Urban Venus

by Sara Downing

  Five

  Monday morning dawns bright and sunny – again. Oh, to live forever in a place like this where the sun always shines, the sky is always the kind of blue a child would paint it, and the temperature is short-sleeve warm, even at this early hour of the day. And here we are rapidly approaching October; at home it would all be grey skies, lots of rain, and we’d have hauled the winter woollies out of the wardrobe long since. Here it’s definitely still late summer, with no obvious signs of autumn as yet.

  It has to be good for the soul to live somewhere like this – how could anyone ever contemplate being miserable here? I throw open the shutters in my room to an onslaught of brightness and breathe in the rose-smelling scent from the trailers beneath the window. All sad or bad thoughts seem to have deserted me since I arrived here; the change of scene, climate, culture, or a combination of the three, seems to be divesting me of my worries more than any other distraction I’ve tried so far. Ed? Ed who? Who was he? Oh, just some stupid bloke I once knew who didn’t know what was good for him. Who needs him, anyway? I certainly don’t. The course of my new life here stretches ahead of me like unchartered waters, waiting for me to pull up anchor and set sail. I can’t wait.

  Leonora has to go in for a lecture this morning, so she suggests I tag along with her. She’s a Law student, so she can at least point me in the direction of the Arts Faculty and leave me to it. I need to go and get hold of all the forms I need, not just to register at the University but to make myself legal for living here too; residence permits, all that sort of official stuff. As we dog-leg at a brisk pace through a network of tiny backstreets whose names all blur into one, I wonder how on earth I will find my way home later. Fortunately, like the tourists from whom, thanks to my educational motivations for being here, I am one step up on the evolutionary scale, I am fully equipped with map and compass, in the guise of very clever iPhone apps, plus I do possess the ability to be able to make myself understood in the native language. Well, just about, anyway.

  Finally the imposingly grand Palazzo Strozzi looms before us, and I part company with Leonora, who has a breakfast date with a friend before her lecture. I manage to locate the building in the Via del Parione, and firmly put on my best Italian-thinking head before braving it alone.

  So, now I am legal. Forms all completed, in duplicate, triplicate and whatever else they were, just loads of them it seemed, all in very complex Italian with hardly any punctuation, a bit like English legal documents only they could have been in ancient Greek, for all that I understood them. I will probably find out all too late that I’ve signed up for some dodgy time-share, bought a car or pledged to donate my organs, instead of applying for my course and the various study and residence permits I need. I hadn’t realised just how bureaucratic the Italian way of doing things would be – it had been bad enough at home filling in all the documents I needed just to get me here, and now I am here I have had to do it all over again, tenfold. So much for us all being in Europe and it being a paperless society in the twenty-first century. Ha.

  Formalities dealt with, it’s time to meet my tutor. Signore Tizzaro’s office is Room 26a on the third floor in Block B, so I have been informed (and thankfully understood) so I grab my map of the building and head off. I must be getting near when I hear raised voices. Clearly someone is not a happy bunny; a male and a female voice are in the full throes of a pretty vitriolic argument, but I can’t hear enough to decipher what is being said. Suddenly a door flies open with a bang and a very angry, but very attractive girl, most likely a student from the armfuls of books she is clutching, flies out into the corridor, flicks her hair aggressively over her shoulder with a scowl and flounces off towards the staircase.

  I look around for 26a before realising it’s the room the girl has just emerged from. Great, Signore Tizzaro is really going to be in a receptive mood for meeting a new student, especially one with whom there’s likely to be a little bit of a language barrier, requiring him to make more of an effort to communicate than normal. Perhaps I should come back later, or tomorrow, I wonder, but as I stand in the corridor, poised either to knock or to flee, I haven’t yet decided which, his door flies open again and this time, he (I assume it’s him) is standing there, tucking in his shirt and running fingers through dark, dishevelled hair.

  ‘La Signorina Irvine, presumo di sì!’ he exclaims, pronouncing my surname ‘Ear-veen-ay’ as his expression softens from the taut air of post-argument tension to a more welcoming smile in a mere split-second. Either this guy is a great actor, or that fight didn’t really mean much to him at all. Whereas that poor girl looked like she was about to throw herself from the campanile at sunset. I hope for her sake that she was unhappy with her grades, or something like that, rather than it being a disagreement of a more personal nature… In any case, it’s nothing to do with me, and as long as he is a good tutor, then that’s all that matters.

  If I had been expecting a crusty old academic, then Signore Tizzaro is about as far removed from that as you could possibly get. He doesn’t look that much older than me, although he has to be, I suppose, if you take into account the number of years of effort actually required to get to professor-hood. Such gravitas doesn’t come with extreme youth, so he must be thirty as a minimum, I’d guess, and he’d have to be at least that old to have read half the books lining his shelves. And, I note later, to have written the six volumes of his own work, displayed in a rather prominent position on the bottom shelf near his desk. In the corner of his office there is an easel with a half-completed painting, and despite its state I can clearly see that it is of the girl who left his office just now. Model as well as student then….hmmmm.

  Signore Tizzaro invites me to call him Vincenzo. Apparently there aren’t the formalities in the Italian higher-education system that we have back home, he says. Yeah, right, try telling that to the guy on the admin desk who had me filling in fifty thousand forms not too many moons ago. Formality was his middle name. I have to say that whilst the arrays of books lining his room are impressive, Signore Tizzaro, or should I say Vincenzo, fails to make the initial impression on me that he is clearly hoping to. After my obvious exposure to the argument, he seems to be trying too hard to compensate by laying on the charm, but why he should feel he needs to is a mystery to me; he’s my tutor, not a prospective lover. I’ve already marked his card as a womaniser, even with so little evidence to go on. Whilst my new friends Stefano, Dante and Lanzo seem to be able to carry off that very over-the-top Italian ‘way with women’ without it seeming offensive, Vincenzo just comes across as a bit creepy. Which is a shame, as I had been hoping for someone to look up to this year, someone I could draw inspiration from. But that’s going to be tricky if I don’t feel entirely comfortable with him.

  During and after our first conversation, I can’t help thinking back to that poor girl leaving his office; I wonder exactly what cause she had to be so angry with him, and the word ‘sleazebag’ keeps popping into my head. I try to divorce it from my professional opinion; we have to work together, after all. I can’t allow myself to think at this stage that it was a lovers’ tiff. I shouldn’t be drawing such conclusions based on first impressions alone, and I resolve to give the guy a break, see what he has to offer me. I’m not normally one to judge people I hardly know so harshly.

  I leave Vincenzo’s office with a lecture timetable, study guide, map of the city (another one) and various other bits of paperwork to add to the green, pink and blue sheets of paper Mr Formality downstairs gave me earlier. Luckily for me it looks as though my lectures are scattered about in various parts of the city centre, and some even in the great homes of art themselves, so I consider myself very fortunate not to have to traipse off to some dull 1970’s concrete lecture theatre every day. It seems the faculty like to present as many of the lectures as possible in situ, and who can blame them; it has to be heaps easier to inspire your students when you actually have the art to hand as a prop, instead of relying on PowerPoint and other mock-ups, as
we had to back home.

  As for today, I want to go to this afternoon’s lecture on Raphael, which is being held in a side room at the Uffizi. Great, another chance to get back in there, and this time without having to buy a ticket; the uni provides us with special passes on the days we need to get in there for lectures. I must remember that – it’s one way to save the Euros, to hoard up my visits for days when I can get in for free!

  After leaving Newcastle with my bank balance looking none too healthy at the end of the summer term, I had worked a lot over the long holidays. Well, a lot is a bit of an understatement actually, as I’d worked all the hours I possibly could in a vain attempt to erase Ed from my mind and not be left sitting around with time on my hands, going over it all time after time. That last bit hadn’t worked too well but at least the financial side of my plans was a success and I’d managed to pay off my overdraft and save up enough to see me through – hopefully – most of this year. My parents are helping me out with accommodation costs – I don’t see how I could do this otherwise – but I don’t want to have to put on them any more than I have to so I need to be careful, or I will end up having to work whilst I’m here too. And I’d planned not to have to do that.

  The lecturer looks an interesting sort; typical ‘mad professor’ hair cut (although that mop probably hasn’t seen a pair of scissors in two decades, more likely a set of garden shears), dreadfully mismatched clothes (aren’t we in one of the Italian centres for fashion here?) and a set of teeth that could be used as park railings, complete with rust. Nothing aesthetically pleasing about him at all, although Vincenzo did say he was one of the more brilliant and inspiring lecturers, so again I need to maintain an open mind and give him a chance, and stop judging people on first impressions.

  And I am enthralled from the start. Signore Di Girolamo rounds up and captures his audience like the Pied Piper within seconds of the start of his lecture, and I sit completely rapt for the full hour, not even breaking my gaze to glance around the room at the others present, or, surprisingly, the artwork lining the walls. At the end, as he starts to pack his things together, he is suddenly surrounded by a swarm of students, all wanting to ask more and get inside his brilliant mind.

  ‘You are English, yes?’ the guy next to me asks, as I’m busy observing this scrum and packing away my own notes, still in thrall to the greatness of Signore Di Girolamo. ‘What did you think of our fantastic professor? Isn’t he brilliant? I am Eduardo,’ he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. Oh no, not another Ed, even if he is an Italian version and looks nothing like my Ed. Has he been sent here to haunt me, a flashback from my painful past? Don’t be so silly, Lydia.

  ‘Mi chiamo Lydia. Piacere,’ I reply, seizing the proffered hand, and not wanting him to think that like most English people abroad, I can’t have a go in the native tongue.

  ‘How are you settling in? Have you fallen in love with our beautiful city yet?’ he asks in Italian, and I manage to formulate a sensible reply which doesn’t sound half bad, I think. He understands me, anyway. ‘A few of us are going for a coffee now. Would you like to join us?’ he asks.

  I can’t believe how welcoming everyone is here. There I am, thinking I stand out like a sore thumb as the English girl, but these guys are going out of their way to include me in their circle of friends. It would be great to get to know some people on my course; I can’t expect Sophia and Leonora to keep providing ready-made friends and do all the hard work, so I accept gladly and gratefully. I will have to sneak back into the gallery on my free pass later and go and see the Raphael work properly, but I can’t miss an opportunity to make some more friends.

  ‘We are going just round the corner from here,’ Eduardo adds. ‘We no drink caffè in this piazza, too expensive,’ he goes on in English, wagging a finger and smiling. ‘We know a lovely bar, not far from here, well, not very lovely but caffè is good. I show you, you come with us.’

  I follow him and his small band of friends, who each introduce themselves to me with a welcoming smile and a handshake. I can’t recall making friends ever being this easy in my first week at Newcastle. Freshers’ Week seemed to be fraught with pressure to get in with the ‘right’ crowd, join the ‘cool’ clubs, and work out where to be seen and with whom. Florence doesn’t seem half as fake and pretentious as all that; everyone I have met so far has been genuinely lovely, with no ulterior motive in getting to know me other than that they would like me to be their friend. Simple as that.

  Eduardo was right about the bar; it’s far from lovely. It’s the sort of place that if I were on my own, I would give a very wide berth to; one of those typical little backstreet cafés you see all over any big city in Italy, a bit grubby and seedy looking, with most customers standing at the bar drinking their coffee. (I hadn’t realised until now that they charge you more to sit down – common mistake of the foreigner.) Fortunately one of the group knows the owner, Mario, so we do get a table, for no extra charge, and I am glad of it, as there is no lingering over coffees as compact as these, and without a table there would have been limited opportunity to get to know the rest of the crowd I have come here with. Not a latte or a cappuccino in sight at this time of day; they are the territory of the tourist, apparently. Nothing that milky should be drunk post-breakfast, so I am told. So it looks like no more long frothy coffees for me as I try to integrate myself into the Italian way of life; it’s straight down the hatch with this potent blast of thick, black liquid.

  I leave the café an hour later with two of those shots coursing round my veins, feeling very energised, and intent on going back to the Uffizi to have a look at the Raphaels. Those duly visited and notes taken, I find myself again in room twenty-eight. I start with a closer look at Flora and Eleanora, then end up on the bench in front of my Venus. Funny how easily I am drawn here……..

  ‘Maria, wake up. Come quickly,’ the whisper in my ear stirs me from a gentle slumber. ‘He is here, he has come to see you.’ Clara hands me my robe which I quickly pull around my shoulders, and locates my silk slippers tucked under the side of the bed.

  I descend the staircase nervously. It is several weeks since I have seen him; I do not know what his reaction to me will be. Did I give myself to a man who will cast me aside, like the others have done, or have I found in him someone to whom I will be very special, as he is to me, who will look after me and cherish me as I long for so very much? But if so, why does he come to me in the depth of the night, if not for just one purpose?

  ‘My darling….’ I start as I set eyes on him, but he motions to me to be silent, placing his index finger gently over my lips and steering me quickly into a side room. It is cold in here, the fire long since extinguished. Only the upstairs rooms require heating at night; once the gentlemen have retired for the evening with the girl of their choice, Rosetta dampens the fires downstairs, her job for the night done, all monies collected, doors closed until the morning. She can retire to her own bed – alone.

  It is fortunate that I also find myself alone this evening; tonight for once there is no male company for me. Rosetta is a kind mistress, I believe. She does not force us to work every night, nor will she insist we work if we are tired, or ailing, or suffering our monthly curse. Provided we succeed in earning our keep for the week, a headache or simply a wish for some peace can provide a night of respite. And the gentlemen who visit are only of the finest class; they are kind and generous to us and do not treat us in the manner our profession befits. Yes, I have been lucky here, I know that.

  He places his hands gently on my shoulders and looks me directly in the eye, before lowering his head as if in slow motion and brushing my lips with the most fleeting of kisses. Then he seems to come to, out of his mesmeric state, and remembers the purpose for which he has come. ‘Pack your things quickly, my love. You are coming with me tonight. My carriage awaits us outside. Clara will say nothing to Rosetta, it is agreed.’ Here he gently taps his pocket to show that Clara has been remunerated for her silence. ‘Go now, fet
ch your clothes and your possessions; I will wait here for you.’

  So I am to be spirited from this place, at last! But now the hour of my departure approaches I find myself fearful. I have been happy here, despite the manner in which I earn my living, and well looked after, and I cannot help but feel a little apprehensive about what the future holds. It is one thing to make promises to one’s love in the depths of night, another to bring them to fruition and to make good those pledges for eternity. Can he really keep me safe, and love me like he tells me he wants to?

  With great speed I dress and pack my affairs, which are few and of little worth. Casting a brief backwards glance at the place which has been my home for all these years, I spy Clara’s earnest face watching nervously from the window as I climb into the waiting carriage.

  Six

  I leave the gallery in something of a daze. What is it about that room that sends me to sleep the moment my bottom hits that bench? I’d brought my books with me to take some notes, but barely had I withdrawn pencil from case than I was out for the count once more. It’s like some weird art-hallucinogenic thing going on; just a few minutes of exposure to it and I am off. I wonder if the other rooms in the gallery, or even other paintings, would have the same effect on me, but then I haven’t put that to the test and I’m not sure I want to either. One set of dreams at a time is more than enough for me to cope with.

  Am I reading too much into all this? Perhaps I am just still really shattered; all the excitement of arriving, meeting so many lovely new people and being so completely and utterly overwhelmed by the beauty and culture around me wherever I go? I just need to pull myself together and get on top of it. Yes, that’ll be all it is, pure lack of sleep and over-tiredness.