by Sara Downing
There have been further dreams, some more significant than others, and I am more convinced than ever that Maria is trying to tell me something. She has become like an imaginary friend to me; always there and seldom far from my thoughts as I go about my twenty-first century life. I sometimes feel as though I live part in the now, and part in the then, as there is no doubt that during the dreams I am Maria and I become her wholeheartedly. Experiencing her in the first person makes the love between her and Tito something I can feel almost as a tangible object, even after I’ve woken up.
Most of the time the dreams don’t contain anything of earth-shattering importance – at least as far as I know, but I suppose they are all important in some way for what they teach me. Generally they seem to be little snapshots of the comfortable Venetian life of a rich man’s mistress and some only last a few brief moments; Maria being painted by Tito – frequently, circulating in society – when propriety allows, and idly chatting with her maid, who seems to be developing her own strong character in my head and is a massive mainstay to her mistress. No history book could ever give me such a clear insight into the life and mind of Renaissance Woman.
When I look through the textbooks at how life was then, what women wore, how they did their hair, what cosmetics and perfumes they used, I feel a real sense of familiarity, almost like flicking through a fashion magazine in the twenty-first century, getting ideas and choosing what would suit me. But my recently acquired insider knowledge allows me to quickly spot when a detail isn’t quite right, when a historian has seized on something which is actually of very little importance but has skimmed over the more significant details. I reckon I could rewrite some of these books quite easily, removing the erroneous data and inserting my own first-hand knowledge of how it all was. Just imagine what use I could be as a real historian, although I’m more likely to be written off as a dreamer and a loony than be taken seriously by the likes of modern-day historians such as David Starkey and Martin Kemp, with their apparently expert knowledge of the sixteenth century.
‘I’ve not read much of Signore Di Girolamo’s book as yet,’ I tell Stefano, ‘but already he talks about this woman Titian brought to Venice. I’m wondering if that’s her, if she’s my Maria.’ He has been listening intently, trying to take in all this confusing stuff about his new girlfriend (which I have to assume I now am!)
‘Finally I’ve found a mention of her,’ I continue. ‘Or at least I hope it’s her. She’s just not in any of the major history books, you see. Why would one of those important historians write about some prostitute that Titian fell in love with? She’s a nobody as far as they’re concerned, but she has got a story to tell, you see, and it looks like she’s chosen me to tell it for her. God knows why though? Why me and why now? And what am I supposed to do with all this information? I really don’t know what she expects of me.’
Stefano sits there looking pretty confused. He takes hold of my hand and tells me simply that he’ll support me in whatever I decide to do. He admits to being surprised to hear all this, but it’s fine, he says, and all just part of what makes me an interesting person to know.
‘So you’re not going to dump me on the first date, then?’ I ask nervously. ‘It’s not too late to get out now, you know, if you think I’m completely nuts.’ I try to smile normally as though to convince him I am normal, hoping against hope that he isn’t just going to walk away from me now.
‘I don’t think you’re mad,’ he replies. ‘But I do think you have to be careful.’ Uh-oh, another one advising me to tread carefully. But short of avoiding the Uffizi (which is unlikely as I need my regular fix of Maria and there is still so much I need to know) the dreams are going to keep coming and I will carry on finding out more and more about her until – hopefully – there is some kind of resolution to her story and her reasons for choosing me become clear. But until such a time comes, I intend to keep ‘visiting’ her.
Thirteen
A week or so later I wake in a blind panic to the sound of someone screaming. It takes a few moments for my addled brain to click into gear and for me to realise that the sound is coming from within the apartment; I quickly dash from my room, fearful of what I might find. It sounds like someone being attacked, and there I am, in my skimpy pyjamas, with no form of defence available to me beyond my bare hands, but determined nonetheless to save whichever flatmate is in distress from whatever the threat might be. Burglar, rapist, axe murderer, you name it, I am ready to show them what I’m made of.
Fully on the defensive and prepared for the worst, I burst into Leonora’s room, the source of the screaming. She is sitting up on the bed, Sophia cradling her, as she rocks to and fro, alternately keening in anguish and screaming with pain. I notice the blood on the sheets and think I know what’s happening.
‘Have you called for an ambulance?’ I ask Sophia, sounding a lot calmer than I feel. Somehow she manages to hear me above Leonora’s screams and shakes her head, motioning that I should go and do it, and be quick about it. As I pick up the phone and start to dial ‘999’ I realise that I don’t actually know what the emergency services number is over here. How foolish I feel, but then I never expected to be dialling it in the middle of the night whilst my gorgeous friend is having a miscarriage…
I have to presume it is a miscarriage – all that blood. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much. Leonora needs to be in hospital as quickly as possible, there isn’t a moment to lose, so I rush back into her bedroom, discover from Sophia that I should be dialling 118, and get through to the operator within a couple of rings. I am so relieved at this moment in time that my Italian is good enough now for anyone to understand me, even with my panic-ridden voice squawking down the line. The calm, quietly-spoken lady on the other end of the phone reassures me that help will be with us in the shortest possible time. She instructs me to unlock the doors to the apartment block (I would never have thought of that in my current state) and then wait downstairs to show the paramedici where to come. She sounds so kind, I wish she was coming too. Why can’t she come over and put her reassuring arm round us all, tell us Leonora is going to be OK and there is nothing to worry about…
I nip back into the bedroom to check on the girls and update them on progress. Leonora has stopped screaming now; she’s lying on her side, facing away from me, knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around them, sobbing violently into her pillow. Sophia looks on helplessly, rubbing her back and making soothing noises; neither of us knows what to say or do as we wait in silence for the experts to arrive.
As Leonora is carried from the apartment, the strong Sophia finally crumbles and I cradle her in my arms as she sobs for her friend and her lost baby.
‘I think one of us should go with her in the ambulance, don’t you?’ I ask, ‘And one of us should probably call her parents too.’
‘That’s going to be tricky – I don’t think she’s told them about the baby yet. And now, well, now there isn’t even any baby to tell them about, is there, just a load of blood. Oh, please God, don’t let anything happen to her.’ At this point she dissolves into floods of tears again. We follow the medics down the stairs and I propel her into the waiting ambulance before the doors close quickly and it zooms away.
I decide to wait until we know more about Leonora’s condition before I call anyone, and hopefully she will be well enough soon to make the decision for herself about who she does or doesn’t want to see. I just hope to goodness I’m making the right decision. God forbid that anything should happen to her in the meantime and we haven’t even summoned her family to her bedside. I shudder and try to push the looming image of the grim reaper to the back of my mind, get dressed quickly and run to the nearest taxi rank. I need to get to the hospital as soon as I can and find out what’s happening to my friend.
‘I know I never really wanted a baby, not right now at least, but it was like, once it was there, it was a part of me, you know.’ Leonora is sitting up in her hospital bed, surrounded by friends and flowers, a
nd, thankfully, looking heaps better than she did in the early hours of this morning. She looks as white as a ghost, but then she did lose loads of blood, and very thin and drawn, almost unrecognisable as the Leonora we know and love. But at least she is still here, alive and well and with us, thankfully. I did wonder at one point last night if she really would make it.
‘I did want it, you all know that, don’t you?’ she asks. It’s as though, now the baby is gone, she needs to explain that she would have loved it and looked after it, even if it had come at a time in her life when she wasn’t really ready for it. ‘It was a part of me…’ she says again, as tears roll silently down her cheeks once more.
‘We know,’ I say, perching on the side of her bed and holding her hand, ‘You were so brave about the whole thing.’ For some reason, which I can’t even begin to fully comprehend as I’ve never been in this situation, she feels guilty for losing the baby, almost as though the miscarriage was all her fault, which couldn’t be further from the truth. But secretly, deep down inside and as something I would never voice, I can’t help the feeling that this outcome is actually for the best; she doesn’t need a baby at this time in her life, and now she will be free again to take up the fantastic career in Law which is so rightfully hers. She’ll have plenty of time later in life to have babies with a man she loves, not with some casual fling who didn’t really mean much to her and is unlikely to be around to be a real father to the child. No, it’s definitely for the best, and I suspect that similar thoughts are spinning round in her head too and causing these feelings of guilt. Relief doing battle with guilt doing battle with common sense. Poor thing.
There is a knock at the door to Leonora’s little private room and a tall, dark man sheepishly wanders in. From what Leonora has said, I suspect he is the father of the baby, her lecturer friend, Federico. He looks somewhat ill at ease to find so many of us crowded around Leonora’s bed, and a glance flies between Sophia and I, both of us quick to judge the situation, as if to say, ‘We need to get these boys out of here before there’s trouble.’
‘Come on, you lot, let’s go and grab a coffee,’ Sophia suggests, as Stefano, Lanzo and Dante all start doing that alpha male posturing thing, shoulders back, pulling themselves up to their full height and squaring up to Federico as though they’d like to take him outside and collectively put their fists in touch with his face. Poor bloke, I do feel for him a bit, but I can see that no such empathy is emanating from the boys; as far as they are concerned, he is simply the person who is responsible for putting their precious friend through all this and therefore should be dealt with accordingly. Sophia and I practically drag the three of them from the room by the scruffs of their necks and head for the furthest flung hospital café we can find; we need to give Federico a chance to talk to Leonora and then get himself well clear of the hospital before these three raging bulls are unleashed again.
Sophia and I sip our coffees with excruciating slowness, then feign interest in the pastries and snacks, and then order another coffee. All in all we manage to give Leonora a clear forty-five minutes to talk to her ex-lover. When the boys look like they are fit to burst with wrathful testosterone and the impatience to reassure themselves of their friend’s safety, I send her a quick text just to check the coast is clear before we head back to her room.
After succeeding in convincing them that she is OK, that Federico has been reasonable and treated her fairly (all of which he has, the poor man isn’t a monster and was also devastated at the loss of the baby, despite the circumstances in which it had been conceived) Sophia and I manage to persuade Stefano, Dante and Lanzo that crowding out Leonora’s tiny room with this many visitors might just be a bit too much right now. She needs some serious rest after everything she’s been through, and maybe a teensy bit of ‘girl time’, with Sophia and me sitting quietly beside her bed whilst she sleeps.
Reluctantly they say their goodbyes, but not before trying to inveigle out of Leonora which direction Federico is heading in, so they can go after him and give him a bit of a ‘talking to’. Seeing straight through the transparency of their plan, Leonora isn’t forthcoming with that information and, whilst thanking the boys for their concern, she makes it quite clear that she doesn’t want to hear of them causing any trouble:
‘Thank you guys, I know you’re concerned, but really, it was as much my doing as his, wasn’t it? It takes two and all that! Having a go at him now might make you lot feel a bit better, but please don’t. I really don’t want you to, much as I appreciate you all being so protective of me,’ she says. ‘Come in and see me again later, will you? And behave, promise me that!’
So finally this feral trio shuffles from the room, metaphorical tails between their legs (I know they will heed Leonora’s advice) and Sophia and I settle into the comfy armchairs on either side of the bed. Leonora definitely needs the rest, and fortunately for us the chic little dark-haired nurse who’d just come on shift had popped her head around the door a moment ago and reiterated just that, helping us immensely in our mission to eject the boys. Given that Sophia and I have been up half the night too, we’re also quite glad of the calm that now descends and I think there’s a pretty strong chance that we might grab a few zzzz’s ourselves whilst we’re sitting here.
‘Those are lovely flowers, did Federico bring you those?’ I ask Leonora, pointing to the unusual dusky pink roses in a vase on her bedside cabinet. ‘They smell gorgeous.’ I’m no rose expert, but I can’t help thinking I’ve seen that variety somewhere before. The petals are so delicate and paper thin they look almost as though they’ve been dried. Leonora drifts quickly off to sleep, leaving the two of us reading our magazines in companionable silence…
‘Maria, turn your head to the side just a little, my love. That’s it, yes, perfect.’ Tito is sketching me – again. I simply adore being the subject of his work, and I love that he wants to commit my image to canvas so frequently but sometimes I feel I would like to be a little more active during the time we spend together, instead of constantly pinned into one, not always terribly comfortable, position; it makes expression of any sort so difficult. How refreshing it would be if we could take a turn together outside and promenade around this beautiful city. I’ve seen it a-plenty with Clara at my side, but not with my love…… But I know that such a thing is a rare event indeed whilst we dwell so close to his family home.
This morning he brought a beautiful little gift with him when he arrived at my casa: a small dog, so pretty and delicate, with her silky gold and silver coat, light brown ears and dusky, dark patch over one eye. As soon as Tito handed her to me, her little pink tongue began covering my face in her warm and wet kisses. How I love her so dearly already!
‘To be always by your side when I cannot, my dear,’ Tito had announced. ‘If only I could sit in your lap and be petted quite as much as she can! What shall you call her?’
‘I think ‘Bella’,’ I reply, ‘as that is what she is, a great beauty.’
‘Her beauty is nothing compared to yours, although she is indeed a very sweet-natured creature. I do hope you will enjoy her and keep her with you always,’ he says. And then he betrayed the real reason for such a generous gift: ‘I have to go away for a few days, my love. She will keep you company in my absence.’
So there it is, the dog is not simply a token of his love for me, but a sweetener to lessen the pain of our separation. ‘But you promised me I would always accompany you on your travels,’ I protest, knowing that being away from Venice would be our one chance to live properly together, far from the prying eyes of this city, as though we were man and wife.
‘Not on this occasion, my love, and for that I am deeply sorry. It will pain me so to be apart from you, but it shall only be for a week, two at most. I am not to travel alone this time, you see, and the company I am to keep is of high ranking within the city and also well acquainted with my wife and eldest son. Such impropriety would only serve to cause trouble for the both of us. Next time you shall come too, I
promise you that.’
I cannot hide my disappointment at his news and bury my crestfallen expression in the soft fur of my new pet. But beautiful as she is, she can be no substitute for the love of my man. Two weeks! How am I to manage without him for so long? I do fear I shall go mad with unrequited love and the sheer anguish of not being near him.
Thinking again of our separation makes me restless and I find can no longer remain in repose. I rise from my daybed and begin to pace the room, much to his frustration as he has not yet completed his sketch. I pass from object to object, rearranging, tidying, fiddling, moving trinkets and small possessions to a more favourable position, in an attempt to calm my disquiet. Only it does not calm me, it simply serves to make it more evident just how much his news grieves me. Passing by a vast bowl of roses, I pluck one roughly from the receptacle and begin tearing the poor undeserving thing apart, petal by petal, casting them to the floor.
Oh, wretched man, how he vexes me and yet how I love him so…
So that’s it. That’s where I’ve seen the roses before, in the dreams.
I don’t nod straight off in the chair beside Leonora’s bed as I’d expected, but instead sit there, lazily flicking through my magazine and feeling quite grateful for a few moments of peace and quiet. Those roses that Federico brought are baffling me with their familiarity, and I desperately start to trawl back through the dreams, wondering if they’re haunting me because that’s where I’ve seen them before, in my subconscious state.
I turn the page in the magazine, something along the lines of Italy’s answer to ‘Beautiful Homes’ – the kind of reading matter my mum normally likes, not me – and am faced with the gardening section, which ordinarily I would flick straight over. But my eye is caught by an article on, yes, you’ve guessed it, roses. And back it all comes. I recall the roses that Maria had decimated when Tito announced he was going away, and if not identical to the ones on the page in front of me, then they are pretty damn similar. It’s my first and only link between the two centuries, but how amazing that a particular species can remain largely unchanged for nearly five hundred years – today’s roses triggering the memory of yesteryear’s.