Urban Venus

by Sara Downing

  So, when we do leave the dual carriageway, remarkably still alive and with the contents of our stomachs intact, it’s with a huge sigh of relief on my part. Vincenzo looks unfazed, but then he’s been raised on that sort of driving. Perhaps his Mamma used to ferry him and his siblings around in a similar fashion, so it is second nature to him. I’m just left with the thought that they should provide sick-bags in the back of taxis, like they do in planes.

  Off the motorway, the driving doesn’t improve much, and in fact becomes more dangerous as there is now only one lane for each direction of travel. This doesn’t prevent our driver from spending pretty much an equal amount of time in each, despite the fact that the road curls round a steep incline like a helter-skelter as we navigate the rolling Tuscan hills, up one slope and down another. I try to focus on the breathtaking scenery around us; the rows of majestic cypress trees, the tightly packed vineyards and olive groves which seem to hang on the most inaccessible of hillsides, but in such regimented lines that they look as though they have been measured out with a geometry set. Somehow the farmer must manage to negotiate his tractor down these steep slopes to tend to his crops; that must be an even hairier ride than the one we’re experiencing now. Maybe that’s how they learn their motoring skills round here…

  I’m distracted from my still-heaving stomach, when what must be our ultimate destination starts to come into view. Atop a distant hill there is a fortified construction, a high wall interspersed with towers which must encircle a town or village within. It’s a breathtakingly surreal sight; so austere against the backdrop of all this lush verdure.

  ‘Is that where we’re going? What’s it called?’ I ask, excitedly.

  ‘It’s Monteriggioni,’ Vincenzo replies. ‘The most perfect little walled town in Italy. It’s a sleepy little place in the daytime, there are just a few shops and suchlike, but there is lovely hotel with a fantastic restaurant. That is where I am taking you tonight. The views across the Tuscan countryside are unsurpassable. We can dine outside and watch the sunset together.’

  ‘That all sounds very romantic, Vincenzo,’ I joke, grinning at him flippantly, but then notice that he looks a little hurt. He’s not playing with me; he’s actually being serious for once.

  Vincenzo was right; Monteriggioni is an absolute gem of a place. It’s tiny; there’s just the one main square where the taxi deposits us, avoiding the requisite dusty climb from the car park like the majority of visitors. Flanked with tourist shops and pizzerias, it’s set off by a church pretty enough to merit a bigger, grander location than this. A couple of parallel, cobbled streets lead away from the square, one of which houses the hotel we are heading for. It’s all very quaint and picturesque, and in the absence of a camera to capture the scenery, I have a sudden urge to go and buy a few postcards to mark the moment. I don’t really feel like I’ve been a tourist since I arrived in Italy, but today I want to behave like one.

  ‘Well, if we’re doing some shopping before we eat, you have to come and see this little shop down here,’ Vincenzo says as we leave the tabaccheria, pulling me by the hand towards the left-hand side street. We pass a shop selling enticingly colourful shoes and bags – but he pulls me quickly past that – and stop outside a tiny jewellery shop with a glass front door. A quick peep in the window reveals an Aladdin’s cave of tempting display cabinets, glinting with gemstones and silver. Creazione Gioielli – Artemisia says the sign on the door, along with another one reading Attenzione al gatto – beware of the cat.

  ‘Can we go in?’ I ask.

  ‘Why else would I bring you here?’ Vincenzo replies, rolling his eyes, and pushes open the door.

  ‘Ciao, Simonetta,’ says Vincenzo.

  ‘Vincenzo, come stai?’ The pretty, dark-haired girl at the counter starts with surprise, removes her magnifying eye-piece and puts down her tools. She comes round to the front of the counter and kisses him enthusiastically on both cheeks. Oh no, not another ex, surely?

  They launch into a burst of fast-paced Italian before Vincenzo pauses to introduce me:

  ‘Meet Simonetta, my cousin,’ he says. Phew, not an ex, after all. Although I then launch into another very uncharitable set of thoughts involving other possible ex’s that Vincenzo might have brought here to visit his cousin and her conveniently-located jewellery shop. I go to shake her hand, in my formal English style, but she pulls me forward instead, and I am subjected to the double-kiss strategy as well.

  ‘Piacere, Lydia,’ says Simonetta, seeming genuinely pleased to meet me, and not in any way giving me that ‘So you’re the latest love-interest in Vincenzo’s life’ look. I would like to think Vincenzo and I are exclusive to Monteriggioni, and that this hotel we are about to dine at isn’t his usual location for seduction – assuming of course that is what he has planned for this evening. With the number of women he must have gone through even in the few months I’ve known him, I’m pretty sure it would cost a fortune if he’d brought them all here. We’ll just have to see what reaction we get from the hotel staff later, whether they recognise him, coming for the first time with his new…. er….. partner. Which I’m not, of course, and have no intention of becoming.

  Whilst Simonetta and Vincenzo are busy catching up in break-neck Italian, I decide to have a browse around the shop. It’s only tiny, but there are enough cabinets crammed with jewellery to keep me busy for ages. It’s all painstakingly hand made – by Simonetta herself – and is absolutely beautiful. I stoop to stroke the black cat curled up on a chair at the side of Simonetta’s workbench – hardly the scary creature the sign on the door implies. He purrs whilst I tickle his tummy, before settling back into his slumber.

  Jewellery shops back home either seem to be high-end ones which I can’t stretch to on my budget or the cheap-and-cheerful bangles and baubles ones, full of the sort of stuff I wouldn’t give houseroom to. This place is in a league of its own. Simonetta’s jewellery is expensive but not crazily so (although there are one or two locked cabinets which I will steer clear of). The quality is first class; everything is supremely original in its design and expert use of gemstones, yet it has nothing of the home-made look to it. It’s gorgeous; I could spend the rest of the evening happily browsing my way through it all, maybe try a few pieces on, just for fun.….

  I am particularly drawn to a beautiful silver chain with a pear-shaped pendant containing a dark blue, iridescent stone which I don’t recognise. When Simonetta notices that I might actually be a serious customer, she breaks off from her conversation with Vincenzo to come and help me.

  ‘This is a Labradorite,’ she explains, opening the cabinet and handing the necklace to me. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? If you hold it up to the light, look at all the colours you can see.’ Before I can say, It’s lovely thank you but a little out of my price range, she has popped it round my neck and fastened the clasp. I move across the room to the mirror, fingering it gingerly. It is beautiful, the chain long enough for it to sit low down on my neckline, which is now far from pale due to the recent warm weather, and so creating a perfectly bronzed back-drop for it.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I gasp. But I have just spotted the price tag lying on the counter – one hundred and eighteen Euros, heaps more than I can afford.

  ‘It’s yours,’ Vincenzo says, and I start to protest. I didn’t come here to be lavished with expensive presents; it’s just not the way I operate. This being Vincenzo, I can’t help feeling he’d expect something in return, even though I know that’s an uncharitable thought in the face of such generosity.

  ‘I couldn’t, Vincenzo, don’t be so silly,’ I continue to protest.

  But he already has his wallet out on the counter, and is reaching inside for his credit card.

  ‘It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?’ he says. How does he know that? ‘Treat it as an early present from me. I really want you to have it, it looks so perfect on you. Besides which, I’m family, and Simonetta will do me a deal, won’t you? Really, it’s not as lavish a present as you think.’<
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  He is very persuasive but I don’t want Vincenzo to think I can be ‘bought’, and in any case why would he buy me a birthday present at all, especially one as precious as this? But it is a beautiful piece of jewellery, and I have so few lovely, quality things like this, so I surprise myself by changing tack. I stop trying to argue against it and say ‘Thank you Vincenzo, you are very generous and it’s very kind of you.’ I plant a kiss on his cheek and his grin of satisfaction is almost as huge as my own.

  Deal done, goodbyes said to the talented Simonetta, and wearing my new necklace, whose silky smoothness I keep stroking to reassure myself it’s still there, we move round the corner to the hotel where Vincenzo has reserved us a table.

  I start to feel underdressed for the occasion when the impeccably attired waiter greets us with a tray of aperitifs as though we have just arrived at a wedding, and escorts us to our table. We are seated in a prime position on the arbour-covered terrace, at a discreet distance from a couple of larger, boisterous tables, with the most stunning view over some of the countryside we crossed on the way here.

  The view from up here is amazing. The whole town itself doesn’t feel especially high as you approach (although I might feel differently if I’d had to climb up from the car park I suppose), but because the landscape drops away dramatically into the distance, there is a huge feeling of space and altitude, breathtakingly so. I spend the first few moments as we sit, taking it all in and looking around me.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Vincenzo says, but when I turn to agree with him I find he is studying me, not the scenery. ‘That necklace really suits you, you know,’ he continues.

  Oh, here we go. Next it will be: Your eyes are like pools, I’d like to dive into them. Your lips are like cherries, I’d like to nibble on them… Or some equally corny chat-up line, like something out of one of those cheesy Mills & Boon novels.

  But instead he looks me squarely in the eyes and says: ‘You are so different, Lydia, different from all the other girls.’ Yes, and there have been plenty of those to compare to, haven’t there Vincenzo? ‘I’m not trying to chat you up, believe me, it’s just that I really, really like you. Always have done. You’re not like the others; you mystify me. I don’t know how to tread with you.’ And he actually sounds sincere. Vincenzo can do sincere when he wants to.

  If Sophia and Leonora could see me sitting here, being sweet-talked by this man, they’d be pulling me up by the scruff of my neck and whisking me out of this establishment before you could say ‘Arrivederci.’

  I am determined not to fall for it.

  ‘You’re lovely, you are,’ Vincenzo whispers drunkenly into my ear in the back of the taxi. He’s been holding my hand since we left Monteriggioni, but now looks as though he’s about to doze off, his eyelids doing battle to stay open, his head beginning to loll.

  We had a very pleasant evening in the restaurant; he didn’t try to declare his undying love for me any more, nor did he try to put his hand on my knee, up my skirt or anywhere else, or exhibit any other signs of worryingly over-friendly behaviour. In fact, he was very charming company throughout and we’d talked and laughed about everything and nothing.

  The evening had stayed balmy, and we decided on a little walk around the town before jumping back in the taxi. He held my hand as we strolled along, neither of us speaking. Suddenly he pulled me to him and kissed me ever so gently, just for a short while, before releasing me, stroking my cheek and tucking a stray lock of hair tenderly behind my ear. All of which left me gasping for air and slightly dizzy. I know he’s had a lot of practise, but that was some kiss, and I felt like the heroine of a romantic novel as I stood there panting and trying to pull myself together. If he noticed how flustered I was, he pretended not to notice.

  Back in the taxi, I too feel like I’ve had enough to drink this time to pass out and let the entire terrifying return journey wash over me. I glance across at Vincenzo, who is now fast asleep, a few of his stray dark curls twirling onto the back of the seat. I am surprised at how little I am beating myself up over tonight’s events – but then there is always the cold light of day of tomorrow in which to do that. Reality will no doubt dawn that I let Vincenzo kiss me, and I kissed him back! Oh no, what are the girls going to say?

  Sophia is still up when I get back to the apartment, so I decide to bare all now and get it over with.

  ‘Just be careful, Lydia,’ is all she really has to say, seeing my dreamy-eyed expression, ‘you know what he’s like.’

  Yes, I do.

  Twenty-Three

  ‘Hi, Evie, how are you?’ I enquire of my big sister. Unsociable as it might sound, I was a little loathe to call as I know Evie is desperate to come and see me out here, and ringing her now might just push her into booking a date to come over. Much as I’d love to spend some time with her and show her the sights, I don’t need her – or any other member of my family – descending on me just yet; not until I’ve found out more about Maria and resolved the issues coming at me in the dreams. I could see myself blurting it all out to her if she came now, and I don’t think this is something my family needs to know about for the moment.

  I know my Dad’s sister, Aunt Sarah, has been into family tree research for the past few years, since she retired, and that is my true reason for calling Evie. She’s always been very close to Sarah, who took Evie to her heart just as much as my Dad did when he and Mum got together, and I’m kind of hoping that she will be able to wheedle some information out of Sarah, without me having to ask and therefore posing the question as to why I need it. I manage to convince Evie that it’s for a project I’m working on, that I need some links between art through the ages and my own personal history, and she doesn’t take too much persuading to approach Sarah. It would just save me an awful lot of time and effort, and give me some kind of starting point, if I had some pre-researched stuff to be going on with.

  Of course Sarah’s research will only cover my Dad’s side of the family, so what I do if my link to Titian is via my maternal side, I really don’t know. And I can’t believe for one minute that it will go back more than a century or so, but I have to start somewhere, and if Evie can email me Sarah’s files then it’s something, I suppose. Although ‘needle in a haystack’ would be a very appropriate term right now; what chance have I really got of stumbling across anything relevant, when there are so many centuries to trawl through? It’s all quite daunting really. I don’t know what I’m looking for, when, where or why. It’s an unsolved puzzle on a monumental scale.

  So far today I’ve managed to put last night’s events out of my mind and apply myself to the job in hand. But now I sit at my open window, smelling those roses and breathing in the warm air, and allow myself to think back over the whole evening. What a fabulous night! Kissing Vincenzo aside, what a place Monteriggioni is, and that shop, that restaurant – wow! I suppose I was an easy conquest in the face of all that seduction of a material and aesthetic nature, and Vincenzo probably didn’t have to try too hard to make me swoon and fall into his arms. It was not only him I was seduced by but the whole package. In any case, it was only a kiss – it wasn’t like I’d jumped into bed with him or anything, was it?

  My phone beeps with a message. Without even glancing at it I guess it will be Vincenzo, checking up on me and making sure I’m OK after last night. We’d both snoozed all the way back – how unromantic – so we hadn’t talked about what happened, and I didn’t stir until we were outside my apartment, at which point he’d woken me up with a light kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Siamo arrivati, bella Lydia,’ he’d said. ‘Ci vediamo domani.’ I remembered how he’d said the same to me after that fateful meal out, months ago, when I’d first arrived. This time I get the feeling he really does want to see me tomorrow. After all, I mystify him, don’t I? Instead of being the mad girl with the dreams, I am now mystifying, which has to be an improvement on crazy. I quite like the idea of that.

  The message is from Vincenzo; just a quick one to check I’m OK
(as expected) and asking if I can meet him for coffee later. I’m planning an afternoon in the library – after all the distractions this week I need to get on with some coursework – so I reply to say that I’ll pop in on him at the end of the day and then we can go for a drink somewhere. With his tutor’s hat on, hopefully he’ll appreciate my dedication and not see it as a snub, as it isn’t meant to be. I don’t feel I need to go rushing over to see him right away; what happened last night was lovely, if unexpected, and I am surprisingly OK with it (which I also inform him of to put his mind at rest, adding a little smiley face to the end of the text). But I am behind with my studies and I can’t afford to be.

  The ancestry files from Aunt Sarah, via Evie, have just pinged through on my laptop – boy, she’s a fast worker – so I resolve to spend what’s left of the morning looking through those, and then knuckle down to some serious work in the afternoon, away from here and all distractions. Vincenzo will have to wait a little longer for the pleasure of my company. I’m sure he’ll cope.

  There’s so much here to wade through. I’ve just spent the past couple of hours barely scratching the surface of Aunt Sarah’s database, and I have to say what I’ve seen so far looks fantastic. She’s managed to trace some branches of the family right back to the eighteenth century; I can’t begin to imagine how long she must have toiled over it. I know I can’t really expect to stumble across something that might lead me to Titian so early on, it would be naïve of me to think that was likely, but I can’t help myself from hoping. This first glance doesn’t throw up any obvious names that might link through; nothing sounds remotely like it might have come from Italy, or from anywhere beyond the UK, come to that.