“Cristoforo Columbo. Si! How did you know?” he asked, perplexed. Before I could respond, he added, “Ahh, I forgot, you are from Genoa. Same as he.”
“That’s right,” I replied emphatically, although I always thought Columbus was a Spaniard. That Columbus bastard refused to admit he didn’t land in the East Indies, therefore dubbing Native Americans—my people—“Indians” before he caused many of them to be slaughtered. Realizing I went to the dark side, and it was probably written all over my face, I tried to lighten the mood.
“I’ve heard he has this crazy idea that the world is round,” I laughed.
“It has been known since the time of Aristotle that the Earth is a sphere, you silly woman,” he scoffed, as he elbowed me in my side.
Oops.
“You drew this?” I asked Amerigo.
“Yes. It is of my own creation. You see, Cristoforo studies the winds, and follows the sun and the stars, but I am convinced that we can more precisely know our location while at sea.”
“How?”
“By also looking to the position of the moon and the red planet named for the god of war,” he added for dramatic effect.
“You mean Mars?”
“Exactly! These lines run east to west,” he said, pointing to the map once again, “Easily calculated by measuring the distance from the sun to the horizon. But these lines, I believe, can be calculated using a triangular distance between the Earth, Mars, and the moon!” His excitement caused him to raise his boyish voice enough to pierce through the jibber-jab at the table. Suddenly one of the older men stood up, gray and stern, as he pounded his fist on the solid walnut table.
“Amerigo! I told you that you must concentrate on becoming a successful merchant, and stop talking about crazy things that will get us all tossed out on our rears!”
I couldn’t help but think that all fathers in the Renaissance could use some anger management therapy.
“But father, why not speak freely now, since they are not due back until the morrow? And this will help us become more successful. I shall return from my voyage with all manner of goods like Florence has never seen!” He stood up and raised his right fist in the air for triumphant emphasis. “We shall be rich beyond compare!”
“Amerigo!” his father chided, while casting his eyes towards Luciana. The angry servant had entered the dining room carrying a tray of food. He apparently didn’t want Luciana privy to the conversation.
I forgot about the discussion, as I was suddenly mesmerized by the heaping bowl of pasta that smelled divinely like pesto, and fresh bread resting on Luciana’s tray. I hadn’t realized just how crazy hungry I was. All the needs and cravings of my body had blurred together, as I hadn’t experienced any for so long.
The room went pin-drop quiet as all eyes turned to the beautiful Moorish woman, while she served dinner, smiling graciously at all the men. I was the last to face an empty plate and would continue to be as Luciana lifted her nose to the sky, flashed me a nasty grin, then marched out of the dining room. The men were too busy ravaging their food to pay attention to the fact that my wooden trencher remained empty. They were shoveling their food in with their hands, grabbing and biting—all except Amerigo.
“Here, take mine,” Amerigo whispered, as he shook his head. He scraped his pasta onto my trencher using his only utensil—a sharp knife. “Luciana!” Amerigo called cheerfully, as he made his way out of the room. “It was so good, I must have more!”
He returned with an overflowing trencher of food. “Her envy of you is unbecoming of a woman so beautiful,” Amerigo said, as he ate in a slightly more refined manner than his older relatives. I, on the other hand, quickly crammed the pasta into my face like a wild animal before Luciana returned. Fortunately, napkins were provided.
The sound of heavy footsteps suddenly resonated through the hallways, loudly enough that everyone paused for a moment. This time, I wasn’t the only one who was in the dark about what was going on.
“Is it possible they are home early from Piombino?” Amerigo asked of me.
“I suppose,” I shrugged, having no idea who they were.
A few moments later, a pair of men, appearing to be father and son, entered the room. Every diner at the table stood and nodded their acknowledgement to the elder of the two.
“Piero, you were not due back until the morrow!” Amerigo’s father remarked, as he vacated his chair to make room for Piero.
I was late to the gate in offering the expected standing up thing, taking time to wipe a piece of pasta that was hanging from my mouth. The men’s bottoms were already on their way back down to their chairs when I caught the drift. .
“Our business was completed early,” Piero replied to the group, as the son loomed over Amerigo. I was struck for a moment by the younger man’s familiarity, though it wasn’t from the paintings in the Ognissanti. It was something else I couldn’t place. Then it struck me all at once.
As Amerigo met the young man’s, gaze, he immediately stood up in reverence to make room for him as well. Shortly thereafter, the twenty-something year old man sat beside me, absentmindedly grabbing my hand and kissing it.
“How do you fare, my darling?” the handsome man asked, as he looked to his father for approval, rather than at me.
“I’m…well…Marco,” I stammered. Somehow, I instinctively knew he was Simonetta’s husband. He didn’t even glance at me as I searched his face, noting every curve and furrow. Even though his dark hair was longer, and he had a few days’ worth of facial stubble, his piercing green eyes gave Marco a striking resemblance to my twenty-first century husband—the one I’d run away from and divorced because I loathed him so much.
The air in the room became static and tense. The presence of one or both of these men caused a quiet but palpable anxiety amongst the diners, which soon infected me as well.
As Luciana graciously served the two newcomers to the table, Marco seemed to be making a show of doting on me with disconnected affection, telling me how much he missed me, speaking of the business during the journey from which he just returned, all while seeking no input or response from me whatsoever.
Finally, he asked, “Has the banner for Giuliano been completed?”
“No, Sandro…Botticelli has barely started. I would imagine it will be several weeks before he’s done.”
“I should hope not, since the joust is in less than two sennights!”
“What’s a sennight?” I whispered between my teeth to Amerigo, who was now seated on the other side of me.
“Ahh, you Genoese,” Amerigo whispered sarcastically. “It is half a fortnight, silly woman.”
Well, that wasn’t helpful at all.
“The painter has requested that I model in his studiolo every day until it’s done,” I insisted to Marco.
“We will discuss that in the morn, after a good night’s sleep, my darling,” Marco said with a soft tone, but a harsh expression meant just for me.
After the meal was finished, Amerigo and the other family members slowly abandoned the table. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, so I waited until the last of the diners—Marco and Piero—arose, then followed their cue. It appeared that most were off to bed due to the lateness of the hour. I nervously sauntered behind the two strangers, but both turned left instead of right towards my bedchamber.
I tried to scamper off to my chamber on my own, but Marco stopped me. “Are you having your bath before bed?” He again looked to his father in such an odd manner.
“Yes,” I stammered, relieved to forestall any alone time with Marco as long as possible. I quickly tucked myself behind the door of my bedchamber with my heart pounding.
“How was supper?” Antonella asked, scaring the daylights out of me. I hadn’t expected her to be there.
“It was fine,” I shrugged. “Marco’s home.”
“I thought he was not due until the morrow?”
“Apparently, he returned early.”
Lucky me.
&nbs
p; For just a moment, I wished to be back in the Ognissanti—back in the cold, dark realm, alone with Mariano and my thoughts—to avoid the inevitable. A husband just back from travel would have certain expectations of his wife; expectations I was more than reluctant to fulfill.
I had the urge to run away, like I had from my first marriage. I wanted to take off and tell no one where I was going, but it wasn’t exactly like I could drive off in my Mercedes, and use my credit card to check into the nearest Marriott.
I desperately wanted to stay in this world, but was this the price I’d have to pay? I decided my cleansing session needed to last an extra-long time, just to delay our intimate encounter.
“I’m ready for my bath, Antonella,” I said, because she seemed to be making no effort towards that end, although I certainly was in no hurry.
“Are you certain you do not want to bathe after?” she replied.
Oh, god. Why would I need to bathe after?
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Although I may need one then too.
I shuddered at the thought of what might transpire that Antonella felt I needed to wash off. She heated the water in the fireplace, and cleansed me from a bucket. With every stroke of the wet sponge, a new excuse for Marco popped into my head.
I was tired. I had a headache. It was that time of the month… Syphilis??? Can we just snuggle?
When I went to wet my hair, Antonella grabbed my hand. “No, Netta! You washed your hair last week. It takes far too long to dry! Will you have him wait all night?”
“Yes?”
Sigh.
“No, I suppose not.”
“All right! You are clean. Let us get on with it!”
Antonella walked out the side door to an adjacent room, and I realized I could delay no longer. I grabbed the clean shift she had laid out for me, put it on, and made my way towards Marco’s chamber. I decided to look at the task like any other unpleasant one I’d encountered in life, like giving a speech in college. I always volunteered to go first just to get it over with. It wasn’t like I couldn’t use a good Renaissance romp; it had been eleven years since I’d even had a body.
As I quietly opened the door and crept into the darkened room, I heard Marco whisper, “I missed you so much. I just had to come home early.”
I had no idea how to respond, since I didn’t know him, and even if I did, it was doubtful I would’ve missed him much.
I heard a rhythmic rustling as I shut the door behind me, followed by a bit of a moan. It seemed that Marco had started without me. I uneasily felt my way to the bed, when I made contact with the warmth of skin and saw the whites of eyes shooting daggers at me. Eyes I could recognize even in the dark. “What are you doing, idiota!?” Luciana spat.
My eyes were startled into focus, and I could see Luciana’s glistening brown body proudly riding atop Marco like she was the victor in Giuliano’s joust.
“Oh my god! I’m sorry,” I muttered, then bolted from the room at record speed, dove into my bedchamber and quickly shut the door, out of breath.
“Where did you go? And why are you in your shift?” Antonella questioned.
“I…I….”
“He is waiting! Let us go,” Antonella barked, then got to work changing me into the brown servant’s dress I’d worn the day before.
“Wait. Who’s waiting, Antonella?” As much as I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that I didn’t know anything about my own life, I had to ask. Though I was relieved to know it wasn’t Marco.
“Amerigo, of course. Have you been nipping again?”
“Again?”
Great. I’m a wine-o, and apparently I’m humping my husband’s cousin.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like Amerigo. We obviously had some kind of connection, or at least he had one with Simonetta, but I only had eyes for Sandro, and I longed to go to him right then.
Chapter 20
Antonella quickly attired me in the homely brown dress, struggling only for a moment while she tucked my huge mane of hair underneath the weird, white skullcap. I couldn’t figure out why Amerigo would want me to dress like a servant. It was bizarre enough that my ex-husband wanted me to slink around the house dressed as a French Maid. These quattrocento men were as freaky as any modern man I’d known during my life. I had already given him a five minute limit in my mind, before I’d make up an excuse to go to bed—alone.
I went to leave the room the same way I’d entered, assuming Amerigo could be found in that direction, but Antonella stopped me in my tracks. “Have you gone mad?” she asked.
One of us has, I thought. It could quite possibly be me.
She clutched my arm in her not-so-gentle-manner and spun me around to the door on the opposite side of the room. I had yet to explore this part of the palazzo, although I’d seen Antonella go in and out that same door many times during these last two days. We crossed the threshold, entering a dreary, sparsely furnished room with merely a cot and a chest to fill the space. The walls were gray and prison-like, with no windows and only one uninspired painting situated in an awkwardly low position on the far wall. Antonella crossed the dismal room—which was clearly her own—and went for the painting, swinging it aside to reveal a small door behind. Antonella held a candle high to illuminate the tight corridor on the other side of the door, which ended at the base of a staircase. As we started down the stairs, my head was swimming with doubt and wonder.
Out of nowhere, someone grabbed me from behind. “Where are you going?” The male voice asked in a whisper, as he held a hand over my mouth to prevent my inevitable scream.
I have no flipping idea.
I turned to face my attacker, only to find Amerigo bursting into laughter. I prepared myself for a kiss or embrace, but instead, he brushed past me and reached for Antonella. I was just a third wheel in this weird scenario. Amerigo, dressed in the same drab colors as Antonella and me, clutched both of Antonella’s hands for a moment, before asking, “Shall we then?”
“We shall!” Antonella enthused.
Amerigo held a small torch, and led the way down the narrow set of tiny, seemingly endless stairs. At the bottom, he dug into his pockets for a key which unlocked a large, rusty padlock, and opened another small door. Antonella and I followed him into a tiny alley, which was only slightly larger than the girth of our bodies. We had to reshuffle ourselves so Amerigo could close the door behind him. Sandro had been correct when he said all palazzi had a back exit.
We followed Amerigo around a corner, crouching low through the winding alleyways, avoiding the gaze of passersby, when at last we reached the Borgo Ognissanti. I crossed once again in front of my real home. The church of Ognissanti was alive with candlelight. I managed only a glimpse inside, but again caught sight of that familiar nun, who Antonella claimed to be the Abbess. She was sweeping the floor, but stopped as if she sensed my presence, slowly raising her head towards me. I picked up my step to catch Amerigo and Antonella, escaping the Sister Constance look-alike and my realm once again.
We continued the short distance to the Arno River, and traversed what is called the Lungarno Amerigo Vespucci in modern times. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the irony. Obviously, it must have had a different name at this time, since I was sneaking around with the teenage version of its namesake.
“What in Madonna’s name are you laughing at?” Amerigo asked in a hushed voice.
“Nothing. Just thought of something funny.”
“She has been giddy since her meeting with the painter yesterday morn,” Antonella added.
“Who? Sandro?” Amerigo questioned. “He is a good fellow, but quite beneath your station. Do you not think?”
I watched the smile fade from Antonella’s face. She was obviously quite smitten with Amerigo, but just as clearly disappointed in such a statement.
“I’m not concerned with anyone’s station, nor should you be,” I scolded.
“Yes, you are correct,” he said, as he looked to Antonella with sorrowf
ul eyes. But what of Giuliano?” Amerigo asked of me.
“Why does no one ask me, ‘what of Marco’?” I questioned, sarcastically. “He’s my husband for God’s sake!”
Both Amerigo and Antonella stopped in their tracks and looked at me intently, but neither answered. Instead, they simply exchanged a knowing look, and laughed like hyenas in the savanna.
“Does everyone know about Marco and Luciana?” I asked, exasperated.
“Marco has somehow managed to keep it from Piero, but if you do not produce a child soon, I would imagine my uncle will soon suspect something is amiss,” Amerigo replied.
“You expect Netta to become the second Madonna, Amerigo? Producing another virgin birth!” Antonella laughed.
“Ha! Then Sandro would have just cause to paint her again in a nice altarpiece!” Amerigo laughed with Antonella at my expense.
I’m a virgin? What the hell!
That was a situation that needed to be rectified before my time was over. I made a mental note to start writing a ‘second coming’ bucket list.
Still dejected, I followed Amerigo across the Ponte alla Carraia, while my mind boggled over the whole celibacy thing. Simonetta could have had any man she wanted, but instead she chose to have no one?
We ducked down, as we continued across the bridge and into the San Spirito district of the Oltrarno, and the quiet Florentine night became transformed, the air filled with music and festivity.
“I almost forgot!” Antonella exclaimed, as she bent down to the ground and put her hands in the dirt, rubbing it all over her face. Amerigo followed suit, while I remained motionless, puzzling over their odd behavior.
“Would you like this to be the night you are recognized?” Antonella asked.
“Uh…no.” I replied, as I rubbed the grimy dirt all over my freshly cleaned face. Now I clearly understood why Antonella thought I should bathe “after.”
I trailed behind them into a lively tavern, with tattered men clanking silver mugs and playing cards, and grungy-looking prostitutes hanging around the bar.
What Remains of the Fair Simonetta Page 10