The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence

by Alyssa Palombo

  I looked quickly down at my gown, having forgotten which one I was wearing. Had it truly only been this morning that Chiara had dressed me? “Certainly,” I said. “That is perfectly agreeable.”

  He rose from his chair, and I did the same. “Until then, Madonna,” he said. “I shall look forward to it.” His voice betrayed an earnestness that went beyond mere politeness.

  “As do I, already,” I said, wondering if he could hear the sincerity in my own voice as well.

  The way he lingered as he took my hand and kissed it told me that he did.

  16

  I returned home that afternoon feeling buoyant, elated; yet also sad that the day was over. The day after tomorrow, I consoled myself, I would return.

  Marco was home already when I arrived. “Simonetta, moglie mia,” he said, rising from his chair in our sitting room and greeting me with a deep kiss on the mouth.

  “My, husband,” I said when we broke apart. “Pray, do not kiss me so this early in the evening, or I shall want to retire before we’ve eaten our supper.”

  His eyes sparkled at my words. “I could be persuaded to feast on you, and you alone,” he said. “But you are right. And we are invited to dine with my parents this evening.”

  “Ah.” Marco’s parents were certainly kind enough, but usually on the occasions when we all dined together, Marco and his father discussed Marco’s work at the Medici bank at length, leaving his mother and me to eat in silence. I would much rather have enjoyed Marco’s company on my own, or better yet, been invited to dine with the Medici family again. Perhaps next time they invited us to dine I would contrive an invitation from Clarice. She would not mind if I dropped by unannounced.

  Marco released me and stepped back, and we both sat down. “But how have you spent your day, wife?” His eyes darkened slightly. “You have not been at Botticelli’s workshop all this time, have you?”

  “I have.”

  “Dio mio,” Marco said, his tone a bit sharper than I thought strictly necessary. “Has he completed your portrait by this time, then?”

  “No,” I said. “He merely took some sketches today. I am to return the day after tomorrow.”

  “An awfully long time to be sketching one woman.”

  “And yet that is what he was doing,” I said. Unbidden, I recalled Botticelli’s eyes studying me so intently, how I had gloried in his gaze. And how I, in turn, had delighted in studying his handsome face. Guilt sharpened my tone and made it more defensive than perhaps was warranted. “I am confused, Marco. Did you not tell me that you are not a jealous husband who does not trust his wife?”

  “I did. But—”

  “Then why are your words, and their tone, reminiscent of a jealous husband?” I inquired innocently. “I cannot be sure, of course, having never before been possessed of a jealous husband—or am I?”

  “I do not mean anything by it, Simonetta. It just seems like a longer stretch of time than is necessary to sketch someone.”

  “Are you an artist now, Marco? Do you know how it is done?”

  “No. But I—”

  Yet I was becoming angry now. Why had he agreed to let me sit for Botticelli, only to then behave this way? “Are you trying to ask me something, Marco? To accuse me of something, perhaps?”

  “No,” he said, a response that was gratifyingly swift. “I would never.”

  “Good. Then stop giving lie to your own words.”

  “For the love of God, Simonetta!” he burst out. “How can you accuse me of being jealous? I let you go there alone, did I not? Giuliano de’ Medici flirts with you with his every breath, and I say nothing. I do not even mind, not truly. I know how the game is played. Yet I am a man, mortal and flawed. I know how beautiful my wife is, and I know that other men notice.”

  I rose to my feet. “You had best get used to other men noticing me, husband,” I said. “Artists, lechers, noblemen, what have you. It has been happening since I was a child, and will no doubt keep on until I age and my beauty fades.” I stalked from the room, only pausing briefly in the doorway to glance at him over my shoulder. “And remember that it is you whom I married.”

  It was our first argument as a married couple—or ever. I was glad that we were dining with his parents, as it gave me an excuse to ignore him. Yet the lack of conversation around the dinner table in which I could participate meant that I found my mind wandering back to the light touch of Sandro’s hand on my face as he adjusted my position, the warmth his fingers had left behind. It was almost as though I could feel his touch again; and, after a moment, when I remembered where I was and glanced up again, I was relieved to see that no one seemed to notice my blush.

  That night, when Marco and I went to bed, I turned my back to him and stayed that way. It was the first night since my illness—save for the days when I was suffering my monthly courses—that we did not make love. I lay awake most of the night, anger and guilt churning in my gut.

  * * *

  The next morning, as though in acknowledgment of how silly we’d been and of his desire that we return to normal, Marco reached for me in bed, and I went to him willingly. He took me hungrily, bringing me to pleasure with such force that it left me gasping. Maybe a little jealousy was good for a man, after all. I found myself feeling quite bereft when he had to rise and make ready to leave.

  Yet even so, I spent the day happily engrossed in the book of Plato’s writings that Lorenzo had lent me. In a way, it felt rather like studying with Padre Valerio again: I found myself making mental notes of certain points or lines that I wished to discuss later—either with Lorenzo or with Maestro Botticelli, whom I was sure had read this book as well. I would ask him the next day, I resolved.

  Eager to discuss the book even further, I suggested to Marco that night over dinner that he might read it as well, and we could exchange our views. “I wish that I could, Simonetta,” he said, “but I think that I shall be far too busy in the coming days. You must read it and tell me of it.”

  I did my best not to allow my disappointment to show.

  * * *

  The following day, I had Chiara dress me in the same gown I had worn to my first sitting, and returned to Maestro Botticelli’s studio. I was even more eager than I had been the first time, and a part of me could not help but continue to wonder why.

  Maestro Botticelli and I are friends, I told myself. I wished to discuss Plato’s writing with him. And it would be lying to say I wasn’t excited for this portrait, and to see the finished product when it was ready. That was all.

  When I arrived at the studio I let myself in, and found a bit more activity than two days ago. Two apprentices bustled about the room: the boy who had dashed past me last time, and a somewhat older boy whom I assumed must be the recalcitrant Luca. Both looked up as I came in, and both stopped dead in the midst of their activities and stared at me.

  I laughed. They made quite a picture: one carting an armload of rolled canvases, and the other holding a pot of yellow paint, which was smeared on his hands and arms; yet both looked at me with the same comically shocked, open-mouthed expression.

  “Do not let me distract you from your work, gentlemen,” I said sweetly. “What, have neither of you seen a woman before?”

  “They have, but never one such as you, Madonna Simonetta,” Botticelli said, emerging from the back room and coming toward me. “And that is not quite fair, for you to use that tone on them.” He took my hand and kissed it. “Welcome back.”

  “It is good to be back,” I said.

  He turned around and cuffed Luca on the back of the head as he did so. “Enough of that. Back to work.”

  With a mumbled, “Mi scusi, maestro,” the boy did just that, and his younger counterpart followed suit without a word.

  “Over here, if you please, Madonna Simonetta,” Botticelli said, gesturing me toward where a chair and easel had been set up right in front of the window. “The light is best here, I find. I have everything ready, so we can begin as soon as you are settled
.”

  “I am ready when you are, maestro,” I said, sitting in the chair.

  “Very good. If I may position you, then? Turn so that you are sitting at an angle—yes, just so. Now raise your chin slightly—” Here he reached out and touched my chin lightly but firmly with his fingers, lifting it. “Yes. Just so.” He retreated back behind the easel and picked up a brush. “I was able to make a start with the sketches I took last time,” he told me. “I cannot say how long I shall keep you today—sometimes the muse is kind and I quite lose track of time.”

  I smiled. “I shall stay as long as you need.”

  Immediately a look of intense focus came over his face. “That expression, there. Hold it, if you can. Per favore.” He turned back to the easel and applied himself to the canvas.

  It was not hard to hold the smile, as he bade me—his excitement and enthusiasm were catching. I had hoped we might have more time for conversation before we began, but far be it from me to interrupt the muse who, it seemed, was speaking most eagerly to the painter even now.

  The same spell as before seemed to fall over us again, and I embraced it fully. Even the clattering about and whispered conversations of Botticelli’s apprentices could not break it, could not disturb this wordless connection being woven between us once again.

  Somewhat to my dismay, the easel partially concealed him, and the way in which I was positioned left me facing away from him, so I was unable to study him as I had previously. But I could feel his eyes on me. And when I knew his eyes were trained on the canvas, I would sneak a glance at him, at his tousled blond hair, at his strong hand gripping the brush. If he noticed, he did not react at all.

  After perhaps an hour, he sighed and laid down his brush. “I shall let you take a break now, Madonna,” he said. “I should have done so last time, and I do apologize for the lapse.”

  “It is quite alright,” I said, rising from my chair. Ah, but it did feel good to stand.

  He rose as well, flexing the fingers of his painting hand. “Giovanni,” he called, to the younger of the two apprentices. “Bring me that yellow paint you were mixing.”

  The boy obliged, and Botticelli looked satisfied as he examined it. “Well done,” he said. “You’ve gotten it right this time. Do you know what you did differently?”

  Young Giovanni launched into a recitation of the different proportions he had used in mixing the paint, and where he had made his mistakes the last time. Botticelli listened attentively, then clapped the boy on the back when he finished. “Good,” he said. “Very good. You and Luca may go find some lunch now.” The boy eagerly scampered off, and Botticelli watched him go, chuckling.

  “You are a good teacher,” I observed.

  “I try to be,” he said. “Being beaten and berated for mistakes never taught me anything, that much I know. So I take a different approach.” He met my eyes and smiled. “It is a lovely day, Madonna Simonetta. Worthy of your beauty, even. Perhaps you would like to join me in a short stroll before we return to our work here?”

  “That would be wonderful,” I said, both surprised and elated.

  Botticelli opened the door of his studio for me and allowed me to precede him outside, into the bright Tuscan sunshine. He offered me his arm, and we began to stroll through the dusty streets in the general direction of the Arno. I was beginning to learn my way about this city, a fact that filled me with pride.

  “I took your advice, maestro,” I told him as we walked.

  “Oh?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at me. “And what advice was that?”

  “To partake of certain books as I might find in the Medici library,” I said. “Lorenzo was kind enough to lend me a volume by Plato. I am finding it most enlightening.”

  “And which volume is this?”

  “The Republic.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “I am not surprised that you read Latin, nor that you have sought out such a worthy tome.”

  “So you are familiar with it? I had thought you might be.” I blushed at admitting that I had been thinking about him.

  “Indeed, I am. I am most eager to hear your thoughts.”

  “It is like nothing I have read before,” I said, “which I suppose is to be expected.”

  “What?” Botticelli demanded, in mock surprise and outrage. “You mean your tutor did not teach you pagan philosophy?”

  I laughed. “To be sure he did not, so it is a good thing I have come to Florence. That I might learn.”

  “And here I thought you came here to be married.”

  I paused, uncertain how to navigate this abrupt change in topic. “I did, of course. But I must confess, Marco’s description made me all the more eager, for he told me of all that Florence has to recommend her.”

  The painter went silent, and I could tell there were words poised on his tongue that he wished to speak, but was holding back.

  “What is it you wish to say?” I asked him. “Are we not friends, my dear Maestro Botticelli?”

  “We are,” he said.

  “Then why can you not ask me anything you wish, when you have extended the same courtesy to me?”

  He gave me a half-hearted smile. “You are kind to make me such an offer,” he said. “But the difference in our stations dictates that such a reversal is not always appropriate.”

  I waved his words aside. “I care not for such things,” I said. “What difference is there between us at this moment, maestro? We are two friends out for a stroll through Florence’s streets. That is all anyone who looks at us shall see, and all that I wish for either of us to see as well.”

  His smile widened. “I should say that most people, looking at us, are seeing only you, Madonna Simonetta.”

  “Maybe so, but I am used to it, and so I take no note of such things,” I said. “Now, I shall say it again: you may speak as freely to me as I do to you.”

  “Very well,” he said, chuckling. “Yet now that you have talked me ’round, I find that I have quite forgotten what I meant to say.”

  “Liar,” I teased. “You have forgotten nothing.”

  “I should know by now that your beauty and your wits are equally matched.”

  “Stop trying to distract me with flattery.”

  “Very well,” he said again. His face grew serious before he spoke. “You said that your husband’s description of Florence, and all to be found here, persuaded you to leave your home. But what of Marco himself? Did you not marry him because you love him?”

  I drew in a breath sharply. I had been expecting such a question, since he had been so reluctant to voice it. So why had I prodded him into asking it anyway?

  The painter did not speak, only watched me as I considered what to say next.

  “You must understand,” I said. “Many women are not so lucky in marriage as I am: to be offered for by a man for whom they feel affection. Marco came to me, speaking of Dante and poetry, and he seemed the romantic hero. Then he spoke of this city, this Florence, and the Medici and the artists and poets and all there was to be learned. It seemed that he was offering me everything I had ever wanted, but had never dared to hope for. I did not know him well enough to love him, at first.”

  Botticelli was silent for a moment before speaking again. “So you are happy?”

  “I am,” I said. “And I do love him now. As I understand love.”

  Even as I spoke, though, I began to regret telling him such things, and having urged him to be so frank with me in the first place. Was it not unseemly for me to be discussing my husband and my marriage with another man? It was no sin that I could name, yet it felt wrong all the same. Guilt began to gnaw at the edges of my mind; for while I had said nothing that was not true, it felt somehow like a betrayal of Marco, like I had spoken of some secret of marriage that I should not have spoken about.

  He did not speak again for a few paces, and when he did, his tone was slightly guarded. “Then I am happy for you, Madonna Simonetta. I want for you to be happy. Know that to be true.”

 
; “Thank you.”

  “And now, I think, we must return to Plato, for we have neglected him for far too long. What are your thoughts on his Republic, Madonna?” he asked.

  I brightened at his question, glad to change the subject and excited by the turn the conversation had taken. “As I said, it is very interesting. I am intrigued by the argument of some of the philosophers with whom Socrates debates—you will forgive me for forgetting their names, I hope.”

  He smiled. “You are forgiven, for I would be hard-pressed to recall them myself. Greek names have an odd sound to the Tuscan ear, methinks.”

  “Indeed. I am intrigued by their argument that justice is only a result of the fear of punishment and censure, essentially. That any man—or woman—only behaves justly because they fear being caught out doing otherwise.”

  “And do you think these philosophers are correct?” he asked.

  “I like to think that they are not,” I said. “I know that there are some in this world about whom that is true, but I like to think there are those who will act on the side of right, of justice, no matter what. Even if there is no one to applaud their actions, or to condemn them for doing wrong.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly,” Botticelli said. “The right or just course is not always the easiest, and we well know that there are those in this world who prefer the easy route, whatever it may be.”

  “Indeed,” I said. I lowered my voice slightly, though there did not seem to be anyone near enough to overhear us. “And I can see why the Church would object to such writings. The idea that mankind only does good to avoid the fires of hell … well, that seems to be a very dangerous idea.”

  “And yet it is true, is it not?” he said. “Priests preach sermons meant to fill us with fear of hellfire, so what else but fear can motivate us to do good? When our ears are filled with what awaits the alternative?”

  “A priest would no doubt say that the reward of heaven should be the ultimate motivator,” I said, “though I do see your point. Holy Mother Church may have brought such a problem upon herself, then. Though I should think that the priests would not thank anyone for pointing such out to them.”