Artistic Licence

by Vivienne Lafay

  ‘It had all my money in, and jewels too!’ she moaned. ‘What on earth am I to do now?’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll give you a drink anyway.’ The man handed her a full beaker and she gulped it down gratefully. She wandered off in a daze afterwards, realising that she could buy nothing now. Everything she had in the world was in her linen bundle: just a few changes of clothes, a mirror, her brushes and chalks and one or two cheap trinkets including the golden tassel she had won from Stefano, so long ago.

  At the thought of her cousin Carla wondered if she should return home to her Tuscan village, to throw herself on the mercy of her family once again, but she dismissed the idea scornfully. When she left she had intended to make a career for herself, one way or another, and to return there destitute would be a sign of failure. Once again her pride would not let her risk rejection, so she set off to find a quiet place where she might sit and think about what to do.

  When she came across a public garden, she went to enter, intending to rest there in the shade, but she was stopped by a notice on the gate which read: ‘Entry to this garden forbidden to geese, women and goats.’ She felt like spitting. How dare they lump women in together with mindless beasts! After wandering on she eventually reached a point on the banks of the Arno where there were some trees and she sank down thankfully below their spreading branches.

  It was not long before she was asleep and immersed in a strange dream. There was a man making love to her from behind, but she had only a vague idea of his identity. Sometimes he caressed her breasts tenderly and came slowly into her, and then he seemed like Marco. Sometimes he was crude and grasping, which made him more like Giovanni. But then he would nuzzle her neck and spout poetry at her, which made her think of Bruno. When he thrust into her hard, with many grunts and groans, she was sure he must be Piero, and so it went on until she was totally confused as to the identity of her lover.

  Carla was soon in such a state of erotic bewilderment that she began to lose sight of her own identity: was she Carlo or Carla? It did not help that she was being buggered by her anonymous lover. The events of the past few months were mashed together into a voluptuous sequence in which she was taken on a pleasure trip of extraordinary intensity. Mixed in with all the physical stimulation was a feeling of euphoria that she couldn’t quite identify. Only when Carla found herself contemplating a ceiling painted with the Assumption of the Virgin did she realise that it was the artist in her that was exulting in it all, confusing the physical and sensual with the spiritual.

  Up, up went the virgin into the sky and Carla went with her until her dream was shattered by the dazzling brightness of a heavenly sun and a rush of heat that warmed both body and soul. She awoke with a start to find the sun pouring down on her through the branches above, and her body shimmering in the afterglow of her ecstatic vision.

  ‘If I were of a religious frame of mind I would say I have just seen God,’ Carla said to herself as she rubbed her aching limbs. It had certainly been a very strange dream, but it had not helped her decide what to do next. With no money and nowhere to stay the night, she seemed to have no option but to ask for alms.

  So Carla became a beggar. Just for one night, she thought at first, but when she had enough money to fill her belly and provide her with enough wine to numb her brain it seemed an easy course. Forgetting her hopes of becoming an artist she thought only about where her next meal was coming from, and her horizon shrank to fit her hand-to-mouth existence. There was a hopelessness about her position but she did not despair, only gave in to a kind of dazed resignation.

  Soon she was a familiar figure on the street scene, just as the others were familiar to her. There was Blind Bobo, a weird scarecrow of a man who rang a bell aggressively to clear his path and muttered imprecations continually. Then there was Rosetta, an old prostitute who had contracted a venereal disease and was covered with sores. Carla felt sorry for her and often shared whatever scraps she had obtained with the wretched woman.

  The man they nicknamed ‘saint’, San Michaele, was anything but. He often made passes at Carla and tried to chase her when he was drunk. Once he caught up with her and brought her to the ground in a flying tackle, when he proceeded to grope beneath her clothes, but another vagrant saved her and after that he didn’t bother her again.

  It was not the other beggars that she feared most, however. Seeing her ragged clothes and dirty face she was often propositioned by men who could not afford to pay a whore. Thinking she was in desperate straits they offered such insulting trifles in exchange as a crust of mouldy bread, a rotten apple, a piece of rope or an old sack. Carla always refused angrily, but she avoided the dark alleyways at night and always slept near others for safety.

  One morning, however, she awoke shivering even though it was a mild autumn day. Pulling the shreds of her clothing around her for warmth she tried to get up but staggered and fell back into the doorway where she had been sleeping. Her head swam and ached as if she had been drinking strong wine, although she had only drunk moderately the night before. Worried by her weak condition, Carla lay there helplessly hoping someone she knew would come along.

  After a while she heard familiar voices. Rosetta and a young crippled vagabond called Guido were discussing her plight. Yet although Carla could hear them her eyes were dim and she could only make out their faint outline against the brightness of the mid-morning sun.

  ‘She has some fever,’ Rosetta said. ‘Swamp fever, maybe.’

  ‘Only if she’s been down by the river. It could be an ague.’

  ‘See how she sweats and squints. Fetch some water from the well in the square, Guido. I shall bathe her brow.’

  The cooling water helped a little, but did nothing to ease the fever in her blood. Carla tried to murmur her thanks to Rosetta but all that came out was an incompre-hensible gurgle.

  ‘She needs a doctor,’ Guido said, matter-of-factly. ‘Without one she will surely die.’

  ‘Perhaps the brotherhood will help her.’

  ‘Only if they find her.’

  ‘Maybe we could tell them?’

  ‘Tell them yourself. I’ll have nothing to do with anyone. You never know who you can trust in this city.’

  ‘All right, I will tell them. We can’t just leave her here to perish.’

  ‘Death comes to us all in the end.’

  ‘But she’s still young . . .’

  The pointless argument wound on and on, making Carla want to cry out in exasperation, but all that issued from her mouth was a faint moan. She felt terribly weak, and all their talk of death and doctors was making her feel worse. After a while the pair moved on, leaving Carla to her thirsty delirium, which only grew more severe as the sun rose in the sky. She began to fantasise about being baked in an oven, like bread, and her skin felt as if it were puffing up like dough. Her mind rambled on through all kinds of fantastic scenes as if she were exploring the dark castle of her imagination, dungeons and all. By noon she had spoken with dragons, danced with angels, and flown over the rooftops of Florence to land on top of the great campanile of the cathedral from where she vomited fire upon the people below.

  The day crept on and the fever got worse. One or two passers-by stopped to bring her a drink of water from the well, but mostly she was ignored. For most of the day the sun beat mercilessly upon her but by late afternoon it moved round and she was cast into shadow again. By then, however, Carla was past caring. Whatever sickness had taken hold of her was raging in full spate. If the angel of death had appeared in the doorway and invited her to follow him she would have found the strength to rise, but otherwise she had no hope of moving on.

  Then, at dusk, a black robed figure appeared and gave her cool water to drink. Carla could barely lift her head, but the stranger supported her and waited patiently while she attempted to swallow. ‘I will take you to San Marco nearby,’ she heard him say through her delirium. ‘The monks shall take care of you until you are well enough to be moved.’

  Carla stared
up at him but he was wearing the concealing hood of the Brotherhood of Mercy, a band of selfless citizens who helped the sick and needy on the streets of Florence. He lifted her bodily and carried her a few hundred yards to the monastery door. For a while she blacked out, but when she came to she was lying on a narrow bed in a cell with the same, dark-robed figure keeping watch on a stool at her bedside. As soon as she opened her eyes he bathed her forehead with a damp cloth and offered her more water.

  Slowly her vision cleared and her thoughts, which had been vague and scattered, began to marshal themselves. Carla propped herself on her elbow to drink cup after cup of the refreshing water and replenish her dehydrated body. Feeling more human again, she looked into the face of her saviour to utter a weak ‘Thank you!’ and her mouth dropped open in amazement.

  It was Marco! The enveloping black hood had been pushed back to reveal his face, but he clearly hadn’t recognised her. Carla reasoned that the wracking fever must have altered her appearance drastically. Besides, he had never seen her as a woman, nor with yellow hair. She hesitated, longing to tell him who she was but prevented by the splitting headache which had come upon her suddenly. Feeling too weak to cope with such an emotional reunion, she sank back onto the bed and vowed she would wait until happier circumstances to tell him that he had saved his old friend, ‘Carlo,’ from certain death.

  For two days Carla drifted in and out of consciousness while the fever slowly abated in her. She didn’t see Marco again; it was the monks who monitored her progress, fed and watered her at regular intervals and helped her to and from the privy. Morning and night they got her to pray with them, kneeling before the beautiful fresco that graced the wall of the cell. It showed the Annunciation in simple beauty, a pale-robed Mary kneeling before a standing angel in a darker robe of terra cotta. A vaulted ceiling linked the pair with a series of arches, and the harmonious composition was elevating to the spirit. Carla spent long hours in contemplation of Fra Angelico’s simple piety and consummate skill, thinking that if she could achieve something only half as good she would die content.

  But she wasn’t going to die. On the third day, when the turning-point had passed and she was on the road to recovery, one of the monks came to see her early in the morning.

  ‘You must leave us now,’ he announced. ‘This cell is normally occupied by one of our number who gave it up out of pity for your plight. But you will not be let out onto the streets. The brother who saved you has sent a litter. You are to be taken to his house where he will take care of you until you are completely well. Give thanks to God, sister, who has provided a Good Samaritan in your hour of need.’

  As she knelt with him to give thanks, Carla felt joy surge through her bosom at the thought of staying with Marco. Surely he would recognise her and they would be friends again, perhaps even lovers. Despite her illness she felt an unmistakable twinge of desire, a sure sign that her soul was healing as well as her body.

  A pair of boys carried Carla on the litter through the early morning streets until they stopped outside the building in the Via Calimala that was Marco’s home and workshop. It was a modest establishment, its narrow window shuttered on the ground floor, but upstairs there was a larger window with a balcony that would let in the light and she guessed that was where he would have his studio. She couldn’t wait to see the work he had been doing since he set up on his own.

  Marco came to the door himself when a boy rang the bell. ‘Ah, my poor little patient!’ he smiled in that old, tender way that Carla remembered so well.

  Surely he will recognise me now, she thought, but he showed no sign of it merely waving to the boys to carry the litter in through the door. He helped her up off her portable bed and she sat on a chair while he paid the boys, looking about her. The downstairs room doubled as a kitchen and storeroom but Marco had set up a trestle bed in one corner, near the stove. A black cat was sleeping contentedly on it.

  ‘You were too ill to tell me your name before,’ he said, once they were alone.

  ‘It’s Carla.’

  She waited for the penny to drop, but still he seemed not to know her. Now is the time to tell him, she thought, but she could not summon up the will.

  ‘Well, Carla, as you see I’ve made up a bed for you down here. I thought you wouldn’t be able to manage the stairs. When you’re well enough you can come up if you like, though. I could do with some company. I’m a painter, recently set up here, but I’ve only one apprentice.’

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ Carla began, but he held up his hand to stop her.

  “We’ll hear no more of that. I only did what any right-minded citizen would have done. Besides, I’m not without self-interest. You might be useful to me once you’re fighting fit, as I could do with a housekeeper. Sometimes it’s hard to stop painting just to prepare food. I confess that more than once I’ve fainted from hunger at my easel, I was so absorbed in my work that I forgot to eat!’

  Carla knew exactly what he meant. She too had entered that timeless world where nothing mattered but light and shade and colour, but she could say nothing. Something else was preoccupying her. Nervously she asked, ‘Is there no one else in your household, sir?’

  He shook his head. ‘None. My name is Marco, by the way, and my apprentice is called Silvio. He’s out at the moment but you’ll meet him later.’

  That should have been me, Carla thought bitterly. But at least there had been no mention of Elena living there.

  Marco pointed towards a black pot on the stove that was emitting a homely vegetable smell. ‘I have some broth warming for you. If you don’t mind I’ll join you, I’m starving!’

  He drew up a small table and they sat companionably dipping bread into the bowls of steaming, hearty soup. With every mouthful Carla felt her strength returning, and by the end of the simple meal she was laughing and joking with him, just like old times. Several times she saw him frown, or stare at her intently, but she couldn’t find the courage to tell him her true identity. Something made her want to start from scratch, to win his love as a woman if she could and not to rely on the friendship forged between them when she was disguised as a boy.

  Marco left her after a while to go back to his work, but gave her a little bell to ring if she needed anything. Carla lay on the bed dozing. She was still very weak, and the bumpy journey from the monastery had tired her, but she was very content to be under the same roof as Marco again, this time without the threat of interference from anyone else. When the young apprentice returned with the pigment and paper he had bought he gave Carla such a charming grin of welcome that she felt quite at ease with him.

  After that, every day brought advances in her health and strength. She was able to go upstairs and see the work Marco was doing: an exquisite portrait of a noblewoman commissioned by her husband; a small maesta, a picture of the Virgin in a little tabernacle, for the head of some grand bed; a cartoon for a fresco showing the Adoration of the Magi that Marco would be painting in a family chapel. It was evident, even from these few pieces, that Marco had found his own style and was no longer following orders from a master. The works had a freshness and originality that was all their own.

  ‘They are very beautiful!’ she sighed, wishing she might work on some of them with him, especially the fresco. Her fingers itched to pick up a brush and adorn those crowns and rich robes with gold, or to paint in the tiny tassels on the horses’ bridles with infinite pains or bring life to those faces with a slanting brow or a tilted nose.

  Marco gave her a searching look, alerted by her wistful tone, and once again she was sure he would recognise her. ‘You know, you remind me of someone I once knew,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘You don’t have a brother by any chance, do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered truthfully. ‘I have two. One called Bertoldo and the other Taddeo.’

  Marco shook his head, grinning wryly. ‘The lad I knew was named Carlo. But no parents would call their son Carlo and their daughter Carla. That would be asking for trouble!’ />
  She laughed with him, but her throat was tight and her heart felt like a lump of undigested food in her chest. Oh, why could she not bring herself to tell him the truth? It wasn’t for lack of opportunity. But the longer time went on the more difficult it was because she was so afraid he would chide her for deceiving him. She had dug a grave for all her hopes of becoming his lover. He saw her as a deserving pauper and he pitied her, that was all.

  Once Carla was back on her feet again she began to do little tasks around the house. She went with Silvio to the market and came back with baskets of fresh produce, which she delighted in cooking. Marco said he was glad to be getting regular meals again. She washed his clothes and bedclothes at the place where all the washerwomen gathered, on the banks of the Arno, and mended any tears she found.

  But when she asked if she could help to mix his pigments, or prime wood with gesso or clean his brushes, Marco emphatically refused. ‘That’s not women’s work,’ he told her. ‘Stick to what you’re good at Carla: cooking and housework.’

  Then she grew bitter and wished that she had made it a priority to purchase men’s clothes when she returned to Florence. He might have taken her on as his apprentice, as he had promised. As long as Elena was no longer with him all would have been well. Yet if she had done that how could they have become lovers? It was all so confusing.

  So Carla resolved to play the housewife and become no more than a quiet observer of the artistic endeavour that went on in the house. She told herself she could still learn by watching and, when she was left alone downstairs, she would often take out her chalks and make some sketches. Sometimes, when she knew Marco was out of the house, she would creep up to his workroom and steal a few colours screwed in paper, rescue a couple of worn brushes from the bin or pick up some torn and grubby paper from the floor. Soon she had a secret collection of materials that she knew he would never miss, and her private hours were filled happily again as she made many sketches and coloured them in, some of them portraits of Marco himself.