Urban Venus

by Sara Downing

  Apparently Evie’s early years were hard, although she says she doesn’t actually remember much about life before my Dad came along. Mum had no money in those days, so when she met Dad and they had more than a couple of pennies to rub together for the first time ever, she lavished material things on Evie to make up for the lack of them early on, especially when they assumed there weren’t going to be any more babies. Not that Evie is spoilt or anything, she isn’t, but she does like the high life, and luckily for her (or was it a matter of careful choice?) she found herself first a well-paid career and then a husband who could maintain the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. James and Evie have a wonderful time, and I don’t resent them that in the slightest, so if they do want to come out here and splash a bit of cash around then good for them – as long as they take this impoverished student out for a couple of nice meals and perhaps a little bit of shopping…

  Much as I’d love to see Evie, I need to stall her on coming out for a while yet. I can’t have a family member rocking up whilst I am still in the middle of this dream dilemma and don’t know what’s going on. It would just worry my parents too much. So I say to Mum: ‘That would be brilliant, I’d love to see her, but tell her that Florence is at its best in the spring. Before the tourists come over in full force and before it gets too hot. And the sales are on then too.’ That last bit should swing it.

  ‘That’s sensible, dear, I’ll pass the message on but then I’m sure you two will be in touch again soon, won’t you?’ Mum, as ever, trying to get her brood together. Evie and I can go for months without so much a text or two, which confounds Mum somewhat, but we always slip back into our fabulous sister-friendship whenever we get together, so the big silent gaps in between don’t seem to matter too much. Mum doesn’t get that, of course, and her constant scheming to bring her babies together more often is sometimes an annoyance, sometimes a source of amusement to Evie and me.

  Signore Di Girolamo is giving a lecture on Titian this afternoon – at the Uffizi – which I have to get to. It’s on the symbolism in Titian’s work, and I can’t wait. I just hope that if he pops a copy of the Venus of Urbino up on the white board, I don’t go into a trance and start having the next instalment of my dream story. I’m pretty sure my dreams do take place in the Renaissance era; having studied so much of the work from that period there’s such an intense feeling of the time and place being hundreds of years ago.

  I have some time to kill before the lecture starts so I decide to spend it in my favourite room of the gallery. My phone alarm is set to beep at ten to three, just in case I end up having another little nap this afternoon….

  Clara unpins my headdress and releases my hair from the tight braiding which encircles my face, letting it fall across my bare shoulders and down the length of my spine; its natural curl is enhanced by the hours it has spent tightly and intricately bound and it breaks forth from its tether as though possessing a life of its own. She pulls her fingers through it, then gently works at it with the mother-of-pearl comb as I lean back to enjoy the sensation. Her accomplished strokes relax me and as I gaze upon my reflection in the gilded looking glass before me, I see the tension of the day lift from my shoulders, and my humours at once become more serene.

  I am beautiful, I know that, and I recognise the good fortune I have to be blessed with an attribute which, in giving me a means to earn a living as I did until so recently, has probably saved my life. God has blessed me with a face which men adore and which women aspire to, and for that I am grateful.

  Once established here in my new home in Venice, I sent for my dear Clara to follow me and join the employ of my casa. I confess I feared more than a little for her safety, when I left her behind in Bologna. After all, she had been party to my plan to escape with my love, and had been instrumental in facilitating it for me. I could not abandon her to the wrath of Rosetta; whilst my patron had been so kind to me for all these years, I would not wish to imagine her capabilities, were she to decide that revenge for losing me was a necessity.

  My ablutions complete, I rise and walk towards the window which gives out onto the canal below. I gaze through the wide arch at the frenzy of activities taking place there: cargo barges loading and unloading their wares, the dark-skinned spice merchants in their strange, foreign dress, market traders loudly negotiating their business from the rows of gondolas, and on land errand-boys running here and there, fetching and carrying for their masters. Chickens, dogs and cats run freely, picking at scraps and scavenging from stalls, and maid-servants haggle for a fish here, a pot there, to take back to their kitchens. Their shouts carry from one bank to the opposite; they go about their daily business as though there were no canal dividing them and they were simply in the market square of any town.

  There is noise here such as I never knew in Bologna – oh, and the smell! On a warm day the odour of rotting produce and fish and the stench of the water itself is so at odds with the beauty of the place that it is quite impossible to fathom how they can coexist. I adore my new home, this vast city which seems to rise as though by some divine force from the sea. As we approached in our vessel only two months earlier, I could not comprehend how man alone could have created such a miracle, such is its beauty. And I am so contented here with my love, Tito, and my constant companion and friend, Clara; I no longer need to earn a living for myself, and I have everything provided for my luxury and comfort. But that odour – I am sure I will never grow used to it, despite everything!

  Tito enters the room and Clara vanishes as though she were never here, leaving the air barely disturbed by her fleeing presence. He takes me gently in his arms as though I were a precious casket of jewels, kisses me softly and stands back to admire me. He places his hands gently at the nape of my neck and lifts my hair high into the air, gazing in wonder as it tumbles around my shoulders in a flaxen cascade, catching the light in golden rivulets, and inhaling its sweet perfume.

  ‘I must paint you now,’ he says. ‘This light today is so vivid and you, my darling, ever more beautiful. The Venetian climate seems to suit your countenance, my dear. Thanks to God that we came here together.’

  As he poses me for his work, I consider how his last statement is not entirely truthful. We cannot wholly be together, for he has a wife and family, already installed in Venice, with whom I am forced to share him. I knew nothing of their existence until I had already been plucked from Rosetta’s care, although I consider that I would still have come here, had I known.

  So it would appear that in some ways I am still plying my trade as I was in Bologna, the difference being that I now have just the one client, and my payment is my keep, my sumptuous surroundings, and of course his boundless love. He truly does love me, of that I have no doubt, but a man of his standing cannot be divorced from his wife and be seen to abandon his family. If a gentleman’s heart is engaged outside of the marital home, it is far more decorous simply to keep a mistress in such circumstances. It must be so, until such time as the Fates decree that we can be together, wholly and utterly.

  ‘Lift your head, my love,’ he instructs, ‘turn just a little towards the window.’ As I position myself better to suit him, I cast my eye over the many works of his which already cover these walls. My surroundings are sumptuous and luxurious, but they also double as his studio; in this way we can be together for a greater part of the time. Even when I am not the subject of his paintings, (which for the moment is rare) then I can at least be near him whilst he works, attend to his needs and enjoy his attentions.

  One thing that pains me deeply is that I cannot be seen with Tito in society here in Venice. He is a man of the world, and influential with powerful people in this city. His circle of acquaintance embraces ambassadors, politicians, writers, artists, such great and important people of the Venetian world, and on the grounds of common decency, I cannot be the one to accompany him. That being the case, he has promised to take me with him whenever he is required to travel, and during these times we shall live as m
an and wife. But I have little to be sorry for; I am happy here and I consider myself a very fortunate young woman indeed. To be loved is the most wondrous thing in the world, I know that now. That emotion which I had never before felt is now at the very core of my life, and I can no longer imagine a loveless existence.

  ‘Carissima Maria,’ he calls softly, trying to wake me without startling me and destroying the pose in which he has set me, as I feel myself slipping into slumber. How hard it is for me to sit still for hour upon hour as he puts brush to canvas; I find myself day-dreaming and quite often even falling into a deep sleep. This time I am fortunate to be comfortably reclined, and it is all too easy for me to close my eyes for a few small moments and slip away….

  ‘Carissima Maria,’ he calls again, and this time he is laughing. ‘My precious Maria cannot stay awake today. Have I tired you so?’ As I open my eyes and focus once more on the room, he comes towards me and sits down beside me, stroking my face and teasing at the ends of my hair with his fingertips. ‘How wonderful it is to have you here in Venice, by my side. After these weeks together, still I cannot believe my good fortune! We have all the time in the world to paint you, my dear. Let us not rush to do so this day if you are feeling indisposed.’

  Of that I am glad. On occasions I feel I am a distraction to him, and that I keep him from his work, but this time as I reach to pull him into my arms, it is with little heed for the furtherance of his work that he drops his tools onto the floor beside me and reclines into my embrace.

  It’s pretty rare for me to be able to look at the Venus painting without falling asleep, but there she is, projected on the whiteboard in front of me, in all her glory. And here I am, wide awake, looking at her, being able to study all the detail for once, and not feeling even remotely like I might have to take a bit of a nap. But then I have just had one – I woke up from it barely twenty minutes earlier. I didn’t need my alarm in the end; I seemed to ‘receive’ today’s little instalment by room twenty-eight satellite transmission into my brain, then when enough information had been imparted, I was wide awake again.

  Two dreams in one day would really be something – I haven’t yet put to the test if that’s a possibility. My head is usually buzzing so much when I leave the gallery that I wouldn’t dare go back for more. It’s as though there is far too much information to process in one go and my awakened brain is way too busy trying to make sense of it all, so I’ve never revisited room twenty-eight on the same day to try for the omnibus edition.

  The other fairly crucial factor in the whole scenario is that I have only ever fallen asleep in room twenty-eight; nowhere else in the gallery, nor anywhere else around Florence when I’ve seen images of the painting (and let’s face it, Florence is inundated with shops selling prints and postcards). So I am hopeful for today that I will make it through the lecture in a state of wide-awake consciousness. How rude Signore Di Girolamo would think I was, if he were to spot me snoring during one of his lectures! This lecture theatre isn’t exactly huge, and I would stand out like a sore thumb as the one who wasn’t paying attention. I can’t afford to have black marks like that against my name.

  Signore Di Girolamo really is a brilliant man. He has that special quality, surprisingly rare in the teaching and lecturing professions, of being able to completely hook his audience in right from the start. And it’s not simply because the topic itself it is really interesting in its own right, and for me, one in which I have a vested interest. He just is an incredibly captivating man, simple as that, and he delivers his lectures with all the charm and composure of a TV personality, in spite of his odd appearance, which places him at completely the opposite end of the glamour scale. The poor man definitely has a face for radio, but look past the shabby façade and you have a speaker of the finest calibre. I would happily challenge anyone, even a complete art-virgin, not to be engaged in this or any one of his lectures from the very first minute.

  ‘….. and the dog sleeping at the foot of her bed has of course been interpreted in several ways by many of my learned friends over the years,’ Signore Di Girolamo continues. ‘My own view on this small creature is quite firmly that he is a symbol of fidelity. Whilst the model for Venus is captured looking wantonly at whomever her audience may be, the dog slumbers on, indifferent to the commotion in the background, and sensible only to his mistress’s relaxed pose on the day-bed.’ To me, it looks like the dog isn’t actually asleep, but curled up with his eyes half-open, like dogs do, ready to pounce should his mistress require him to. Why would she need to have a dog, even a small one, on guard at the foot of her bed? She doesn’t exactly look like she’s got anything to worry about. Maybe he’s right and the dog is actually fast asleep. It’s hard to tell. He’s the expert after all and has probably seen the painting – and been able to look at it – a lot more than I have. Even with my being a frequent-flyer to room twenty-eight.

  This woman strikes me as perfectly relaxed and at ease with her nudity, lying there oddly clutching that posy of roses as though she doesn’t care that she might be crushing the blooms. Whoever the model was, she must have been quite happy to pose like that for hours on end. I’m not sure I’d fancy it, although as I consider the state of mind you’d have to be in to do it I have a real sense of déjà vu from my dreams. I’ve dreamt about being painted, after all, and somehow it didn’t seem at all wrong in the dreams, or uncomfortable, or sleazy. I can’t help paying a cursory thought to Vincenzo and the scores of student models that have traipsed through his studio and a shiver runs down my spine. I suppose it all depends on exactly who you’re taking your clothes off for….

  It’s as though she’s looking directly at you, this Venus, but the expression on her face is one of serene devotion – did she love the artist, or perhaps her lover was standing nearby whilst Titian painted her? Was that why she found it so easy to pose, with the man who loved her gazing on?

  ‘…..the hair tightly braided around the face as was the custom of the day but then tumbling down around her shoulders….’ Signore Di Girolamo goes on. Hang on a minute, I’ve seen that hair somewhere before, and I don’t just mean in other Renaissance paintings. Didn’t ‘my’ maid carefully un-braid a style for me which was not dissimilar to this one? I have a recollection of being seated at an ornate dressing table of sorts, gazing into a gilded mirror, whilst she painstakingly disentangled a head dress and a tight plait from around my face, combing out my flaxen hair with an old-fashioned comb which seemed to catch the light – something smooth and opaque, mother-of-pearl maybe?

  After the lecture is over, Eduardo and my new friends from the course make a bee-line for me again, begging me to join them for another coffee. They’ve all been so kind and I feel a bit guilty as I fib my way through an excuse about having to be somewhere, but I just want to get back to the apartment and get on with documenting these dreams. Now that there have been so many of them, I really do need to crack on, otherwise I’m going to lose the finer detail, a bit like you do during the course of a day, when you’ve had – and remembered – a really good dream the previous night.

  It’s now starting to stare me in the face that there’s something momentously important about these dreams, even if I still have no idea what that is. Nor do I know why it should be me having them, but I know that if I don’t get something down on paper soon, start cataloguing them, then they are going to beguile me for a long time yet. I really want to, and need to, make some sense of them all. I just hope that the missing bits come back to me as at the moment my memories are about as robust as a very holey patchwork quilt.

  As I’m dashing through the side streets around the Duomo, my phone rings. It’s Leonora. ‘Can you make coffee?’ she asks. She sounds a bit down in the dumps, and as I make an excuse for the second time in minutes I feel a bit guilty for sidelining my lovely friend. When she informs me that she’s on the other side of town from me, then my resolve to get on with my own task strengthens and somehow my little white lies don’t seem so bad. I could
n’t really get over there in time anyway. Whatever it is she wants to talk to me about, I’m afraid it will have to wait until tonight, back at the apartment.

  Maria, I’m pretty convinced now that in the dreams ‘I’m’ called Maria.

  I’ve dragged my huge oak desk across the room so that it’s in front of the window. The panes are open and the shutters thrown back to allow in maximum light and warmth. And aroma. Those climbing roses out there are still going for it like it’s mid-summer in a stately home garden. Don’t they know it’s a fully-fledged autumn back in the UK, and by rights they should be sporting lovely ripe and round rosehips by now? I’m no gardener, and I confess to knowing absolutely nothing about plants, but there’s just something about the smell of those roses that takes me right back to childhood summers, when Mum would help me pick the fragile flowers and press them in my little wooden flower press. I’d then forget about them for months, open the press one day, and out would tumble the beautifully fragmented wisps of paper-thin tissue that were once rose petals. I used to plaster them all over my exercise books for school, covered in sticky-back plastic, or make little collages with them. Funny how smells can take you straight back to a place and time, almost as though you never left it behind.

  Maria. There it is again. Has the man in the dreams actually called me Maria, or is it just a feeling I have that Maria is my name? Either way, it seems right somehow. When I’m not being twenty-first century Lydia, I am Renaissance Maria. I’m quite sure now that my dreams are in the Renaissance period. Signore Di Girolamo’s lecture this afternoon helped me to confirm that. Actually, I think it was the thing about the hair that finally validated it.