Silence filled the room, broken only by a cry of anguish from Chiara.
Consumption. The wasting disease of the lungs that killed thousands every year.
“That is ridiculous,” Marco said. “How can this be? Simonetta is perfectly healthy.”
“Is she, signore?” the doctor said, albeit gently. “You have just told me she has been ill on and off since she has lived in Florence.”
“How long do I have to live, dottore?” a voice I somehow recognized as mine asked.
The doctor chuckled, though somewhat uncomfortably. “Do not fret yourself overmuch, signora. If I am right, you may still live a full life. After all, you have likely had the disease for years now and not known it. Such things happen.”
What he did not say was as loud as his words—louder, perhaps. I may still live a full life—but I may not, if the disease worsened, if it afflicted me at its full potential. And even if I had had the disease for the past few years, did not the fact that I was now coughing up blood mean that it was getting worse?
“I will bleed you, for now,” he said, “which may make the fever come down. And then I shall return tomorrow to see what progress you have made.”
I turned my head away as he got out his instruments, so that I did not need to see the silver knife enter my flesh, nor my blood dripping into the doctor’s bowl. I closed my eyes and waited for it to be over.
Yet in so doing, I soon fell into a deep, fever-laced sleep. In the brief moments when I awoke in the next few days, I saw Marco’s and Chiara’s faces, as though from very far away; felt the dampness of the sheets and blankets from my sweat; felt a pounding ache in my head as I continued to cough. Soon even these images blended into my dreams, and I could no longer tell when I was asleep or awake, what was truth and what was illusion.
Once I thought that I awoke to find Sandro with me, beside me in the bed. His hands were on my body, hungrily, and I cried out as heat rippled through my skin, as he took me in his arms and touched me in all the ways I had wished he would touch me as I posed for him. And I touched him in return, unable to believe that this was happening, that we were finally here. He whispered my name, and I could hear all the love and desire in his voice. Yet I awoke to find only Chiara in the room with me. “Chiara,” I asked, struggling to speak. “Where … where is he?”
“Signor Vespucci is … not home,” she said. “May I bring you anything, Madonna? Water or wine or…”
I frowned. Marco? That was not who I had meant. But of course Sandro would not be there; he was not my husband. Yet Marco was. Where was Marco?
A memory sneaked into my head, tinged with anger. There was another woman. Was that where he was, as when I had lain ill before?
Suddenly it seemed as though I could see them, could see Marco with some dark-haired harlot, a beautiful woman who panted wantonly and cried out his name as he thrust into her. I turned my head away, yet still I could see them, still the image followed me, and I could not escape it. I closed my eyes and curled into a ball, and I heard a woman weeping raggedly, and I could only wait for it all to be over.
* * *
When I finally awoke, it seemed to be afternoon, judging by the slant of light that came in through the window. Chiara was sitting in a chair near the window, doing some mending.
My mouth was so dry it was a struggle to speak; I had to moisten my lips with my tongue twice before any words would come out. “Chiara,” I said hoarsely.
She started, leaping out of her chair. “Madonna! Oh, you are awake! How do you feel?”
“Water,” was all I could manage.
“Of course, of course,” she said. “I will fetch you some immediately. And I will send Signor Vespucci in.” Before I could question her—What day was it? How long had I been asleep? Had il dottore been back?—she was gone.
Perhaps a minute later, Marco came into the room, looking weary and haggard. “Simonetta,” he said. “You are awake.”
For an instant the image of him with the whore flashed through my brain, and I recoiled at the sight of him. But that was but a fevered dream, no more. I had not really seen such a thing. “So it would seem.”
He dropped onto the bed beside me and let out a sigh.
“How long was I asleep?” I asked, fearing the answer but needing to know.
“Three days,” he said.
I drew in my breath sharply, shocked.
“It … it was terrible.” He ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair. “I thought I was going to lose you for certain.”
Despite everything, I was touched by the way that thought had obviously upset him, despite all that had gone awry between us of late. He does care for me. He must. “Has the doctor been back?” I asked.
“He has. He has been here many times, though you do not remember, I am sure.”
I shook my head. “I dreamt many strange things … and I cannot say what was real and what was a dream.”
He nodded. “Well, he has been here a great deal of late. He said…” Marco hesitated.
“Tell me, Marco,” I said, my voice as strong as I could make it. “For pity’s sake, tell me what he said.”
He sighed again, then finally met my gaze. “He confirmed that you have consumption.”
I closed my eyes. Suddenly, I felt unimaginably weary again.
Consumption. It was not a surprise, but to hear it confirmed was another thing entirely.
“And does he know, now,” I said, my voice thick with tears when I spoke again, “how long I may be expected to live?”
Marco hesitated again before speaking. “He could not say,” he said. “In truth, as I said, we thought we might lose you over these past few nights. But since you have recovered—well, there is no telling.”
“It might be years,” I whispered. “I might live to be an old woman yet.” I paused, trying to muster the strength to speak past my sobs. “Or I might die tomorrow.”
“No.” Marco leaned across the bed and took my hands in his. “You have recovered for now. You can be well again, and go about your life. This attack has passed. The doctor said if this attack passed, you would recover.”
“For now, marito,” I said, speaking the words he would not. “I will recover for now. Until the next attack. And then my life will hang in the balance all over again.”
“Do not think like that,” Marco said. “As you just said, you may yet live to be an old woman.”
I laughed through my tears. And in many ways the idea was ludicrous. I was twenty-one years old. I could not fathom the idea that my life could end in a matter of months. Not then, not as I lay on that bed—still weak, still weary—but awake and very much alive. I could have risen from the bed and gone about my life right then. How was I to accept the idea that my youth, my vitality, my beauty might not save me?
“But even if I do, I shall carry this disease with me all my years, never knowing when it may strike,” I said. “Perhaps it would be better not to live so long.”
“Simonetta,” Marco said, his voice breaking. It was then that I saw there were tears in his eyes as well. “Do not say that.”
“Maybe it would be for the best,” I said. “Perhaps it would be better for everyone if I did not live to have my beauty fade.”
* * *
I insisted on getting up from bed that very day and walking about the house a bit. I took some broth sitting at the dining room table, then fell back into bed, exhausted but not willing to admit it.
My parents arrived from Genoa the next day, Marco having sent for them when it appeared I may not survive. It was wonderful to see them again, even if my father was stoic and silent and my mother could not set eyes upon me without bursting into tears. They stayed only a few days, long enough to assure themselves that I was well enough again, and I was not altogether sorry to see them go.
A few days after I awoke, Marco mentioned from his spot at my bedside, “Your painter wrote while you slept. Two days ago, perhaps.” His worry about me dulled the s
corn that would normally have been in his voice.
Suddenly I remembered. I had dreamt, too, of Sandro. My face, and then my whole body, flushed as I remembered the things I had dreamed.
“He did?” I asked. “What did he say?”
Marco’s face became disapproving as he replied, sharpening my guilt. “He sought to arrange the next date for you to pose for him. I replied and told him you were ill.”
“And what did he say to that?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
“Nothing,” Marco said shortly. “What else would there be for him to say, Simonetta?”
My husband’s words were a challenge, one that I did not take up. What, indeed, I mused. I supposed there was nothing he could have said, in the interest of propriety. But had he worried? Was he concerned for me? Did he know the true extent of what is wrong with me? And … would he still have me as his muse? As his Venus?
What good was being the most beautiful woman in Florence if the man I loved did not care for me?
“I shall write to him,” I said, getting up from the bed, heedless of my unseemly haste. All that mattered was that I return to posing as soon as possible, for what if the worst should befall me before the painting was finished? “I shall tell him that I can return next week, if that suits him.”
Marco caught my shoulders and gently pushed me back onto the bed. “Simonetta, really,” he said. “Whatever this painting is, it can wait. Indeed, given your condition, it may not be wise for you to return to sitting for him, in any case.”
For a moment, my guilt urged me to say what I knew Marco wanted to hear, that I would not pose for Sandro again, or even see him. I can be a good wife, can I not? I can do that for him, I tried to tell myself. Yet I knew that, truly, I could not. I had to see Sandro again, no matter what.
And did Marco deserve such devotion? What kind of man left his wife, whom he thought was dying, to visit his whore? My nightmare of her and Marco flashed again through my mind. You cannot blame your husband for an illusion of your fevered brain, Simonetta, I reprimanded myself. But it was not only a dream, not really. Such a scene had occurred, and would again.
I had loved Marco, yes, and in some ways I still did; yet I had begun to feel that my love was wasted on him.
“I will continue to pose for him,” I said aloud. “I will help him finish the painting. I made a promise, after all. This … this disease changes nothing.”
“It will need to change some things, perhaps,” Marco bit out.
“Not this,” I said. “And I do not think quarreling with you is helpful, given my condition. Do you, marito?”
With that, Marco let the matter drop, though the scowl did not leave his face for some time.
Later that day, when Marco stepped outside for a bit, I rose and went to my desk, where I penned a missive to Sandro:
Marco tells me you wrote whilst I was ill. I have been very ill, in truth, and shall speak of it more when I see you again. I am recovering now, and I wish to help you continue the painting, if indeed you still need my help. I can return next week.
I signed it simply Simonetta, and sent it off with Chiara. She brought me back a response almost immediately:
Mia bellissima Simonetta,
I have been worried about you, more so than I can possibly say, but your husband’s reply to my note let me know in no uncertain terms that any further inquiries by me would not be welcomed. Please, if you are feeling well enough, return to me Tuesday next at 2 of the clock. I shall be waiting for you.
He, in turn, signed it simply Sandro.
I read the letter twice, then tossed it into the fire. Your husband’s reply to my note let me know in no uncertain terms that any further inquiries by me would not be welcomed.…
Indeed. I wanted to fly into a rage at Marco, demand by what right he carried on correspondence on my behalf, but I could not, for then he would know that Sandro had written to me directly. And, as my husband, he had every right.
Instead, I let my mind repeat to me the rest of Sandro’s letter.
Mia bellissima Simonetta … return to me.
I shall be waiting for you.
28
On the appointed day, I appeared at Sandro’s workshop. He was alone, as he always was when he arranged for me to pose. At the sight of him, my explicit dream of him from my illness flashed through my mind, and I found myself suddenly a bit short of breath.
“Simonetta,” he said, clasping my hand in his as I entered. “I am so glad to see you looking well. You have no idea how worried I was.”
I tried to smile; I had intended, when he inquired about my illness, to tell him that it had been nothing, a mere fever only, and that I was fine. I had not wanted to tell him the truth. Yet in the face of his genuine concern and happiness to see me, I crumbled. I began to sob, burying my face in my hands as though to hide from him.
“Simonetta,” he said, bewildered. His arms came around me, and slowly, hesitantly, he pulled me against his chest. I stiffened for a moment, knowing I should pull away, but I could not bring myself to do it. Not then, not when I was so in need of comfort and wanted it only from him. I let myself melt into his body, let him clutch me tightly to him. He smelled of paint and candle wax and sweat and, despite my tears, I reveled in this moment of closeness. I thought, in that moment, that I would weep forever if it meant he would never let me go.
“Simonetta,” he murmured in my ear. “What is wrong? Please tell me.” To my dismay, he released me and stepped back, that he might see my face. “You can tell me, whatever it is.”
“I … I am sorry,” I managed.
“Do not be. You have nothing for which to apologize. Here, come with me, and sit,” he said. He took my hand and led me to the back of the workshop, through the back room I had been in once before, and into a small kitchen. He sat me at the rough-hewn wooden table. “Some wine, perhaps?”
I nodded.
He found a glass for each of us and poured some Tuscan vino rosso into each. I took a long sip, taking the opportunity to collect myself.
“My illness,” I said at last. “It … I…” I took a deep breath, composing myself further so that I might finish my sentence. “The doctor has said that I … it seems I have consumption.”
I remembered well the shock and devastation on Marco’s face when the doctor had first made his pronouncement, before we even knew for certain. Yet never before had I seen an expression quite like Sandro’s on another human being’s face. He looked as though his entire world had been shattered right before his eyes, as though he was watching the final pieces crumble into irretrievable ash and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He looked like a man with nothing left to live for.
“No,” he whispered at last. “That cannot be. You are here—and you look as healthy as ever.”
“Il dottore said that I may have had it for some time now and not known,” I said quietly. “This was simply the worst attack.” I hesitated before adding, “Thus far.”
“Did he say…” Sandro trailed off and was silent, as though he could not even bear to ask the question, let alone hear the answer.
“There is no telling,” I said, knowing what he wanted to ask. “It is always so with such things. No one knows except God.”
He stood up abruptly, turning his back to me, dropping his head into his hands. I watched him, paralyzed, wondering what this meant, wondering what he was thinking.
When he turned back to me, his eyes were red-rimmed. “I cannot bear to contemplate a world without you in it,” he said, his voice rough. “And so I will not do it.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Perhaps if we do not contemplate it, we may prevent it from coming to pass.”
We were both silent for a moment longer. Finally he spoke again. “You … do you still wish to pose?”
“Yes,” I replied instantly. “That is why I am here. I want you to finish the painting. No matter what. If I become ill again…” I bit my lip and looked away. “If I b
ecome ill again, then I shall return when I am well. And we shall proceed as before.”
He sighed. “Only if you are certain. If you are certain it will not tax you overmuch.”
“It will not. I am going to live my life as I always have, Sandro. I am not going to become some invalid.”
The pain in his eyes as he looked at me nearly caused me to cry out, as though I was bleeding. “But what if doing so would prolong your life?”
I shuddered as I drew another deep breath. “That is in the hands of God,” I said. “And even if staying in bed the rest of my days would prolong my life, I do not think that would be a life worth living.”
He nodded reluctantly. “I understand. And I…” He reached out and covered my hand with his own. “Whatever happens, I should like to think that in this painting, you will live forever. Venus is immortal, after all.”
At this I began to cry anew.
“Oh, Simonetta … please do not cry,” he whispered. “I should not have said that. I wish…”
But he did not finish whatever he had been about to say, and instead kept his hand on mine until my tears subsided.
“Perhaps we should not work on the painting today,” he said at last. “I do not know that either of us is in the right state for it.”
I smiled gratefully at him. I did not feel quite able to disrobe before him again just yet, with the weight of all that had just been said between us—and with my dreams still lingering a bit too vividly in my mind. “I agree,” I said. “I doubt I would have any men writing me verse or serenading me under my window if they had ever seen me cry. I am not one of those confounding women who weeps beautifully.”
Sandro’s lips twitched into a smile. “No, I suppose not.”
For a moment I stared at him, dumbfounded, unable to believe what I had heard. Any other man would have rushed to contradict me, told me that I look sublimely beautiful no matter what. Any other man would not have been honest with me.
That, I supposed, was one of the reasons I loved him.
I started to laugh, softly at first, then harder, until my shoulders were shaking and I could scarcely breathe. Sandro began to laugh as well, and when I looked up at him, both of us had tears of mirth running down our faces.
The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence Page 20