amongst all those stuffy artists and academics. Bet he thoroughly enjoyed being introduced to her. What a shame the dream came to such an abrupt end; I would love to have eavesdropped on the conversations which took place after the formal introductions were over. Did it turn into ‘another wild party’ at the Doge’s palace? Somehow I doubt it, but it seems they got up to a lot more in those days than we give them credit for. I know for a fact that behind those chaste façades they well and truly lived the high life, but none of that detail reaches the history books, does it?
‘Ciao, Lydia, è un vero piacere vederti! Cosa fai qui? Isn’t our tutorial on Thursday, or is this just a social call?’
I’m lost in contemplation and almost jump out of my skin as Vincenzo bursts through the door, quite within his rights to be there of course, and quite obviously surprised to find me in residence. Fortunately he’s on his own and, after the initial shock of seeing me, is very welcoming.
‘Ciao, Vincenzo,’ I reply, ‘I just wanted to pop by for a chat, that’s all. I hope that’s OK and you’re not too busy? I have something really important to tell you.’
‘Well, I suspected something similar
,’ Vincenzo says, once I’ve finished filling him in on Antonio’s news. ‘I know I’ve always been slightly sceptical about you and your dreams, but I’d like to think I’ve always been supportive, haven’t I?’ He waits for me to nod in confirmation before going on, so I do. ‘Your dreams came as a bit of a shock to me, but I never doubted your sanity, or that you were telling the truth.’
How magnanimous of you, Vincenzo, I think to myself. What about that disastrous meal out we had together in the early days, when you treated me like some kind of lunatic and couldn’t get away from me quickly enough? Have you forgotten that now you know me a little better? But I don’t voice any of these thoughts; I just sit passively and give him the chance to explain how he feels.
‘So hearing that he’s had a similar experience to you just backs up what you’ve been going through, doesn’t it? It’s quite amazing that there are two of you out there. How long ago did he have his dreams? His book is quite recent, isn’t it?’
I explain the background to him a little more, and Vincenzo is hooked. I think any final traces of doubt are erased from his mind by the fact that it’s all centred on a different painting, in a different city, albeit with the same underlying story and some very similar experiences to my own. He is also intrigued to hear that the copy of the book he has is the second edition (he’s probably never even looked inside the cover to discover this) and even more so to hear how Antonio lost his nerve with it at the final hurdle, failing to make it available to the wider public yet again.
‘I will have to read it now,’ he says. ‘No excuses! And you’ve read it all presumably, and found a lot of similarities between his story and yours?’
‘Yes, loads. In fact, there’s nothing in there at all that I’d disagree with. It’s more a case of him having seen things, or experienced certain events, from a different perspective, and very often it’s something completely new, that I haven’t dreamt about, but which fits in perfectly with my own story. But the frustrating thing is, Antonio’s book stops too soon. When Emilia – his illegitimate daughter – is born, the story stops dead. He can’t explain why; he just didn’t have any more dreams after that. I really hope my dreams go beyond that point; I need to find out what happened to her. It might be the only clue I get as to where I fit into all this, and if I might be related to one of them as well.’
Vincenzo perks up at this. He sits upright in his seat, his hand goes out instinctively and lands on my knee, and there is an expression of deep surprise on his face. I know the hand-on-knee business is just his tactile Italianate way of doing things, and I’ve got used to it. Usually I brush it off, but this time I don’t; it feels quite comforting so I leave it there. His eyes meet mine – I imagine to check for a reaction when I don’t flick him away – and, pushing his luck a little further, he gives my knee a gentle squeeze. Again, I don’t react.
‘Yes, it turns out Antonio is a direct descendent of Titian. Through Titian’s marriage to Lavinia, his second wife, so he’s not related to Maria or Emilia. He suspects that was the reason he was chosen, and he reckons it might be the same for me. Just think, we could both be related to one of the greatest artists of the Renaissance!’
‘Wow! So what are you going to do? Start researching your family tree? It’s pretty exciting, isn’t it? It’s all quite amazing, this idea of you being ‘chosen’, and being a direct descendant and all that! What a lot to take in!’
I’m pleased that Vincenzo is so enthused about it all this time round. He seems to have lost the air of concern and scepticism that he had before.
‘I’ll help you, you know,’ he offers, excitedly. I am deeply grateful – and relieved – as this conversation could have gone either way. It feels good to have him on my side, and I say simply:
‘Thank you, Vincenzo.’
‘So, how about dinner?’ he asks, cheekily striking whilst the proverbial iron is hot. He’d retracted his hand from my knee in order to give vent to his excitement just now, but with this proposal it comes creeping back again. But as he says this I become conscious of his touch and move away slightly so he can no longer reach my leg.
‘Isn’t it nearly that time of day – look?’ He turns the face of his watch towards me to answer his own question. If not yet quite time to eat, it’s certainly aperitivo time, and after all the excitement of today, I could really do with a drink. Then it hits me that I’ve spent the whole day caught up in Maria et al, and what with meeting Antonio, going to the gallery and coming here, I’ve managed to completely shirk my academic commitments. And missed two lectures, I realise. Oh well, it’s a bit late now, and it’s not like I haven’t had an enlightening day, even if it wasn’t entirely scholarly. Highly educational, nonetheless.
‘Dinner would be lovely.’ I accept politely, surprising myself to find that I really would like to go out with him, despite the lingering memories of last time, and my resolve never to get involved with him.
‘But let’s go and grab a drink somewhere first, shall we? It’s a bit early, and I’m gasping. No fancy restaurants, tonight, mind you,’ I tease. ‘You treated me last time so this is my shout, but you know what a student budget stretches to, or rather doesn’t.’
‘Don’t be silly. I would really like to treat you, Lydia, so please let me. After all, it’s not every day you get such exciting news. I will take you somewhere nice and you can tell me all about how you plan to dig up your ancestors. We will formulate a plan together.’
Forty-five minutes later, after a quick prosecco in a nearby bar, which we both needed and which barely touched the sides, we are in a taxi on the outskirts of Florence, joining the Siena superstrada at Certosa and heading out to the countryside. We are going ‘somewhere special’ – the only clue Vincenzo would give me, and that was imparted with a secretive grin and sparklingly mysterious eyes. Uh-oh, what am I letting myself in for here? If we’ve journeyed off to the middle of nowhere together, I can’t exactly beat a hasty retreat if things get too much for me. There’s no way I can afford the taxi fare back from the back-of-beyond.
I relax a little though and banish such thoughts when I catch sight of the view. Since arriving in Florence, I haven’t actually ventured out of the city at all, and even though it’s a beautiful place to live, with more than its share of lush, green areas to stroll around in and escape the inner-city hustle and bustle, to see some vast open spaces out of the window of the taxi is nothing short of uplifting. Urban dwelling can be claustrophobic, and it’s not until you remove yourself from it for a while that you realise just how much so. I love the countryside, and although I was brought up in suburbia, the rolling fields of Sussex were never far away. As a family we would escape whenever we could, for a walk or a climb on the Downs.
The day is warm, and despite the efficient air conditioning (this isn’t one of your run-of-the-mill beaten-up Florence mini-cabs) I put the window down to allow the breeze from outside to blow in my face. It might only still be motorway air, but it’s the widest, most open space I’ve been to for months, and I close my eyes as the wind whips my hair back from my face.
Once we pick up speed and my hair starts flying in too many directions all at once, I close the window again and turn to look at Vincenzo. He has clearly been unabashedly watching me enjoy the breeze, and now that my eyes are open again, it’s a second or two before he snaps out of his trance and reaches for my hand, which is resting beside me on the seat.
I look down at his large, tanned hand covering my more delicate, paler one and say: ‘I hope this isn’t some plan to whisk me away and seduce me, Vincenzo.’ I whisper this in English as I don’t want to incite the non English-speaking driver to start eavesdropping on our conversation. I think, and hope, it comes across in a light-hearted way, as it’s meant as a bit of a joke. The trouble is, I have to lean in very close to him to say it, and as my lips almost brush his ear, he looks like he’s enjoying our brief moment of close contact just a little too much. I see a frisson of something – I don’t know quite what –
pass across his face as he listens to me.
Vincenzo knows I take all his attempts at seduction with a pinch of salt, and that I have no qualms about giving him a big shove if he gets a bit too full-on. Recently our relationship, when we’re not doing the serious, academic stuff, has become one of good-natured banter, and I have to say it’s fun. There’s a bit of a standing joke between us that he will always have a pop at chatting me up whenever he feels like it, which is fine just as long as he doesn’t mind me knocking him back gently.
But there’s something different about today. Oh yes, I know I’m always saying he’s a terrible flirt, and a womaniser, and I would never go there, not if he were the last man on earth and all that sort of stuff. But today….. I can’t quite put my finger on it. There’s something about the way he’s been looking at me, and he was so lovely earlier when I told him all my news, so understanding and sincere.
Stop it, girl, this is Vincenzo we’re talking about here, you know, the one you swore you’d never get involved with. He’s bad news, you know he is. And he’s your tutor for goodness sake! Get a grip girl!
The angel on my right shoulder is doing battle with the demon on my left again. Yes, I know, I know. How many times have I said I wouldn’t…. Yes, yes….. But today he does look even more gorgeous than normal and somehow it doesn’t feel sleazy, or wrong.
We whip down the narrow lanes of the motorway at a speed likely to induce car-sickness in even the hardiest of traveller. The driver seems to take great delight in zigzagging in and out of traffic as though he were performing stunts instead of ferrying passengers; he’s not simply using the inside lane to overtake, but undertaking and ducking and diving as he pleases. The Mercedes badge pointing skywards from the bonnet weaves from left to right like a gun sight, searching for the next victim to overtake. Aim…. fire…… we’re off again, and I hold on to the passenger handle above the door as we swing once more to the left.
