Urban Venus

by Sara Downing

  URBAN VENUS

  Sara Downing

  Venus of Urbino by Tiziano Vecellio (Titian)

  © Sara Downing 2011

  The right of Sara Downing to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious or are historical figures whose words and actions are fictitious. Any other resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Venus of Urbino by Tiziano Vecellio reproduced by kind permission of the Uffizi Gallery, Florence

  © Cover Design – Liz Bryan 2011

  For Jack, Harry & Emilia

  One

  Bologna, 1541

  The carriage rolls with a thief-like stealth through the sleeping streets as I take my leave of this beautiful city, my childhood home. The golden façades and porticoed passageways are illuminated by the final rays of moonlight before the cloud sweeps the nightlight from the sky; it serves to make an easier passage for the driver, but reveals to me the streets and alleyways that I will see no more. Now I prefer the darkness.

  The rearing Torri loom before us, the huge towers that pierce the skyline and seem to point to heaven itself, outstretched like fingers pleading for the forgiveness I know cannot be bestowed upon me. Their towering greatness serves to make me feel small and unimportant, my crime simply to love a man who could not be mine. We reach an open space, away from the narrow streets, and the driver picks up speed, whipping the horses to go faster and spirit us from this place. I pull my dark cloak around my head as the breeze cuts through me, and shiver with fear and the knowledge of an uncertain future. In as much as I know I cannot stay here, it pains me to go, and my heart pounds fit to burst from my chest as I consider what I have forgone.

  How can I leave this man who has loved and cherished me more than anyone in my short life? But I have to go; to stay would mean certain persecution. The man I love had no choice but to disown me, for his own sake and for the sake of his family. I so dearly wish that he could come with me, but it is not possible. He has his reputation to consider; it cannot be hindered by his love for a woman who is not his wife. He is long since gone from me.

  A sleeping pigeon, startled by the carriage wheels, flies up like a black ghost, its wings flapping in the semi-darkness like the cloak of the devil himself. This beautiful city, once so welcoming to me, now appears menacing and evil; why should I want to stay?

  We speed through the Piazza Maggiore and I permit myself one last glance up at the church of San Petronio, its huge campanile cutting the shadows of the square firmly in two. A sudden spear of moonlight illuminates a stained glass window, and the image of Our Lord is revealed to me. Am I worthy of looking upon his face? I feel I should deflect my gaze, lower my head in shame, but I am drawn to see his visage one final time. As I glance upwards, his enigmatic smile is sufficient to bestow upon me his blessing and forgiveness.

  I am now resolved to do what I must, despite the sinfulness of such an act in the eyes of the Lord. As the carriage makes a sharp turn into the Via d’Azeglio I pull my cloak tightly around me and throw myself onto the street below.

  Two

  Florence, Present Day

  ‘Ecco, signorina,’ exclaims the tassista, the unfortunate Florentine taxi driver who has had the onerous task of transporting me and my luggage from the station. And plenty of it there is, too. The term ‘travelling light’ has yet to make it into my vocabulary, let alone my way of life, and the poor man had spent ten minutes outside the station, attempting to squeeze every last suitcase and holdall into his small, battered (and almost certainly un-roadworthy) Fiat, for the final leg of my journey.

  Fortunately I’ve been lucky enough to have had plenty of offers of help with my heap of clobber at all the various en-route changeovers; there seemed to be a steady supply of willing passengers (usually male, so chivalry can’t be entirely dead, can it?) or porters to help me disembark from one leg of the journey and re-embark on the next. And that was without employing any of my feminine wiles on them; not that I’d dream of capitalising on being a mere petite little thing, with a tonne of luggage, and more than slightly challenged in the ability-to-carry-one’s-own-bags department. I know I’ve packed too much, and that’s my own fault, but there you go. I’m going to be here for the best part of a year, so I need it all! I just don’t have enough arms to carry it myself, so any offers of help are greatly appreciated.

  I suppose I have fared pretty well on this journey, all things considered. Flying just wouldn’t have been an option for me; the check-in chick at the airport would have taken one look at my personal luggage mountain and run off screaming, not to mention the hideous amount in excess baggage charges I’d have had to pay. Anyway, I’ve made it now, and as I hand the driver a twenty euro note, I don’t expect to see any change from it, despite the relatively short trip. The poor man has had to work hard for his money after all.

  What a place this is! I’ve only ever seen Florence in 2D, and the 3D version is really quite overwhelming. ‘Shabby chic’ has to be a term that was coined for this city; my short taxi ride brought me past palazzos and through piazzas, under archways and alongside gothic churches in glorious gilded stone and marble, all teeming with history but with an unexpectedly welcoming feel to them. There’s culture by the bucket-load here, no doubt about it, but none of it daunting in the way that it can be in some big cities. To me, Florence seems to beckon you to explore and enjoy; nothing is hidden away behind barriers like a museum piece, preserved for posterity but never experienced by the masses.

  The streets are heaving with tourists and locals alike; the latter go brusquely about their daily business, the former trail languorously, guide-book in hand as they gaze upwards at the magnificent domes and towers, oblivious to the crowds hurriedly trying to get past them. The inevitable parties of Japanese tourists shuffle quickly from street to street, following their umbrella-clutching guides, and snapping away on the myriad high-tech bits of photographic equipment that dangle round their necks.

  And here I am, finally, outside the place that is to be my home for the next year. It, too, is steeped in that same gorgeous shabby-chic as the parts of the city I have seen so far – a tall medieval building on several stories, each floor seemingly with its own style, almost as if it had been built one layer at a time by different architects, like some sort of gigantic wedding cake. No doubt it has simply been modified countless times over the centuries; some of the changes remain and others have crumbled to reveal the original detail in the structure behind them. Whatever its history, it’s a far cry from my student accommodation in Newcastle, a typical little early twentieth century northern two-up-two-down ‘back-to-back’, complete with original outside loo (and one indoors now too, thankfully), back yard, and a view of the identical row of houses behind it. I’d been happy there though – at least until recent events had conspired to make me otherwise – and I hope it will be available to rent again when I return to Newcastle next autumn to do my final year.

  With a deep breath for courage, I grab what I can manage of my bags, leaving the long-suffering taxi driver to carry the rest, and turn the heavy iron handle of the little door in the huge oak gate on the front of the building. The taxi driver steps through behind me, calling out a ‘Buonasera signorina, e buona fortuna!’ as he heaps my luggage in a pile, happy to leave me quickly and move onto the next (hopefully less demanding) customer, now that his job here is done. Whether he is wishing me luck for my stay in Florence, or merely with getting all my bags up to my apartment, is anyone’s guess. I’m going to need luck for both, I suppose.

  What greets me inside that little door is far from what I’d expected. In my head is a cool, slightly tatty b
ut grandly marbled vestibule of a large block of apartments; instead I open that door and step into a magical garden. It’s brimming with bougainvillea, roses and hibiscus flowers, and surrounded on three sides by a high brick wall, giving it an air of complete stillness and tranquillity, and shielding it from the prying eyes of neighbours; a tiny, perfect and fragrant oasis within the heart of this bustling city. I can’t believe how fabulous it is; the surprise takes my breath away and I stand there, rooted to the spot, trying to get my wits together.

  I spy a pair of slim, brown feet with cyan-painted toenails peeping round the side of the building; presumably another resident soaking up a bit of sun and enjoying this beautiful space. I decide not to go any further for fear of disturbing whoever she is and making a nuisance of myself in my first moments here, but just as that plan formulates, the feet drop to the ground, and the person attached to them comes around the corner.

  ‘Ciao!’ the gorgeous vision before me exclaims, shaking her mane of glossy dark hair almost in slow motion, like something from a shampoo ad, and stretching her lithe form. ‘You must be Lydia,’ she exclaims in perfect English with only the merest lilting hint of an Italian accent. ‘Benvenuta a Firenze! I am Leonora! I am your flatmate! Pleased to meet you!’ and at this juncture she grabs my hand in both of hers and shakes it vigorously, whilst proceeding to plant a kiss on each of my cheeks. ‘I thought I would wait for you here, help you with your bags,’ she goes on, surveying the luggage around my feet. ‘Good job I did,’ she adds, laughing.

  Leonora can obviously spot an English person at ten paces – how else could she have been so sure that I was her new flatmate and wasn’t moving into one of the other apartments? I hope it’s just my mountain of luggage giving me away and that I’m not letting the side down in the fashion stakes by dressing like a dowdy Brit. But one glance at Leonora’s attire – perfect figure-hugging designer skinny jeans and simple but elegant black strappy top – confirms that yes, I probably do look like your typical English girl abroad, in my cropped summer trousers, pastel tee-shirt and flip-flops. And my (relatively) pale complexion probably has something to do with it too. I think I’m quite brown (for once it hadn’t been a bad summer back home) and by UK standards I almost certainly am, but compared to Leonora’s naturally gorgeous olive glow, I look positively anaemic.

  I am as overwhelmed by this friendly, gushing welcome as I had been by my first glimpse of that walled garden; Leonora must think I am stupid, as it’s a good couple of minutes before I manage to emit a single word. Although that’s partly explained by the fact that she barely comes up for air. She is obviously glad to have a target on which to practise her immaculate English, but at this rate I anticipate I won’t be making much improvement in my own Italian linguistic skills – it’s going to be all too easy to speak to her in English.

  When Leonora finally stops regaling me with the joys and wonders of ‘La vita fiorentina’ (she is going to have to fill me in on the finer details of the city all over again at some point, as this is all way too much too soon and I can’t take it in) she grabs a few of the heavier looking bags and bounces energetically on her endless legs towards the building to escort me upstairs to our apartment.

  And what greets me inside is more along the lines of what I’d expected, although it still produces a jaw-hitting-the-ground-in-amazement moment. A cool, pale and well-trodden marble floor gives rise to the most dramatic, if shabby, staircase, which coils intricately around the edge of the circular stairwell like a tangled and gnarled wisteria. The iron fretwork of the banisters is broken at intervals with metal flowers and garlands, which make the whole structure seem alive, and possibly more at home in the garden we have just left, than in here. As I crane my head upwards I imagine climbing to the top of its infinite spiral like Alice, and disappearing into Wonderland, into another space and time away from reality.

  ‘We are on the third floor, il terzo piano,’ Leonora informs me as we climb, giving me a little Italian lesson en route. I don’t know if she’s been told that actually I do speak some Italian, but I can see I’m going to have to fight for my right to have a bash at it, or I will go back home after a year out here with not much more than the pidgin Italian I possess now.

  We reach the third floor and Leonora opens the door to our apartment. Another ‘wow’ moment as we enter the place that is to be my home; a huge room of epic proportions with a fantastically high ceiling – and a painted ceiling at that. I can’t believe I’m actually going to live in a building which has its own built-in Renaissance works of art! It’s furnished with antiques, whose general state of repair is indicative of the fact that this is a rental property – so they probably aren’t terribly valuable – but that doesn’t matter as the overall effect is perfect. To fill a room such as this with a couple of cream sofas from Ikea and a glass coffee table would have been an offence punishable only by death.

  Leonora shows me to my room and dumps the first few bags on the bed. Not only am I going to be living in Renaissance heaven, but I have an oak four-poster bed to boot! Leonora explains to me that this was her friend Manuela’s room; she is off doing a similar thing to me apparently, living abroad for a year, only Manuela has gone to South America. She is an archaeology student and plans to spend the year researching the Inca Trail. What a relief she and I aren’t doing a straight swap – can you imagine giving up all this for a single room with a faded candlewick bedspread, a view of the outside loo and forever grey Northern skies? I hope she’s been given an equally stunning room in her new temporary accommodation, wherever she is, in sight of a plethora of historic monuments or with some dramatically mountainous vista to open her shutters onto every morning.

  ‘You settle in and have a look around,’ Leonora suggests generously. ‘I’ll bring up the rest of your baggages.’ Finally, a flaw in her otherwise perfect English. Just wait till she hears my Italian, though. Still, at least I can muster up the basics such as ordering food and drink, and making myself understood around town, so in theory I won’t starve or get too lost, which has to be pretty high on the list of most important things as I settle into my new home city.

  The shutters had been closed against the onslaught of the sun’s heat, and the room is dark but by no means stuffy. Although it’s late September, the temperature is still in the upper twenties (oh, to have that even in the height of an English summer!) and the sun high in the sky, but my room is cool and tranquil, something to do with all the marble and high ceilings, I suppose. I’d lost my directional bearings as we circled up the staircase, and as I throw back the shutters and let the warm air gush in, I am delighted to find that my room overlooks the garden and I smile with undiluted pleasure as I take it all in again. I’m not so high up that I can’t appreciate the colours and aromas from up here, in fact I can smell the late summer roses that twirl round the building and reach as high as the floor below ours. I breathe in the exotic, heady scents, and shiver with excited anticipation. I have a feeling I’m going to be happy here.

  I wake up in a daze, completely disorientated and glancing around the room for some reassurance as to my whereabouts. As my brain and eyes slowly come back into focus I remember I’d started unpacking, hanging my clothes in the vast armoire which is so huge I’m convinced there’s a rear exit leading to Narnia. I’d been setting up my books and art materials on the huge oak table which will serve more than adequately as a desk, but then that gorgeous four-poster had looked so inviting, calling ‘Try me, try me’, with its creamy embroidered bedspread and huge squidgy bolster pillows, I thought I’d just have a teensy little go and see how comfortable it was. Not surprisingly, I was shattered after nearly twenty-four hours of travelling, and must have nodded off almost instantly.

  I have no idea what time of day it is; there is still a gentle warmth wafting in through the open window and although the sun isn’t blazing with quite the full force of earlier, it isn’t yet dark. Good, so I haven’t missed the evening, then. Leonora had promised to show me some of th
e sights by dusk; trendy bars and restaurants, the ‘cool’ places to ‘be seen’, which is a big thing for the Italians, so I’ve been informed. From early evening, the aperitivo hour comes into full force, and anyone who is anyone wants to be seen socialising at the smartest bars and bistros, soaking up the café culture and watching the rest of the world go by. It’s the time of day when all the beautiful young things are out and about, gossip and confidences are exchanged, and martinis and proseccos quaffed in abundance. It sounds glamorous and exotic, and a far cry from a trudge down to the dingy old-man’s pub on the corner, in coat and boots, for a ‘quick one or two,’ as it would be back home. I can’t wait to experience it for myself.

  I can hear voices coming from the living room – although that seems a pretty lame word for a room of such palatial dimensions; I think I might have to be posh and call it the drawing room. So I quickly run my fingers through my slept-in hair, add a touch of lip gloss, and venture out to investigate.

  Leonora is draped gracefully over one of the antique sofas, now wearing a light blue strappy silk dress which shows off her perfectly tanned and toned arms, and sipping a tall glass of something cool and sparkling. Her head is thrown back, showing her long elegant neck, as she laughs at someone’s joke. Next to her is another girl, presumably Sophia, my other flatmate. She is equally gorgeous but in a blonder, more Northern-Italian, curvaceous sort of way. Actually, she looks more Swiss than Italian, although her dark skin gives away her heritage. She is a complete goddess as well. How am I ever going to stand a chance with the male of the Italian species with these two to compete with? At most I will be picking up their cast-offs. Although having had that thought, I sneak a quick glance at the three men who are also here and try to keep my bottom jaw from going slack; well, if they are representative of the standard, then cast-offs aren’t going to be half bad. I can cope with that.