More than one hundred people crowded into the room, some even spilling into the standing area at the back. Julia watched Gabriel as he was introduced to various important looking guests. He was a very attractive man, tall and ruggedly handsome. She especially admired his glasses and the way his sleek, dark suit fit perfectly.
When he was blocked from her view by other people, she focused her attention on picking out his voice. He chatted amiably, switching seamlessly from Italian to French to German and back to Italian again.
(Even his German was sexy.)
She grew warm as she remembered what Gabriel looked like under his suit, his form naked and strained above her. She wondered if he was having similar thoughts whenever he looked at her, and in the midst of her private musings, he made eye contact and winked. His momentary display of playfulness put her in mind of their interlude on the terrace that morning, and a pleasant tremor traveled up and down her spine.
Gabriel sat politely through Dottore Vitali’s introduction, which took no less than fifteen minutes as he painstakingly rehearsed the professor’s accomplishments. To the casual observer, Gabriel appeared relaxed, almost bored. His nervousness was telegraphed by the way he unconsciously shuffled his lecture notes, notes that were merely an outline to the remarks that would come from his heart. He’d made a few last minute changes to his lecture. He couldn’t speak of muses, love, and beauty without acknowledging the brown-eyed angel who’d bravely given herself to him the evening before. She was his inspiration, and she’d been so since she was seventeen. Her quiet beauty and generous goodness had touched his heart. He’d carried her image with him as a talisman against the dark demons of addiction. She was everything to him, and by God, he’d say so publicly.
After much flattery and applause, he took his place behind the podium and addressed the crowd in fluid Italian. “My lecture this evening will be somewhat unusual. I am not an art historian, yet I will be speaking to you about Sandro Botticelli’s muse, La Bella Simonetta.” At this, his eyes sought Julia’s.
She smiled, trying to suppress the blush that threatened her cheeks. She knew the story of Botticelli and Simonetta Vespucci. Simonetta was referred to as the Queen of Beauty in the court of Florence, prior to her death at the tender age of twenty-two. To be compared to Simonetta by Gabriel was very high praise, indeed.
“I am tackling this controversial topic as a professor of literature, choosing Botticelli’s artwork as a representation of various female archetypes. Historically speaking, there have been many debates as to how close Simonetta was to Botticelli and to what degree she was the actual inspiration for his paintings. I hope to skirt some of those disagreements in order to focus your attention on a straightforward visual comparison of a few figures.
“I shall begin with the first three slides. In them, you will recognize pen and ink illustrations of Dante and Beatrice in Paradise.”
Gabriel couldn’t help but admire the images himself, transported as he was to the first time he’d welcomed Julianne into his home. That was the night he’d realized how much he wanted to please her, how beautiful she looked when she was happy.
As he gazed at the quiescence of Beatrice’s expression, he compared her countenance with Julia’s. She sat with rapt attention, her lovely head turned in profile as she admired Botticelli’s handiwork. Gabriel wanted to make her look at him.
“Notice Beatrice’s face.” His voice grew soft as his eyes met those of his sweetheart. “The most beautiful face…
“We begin with Dante’s muse and the figure of Beatrice. Although I’m sure she needs no introduction, allow me to point out that Beatrice represents courtly love, poetic inspiration, faith, hope, and charity. She is the ideal of feminine perfection, at once intelligent and compassionate, and vibrant with the kind of selfless love that can only come from God. She inspires Dante to be a better man.”
Gabriel paused a moment to touch his tie. It did not need straightening, but his fingers lingered against the blue silk. Julia blinked at the gesture, and Gabriel knew that he’d been understood.
“Now consider the face of the goddess Venus.”
All eyes in the room except Gabriel’s focused on the Birth of Venus. He looked over his notes eagerly as the audience admired one of Botticelli’s greatest and largest works.
“It appears that Venus has Beatrice’s face. Once again, I’m not interested in a historical analysis of the models for the painting. I’m simply asking you to note the visible similarities between the figures. They represent two muses, two ideal types, one theological and one secular. Beatrice is the lover of the soul; Venus is the lover of the body. Botticelli’s La Bella has both faces—one of sacrificial love or agape, and one of sexual love or eros.”
His voice deepened, and Julia found her skin warming at the sound.
“In the portrait of Venus, the emphasis is on her physical beauty. Even though she represents sexual love, she maintains a venerable modesty, clutching part of her hair in order to cover herself. Notice the demure expression and the placement of her hand across her breast. Her shyness increases the eroticism of her portrayal—it doesn’t diminish it.” He removed his glasses for dramatic effect and fixed Julia with an unblinking eye. “Many people fail to see how modesty and sweetness of temper compound erotic appeal.”
Julia fidgeted with the zipper on her purse, resisting the urge to squirm in her seat. Gabriel replaced his glasses.
“Eros is not lust. According to Dante, lust is one of the seven deadly sins. Erotic love can include sex but is not limited to it. Eros is the all-consuming fire of infatuation and affection that is expressed in the emotion of being in love. And believe me when I say that it far outstrips the rivals for its affections, in every respect.”
Julia couldn’t help but notice the dismissive way with which he’d pronounced the word rivals, punctuating his expression with a wave of his hand. It was as if he were casting aside all previous lovers with a mere gesture, while his blazing blue eyes fixed on her.
“Anyone who has ever been in love knows the difference between eros and lust. There’s no comparison. One is an empty, unfulfilling shadow of the other.
“Of course, one might object that it is impossible for one person, one woman, to represent the ideal of both agape and eros. If you will allow my indulgence for a moment, I will suggest that such skepticism is a form of misogyny. For only a misogynist would argue that women are either saints or seductresses—virgins or whores. Of course, a woman, or a man for that matter, can be both—the muse can be lover to both soul and body.
“Now consider the painting behind me, Madonna of the Pomegranate.”
Again, the eyes of the audience shifted to one of Botticelli’s paintings. Gabriel noticed with satisfaction the way Julia intentionally fingered one of her diamond earrings, as if she understood his revelations and received them gladly. As if she knew he was revealing his love for her through art. His heart swelled.
“Once again, we see the same face repeated in the figure of the Madonna. Beatrice, Venus, and Mary—a trinity of ideal women, each wearing the same face. Agape, eros, and chastity, a heady combination that would make even the strongest man fall to his knees, if he was fortunate enough to find one person who manifests all three.”
A cough that sounded suspiciously as if it were covering a derisive remark echoed throughout the room. Angry at being interrupted, Gabriel scowled in the general direction of the second row, over Julia’s shoulder. The cough was repeated once more for dramatic effect and a testosterone fueled staring contest began between a clearly annoyed Italian and Gabriel.
Conscious of the fact that he was speaking into a microphone, Gabriel resisted the urge to curse and, with a scathing look at his detractor, continued.
“Some have argued that it was a pomegranate and not an apple that tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden. With respect to Botticelli’s painting, many have argued that the pomegranate symbolizes the blood of Christ in his suffering and his subsequent new life th
rough the resurrection.
“For my purposes, the pomegranate represents the Edenic fruit, the Madonna as the second Eve and Christ as the second Adam. With the Madonna, Botticelli hearkens back to the first Eve, the archetype of femininity, beauty, and female companionship.
“I’ll go further, by asserting that Eve is also the ideal of female friendship, the friend of Adam, and thus she is the ideal of philia, the love that emerges out of friendship. The friendship between Mary and Joseph manifests this ideal, as well.”
His voice caught, so he took a moment to sip some water before continuing. Something about the comparison between Julia and Eve made him feel vulnerable, naked, hearkening back to the night he’d given her an apple and held her in his arms under the stars.
The audience began murmuring, wondering why a polite pause to take a drink had extended into a break. Gabriel’s color deepened as he raised his eyes to look at his beloved once again, desperate for her understanding.
Her ruby lips parted into an encouraging smile. Instantly, Gabriel exhaled.
“Botticelli’s muse is a saint, a lover, and a friend, not a cardboard cut-out of a woman or an adolescent fantasy. She is real, she is complicated, and she is endlessly fascinating. A woman to worship.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, the preciseness of the Greek language allows one to speak more perspicuously about the different kinds of love. A modern treatment of this discussion can be found in C.S. Lewis’s The Four Loves, if you’re interested.”
He cleared his throat and smiled winningly at the room.
“Finally, consider the painting to my left, Primavera. One might expect to see the face of Botticelli’s muse reflected in the central figure in the painting. But consider the face of Flora, on the right. Once again, she bears a similarity to Beatrice, Venus, and the Madonna.
“Surprisingly, Flora appears twice in the painting. As we move from the center of the painting to the right, you see Flora pregnant, swollen with Zephyr’s child. Zephyr is on the far right, hovering amongst the orange trees with the second depiction of Flora, as a virgin nymph. Her expression is marked with fear. She’s fleeing the arms of her prospective lover and gazing back at him in panic. However, when she’s pregnant, her countenance is serene. Her fear is replaced by contentment.”
Julia flushed as she remembered how kind Gabriel had been to her the night before. He’d been tender and gentle, and in his arms she’d felt worshipped. Remembering the myth of Flora and Zephyr she shuddered, wishing that all lovers would be as tender with their virgin partners as Gabriel had been.
“Flora represents the consummation of physical love and motherhood. She is the ideal of storge, or familial love, the kind of love manifested from a mother to her child, and between lovers who share a commitment that is not based solely on sex or pleasure, but is between married partners.”
No one but Julia noticed the white knuckling as he held the edge of the podium with two hands. No one but Julia noticed the slight tremor in his voice as he pronounced the words pregnant and motherhood.
His eyebrows furrowed as he collected himself, shuffling his papers for a moment. Julia recognized his vulnerability for what it was, fighting the urge to go to him and embrace him. She began tapping one of her tangerine colored stiletto heels in anticipation.
Gabriel caught her sudden movement and swallowed hard before continuing. “In early writings on Primavera, Flora was asserted to be the likeness of La Bella Simonetta, Botticelli’s muse. If that is true, just on visual inspection alone, we can assert that Simonetta is the inspiration for Beatrice, Venus, and the Madonna, for all four ladies share the same face.
“Thus, we have the icons of agape, eros, philia, and storge all represented by a single face, a single woman—Simonetta. To put this another way, one could argue that Botticelli sees in his beloved muse all four types of love and all four ideals of womanhood: saint, lover, friend, and spouse.
“In the end, however, I must return to where we began, with Beatrice. It is no accident that the inspiration behind one of Italy’s best-known literary works was given Simonetta’s features. Faced with such beauty, such goodness, what man wouldn’t want her by his side not just for a season, but for a lifetime?”
He gazed around the room gravely.
“To quote the Poet, now your blessedness appears. Thank you.”
As Gabriel ended his lecture to enthusiastic applause, Julia blinked back tears, overcome with emotion.
Dottore Vitali retook the podium, extending his thanks to Professor Emerson for an illuminating discussion. A small group of local politicians presented him with several gifts, including a medallion depicting the city of Florence.
Julia remained in her seat for as long as possible, hoping that Gabriel would come to her. But he was deluged with members of the audience, including several officious art historians.
(For it was considered brash if not egotistical for a mere literature professor to analyze the crown jewels of the Uffizi’s collection.)
Reluctantly, she trailed behind him as several members of the media plied him with questions. She caught his eye, and he gave her a tight, apologetic smile before posing for pictures.
Frustrated, she wandered around some of the adjoining rooms, admiring the paintings until she arrived at one of her favorites, Leonardo da Vinci’s Annunciation. She was standing close, too close really, noting the detail in the marble pillar, when a voice sounded in her ear in Italian.
“You like this painting?”
Julia looked up into the eyes of a man with black hair and very tanned skin. He was taller than her, but not overly, and was of a muscular build. He wore a very expensive black suit, with a single red rose pinned to his lapel. She recognized him as one of the guests who sat behind her during the lecture.
“Yes, very much,” she responded in Italian.
“I have always admired the depth that da Vinci gives to his paintings, particularly the shading and detail on the pillar.”
She smiled and turned back to the painting. “That’s exactly what I was studying, along with the feathers on the angel’s wings. They’re incredible.”
The gentleman bowed. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Giuseppe Pacciani.”
Julia hesitated, for she recognized his last name. He shared it with the man suspected of being Florence’s most famous serial killer.
The man appeared to be waiting for her to respond to his greeting, so she suppressed the urge to run.
“Julia Mitchell.” She extended her hand in a polite gesture, but he took her by surprise when he grasped it between both of his hands and drew it to his lips, looking up at her as he kissed it.
“Enchanted. And may I say that your beauty rivals that of La Bella Simonetta. Especially in light of this evening’s lecture.”
Julia averted her eyes and swiftly removed her hand.
“Allow me to provide you with a drink.” He quickly flagged down a waiter and took two champagne flutes from his tray. He clinked their glasses together and toasted their health.
Julia sipped the Ferrari spumante gratefully, as it gave her a distraction from his intense stare. He was charming, but she was wary of him, not least because of his name.
He smiled at her hungrily.
“I am a professor of literature at the university. And you?”
“I study Dante.”
“Ah, il Poeta. My specialization is Dante, also. Where do you study? Not here.” His eyes wandered from her face to her body to her shoes, before traveling to her face again.
She took a generous step back. “At the University of Toronto.”
“Ah! A Canadian. One of my former students is studying there right now. Perhaps you are acquainted.” He stepped closer.
Julia elected not to correct him about her citizenship and stepped back once again. “Toronto is a large university. Probably not.”
Giuseppe smiled, showing very straight white teeth that glinted strangely in the museum light.
“H
ave you seen Piero di Cosimo’s Perseus Frees Andromeda?” He gestured to one of the adjacent paintings.
Julia nodded. “Yes.”
“There are Flemish elements in his work, do you see? Also, notice the figures standing in the crowd.” He gestured to a grouping on the right side of the painting.
Julia stepped to one side so she could take a better look. Giuseppe stood beside her, a good deal too close, watching her study the painting.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, but I prefer Botticelli.” Stubbornly, she kept her eyes on the painting, hoping he would tire of standing closer to her and move away.
(Preferably across the Arno.)
“Are you a student of Professor Emerson’s?”
Julia swallowed noisily. “No. I—I study with someone else.”
“He is considered to be good by North American standards, which is why he was invited here. However, his lecture was an embarrassment. How did you come to discover Dante?”
Julia was about to argue with Giuseppe about his characterization of the lecture, when he reached out to touch her hair.
She flinched and immediately retreated, but his arms were long and his hand followed her. She opened her mouth to reprove him when someone growled nearby.
Giuseppe and Julia turned their heads slowly to see Gabriel, sapphire eyes flashing, hands on hips, flaring out his open suit jacket like the plumes of an angry peacock.
He took a menacing step closer.
“I see you’ve met my fidanzata. I suggest you keep your hands to yourself, unless you’re prepared to lose them.”
Giuseppe scowled before his face smoothed out into a polite smile. “We’ve been speaking for several minutes. She never mentioned you.”
Julia didn’t wait for Gabriel to rip Giuseppe’s arms from his sockets, thus sullying the Uffizi’s pristine floors with his blood. Instead, she stood between the two men and placed a hand on Gabriel’s chest.
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