After being swiftly prepared, I rendezvoused with Sandro in my sitting room with as much excited anticipation as ever.
As we greeted one another, he avoided my gaze. Perhaps my embrace the night before was a bit too much for him. I knew, it is said, that Botticelli was hopelessly in love with Simonetta, but perhaps it was just a story, like the legend of Minias reattaching his own head.
We left for Sandro’s studiolo, with Antonella right on our heels.
“I’ll be all right, Antonella. I can go by myself.”
“How will that look if you are gone, and I am still here? Again!” Antonella fretted. “What will Luciana say?”
“Why don’t you just take the day off? Have some quality Antonella time?” I suggested.
“Take the day off?” she questioned, as if the words were completely foreign to her. “What are you speaking of?”
“Have a day for yourself. Do whatever you like.”
She smiled at the prospect. “No one must know,” she whispered to Sandro.
“And no one will,” he replied.
Antonella walked us as far as Sandro’s house for appearances sake, then went her separate way as we entered. Up three flights of stairs we rose.
“Your bottega is in your house?”
“I do not have a bottega. Although with Lorenzo’s help, I hope to one day. In a bottega, I would be the master artist in charge of lesser artists and apprentices. I have learned from masters and struck out on my own,” He opened a door and led me in. “But unfortunately, have made it no farther than my father’s attic.” Sandro waved his arm and said, “My studiolo.”
The studiolo walls were covered in lavishly painted frescoes, clearly by his own hand. Not remotely religious, there were images of beautiful women dancing around the walls, hair flowing, and diaphanous gowns billowing in the invisible wind. And in the center, there was…me.
As I noticed the resemblance, he lowered his head in shame.
“Although we have just met, Simonetta, I have seen you before. Beheld you in my mind for so many years. I feel as though I have always known you in my paintings. So when I saw you in person for the first time from my window, when you arrived with Marco from Genoa, I knew I must paint you from life. I offered to paint the standard for Giuliano.”
He moved close to me as I continued to examine the fresco, running my fingers down the image of my current body and face.
“Why do I look so sad?” I asked.
“Because you are confined to this mortal world, when you are clearly meant to reside in a higher plane.”
You have no idea.
It was the first time his admiration for Simonetta became so apparent. As I turned to him, I looked deeply into his hazel eyes, noting the fear that dwelt within them. I inched closer, testing how close I could get before he’d flee. He stood frozen, never taking his eyes off me, as I continued to draw closer. I could almost hear his heart beating. He was not the god I had made him out to be for so many years in my head. He was no longer an idea, but a flesh and blood man—a good man, who spent his days searching for beauty and admiring others.
I drew closer still, grazing my lips against his, and yet he didn’t move. I was changing history. Or was I? The history books would call it platonic love, and yet Sandro would someday ask to spend his afterlife buried at the feet of Simonetta.
Who does that?
As I gently forced my lips upon his, the frozen statue of a man suddenly sprang to life, clutching me around my waist and neck, pulling me into him as he kissed me with enough fervor to bridge the six-hundred year generation gap between us.
He pressed me up against the wall, against the fresco bearing my face; my perfect ass smothering the docile beauty he had painted. He kissed my neck and pulled at my hair, undoing Antonella’s painstaking handiwork once again. I wanted him so badly, and yet, it wasn’t meant to be. He pulled away and looked into my eyes. “I am sorry. I know not what I do.”
“It’s all right, Sandro,” I said, running my fingers through the waves of his silky, dark hair. I’d forgotten how much I loved to do that to a man.
“I cannot take advantage of a thing so precious as you.”
“I believe it was me taking advantage of you.”
“Even so, your virtue must be protected.” I began to protest, but he continued. “Also, the Medici favor me, but such favor would turn quickly if they had any knowledge….”
“How could they? We’re alone here.”
“Lorenzo knows everything, and he will do anything for his brother.”
I could see how wary he was at the thought of betraying them. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to cause difficulty for you.”
“You have no need to apologize. I am no better than a dog.”
Without another word, he fled the studiolo. He left me not only hot and bothered, but alone and embarrassed that I’d been so forward with him. And yet, it was clear that a small part of him didn’t mind, even relished my advances. I felt so lost in that moment; unsure whether to leave or stay. More than ever, I was uncertain of my purpose in this world. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to screw it up.
I stayed to admire the rest of the frescoed walls, knowing the real Simonetta must have seen them, and must have felt the same way about Sandro as I did. How could she not?
In the center of the room, there was a workbench covered in terracotta bowls containing black, red, blue, yellow, and white powders. There were eggs resting in a basket, cloves in the process of being ground, paint brushes soaking in containers, and gold leaf meticulously placed in a wooden box. The floor was covered in dried paint drops and sawdust, with golden frames scattered about.
After a while, Sandro returned with a broom in hand. I reached for it, relieved. “Are you ready for me to pose?”
“Actually, I thought you could tidy up the place,” he said, before leaving the room again.
One minute I was too good to live in this world, and the next minute, I’m the maid.
The paint-stained wood floor, was covered in all sorts of debris, and needed more help than a broom could rectify, but I decided to try anyway. I was sweeping when Sandro returned with a spool of cloth. He burst out into laughter, and grabbed the broom from me.
“It was said in jest, Simonetta.”
Of course.
So nervous in his presence at that moment, I hadn’t recognized the obvious joke.
“I just wanted to prove, despite what Luciana says, that I do know how to use this thing,” I said, trying to make a quick recovery.
“I never had a doubt,” he said as he smiled. Sandro set the broom against a table, then surprised me as he moved close, and pulled the rest of the pins from my tresses. Piling the pins on the table, he brushed my hair, taking care to start at the bottom and work his way up. He was so much gentler than Antonella, and even that simple act stimulated the already awakened passion in my body, as his soft hand brushed across my face.
After a long while, he set the hairbrush down, then stood behind me for a moment. I reached for the broom, but he gently intercepted my hand. “Not quite yet.”
Had he changed his mind? Would he take me after all?
He reached around my neck, gathered the full thickness of my crazy-long hair, and swept it over my left shoulder. My heart pounded as he untied the back of my dress. He disrobed me slowly, caressing my shoulders, as he pulled the gown down far enough so I could step out of it. I stood quivering in only my shift, as he hung the dress neatly on a hook, then paced slowly in front of me. I waited in anticipation for him to grab me, and have his way with me against the fresco of my own face. Instead, he picked up the broom and swept the floor, clearing a large area of the room. Then he handed the broom to me, arranged my hair, and molded my barely clothed body to the position he desired—all while going to great lengths to avoid any eye contact.
Sandro stepped back slowly and grabbed the spool of cloth, unrolling it onto his newly cleared area. It was a fringed, silky taffeta, somewhere
around four feet by eight feet, with a pictorial of a meadow already painted on it. This done, he immediately went to work transferring the sketch he had drawn over to the cloth. He did so with painstaking precision, only occasionally glancing up at me. Then, out of nowhere, he suddenly stood up. “Wait! Let us do away with the broom. I almost forgot about the sword and shield I borrowed from Lorenzo!”
He retrieved the shield and sword from a corner, and approached me again. I could hardly tolerate the excitement he created just standing so near; every nerve in my body awakened in his presence. All I could think about was the few moments earlier, when his body and lips were pressed against my borrowed counterparts. It seemed so right, and yet, he acted as though it didn’t even happen. I felt the slow burn of insecurity rising to the surface. I was La Bella Simonetta, and he was supposed to have unrequited love for me! Not the other way around. Though perhaps his love hadn’t developed in a day.
“Last night, while at the Medici’s, I was inspired with a concept for the banner,” he said, as he handed me both the sword and shield.
Instead of using an easel this time, he hurriedly unfurled his paper on top of the cloth, then sketched more voraciously than ever. As he was down on his knees I had the privilege of watching his every marking; creating life on parchment. My countenance suddenly inhabited a flowery meadow, and was riding atop flames, with my shift billowing in the breeze. I was holding the shield and sword aimed at Cupid, who was tied to a tree.
I could almost feel myself becoming one with his creation. My emotions entwined with the man and his masterpiece. But for Sandro, it seemed his interest was only in the art; I was the prop that made it all possible. The painting was his focus—that is, until Mariano barged in.
Chapter 18
I knew Mariano well, as much as any spirit could know another. But in the flesh, he was a different man. I suppose Mariano was like any good friend. You never know what someone is really like until you live with them, sharing the same space day in and day out; learning what they’re like when they let their guard down, and the stresses of life get to them. In the Ognissanti, we had no stresses of life, but here it was different.
“I heard at the tavern that you left Pisa before the work was complete,” Mariano barked at Sandro.
“I was needed here, father.”
“You were needed there! You are so determined to paint despite what I think, and yet you left the job incomplete?”
“Lorenzo wanted me in Florence. I paint the standard for Giuliano.”
“You shame the family!”
So much for my patching up the relationship between Mariano and Sandro.
Mariano didn’t even notice I was there, before he stormed away. His outburst caused Sandro to slump over behind the banner, and retreat into a melancholy stupor. Clearly, my job was not yet done.
“Your father will be very proud of you…in the future,” I proclaimed.
I didn’t say how far in the future.
“He doesn’t understand. The Pisans know not what they want. They commissioned me for one thing, then had me begin something else. Back and forth, on and on. Lorenzo would not tolerate it. He looks out for me. He understands my worth even if my father does not. Many will come from all the city-states to see Giuliano in La Giostra. They will see my standard amidst all the pageantry.”
Sandro vented for only a minute, and with that, he was over it. He turned his attention back to his sketch of the banner.
It pained me to know that the banner wouldn’t survive, but the story would last forever, put into poetry by Angelo Poliziano. Only the story would survive. The tale of how the humble painter fell in love with the Genoese beauty, only to have her swept away by the great, arrogant Giuliano on horseback.
All while Marco did what?
I couldn’t believe that’s how the story would end. I now knew Simonetta in a way no one else could—from the inside out. Could this have been what she wanted? And Sandro?
“Your banner will be the main attraction of the tournament, Sandro. Not Giuliano.”
“Forgive my correction, my lady, but you are the main attraction. You are the reason they come from far and wide, to catch a glimpse of La Sans Pareille.”
“La Sans Pareille?”
“My father told me you speak French, the language of courtly love.”
“Oh….not really…” I mumbled, regretting my whole Déjà vu comment to Mariano.
“All of the French Court will know that you are the unparalleled one, as I plan to include that caption at the bottom of the standard.
The unparalleled one.
Those words kept repeating themselves inside my head. Simonetta was always made out to be this otherworldly creature, and yet I still felt all the discomforts a mortal body brings—the annoying inconveniences I’d become unaccustomed to: hunger, thirst, fatigue, sensitivity to hot and cold, desperation for the toilet—which had not yet been invented. Fortunately, the physical aches and pains in my teenage body were literally nonexistent compared to the ailing mass of flesh I’d left behind so long ago.
There was something I wasn’t seeing. Some deeper truth and meaning to it all. This was an era of higher contemplation, when men spent hours discussing philosophy, politics, alchemy, and spirituality. They couldn’t be that focused on some hot chick. And what was Mariano’s story? Why was it not enough for him that his son painted for the ruling family in Florence? Even if it was from his father’s attic.
It was difficult for me to concentrate on any of the questions and issues at hand since I was still in my ultimate fantasy world—even if it was stark, cold reality for everyone else.
Chapter 19
At the appointed time, Antonella returned to escort me back to the Palazzo Vespucci, but it was entirely too soon for me. I still had this fear that any moment might be my last, and I wanted to spend as many moments as possible with Sandro, basking in Simonetta’s Renaissance glory. This was a fear that had carried over from my lifetime, but it had taught me to live each moment to the fullest, and that was what I intended to do in this world as well.
As Antonella and I strode down the Via della Vigna Nuova, past the vineyard towards the Borgo Ognissanti, I wanted to share everything with her—my previous lifetime, my eleven years with Mariano, my miraculous resurrection—but I knew I couldn’t. Instead, we talked about her day of leisure, which she spent browsing for luxuries she couldn’t afford at the Mercato Nuovo. Antonella thanked me profusely for her free day, and hinted nonstop that she was in desperate need of another.
“Tomorrow you should visit the Miniato al Monte,” I insisted. “It’s a beautiful place.”
She nodded in agreement, as she looked longingly towards the Oltrarno, or beyond the Arno district, with a smile that stretched nearly from ear to ear.
When we entered the palazzo, she followed me up to the bedchamber, planted me in my chair, and primped me once again. When my coiffuring was complete, I sat motionless and stared blankly at her, since I had no idea what I was supposed to do.
“Well, go on,” she insisted.
“Where am I going?”
Antonella huffed. “To supper, of course. I know you do not like to sup with them, but do it for him.”
I couldn’t imagine the horror of whoever them was, and why I wouldn’t wish to sup with them. My days had already been such a marvelous blur of the surreal. Unless I was to dine with plague-stricken murderers, I couldn’t conjure a meal that would be anything short of incredible.
“Are you coming?” I asked Antonella.
“We have been over this before, Netta. You are the noblewoman. I am the attendant. In Firenze, it matters not that we have been lifelong friends. And as much as I long to be near him, I cannot. I will see you after supper.”
Antonella had been Simonetta’s lifelong friend.
At that moment I realized Antonella offered a fulfilling relationship, as well as insight into Simonetta’s psyche.
With that, she waved her arm towards my s
itting room. I entered the vacant space alone, looking around for a moment at all the portraits decorating its walls, when I heard the clanking and chatter of merrymaking. I followed the sound through my sitting room to the neighboring dining area where another ornately decorated space awaited me, equal in intricate detail to my sitting room or bedchamber. The dining room was lit with a myriad of candles, which illuminated a sea of frescoes and a ceiling, table, and chairs trimmed with gold. At the large table sat a group of men, woman and children.
“La Bella! Here! Next to me!” The voice belonged to the same young man who had beckoned me in the courtyard the prior morning. He was cheerful and handsome, about seventeen, I guessed.
I took my place next to him, fully expecting to be groped or slobbered on, but the young man didn’t really take notice of my appearance. After the men stood in a quick greeting, the other diners carried on, oblivious to my presence.
“You went again to the Medici Palazzo and did not take me!” The young man said.
I took a moment to examine the young man’s face, searching for a resemblance to one of the characters in the painting of the Vespucci family that hangs in the Ognissanti. He had blue eyes and dark curls, which framed a round, rosy-cheeked face. At once the light illuminated in my dull mind—I was sitting with the teenage version of the cartographer and explorer, Amerigo Vespucci, for whom the Americas are named. I felt at that moment I was destined to meet every dead inhabitant of the Ognissanti while in this world.
With childlike glee, Amerigo pointed to the map. “I have heard of a man in the North, a master of the wind, who seeks to reach the East Indies by sailing westward,” he continued to whisper, while pointing to the mass of lines. I looked around at the group of old crows discussing politics and recent hangings, and realized that I—or Simonetta rather—was the only one Amerigo’s age. It was clear he didn’t want the rest of the table to hear his words.
“Would this man be Christopher Columbus, by any chance?” I asked with a sideways glance, feeling bold in the company of my teenage friend.
What Remains of the Fair Simonetta Page 9