Urban Venus

by Sara Downing

  ‘Those roses, Vincenzo, can you move them closer, somewhere I can see them?’ I ask, interrupting him. ‘I need something to focus on here, or I think I’m going to fall asleep. How’s it going, anyway? You’ve been at it for a while now.’

  ‘It’s only been half an hour, Lydia,’ he replies. ‘I’m going to need you for a bit longer than that, yet, I’m afraid. Are you OK? Another half hour or so and we’ll have a break, get you something to eat. Can’t have you falling asleep on the job, can we?’ He gives me one of his dazzling smiles, then remembers my request for the roses, and leaps up to grab the vase from his desk, placing it on a small table to the side of him before returning to his canvas.

  ‘Funny, it feels like I’ve been here for hours already,’ I say, breathing in the scent of the roses, and trying to recall where I’ve seen that particular variety before. Oh yes, in the hospital when Leonora was there, and…. with Maria, of course. They are just like the ones she is always surrounded by. Funny, they don’t seem to smell in the dreams, or if they do, that particular sense has never survived as a memory. Smelling in dreams, is that possible? We can touch, hear and feel in dreams; can we smell and taste too? Or is smell something which creeps into a dream from the real world, like dreaming you can smell bacon frying, only to wake up and find someone has made your breakfast?

  I did start to dream about Maria, didn’t I? How odd. I do think about her a lot, but I’ve never had a dream anywhere but in room twenty-eight.

  Sleepy again. Roses are gorgeous. Petal just dropped off. Whoops…

  ‘Where is Tito, I need him here with me,’ I bleat to Clara, who stands to one side as the midwife again examines me. How I have had enough of people touching me, prodding me, feeling they have some right to my body! Please, God, let this baby come out of my belly soon; let me reclaim this body as my own.

  ‘She is nearly ready,’ the midwife says to Clara, ‘keep on with the cold compresses, she is very warm and I do not want her to distress herself too much. She will need her strength when the time comes to push.’

  ‘Very well,’ Clara replies, and returns to my side, mopping my brow and gently stroking my hair back from my face.

  ‘Is the baby coming soon?’ I ask, hoping they will consider me still capable of understanding what is happening. I am not stupid; I am in pain! This child is taking a lifetime to emerge from my body, and I know I am physically very weak, but I have not lost my mind. They should not discuss my situation behind my back. How rude of them to do so!

  ‘Does she know?’ I hear the midwife whisper to Clara. How indiscreet they are! No sense in whispering if I am still to hear what they say!

  ‘What is it that I should know?’ I demand of Clara, suddenly lucid and clear of thought again, finding the strength to pull myself up on the bed.

  ‘Lydia, wake up? Lydia, are you OK?’ I can hear someone calling to me. Is it Vincenzo? I suppose it must be. Maybe I dozed off again, but I don’t know what he’s getting so worked up about.

  ‘Yes,’ I go to reply, but it seems my lips won’t form the words. Someone seems to have glued them together and the words won’t come. Why can’t I open my eyes? Too sleepy, can’t do this, can’t answer any more questions.….

  ‘Clara, what is it that I should know? Where is Tito? Is he awaiting news of us downstairs?’ I beg. ‘I know it is not usual, but please send for him. Ask him to come up, I have to see him. Just for a few moments. I simply need to see him; it will help me so much. Please?’

  A glance passes between Clara and the midwife, such that I know something has happened. Something they do not want to share with me.

  ‘Is he ill? Is that why he is not here?’ I ask but then concern gives way to anger: ‘I am giving birth to his child and he promised to look after us. Why is he not here?’

  ‘Lydia, my love. Oh God, what’s happening to you?’ I can hear the alarm in Vincenzo’s voice. Why is he panicking? I’m just having a little nap, that’s all. What’s the fuss about? He has wrapped me up in something furry and warm, and I can hear him frantically jabbing at buttons on his phone, his voice higher pitched than normal as he makes a call. ‘The ambulance will be here soon,’ he says. ‘Stay with me Lydia.’ Well, I’m not going anywhere am I? I’m way too tired to even get myself off this sofa. Nothing seems to want to work. Limbs are all floppy, I’m so tired. But I’m fine. I’m just having a rest. If only Vincenzo would stop flapping.

  There is a rush of air as someone joins us in the room and starts fiddling with me. Get off! Who are you and what are you doing to me?

  Why can’t I tell them I’m OK? I’m trying to speak, but they can’t hear me. I don’t know who this person is, touching my neck, lifting my eyelids, feeling my wrist. Who are you? Go away, will you, I’m having a little snooze…

  ‘Where is Tito? Why isn’t he here?’ I ask again, frantic with worry now.

  ‘He is gone,’ Clara says simply, and the way she says that word denotes its finality.

  ‘Why is he gone? Does he no longer love me?’ I begin to sob. ‘He promised to take care of us. We were to return to Venice and live as a family once the child is born. What do you mean, ‘gone’?’

  ‘Do not distress yourself, Madam, it is not good for the baby,’ begs the midwife, gently stroking my arm and trying to make me lie down. But I sit up again and find an inner strength to go on.

  ‘Get this baby out of me! I need to find Tito. Get this baby out of me now so that I can go after him!’ And then I do lie back on the bed, spent after my outburst, desolate tears of bitter sadness rolling from my eyes.

  ‘Why has he left us, Clara? Why now?’

  We seem to be in a fast-moving vehicle. Vincenzo carried me to it in his arms, all wrapped up in this lovely furry throw, although why he wouldn’t let me walk, I really don’t know. He could at least have let me stand up and put my clothes back on. Although I think I might be a bit too sleepy to manage that.

  It’s making some sort of noise, like a police car, or something. We’re going so fast! If I could ask why or where we are going then I would, but it seems I just have to lie here and let them do what they want. I wonder where they’re taking me? But I just want to go back to sleep, so I don’t mind where I am as long as I’m horizontal…

  Vincenzo keeps talking to me in a really funny voice. It’s all kind of high and squeaky, not like him at all. I can feel him holding my hand, and he keeps stroking it and squeezing it. He’s made a lot of phone calls too. I hope he’s not driving, AND talking to me, AND making all those calls. I know he’s Italian and they drive like, well….. But there’s a limit. So who’s driving then? Where are they taking me? Don’t we need to get back and let him finish that painting? He won’t be too happy about the interruption, will he? Why can’t everyone just calm down and let me sleep? I’ll wake up in my own good time…

  ‘His wife knows of you, Maria,’ Clara replies. ‘And of the child, too. That is why he brought you here to Bologna for your confinement. Back to your home town in all its familiarity. And he hoped to take you both back to Venice with him, despite his wife’s wrath. But I’m afraid he left at first light this morning. There is a letter for you. Would you like me to read it to you?’

  ‘No! I will read it. Fetch it to me now!’ I yell again in agony as another contraction seizes me. But the midwife pushes Clara to one side.

  ‘She cannot read the letter now, it is time.’

  What are these wires all over me? Why are they plugging me into the mains like this? I must look like Frankenstein’s monster. What is this place? I can hear lots of hushed voices as what feels like an army of people buzzes and fusses around me. Just take me back to Vincenzo’s office, will you? We were fine there; I was having a little lie-down on the sofa, and he was painting me, so what’s all the sudden fuss? But still I don’t seem able to tell them. I can’t make them hear me, and I can’t see who they are. Still can’t open my eyes. Hold on Maria, I’m here for you…

  ‘My Darling Maria,’ the letter begins.<
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  ‘It is with a great pain in my heart that I write to you now. I know that by this time, my love, you will likely have been delivered of our child. I hope with God’s blessing all has passed well, and this communication finds you in good health.

  Maria, my darling, before I say anything else, you must know this truth. You are the one and only love of my life. Never before has a woman brought such emotion, such love, such happiness into the very depths of my heart and soul. I knew from the moment I first set eyes on you that it would be so, and you have been a veritable gift from God, an inspiration to me.

  Thus it pains me to tell you this: it is no longer possible for me to bring you and our child back to Venice, and I know you will consider me weak for giving into the powers which seek to keep us apart. My wife has for some time known of our love, but as loyal wives do, has been prepared to overlook my indiscretion for the sake of propriety. However of late she has been informed of the child you carry, and this has thrown her into a fit of paroxysm such as I have never seen.

  You will be aware that I am in some difficulties at present in my relationship with the ducal palace and the work I have been appointed to undertake there. I have today been ordered to repay the commission received thus far, and Pordenone, that vile man who has for so long been my rival, is appointed to take my place. This is a huge misfortune and I must therefore proceed with care if I am to maintain any vestige of professional standing within the city.

  I wish for nothing more than to bring you and our son back to live with me in Venice, but this cannot happen. My wife has threatened me with exposure should I bring this to bear, and I can ill afford such a denunciation at this time. Her father has great influence with the Council of Ten, and hence my future depends on her continued good will towards me.

  Do not fear for the safety of the child, for I have made provision for him. He is to be taken to France by a genteel man and his wife, who are of my sound acquaintance. He too is an artist, and is commissioned to paint in Paris. They are a very fine couple who will make their way well in the world. Sadly lacking children of their own, they have vowed to bring our child up as though he were their flesh and blood, and I have provided them with the means to do this. Rest assured that he will be safe and happy with them. I have asked that they give him the family name of Urbino, to guarantee his anonymity but also in remembrance of that wonderful painting, one of many, for which you were my inspiration, and during whose creation he was within your belly. They will come for him before the week is out.

  I know this will be hard for you, but I am certain that you will see it is for the best, if not now, then as you pass through life, for you are young, with many years, and opportunities, ahead of you. You have no need of the encumbrance a child born out of wedlock will bring. I do hope that, in a year or so, once the scandal has passed over and all is returned to normal, we shall be reunited and it will be possible for you to join me in Venice, albeit in secret. We can never publicly declare our love, my dear, but the thought that I might never see you again tears at my very soul, so I hold this hope for the future within my heart. Please remain in Bologna and I will send news when it is safe for you to come.

  Forgive my clumsy words and the sorry news they convey, for I am no writer. Please kiss my darling child for me and give him my blessing. I hope he is endowed with your beauty and grace, and not my cowardice.

  Forever yours,

  Tito.’

  My eyes won’t open, but they seem perfectly able to cry. Maria’s story is unfolding inside my head, and it is the saddest thing ever. I hear Vincenzo exclaim when he sees my tears.

  ‘She must be waking up! Look, she’s crying! Doctor, look! Lydia, my love, can you hear me?’

  She is here! Emilia is here! The child who for so long I had felt move inside me is here! And, oh, what beauty! I have never before seen such perfection in so tiny a face. But then…. I cannot bear it. I cannot put into words the pain inside me, for it is far, far worse than that searing, never-ending pain of childbirth. Nor can I find the strength to describe the events which have unfolded here, these past few hours.

  Suffice to say, they came for her, and she is gone. She, too, is gone. And I have never felt so alone.

  How could Tito do this to us, when I thought he loved me so? I never believed him capable of such cowardice. I know I would fight to the death for him and for our child, but it seems that strength of conviction is not reciprocated.

  It has been several days, and now I am well of body again, but I have been sane of mind throughout this ordeal, and I am resolute in what I must do.

  I love Tito still, but what life is there here for me now, with him gone and with no child to love and care for? I know I must leave this place and my dear Clara. She, along with my darling Bella, is all I have left. I shall seek a new life elsewhere, but where that will be, I do not yet know.

  The carriage is waiting for me and I leave the house before Clara awakes. She cannot see me leave, or she would try to stop me. My poor, dear, Clara, who has been everything to me.

  Tito will not see me again, but I have left a letter for Clara to send to him in Venice, informing him he that has a daughter, and that I have named her Emilia. I know the prospects for a child born out of wedlock, and a mere girl at that, are few. But how terrible only to set eyes on my most precious daughter for a few brief moments before she was taken from me. I fear I shall die of a broken heart. I know she is safe; the family he has chosen for her was chosen wisely, and will cherish her and raise her as their own, I am certain of that. I should not fear for her safety, but how will I live without her? Again my heart aches unbearably and the agony threatens to cleave me in two. But she is not here, she is long gone, and I have nothing to keep me in this city.

  We speed through the Piazza Maggiore and I permit myself one last glance up at the church of San Petronio, its huge campanile cutting the shadows of the square firmly in two. A sudden spear of moonlight illuminates a stained glass window, and the image of Our Lord is revealed to me. Am I worthy of looking upon his face? I feel I should deflect my gaze, lower my head in shame, but I am drawn to see his visage one last time. As I glance upwards, his enigmatic smile is sufficient to bestow upon me his blessing and forgiveness.

  And then at this very moment I know what I must do. As though struck by a bolt of lightening, I realise He is calling to me, and I must go to Him. I had believed that leaving Bologna would be sufficient to rid myself of these dark, dark days, but what is there left for me on God’s earth? I am alone in the world; no mortal has need of me now. My Lord is calling to me….

  As the carriage makes a sharp turn into the Via d’Azeglio I pull my cloak tightly around me and throw myself onto the street below.

  ‘Lydia, cara, can you hear me?’ Vincenzo asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply in a whisper.

  Twenty-Eight

  ‘She’s dead,’ I sob. ‘Maria is dead.’

  ‘Lydia, you’re awake. Thank God for that!’ Vincenzo sighs, and I open my eyes to find him standing by my side, tears streaming down his face.

  ‘Maria, died,’ I say again, but he doesn’t seem to be listening, clearly too caught up in the emotion of the moment. But I’ve only been asleep.

  ‘She killed herself because the man she loved wasn’t brave enough to do what he should have done.’ Then I look around and register where I am, no longer in the sixteenth century, but back in the twenty-first, in a high-tech hospital suite, with wires and beepers all around me.

  ‘Why am I in here? What’s happened with your painting? What’s all this for?’ I ask, pulling at the wires which pin me to the bed as I try to haul myself into a sitting position.

  Vincenzo moves to open the door and calls out ‘She’s awake!’ and then it seems it’s party-time, as Sophia and Leonora, Dante, Lanzo and Stefano, plus Antonio Di Girolamo all pile in, a real frenzy of friends. I am overwhelmed as they all come across to my bed and plaster me with kisses and hugs, with ‘We were so worried,’ and ‘What
happened to you, Lydia?’ and ‘We thought we were losing you,’ flying around everywhere, until a young, female doctor, a nurse trailing in her wake, comes into the room and calls order, sending them back outside so that she can check me over.

  ‘You had us worried there for a moment, Signorina Irvine,’ she says, standing back from the bed once she has finished prodding and poking at me. ‘But you seem to have come round very quickly. We thought you were in danger of going into a coma, as your vital signs were very weak when Signore Tizzaro brought you in, but amazingly you now seem to be showing no symptoms at all. Your body is returning to normal very quickly. It’s quite unheard of.’

  ‘I was asleep,’ I reply, simply. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss was about.’

  ‘I think it was a little more than that, Signorina,’ she chuckles condescendingly, considering herself, as she rightly would, the better qualified to pass judgement on my health.

  ‘I feel fine, just like I’ve had a long, long sleep,’ I say, but don’t add out loud that I also feel deeply sad, remembering the dreams and Maria’s fate.

  ‘How long was I out for?’ I ask.

  ‘A little under an hour,’ the doctor replies, and I am surprised at that.

  ‘But it felt like a lifetime,’ Vincenzo says, slumping back into his chair, looking thoroughly exhausted. ‘You really scared me, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. The doctor excuses herself, once more expressing her amazement at my rapid recovery, and promising to return in fifteen minutes to carry out further observations.

  ‘Where did you go to?’ Vincenzo asks, panic subsiding and curiosity taking hold.