Florentine Enchantment

by Judith B. Glad

  Did I see anything familiar? "Of course," I said. "How could it not be familiar? I have seen—" I shrugged, spread my hands wide. "His face is the face of Tuscany," I said. "I see it every day, on the streets of Firenze, in the country when I travel to inspect art and antiquities. In fact, you are so like David that you could have been his model." My memory went back to his sad little room. He had passed through the slanting ray of sunlight and every muscle, every sinew was shown in light and shadow.

  I had visited the theatre when I traveled to Rome the previous year. Signore Mussacchio had been too ill to keep an appointment with a client. Reluctantly he sent me, and I acquitted myself well enough that he came into the habit of allowing me to appraise an occasional work of art offered to the gallery. The way the light had struck Vido's lean, naked body reminded me of the way the limelights along the stage margin had shone upon the dancer's bare arms, casting muscle and sinew into high relief with dark shadows for emphasis.

  Now the late afternoon sun struck the sculpture in the same way, its golden hue making even the rain-streaked, dirty marble bright and golden. Showing how perfectly Michelangelo Buonarotti had captured the essence of the innocent lad, the young patriot, the someday king just discovering his power.

  As I completed my circle, the sunlight struck the marble face, and I saw... Vido.

  My legs gave way. I fell in a heap on the pavement, still upright, but in grave danger of sprawling. Vido moved quickly, catching me, holding me so that I leaned against his chest. His breath warmed my cheek, icy despite the late afternoon heat.

  We remained that way for perhaps a quarter-hour, he kneeling, with me held safely within the circle of his arms, me with my legs sprawled across the dirty pavement, my skirts disordered, my bonnet brim bent.

  I shivered, not warmed by the heat trapped in marble and brick. Even Vido's embrace could not warm me. "I m-m-must go," I told him at last. "It is l-l-late."

  "Yes." With that single curt syllable, he rose and held out his hand to me.

  I ignored it and got to my feet without touching him. "I will see you again," I said, as I shook out my crumpled skirts. "In a week, perhaps. Will you be here?" As I waited for his reply, a small, terrified part of me hoped he would say no.

  He nodded. "I will be here." He turned away, his shoulders sagging.

  So did I. But as I took the first step away from him, I thought I heard him say, "I am always here."

  The next seven days passed, somehow. Each seemed endless. I was distracted, filled with conflicting, chaotic, incredible thoughts. Several times Signore Mussacchio admonished me to pay attention to my work.

  That summer of 1817 was a busy one for Mussacchio's Art and Antiquities Studio. English tourists, long denied the Grand Tour by Napoleon's grandiose dreams of world conquest, flocked to Italy. Sometimes it seemed to me that every one of them wished to take home a work of art or a genuine antique, preferably one created by a master. I spent hours each day translating their demands and their pleas. For more hours, I prepared paintings and sculptures and fragments of Roman and Greek statuary and pottery for shipment. Signore Mussacchio conveniently forgot I was female, so I worked alongside the other apprentices, hammer or saw in hand.

  The busy days and hard labor should have made that week pass more quickly. They did not. Each day seemed a hundred hours long. The nights... Oh the nights were torture indeed. My bedchamber opened onto a narrow alley. It was a close, poorly ventilated, with only one high window letting in little of the day's light, less of the night's cooling breeze. Despite my aching muscles and tired feet, sleep eluded me.

  All I could think of was Vido. When I closed my eyes, I saw him. When I breathed, I smelled him. My narrow bed was too wide, too empty. I tossed, abused my poor pillow, tangled the sheets around my legs. My nightgown, a feminine indulgence of dimity, lace and delicate silken ribbands, was too harsh against my skin. I cast it aside the second night, and for the first time in my life I lay upon my bed as God made me, naked and unashamed.

  My hands, empty and aching for the warmth of his hair-rough skin, found my breasts. The small calluses from hammer and saw were soft compared to Vido's work-hardened palms, his strong fingers, yet they brought memories of his touch.

  My hands could not be still. They stroked and squeezed and cupped with increasing urgency. In my imagination, they were his hands upon me, his fingers tweaking my erect nipples. I licked my fingertips and pretended they were his mouth, hot and wet upon me. Oh, how I wanted more, yet remnants of girlish modesty, of stern admonitions never to touch myself excessively, restrained me. At last I slept, unsatisfied, yet soothed.

  And dreamed of Vido. Of David. Until his...their...faces flowed together and became one.

  I dreamed of a tall man with ancient, haunted eyes and the face of a god, of a white marble body, streaked with grime, cold and hard and entirely magnificent. One became the other, and both embraced me, held me, kissed me.

  His lips were hard stone, his heart was cold stone. His body was dead stone.

  Was Vido nothing but a dream?

  Signore Mussacchio scolded me more than once that week for my distraction. I apologized, and promised to do better, but was unable to keep my word. Every waking hour brought thoughts of Vido, questions I wanted to ask, answers I was afraid of. Was he nothing more than the prurient imaginings of a frustrated maiden? Or did my bizarre imaginings approach the truth?

  Over and over again I told myself that Vido was just a man. Worse, he was a predator, seeking lonely women and using them to satisfy his animal appetites. My father and the old woman who had sometimes watched over me had warned of such, had described their tempting snares in great and loving detail, while never quite telling me what they would do, once they had an innocent yet willing virgin trapped.

  Now I knew.

  And I cared not.

  If this was the unspeakable fate worse than death, then I would die happy.

  At last Sunday morning dawned.

  I rose early, before the sun, unable to sleep longer. This day I would have answers, I told myself. I would discover if my suppositions, my conclusions, my unbelievable belief were possible.

  Never before had I arrived at the Piazza della Signoria so early. The air still held the soft freshness of night. Only a few people strolled the piazza. A small flock of pigeons explored forlornly, seeking seeds and crumbs left from yesterday's generous visitors, too early for today's offerings.

  As I always did, I paused at the mouth of Via Dei Calzaiouli. There I stood for several long moments, letting my gaze slowly move across the piazza, anticipating my first sight of him. Usually I had only to stand there for warmth to begin smoldering in my belly, for the tenderness of my female parts to make itself known.

  Today I felt none of that. Only a dread expectancy, that Vido had been the fantasy of a frustrated virgin, driven mad by her unfulfilled desires.

  Or worse, that he would be here, waiting for me.

  I walked slowly toward David, never taking my gaze from his face. There was no longer doubt in my mind. His was the face that had looked down upon me as I lay naked and satiated in his bed. His eyes had glowed with love for me. His lips had wrought unimagined delights upon my body. His hands had brought me to dizzying heights of ecstasy beyond my wildest fantasies.

  I halted a dozen paces from him. All week I had wrestled with the bizarre thoughts, fantastic suppositions, telling myself that I had only dreamed of Vido. A dream stemming from my dissatisfaction with a sterile life, coupled with my yearning for a future full of love and companionship. Add my fascination with this magnificent sculpture, and the only logical conclusion was that I had suffered a temporary derangement.

  Logic be damned. "Vido?" I called, "Where are you?" My voice broke, so the words came out in a near-whisper.

  Behind me pigeons took to the air with a rustle-squeak of many wings.

  "Vido, come to me," I called, louder this time, my voice steady. "Come to me. Please!"

  Strong arms
encircled my waist. A warm breath stirred the short hairs at my nape. "Cara mia," his deep voice spoke in my ear. "Ah, dulce Lucia. L'amerò sempre. I will love you forever."

  I turned in his arms. "I don't ask for forever, Vido. Only for today. And for some answers."

  "Come. Let us have coffee and pastries. I will tell you what I can."

  I resisted his pull on my hand. "No, let us have loving, and afterward coffee and pastries."

  His face, so dear to me, relaxed into a smile, tentative at first, then wide and joyous. "Yes! Let us have the loving first." He swept me into his arms and carried me to his little room.

  We were scarcely through the door when he caught me close. I entwined my arms around his neck. "I love you." It was important that he have no doubts. That I spoke the words.

  He lowered his forehead to rest against mine. "You love the man I seem. When you know the truth..."

  "I will love you no less." I brushed my lips over his. "I have given us much thought, Vido. You are...unique. Like no other man in ways I cannot understand. I can accept that. What I cannot accept is losing you." I slid my fingers through his hair and tipped his head down. When our lips met, I deepened the kiss, tasting him, teasing him. "I love you."

  "Cara mia. Dulce Lucia. Mio amore." He murmured the words against my mouth.

  My lips traced over his cheeks, feeling the sharp prickle of his heavy beard. "Please. Let me... I love you."

  I sensed his indecision, his hesitation. I could not bear the thought that his better instincts might overcome his body's needs, his heart's desire. With all my heart and soul, with the seductive skills he himself had taught me, I fought to convince him that we were meant for each other. A time would come, I knew, when we would have to face the reality of what he was, what I pretended to be. For now, I simply wanted to convince him of my love.

  His muscles were taut and knotted with tension. I petted, stroked, licked, kissed. He was so controlled. But I was determined. After an interminable, suspenseful time, his tense body began to loosen.

  I pulled the tail of his loose shirt from his trousers, pushed it up so his hard chest was exposed. I pressed my lips against his breastbone, felt the steady beat of his heart. His arms tightened around me as I explored with lips, teeth and tongue. I felt his heartbeat grow more rapid, felt his almost silent groan as I suckled a flat nipple.

  "Wait." His voice was strained. "My shirt—" Releasing me, he stepped back and skinned it over his head. It landed on the floor.

  His trousers hung low on narrow hips, revealing his navel, the faint dusting of hair that arrowed lower, leading the eye to the swelling in his trousers. I would follow that line soon, but first...

  "I love the taste of you." I ran my hands up his sides, feeling the ridges of his ribs, over his shoulders where muscles twitched and jumped at my touch. I flicked my tongue over his heated skin. "All of you."

  He embraced me again, walking me backwards until my calves hit the edge of his cot. "I have not yet tasted you." He moved quickly, lifting me in a whirl of skirts. As he sat, he pulled me onto his lap.

  Dissatisfied with my position, I pulled my skirts up so that my knees were exposed. A wanton gesture, but since he had seen me naked, how important were exposed legs? I wriggled around, until I was straddling him. Once settled, I looked into his eyes and saw burning need in the rich brown depths. My own blood quickened.

  Watching him, I untied my bonnet strings. The poor, crushed thing was already dangling down my back. Once released, it dropped to the floor with a soft thud. I undid my blouse, shrugged it off. Beneath I wore only a sheer batiste camisole, lacy and very nearly transparent. When he looked down, I felt my nipples throb as if his mouth was already suckling them.

  But he only touched a hand lightly to my cheek. "Let me take you to bed."

  I smiled. "Let us take each other there." I quickly unbuttoned the camisole and, stripping it away, tossed it aside. As I combed my hands through his thick, silky hair, I thrust my body against his, flesh against flesh. "Take me, Vido," I demanded, then crushed my mouth against his.

  His eyes flared. In one violent motion he had me pinned under him, flat on the bed. He fed on me, his mouth wide, sucking my flesh in and scraping the sharp edges of his teeth against it. His ragged breath gusted against my skin, chilling where his open mouth had left a moist trail. One of his hands streaked under my skirts, found me wet, ready. His fingers shoved into me, hard, driving in and out, while his thumb pressed against that most sensitive bud of flesh wherein lay my release. Greedily, recklessly he drove me higher and higher, until I crested with a scream.

  I was still panting, still trembling, when his hands, wet with my honey, skimmed up my body, closed over my breasts. Delicious pain inflamed me as his teeth scraped against tender flesh. The thrill that shot through me had my heels drumming against the mattress. I dug my fingers into his back, urged him on, twisted under him. I needed him desperately, now. "Now!" I cried. "Oh, Vido, take me now!"

  My hands scrabbled at his back, pushing him away, pulling him closer. I struggled as he fumbled with the ties of my petticoats, arched as he dragged at twisted fabric, kicked my legs free of the smothering layers.

  No sooner was I freed from my garments than my fingers attacked the buttons of his trousers. I ripped them open, not caring when one popped loose and went skittering across the stone floor. All I cared about was getting my hands on his sweat-sleeked body, on his satin-over-steel penis.

  "More!" I cried. "Give me more!" I locked my hands around his penis, fought his restraining hands to bring my mouth to its dark tip. It was hot, so hot and wet, tipped with a droplet of divine nectar.

  His fingers found me again, and stroked into me. My hips pumped, my thighs captured his hand. I wanted, needed, release again. My body arched, lifting from the bed, held in singing tension on shoulders and heels. My breath sobbed from my throat as I gushed around his hand.

  He gave me no chance to recover. Instead he drove me ruthlessly up again, with fingers, teeth and tongue. His body loomed over me as he kissed his way from toes to knees, to thighs, to navel, not touching my female parts. I writhed beneath him, wanting the heat of his hand, the roughness of his callused fingers, on me.

  He tortured me. Each touch, each nip, each wet stroke of his tongue against overheated skin was agony. Yet it was a delightful, voluptuous agony, a transcendent ecstasy.

  At last his mouth was on mine. I could feel myself about to shatter yet again, when he plunged into me. And I did.

  But he gave me no time to rest. Even as I shuddered with the last paroxysms, he raised my legs to his shoulders and came deeper inside of me. My vision blurred then, until all I could see was his face, that immortal beauty I had loved upon first sight. "David," I cried. "Oh, David, I love you."

  Seconds later he shouted his own release, and drove me over the edge into rapture again. We collapsed together, a damp, sticky tangle of arms and legs and bodies, gasping for breath. He lay half atop me, so his breath warmed the side of my breast, his free hand clasped the other like something precious. "Cara mia," he whispered, "did you call me—"

  I covered his hand with my own. "David. That is your true name, isn't it? Will you tell me how..." I hesitated, still unwilling to voice the absurd conclusion that had come to me through hours of staring into the dark. "Or is this one more thing you cannot reveal?"

  Gathering me into his embrace, he rolled to the side, so that we lay face to face, body to body. "There is nothing I cannot tell you now. Nothing, for you have said the words that unlocked my tongue." He smiled widely, and in doing so, became...who?

  David? Or Vido?

  Gradually my preposterous, impossible conclusions sorted themselves into order if not sanity. "You are David, aren't you? Somehow...in some unimaginable manner, you and that..." I flung an arm in the general direction of the magnificent sculpture I had so long admired. "...that are one and the same."

  I craned my neck, managed to look him in the eye. "How? Tell me how?"
/>
  He stared back,. His eyes swimming in tears. "I cannot tell you. There are rules. I...oh, Lucia, mio amore, I could not tell you. Unless..." He shook his head and a single tear left a glistening trail across his swarthy cheek.

  "Are you immortal?" Part of me worried that he was a construct of Satan, created to tempt foolish virgins. Yet he was so kind, so tender, that I'd never be able to convince myself that he was come from evil.

  "No, but neither am I mortal. For three years, while my master carved my image from that block of marble, I felt my soul slowly being stolen from me. I was frightened, yet could speak to no one about it. When the last chip fell away from my master's chisel, my soul was pulled entirely from my body." His voice broke.

  I sought words to comfort him, but was speechless. All I could do was pull his face to mine, kiss his lips, whisper, "I love you." His cheeks were wet with tears. I kissed them away.

  After a great, shuddering breath, he spoke again. "For three hundred years I have been trapped here in the piazza. For three hundred years I have been able to tell no one how...or why."

  "But you told me."

  "Because you know who I am. I have no idea why, but when you spoke my name—my true name—I felt the proibizione—the forbidding that I speak—lift." He turned to his back and lay his forearm across his eyes. "I have had friends, lovers, in three hundred years. I do not deny this. But I was always alone."

  "You are not alone now." Nor would he be, not if I were to have my say. "I will sell the lease on my rooms, find others here, overlooking the piazza. I will make a home for you."

  When he didn't move, I raised myself onto my elbow, looked down into his face. "Unless...unless you do not wish..."

  "Ah, Lucia, mia dulce Lucia. You do unman me." When he raised his arm, I saw tears again in his eyes. But his smile was wide and luminous. "You would do this for me?"

  "I want nothing more than to live my life with you." I bit my lip. "But you will not...you will be forever young, won't you?"

  The corners of his mouth turned down. "Will that matter to you?"