by Sara Downing
‘So, you will come?’ he asks, clasping his hands together. I prolong his agony by pulling a pensive face and producing my phone from by bag, scrolling through the calendar to find the right dates, and then finally saying:
‘Oh, yes, I can come. I seem to have a free day on the Thursday.’ As if I wouldn’t have gone, but I don’t want him thinking that his exhibition is so important that I would clear the decks to be there, regardless of any other commitments I might have. Actually, I can’t wait to see his work; the little bits of it I’ve seen around his office are very promising. He has a strong, individual style, quite unique really, and despite the female-students-as-model dramas I’ve heard about, I am expecting to be very impressed. I need to give the guy a chance.
Seven
The crowds line the streets ten deep. I stand at the open window and gaze down from my privileged position to the masses below, whose gentle chant of ‘Il Papa, il Papa’ grows stronger as the Papal procession nears the piazza, and his ardent followers glimpse for the first time his lavish procession. How fortunate we are to have a visit from our Holy Father; he honours us humble Bolognese so greatly with his presence.
Whilst Rosetta gladly gives us this leisure time to feast our eyes upon the great man and his entourage, she expects us to do our duty as normal this evening. There are many visitors to this city and, despite the religious fervour which brings them here, they are but men and have their needs, and those will not be inhibited by the presence of Il Papa. Our usual clientele will tonight have to compete with gentlemen from outside the city, and whilst the disbursement Rosetta demands of our visitors will deter those whose manners are less refined, we need to be prepared for a long, tiring night of hard work, with men whose desires and wants may be unfamiliar to us.
Finally the cavalcade comes into view, and I do believe in my eighteen years on this earth that I have never seen anything so beautiful and so richly opulent. A convocation of choirboys leads the way, their red cassocks and brilliant white surplices mirrored by the crimson, lighted candles they carry before them. The carriage seems to be made from gold alone, as though hewn in one piece from gilded rock, and is studded with vast coloured gems which glint in the mid-afternoon sunshine. The horses’ hooves click rhythmically on the warm cobbled streets, and the air is filled with the sweet pungency of their newly-deposited dung.
The Papal guards, in their striped blue, red and yellow uniforms, adorn the sides of the procession like strutting peacocks, the plumes in their helmets wafting in the gentle summer breeze. They march in perfect unison, almost bright enough to detract from the Holy Father himself but then….yes….. suddenly I see him! He is close enough for me to glimpse his kind, benevolent face. He waves serenely to the crowd, casting his gaze first to one side, then to the other, so that all men shall be equal in the receiving of his blessing.
I cannot believe it, that I should this day gaze upon the Holy Father! I make the sign of the cross on my chest and raise my eyes to the heavens for forgiveness for the sins which I am compelled to commit daily, according to my profession. ‘Please find a place for me in your heart, My Lord,’ I plead, as this mortal but most holy representative of Our Father on High passes by.
It is as I thought. A steady procession of men has visited our establishment from the moment that darkness fell. I myself have been fortunate to have had only two clients thus far, both who hail from outside of our city, and neither has wanted to tarry in their mission. Once they have achieved what they came here for, they have departed; clearly there are wives and families to return to in their lodgings here, and they cannot give good reason for a prolonged absence. I am pleased at this; Rosetta will be happy that I am fulfilling my duties to her, and am free again to meet the needs of further visitors as the evening progresses.
I descend to the drawing room to await the next client who might choose me for his pleasure. The atmosphere within is one of excited anticipation, not only for the pleasures of the flesh which are to come for these gentlemen, but from the exhilaration of the day itself. Rosetta pulls me to one side and leads me directly to a gentleman who is seated quietly in the corner, behind a screen and away from the hubbub of the rest of the salon. He gazes out of the window as if in reflection, and as he turns to us, I note that he is greater in years than many of his fellow clients in the room. One could not describe him as handsome in the true sense, but he is a fine looking man nonetheless. His face is long and thin, tapering towards his narrow jaw-line, which is graced with a small beard. His cheekbones are high and firm, his nose a little on the large side for his face. However it is his eyes that strike me and as he turns to greet me it is as though they are looking into my very soul and I am immediately lost.
This man fixes me with his stare, taking my hand and kissing it reverently as though he has just been introduced to a lady of the finest standing. I do not move, nor do I speak. Rosetta instructs us always to let the gentlemen take the lead and thus I am not permitted to utter a word until he has first addressed me. He keeps hold of the hand he has kissed, clasping his other hand over it, and leads me gently from the room and towards the stairs, all the while regarding my profile as though he cannot take his eyes from me.
We reach my chamber, and Clara furnishes us with the necessary comforts for the occasion: some small beer and wine, and a dish of sweetmeats which she places discreetly on the credenza, before exiting the room as silently as a ghost. Still he has not spoken to me; instead he removes his outer wear, placing it carefully on the cappellinaio and comes to stand in front of me, as I busy myself with pomander and rose water, awaiting his instruction. Despite the everyday commonness of this routine, I find myself nervous in his company, like a virgin bride in the sole presence of her husband for the very first time.
Finally he crosses the room and stops directly in front of me. With a huge sigh he cups my face gently in his hands, his thumbs below my earlobes as he turns my face slowly from one side to the other. His own expression as he does this is one of sheer transfixion. He seems to be studying each of my features in turn; I see the movement of his eyes from my lips to my brow, from my hairline to the point of my chin. Finally he speaks.
‘Such perfect beauty,’ he says, and his voice is barely more than a whisper. ‘What is your name?’
‘Maria,’ I reply. I do not choose, as some of the other girls here do, to change my name and give myself a false title. Maria was the name my dear, late parents chose for me, and as an infant I was blessed in God’s house under that name. Besides, there must be a thousand Maria’s in this city; what is there to hide when my name can neither betray me nor locate me amongst my other namesakes? In any case, I have nothing to hide; no family to come after me, no one on this earth who would give a fig as to my whereabouts, other than those in this establishment who have become my family and friends.
‘Why are you here, Maria?’ he asks. I consider that I have never been asked this question before. The gentlemen who attend me rarely take an interest in my own person, beyond my physical attributes and the pleasure these can bring to them.
‘My parents passed into Our Lord’s care when I was thirteen, and Rosetta gave me a home,’ is my simple reply. ‘She has been very kind to me, I have been happy here.’ I do not feel I need to justify my presence in this house beyond that. What other options are there for an orphan girl of lowly status, with neither father nor brother to protect her? I believe myself fortunate not to have fallen into more disreputable hands; my corpse could now be defiled and rotting at the bottom of the River Po, were it not for Rosetta’s kindness.
He leads me gently to sit on the side of the bed. I cannot recall a client ever wishing to embark on conversation before taking his pleasure, but if that is what he desires, then I must grant him his wish.
‘What say you of the visit of Il Papa today?’ he enquires. How strange this man is. What reason could he have for being so interested in my opinion?
‘We are greatly honoured,’ I reply. ‘He passed by our win
dow and he is indeed the most holy and reverend man.’
‘I have had the considerable honour of being in his presence this afternoon,’ he replies, but does not expand on this any further. Who can this man be? Some kind of dignitary? But of course I am not permitted to enquire this of him. If he wishes to remain anonymous to me then he has every right to do so.
As though suddenly remembering the reason for which has come, he asks, ‘May I kiss you now?’ He gently pulls me to my feet, and is it as though time itself has halted as he places his hands carefully at my waist, and pulls me slowly towards him. Our faces are merely an inch apart for what seems like an eternity, as he studies me intently again, and those eyes bore into my soul once more. I feel myself quiver with anticipation at this sensation which is so unfamiliar to me.
With the utmost tenderness he kisses me and it is as though a spear of desire cuts right through my body in an instant. There is a fire burning in me that I have never felt before; this man has ignited the passion I believed I did not possess. How can I be permitted to feel passion when daily I satisfy the needs of several men? There is no room in my head or my heart for these kinds of feelings; I acquired long ago the skill of isolating that part of my brain which might allow me to experience personal pleasure from my daily occupation. But it would seem today that I do after all have the capacity to feel passion, it was simply that the spark which might set it free had never been lighted until this very moment.
His lips move from mine to my neck, behind my ears, around my chin and over my décolletage. I feel as though my legs can no longer hold me upright, and swoon with an intense longing, stronger than any emotion I have ever felt, into his arms. Responding to this he gently lays me back onto the bed, but instead of tugging at my skirts and his own breeches and continuing on as most clients would, he pulls away from me, stands up and begins to pace the room.
‘What is it sir? Do you not find me pleasing?’ I dare to ask, conscious that my failure to provide him with a service will not sit well with Rosetta. This has never happened to me before.
‘You should not be here,’ he replies. ‘This is not the place for you. Your beauty and serenity place you far, far beyond all this.’ He waves his arm around the room to indicate my surroundings. ‘What trick of fate that I should make your acquaintance in this manner! I declare I have never set eyes on such beauty, and the respect I have for you cannot allow me to defile your body in this way. You must be mine and mine alone. Please, dear maiden, please say it can be so.’ He rambles on in such a way, his sentences short and frantic, meanwhile pacing the room, and although he says these things to me, he cannot seem to look directly at me, as though to do so would break his resolve and he would be compelled to ravage my body, regardless of the convictions of his mind.
I do not speak, so shocked am I, and my silence causes him to stop his pacing and come to me finally. He takes my hands in his and says: ‘Tell me, dear maiden, that you feel it too?’ And clenching both hands to his heart he continues, ‘There is something in here that draws me to you. I have never felt this before; please tell me you feel it too?’
So that is what I saw in his deep, penetrating eyes, when I first saw him downstairs. Have we both been struck with the bolt of lightening that is love? I know I felt something when he first looked at me, a connection, a feeling deep down inside of my being, as though I knew him, or had met him before in another life. But love? I do not know how love should feel! How could I? The only love I remember was that which I had for my parents, and that is many moons ago and oh, so very different from this.
‘I do feel something for you sir, but I know not what it is. But this is my place is of work, I have nowhere else to go, no family to care for me. How could I possibly leave here?’
‘I will come for you,’ he says. ‘Soon.’ And the look on his face tells me that this is no idle promise. But what awaits me beyond these walls? I do not remember much about my childhood, the only time I have not spent here, and it now seems so distant. This place has been my home for so long that it will be strange, and somewhat frightening, to leave it. And to go to what? I do not know this man, and although I recognise that he feels something for me, as I do for him, what guarantee have I that he will actually keep to his promise and come back for me? He is but a stranger.
I am torn between the need to throw myself back into my life as it was before this moment, should he not return and my heart be broken for ever, and the desire to hold these moments dear, in the hope that he will be true to his word. Only time and fate will tell what Our Lord has in store for me.
He kisses me gently on the cheek, touches his finger to my lips and with one last glance at me, leaves the room. It is only as he closes the door behind him that I realise I do not even know his name.
Eight
‘La Signorina Irvine, benvenuta!’ Finally getting to grips with my name, Vincenzo welcomes me flamboyantly to his exhibition, with kisses on both cheeks. I manage to accept his greeting swiftly and sweep by, clutching my catalogue to my chest and leaving him to encircle himself once more with an adoring posse of admirers and groupie-type girls, queuing up to butter his ego.
In this huge salon on the third floor of the gallery, I’m momentarily too bowled over to hang around and chat to him just yet. It’s not the paintings themselves which have produced such a reaction in the first instance, although I’m sure they’re brilliant and I will have a look in a minute – I don’t want to appear too keen, do I? But the setting itself is stunning, with its hugely high ceilings and vast windows, and an amazing feeling of light and space, despite the age of the building. Lucky man, securing an exhibition slot here; what better place to showcase your work and hopefully earn a few commissions? There’s something to aspire to; I can’t see my own paintings ever being good enough to command an exhibition room like this, but there you go.
I spy Vincenzo over my shoulder, making an attempt to break away from the group but being besieged once more, and I start to focus on his work at last, looking up the first piece in the catalogue as I do so. Look busy and engrossed, I say to myself, then perhaps he’ll leave you to browse in peace. Although why I don’t want him hanging around me whilst I’m looking at his paintings, I’m not really quite sure.
Despite my initial misgivings about him, Vincenzo has proved to be worth his weight in gold in the past few weeks. For his assistance in settling me into the course, helping me find the most useful lectures to attend, and generally keeping me on an even keel he has been brilliant. But there’s still this nagging feeling in the back of my head that there’s something about him I find really unsettling, even though he has done nothing to reinforce those notions in any way. He is incredibly good looking, and sexy too, there’s no doubt about that, and it is a bit of a distraction, how could it not be? My tutors back home were several centuries older than him and you’d have to have pretty low standards in the self-worth stakes to think about going there, even if your overwhelming ambition was to sleep your way to a First. And I haven’t felt in any way that Vincenzo’s been trying to crack onto me, or flirt with me. But the bizarre thing about all that is that I’m actually quite disappointed that he hasn’t tried, despite trying to convince myself that I’m relieved he isn’t setting out to ‘groom’ me as his next model and muse. Over the past couple of weeks I’ve heard more stories about his carryings-on with students and it’s made me even more convinced that I’m not going to become either a notch on his bed-post, or his next nude model, or both. No, that’s not for me. Definitely not.
So why do I find myself feeling slightly down at heel about the fact that he hasn’t tried? Surely it’s not just some vanity thing, or me feeling that I might have lost my touch? If a sexy young tutor decides I’m not gorgeous enough to merit his attentions, whilst he clearly isn’t slow to spread it about with the rest of the female population at the university, must there be something wrong with me or am I maybe not attractive enough? I’d like to think I wasn’t quite that shallow. Let’s ju
st hope he’s being honourable and just doing his job, for once without the need to resort to sex to reinforce the tutor/student relationship.
I hover in front of one of his paintings, called simply, ‘Girl, Nude.’ Well, she’s that OK. Very nude. There is an element of the voluptuous renaissance nude reclining girl about her, and whilst the painting isn’t quite shocking in the way that some pornographic images can be, it’s verging on the ever-so-slightly dodgy, with just a little bit too much of her visible. God, I don’t want to end up there, with my bits on display in an art gallery for all and sundry to see. I don’t recognise her, which is a relief, as I’d hate to have to sit next to her at a lecture, with what I’m seeing right now! I know it’s all in the name of art, but somehow when it’s dead artists and dead subjects it all seems a lot more bearable. Not when they’re walking the streets of Florence this very day. Call me a prude, if you like, but that’s just the way it is!
Talking of nudes, I’ve been back to the Uffizi – same room, same painting – and I did have another dream. I’d stayed away for a while – using the excuse of too many lectures plus a multitude of essays to submit. I thought I might ‘cure’ myself of the dreams by giving the gallery a wide berth. I’d imagined that once I got over the tiredness, maybe the dreams wouldn’t come any more. But despite my best intentions, I had to go back just to see what would happen, as though some strange power was reeling me in like a helpless little tiddler on the end of a very long line. I had to go back at some time – I can’t avoid the place for the entire rest of this year, after all. It’s going to be a fairly integral part of my studies. So on the very first occasion I’d been back to room twenty-eight in a few weeks, there I was, snoring on the bench again within minutes.