Urban Venus

by Sara Downing

  I’m keen to unearth something that might lead me to Maria and Emilia as soon as I can; I’m not quite running out of time yet, but I’m conscious that I’ve got end of year assessments coming up, and as today is relatively free of lectures and tutorials, there is no time like the present…

  However as I hesitate outside our apartment block, wearing Leonora’s full-length oilskin coat, I wonder if I’ve made the right decision. I’m glad she offered me the use of it, but I never imagined someone living here would need, let alone own, a coat like this. It seems more English countryside than urban Italian wear, but Leonora informed me that when it rains here, there are no half measures. And taking shelter for a few moments under the small overhang of the building, I can see just what she means. It hasn’t rained very often or very hard since I’ve been here, so today feels like quite a monsoon.

  The Archivio di Stato is a fair way across town, beyond Santa Croce and the library, so I have quite a walk ahead of me, which on a fine day wouldn’t bother me, but today I feel like I’m about to set off on a marathon trek into dangerous territory. I take a deep breath and venture forth.

  The backstreets near the apartment are already awash, gutters full to overflowing and drains bubbling up with water that simply has nowhere to go. Hardly anyone is out and about, and who can blame them. A lone young man on a Piaggio scoots past, typically without a helmet, his dark hair plastered to his head, leather jacket shiny as the water runs off him, like a giant black beetle. His wheels send a jet of water from the gutter in my direction, and he looks across with a smile and a ‘Scusi signorina!’

  I don’t really know what to expect from today’s visit. I’ve no idea why a document about the Pope’s visit to Bologna should have been moved to the archives in Florence, but whatever it is and however significant or otherwise, I have to go and have a look. I feel compelled to follow any lead I can, as, let’s face it, there have been few leads so far.

  I’ve a vague notion I might have stumbled across the area in Bologna where Maria lived, but that’s about the extent of it, and even that’s more of a feeling than a confirmed fact. So I’m not very optimistic about what today’s findings will reveal, but you just never know. To rehash a tired cliché, I can leave no stone unturned.

  Across the city, conditions are no better. I have never seen the Piazza della Signoria looking so forlorn, or so bereft of tourists. A few of the hardier ones are huddled under the arches of the Loggia dei Lanzi, cameras packed away for today into their waterproof holdalls, waiting for a break in the weather to return to their happy snapping. Tables are stacked up around the edge of the square and tied down with tarpaulins, businesses clearly taking a hit as their clientele stays at home or in warm and dry hotel bars.

  I slosh across the square, past the looky-looky men who today have swapped sunglasses and postcards for disposable pac-a-macs and cheap-and-cheerful umbrellas, guaranteed to blow inside out on first use. A few tourists, caught short in their lack of appropriate holiday garb are sporting these macs, bright red plastic cape-like things with a hood, and holes for the arms. I suspect I would be wearing one of those now, were it not for Leonora’s coat. I am reminded of the Du Maurier book ‘Don’t Look Now,’ as a red-caped child darts in front of me, attired in the miniature version of this fashion faux-pas, pointy hood concealing her face. I shudder, partly from the chill this weather has created, and partly from remembrance of that creepy tale. This place does feel more like Venice than Florence today.

  As I pass the Uffizi I make a silent promise to Maria that I will be back soon. I am trying to find out more about you, my dear friend, I communicate to her in my head. Give me time, I’m working on it.

  The archives are in an unprepossessing concrete monstrosity of a building, whose complete lack of anything architecturally pleasing is not enhanced by the weather. I shake off the worst of the rain from my coat and head inside, feet squelching in boots which feel like they might never recover from being so thoroughly soaked through.

  I am directed to the appropriate room by a very nice – dry – lady on the reception desk whose hair looks too perfect for her to have arrived in this weather. Perhaps she has a kindly other half who dropped her right outside the door this morning, avoiding the need for heavy duty rainwear or a bad-hair-day situation.

  ‘Andate nella Sala Studio al primo piano, e firmate il registro,’ she informs me in her brusque, head-mistressy way, and I do just that, up to the first floor, and sign my name in the book. The Sala Studio looks more like an exam hall; row upon row of desks, about two thirds of which are taken up with what appear to be students, industriously working away. I walk over to a free desk, conscious of the soggy squelch emanating from my feet in the deathly silence, dump my things and go in search of someone who can help me with my request.

  At the enquiries counter I find a very kind-faced lady of close to retirement age, whose name badge reads Antonella Pasi. I explain to her that I was directed here from a web search I did in the Biblioteca Salaborsa in Bologna, showing her the printout with the reference number, and she disappears into a room behind her counter, instructing me to wait a few moments.

  Signora Pasi returns several minutes later looking somewhat apologetic.

  ‘Mi dispiace molto, signorina,’ she begins, ‘ma questo documento non è qui. È stato distrutto durante l’alluvione.’

  I try to avoid collapsing into a squelchy heap of mush in my disappointment. How ironic on a day as soggy as today, that the one piece of paper which might have helped me find a small lead to Maria, has been destroyed by flooding.

  Signora Pasi goes on to explain that the document hasn’t actually been here for several decades; it was destroyed in the great flood of 1966, that very famous event which obliterated, not just what feels like my only hope of ever tracing Maria, but thousands of works of art in some of the major institutions across the city. I know my loss is a small one in relation to all that, and that piece of paper might not even have proved useful, but it was my one hope, and now it has gone.

  I slump down onto a seat by the enquiries desk. Signora Pasi looks concerned as I turn a whiter shade of pale and start shivering. She comes out from behind her counter, and very kindly and concernedly puts an arm around my shoulders.

  ‘You are frozen,’ she says. ‘Come through to my back office, there’s a comfortable chair in there and a fan heater. Here, take off your shoes and socks, I’ll soon have those dried out for you. You can sit and recover for a moment. I’ll make you something warm to drink. I can’t believe how cold it is today, this rain chills you to the bone.’

  What a lovely lady. She takes over completely and ushers me into her office, where within minutes I am provided with a steaming cup of hot chocolate and a fluffy blanket to cover my bare feet. Being mothered and fussed over is a great elixir, and her constant stream of friendly chit-chat picks me up no end, so much so that I begin to feel embarrassed and start to apologise for my loss of composure.

  ‘I’m sorry, I seemed to lose it there for a moment. I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine now. Was it something really important to you?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know really.’ I want to explain to her, after all she has been so kind, but I don’t want to reveal too much. How silly would my story seem to an outsider?

  ‘Just something I thought might lead me to an ancestor.’ There, I said it. Maria is my ancestor. But still it’s only an assumption; I need that proof that links me to her, need to know how we are related, need to have a piece of concrete evidence in my possession that proves there is a reason for her telling me her story.

  ‘I was an ‘Angelo del Fango’ in 1966, you know. A ‘Mud Angel,’’ Signora Pasi tells me. I quickly sit up and take notice, wanting to hear more. ‘I was a student here when the floods came. Really, I have never seen anything like it. It was heartbreaking to see so many treasures damaged, so many things completely destroyed. At the time we were more concerned
for the works of art than for our own safety, not afraid of drowning. The recklessness of youth, I suppose. What else could we have done but help? We had to save these things, it’s our heritage, it’s what Florence is all about, isn’t it? It wasn’t so much the water that was the problem in many cases; it was the mud.’

  She goes on to tell me more about her efforts. Apparently she worked solidly for a year, cleaning, disinfecting and scraping mud and slime off books and paintings, learning about the painstaking restoration process as she went along, and working with experts from the field of conservation.

  ‘Mud mixed with oil from all the broken heating tanks around the city, not to mention the pollution from the river. Well, you can imagine. All that muck over all those beautiful things. I’m so glad I did it, though,’ she goes on. ‘Glad I got involved. And it’s how I met my husband.’ At this point she giggles and blushes, like a little girl with her first crush. Clearly he’s a special one and they are still madly in love. Lucky her.

  She really is an angel, my Signora Pasi. I feel like I’ve known her forever, and when I finally leave her office an hour later, not only do I have dry feet and a warm glow inside, but I have made a new friend, and as I kiss her on both cheeks, I vow to come back and see her before I return to England.

  ‘I promise,’ I say. Her stories have put things into perspective for me. My loss – if it had indeed turned out to be a useful document, and that I will never know – is so insignificant in the face of all that Florence lost in 1966. It’s thanks to people like her that these treasures are still around in the museums, galleries and churches of this great city. Even so, I am still bitterly disappointed, and I know there is only one person who will fully understand, Antonio Di Girolamo, my friend and tutor. I need to pay him a visit.

  ‘Lydia, cara, I think you know in your heart of hearts why Maria talks to you like this, so don’t upset yourself,’ he says, in an attempt to console me.

  I’d amazed myself by breaking down in tears as soon as I saw him. I thought I’d sorted it all out in my head on the way there, but I think the lack of sleep last night has magnified this situation into something bigger than it is, turning me into a blubbing wreck in the process.

  ‘I think I knew in my own mind that I had some kind of link to Tiziano, well before I discovered some evidence to prove it,’ he goes on. ‘And you know, that document you were looking for in the archives might have been completely useless to you. Somehow, Lydia, I doubt it would have thrown any more light on Maria’s life. It was probably just a report on the Papal visit, at best. Keep your chin up, my dear, and keep going with your family research; you just never know what you might happen across. But even if you don’t find anything, I think you know in your heart that Maria chose you for a reason, don’t you? I was lucky enough to find something, but you have a much harder task ahead of you. You’ve no idea how the link reaches all the way to England, for one thing, so where are you supposed to start looking? At least my family has always lived in much the same part of Italy, so I had something to be going on with.’

  It does make me feel a bit better, I suppose, but I so want to find something which proves Maria’s existence, other than the ‘facts’ inside my head.

  I need your help, Maria, I plead. You have to give me something more in the dreams. Tell me where I can find you.

  Twenty-Seven

  ‘So you will do it? Really?’ Vincenzo had asked me as we sat enjoying a prosecco together on the Piazza della Signoria. ‘I really can paint you?’

  Shoot me if you will, and think what you like, but yes, I’ve succumbed. I am going to pose for Vincenzo, and yes, I’m going to pose for him without my clothes on. I am about to become, dare I say it, another one of his nudes, and yes, there are a fair few of them, and no, I’m not threatened by that, really I’m not.

  The whole process leading up to me agreeing to it has been quite amusing though. For me, at least. I knew exactly what Vincenzo was getting at when he asked me initially, even though he didn’t once refer to me being nude. My English sense of humour couldn’t stop me from having some fun, so I pretended I was going to be in some costume or other, getting all excited about ‘which style of period dress’ I was going to be wearing, or ‘choosing a hat’ to suit the outfit. I knew full well he didn’t actually want me with any clothes on at all, apart from maybe a carefully placed scarf, or some flowers or jewellery, a bit like Maria. He just didn’t quite have the courage to come out and say it, which was quite sweet, really.

  So there was plenty of wind-up value to be had from stringing it out this week, until I finally admitted to knowing what he’d wanted all along.

  ‘You mean, with no clothes on? Naked?’ I’d said, pretending to look shocked and horrified that he should dare ask such a thing of his girlfriend. I put my hand over my mouth to feign horror but couldn’t keep the twinkle of mischief from my eyes, and at that point he knew I’d been winding him up.

  ‘Of course I will,’ I said, much to his relief, and slight disbelief that he hadn’t seen through me. Spot the difference between the Italian and English sense of humour – ours is way too warped for them.

  So here I am, posed and at the ready. And slightly nervous, too. Vincenzo has seen me lots of times without my clothes on, but this somehow just feels more….. naked, I suppose, which must seem daft, but there you go. Something to do with feeling like I’m laid out on a slab – a corpse awaiting a post mortem.

  I’ve also given some brain time to the fact that people, REAL LIVE PEOPLE, with whom I don’t have the sort of relationship that involves removal of clothing, will actually see me in this painting WITH MY CLOTHES OFF. They will know what I look like naked. Arghh. What if my Dad sees it? I banish that thought quickly, or I will be off this couch and fully clothed again before Vincenzo has even picked up a brush.

  Vincenzo’s nudes, or at least the ones that I’ve seen, have generally been pretty contemporary in their style. So there is nothing of the Renaissance Maria in my pose, none of the detailed background or general air of sumptuousness and suggestiveness as in her paintings. But on the whole they are tastefully done, I have to admit. Bar one or two, but I made it quite clear to Vincenzo that my painting was going to be tasteful, or simply not happen. So I have a plain white background behind me, and am lying on one side on a grey, modern chaise-longue type thing. The whole effect will be ‘pale but luminous’, as Vincenzo puts it. He can see the painting in his head already, he tells me. I am going to look beautiful, he also tells me, as I gulp back something akin to stage fright.

  As Vincenzo starts to sketch and I gaze around the room (with my eyeballs only, of course, as I’m not allowed to move a hair on my head) I feel some empathy with Maria, and all those hours upon hours she must have sat still like this for Titian. She had a lifetime of it, and made it a labour of love, but I know now that this single sitting will be quite enough for me. I don’t see my future as an artist’s muse, somehow. Life’s too short for this level of inactivity.

  So, what am I going to think about for the next few hours, now that I have a bit of time on my hands….? Mmmm, work? End of year assessments? No, too dull. Where I’m going to live when I go back to uni? How I’m going to feel about leaving Florence and everyone and everything about this place that I love? No, too depressing. I don’t want to go there at the moment. Plenty of time to deal with it all later in the year, when I really need to.…

  Actually, just managing to stay awake could be a problem, I think, as my eyelids droop and I yawn for the second time – and am reprimanded by Vincenzo for it.

  I clench Clara’s hand tightly, and see her wince with pain as my fingernails dig into her flesh. I am caught in the grip of the most extreme agony I have ever known. ‘Clara, help me, I am dying!’ I scream as this latest contraction seizes my body and grips it in its devil’s clutch for those few brief, but never-ending seconds.

  ‘No, Maria, you are not dying, you have a life inside you! You are going to live, and bring this child safely i
nto the world,’ she whispers softly and calmly, my wonderful Clara. How I wish my Tito could be with me now, but this is no place for a man; childbirth is women’s work. Better that he should come later, when all is done. Then I can present his daughter to him. For I feel now, stronger than ever, that this child is female.

  I come to with a small judder, and realise I’d started to doze off. I look at Vincenzo for a reaction, expecting to be scolded again, but he is engrossed, so much so that I wonder if he actually needs me here at all, or if he’s just making up my image on canvas from the memories in his head.

  A dream. I started to have a dream, didn’t I? About Maria, I think? I’m pretty sure it was. A tiny snapshot of a Maria dream. But I only dream in the Uffizi, so how could it happen here? Maybe just a coincidence; it has to be that.

  Lovely smell in here. Must be those roses on Vincenzo’s desk. Can’t look round at them now. Too tired. He’ll be cross. Smell nice though. Pink, I think. Love pink roses…

  ‘It hurts so much Clara, help me!’ I scream again as another contraction grips. ‘I do swear this child will cleave me in two! If I should die, swear to me you will look after her? Promise me, Clara?’ I yell, seizing her wrist, in case she should not fully have understood my plea.

  ‘You will not die, Maria, I will not let you,’ she says, stroking my hair back from my face with a cool cloth, as the midwife examines my belly for the umpteenth time. But I am witness to the brief flash of fear which graces her gentle features.

  ‘It is still not time, Mistress,’ the midwife says, and this I cannot comprehend. How long must it take for this child to come out of my body? I can bear it no more.

  The roses. Oh, yes, I can smell them once more. Did I nod off again for a moment? Vincenzo is none the wiser, his face a picture of utter concentration as he scribbles hard and fast.