by Sara Downing
I just need to stumble across some little gem of information which will spark off a link. If only it were as easy as all that…
An afternoon in the library finds my coursework sufficiently caught up on and the nagging guilt for my lack of attention to my studies this week appeased, so I pop across town to meet Vincenzo as promised.
‘Bella Lydia,’ he says, greeting me enthusiastically with a kiss on the lips, his hands gently stroking my arms. His kiss doesn’t linger though, and although he is smiling, his eyes give away the uncertainty he obviously feels, despite my reassurances by text this morning that I was fine about last night.
‘Lydia-the-mysterious at your service,’ I joke, kissing him again to try to dispel that uncertainty.
‘You liked that tag, didn’t you,’ he replies, relaxing a little in the knowledge that I’m not about to tear him off a strip for pouncing on me last night. In any case, there was no pouncing involved, and for once I hadn’t fought him off; I’d kissed him back. I suppose he imagined I’d only done that because I’d had too much to drink, and that in the cold light of day I would come to my senses and give him the boot. But no, he needn’t worry. I’m happy to be at this point with him; at the start of a new relationship – possibly?
I must be turning native; what has happened to my complete disapproval of tutor-student relationships? I was so adamant at the start of the year that I’d never get embroiled in any such situation, and I’d still like to think I’m not doing anything morally wrong, but it does seem to be more acceptable over here, doesn’t it? I find I don’t have to try too hard to convince myself – and I’m amazed at just how easy it is to do that.
We decide to go for an aperitivo and then see how the mood takes us afterwards. I find myself really hoping we can spend the rest of the evening together; now that my wariness of his reputation seems to have miraculously deserted me, I really would like to get to know him better, on a personal level. I feel I know him pretty well in the academic sense – we’ve spent a lot of time together over the past few months – but this is different. I want to know more about him the person, not the tutor, all the usual sort of early-date stuff. So is this a date? I suppose it has to be.
‘Come to Bologna with me the weekend after next,’ Vincenzo proposes as we linger over our desserts. We moved on post-aperitif to a little trattoria in the centro. It’s a gorgeous little place; trattoria yes, but cheap and cheerful, no, in true Vincenzo style. It’s what I’d have called ‘authentically Italian’ in the days before I came over here and knew any better; proper Italian food, not just pasta and not a pizza in sight, and fully staffed by Italians, not Eastern European students trained to sound Italian. It’s also one of those rare places in Florence which isn’t full of tourists. One of the advantages of going out with a local I suppose; they know where to go. Stefano and I used to go to some great places – in a lower price bracket, but still lovely. That’s the first time I’ve thought about him for a while and it hits me with a bit of an icy blast. I wonder what he’d have to say about my dining companion this evening…
‘I have to go up there and finalise the details for my commission this summer,’ he continues. ‘Come with me? Please?’
Bologna would be great, I have to admit. I’m not sure about spending a whole weekend with Vincenzo so early on in our relationship – if that’s what it is turning into – but the opportunity to walk the same streets as Maria once did, see the churches, arches and palaces that she also set eyes on, is too much of an opportunity to miss, so I quickly agree to Vincenzo’s proposition. He will be in meetings for a significant portion of the weekend, anyway, which will leave me free to wander around and do the tourist trail, get a real feel for the place where Maria spent her youth. Sounds too good an opportunity to miss.
‘Yes, please,’ I reply.
Twenty-Four
I really could get used to this. Vincenzo has just checked us into our hotel, separate rooms, of course; I’m glad he didn’t presume.
This place is unbelievably gorgeous, the Grand Hotel Majestic ‘Già Baglioni’. Now you have to realise that this is not the sort of place I have ever stayed at, or even dreamed that one day I might have the funds to do so – which I haven’t. Holidays in the Irvine family never stretched much beyond a week on a caravan park in Dorset or Devon, which was lovely; we always had a fabulous time and the sun always shone, but until now I never knew such luxury existed. Or how much it costs to say somewhere like this; I have just spotted the tariff swinging innocently on the back of the door. I didn’t realise you were expected to fork out the price of a small car to stay in one of their top suites for the night.
And something else I have to deal with is this strange notion that I am starting to feel like a kept woman. Vincenzo never lets me pay for anything, so much so that it got to the point in the middle of the week when I felt I needed to say something to try and redress the balance. Not that I can reciprocate on the same scale, of course, but if he could at least let me pay for something small now and again it would really help. Even just treat him to a coffee once in a while.
That was when Vincenzo sat me down and told me all about his trust fund. He’d never spoken much about his family before, so I was amazed to discover that he is in fact descended from Italian aristocracy, and if the Italian Constitution of 1948 hadn’t abolished the Consulta Araldica, or in other words the right to use a title of nobility, then he would also be a ‘Nobile’. His Grandfather was the last to use the title legally, and despite the dissolution of the aristocracy in this country, the families who once bore these titles are still highly regarded in current society. I find it all quite fascinating, as I’d always regarded Italians as much more of a nation without class, compared to us Brits. We are a country of royalists, still clinging to an outmoded class system and still in thrall to Kings and Queens, Dukes and Duchesses. The Italians don’t have all that.
So anyway, back to the trust fund. As well as being ‘nobility’, the Tizzaro family is also extremely wealthy. Wealth and status don’t always go hand in hand, of course, but in this case they do and Vincenzo’s father, who is still alive and well and lives near Milan, settled a substantial portion of the family fortune on Vincenzo when he reached twenty-one. Vincenzo is entitled to the interest from the fund, but not to the capital, until his father dies. Not that it makes much difference by the sound of things. He certainly has enough cash at his disposal to live a more than comfortable existence; his salary from the University and commission from the sale of his paintings must seem like mere pin money to him. In fact, with that sort of money, I’m surprised he even bothers to work at all.
‘I don’t tell many people about the money,’ Vincenzo added afterwards. ‘And from the look on your face, I’m glad I don’t.’ I must have looked pretty shocked. I’d guessed he had to have more funds available to him than just an academic’s salary, to facilitate the lifestyle he leads, but I wasn’t expecting this.
‘It’s not every day you realise you’re in the presence of landed gentry,’ I’d replied, trying to sound light-hearted about the whole thing. ‘Do I need to curtsey?’
He laughed. ‘I don’t tell people because I don’t want them to change the way they think of me. In fact you’re the first girlfriend I’ve told.’
Girlfriend. There it was, that word, and I found myself feeling snugly contented under that title.
‘People already think I’m a bit flash, don’t they?’ he’d asked, and that had made me smile. As if! ‘I don’t want them thinking I throw my money around and also there are some girls who, well, you know, are only out for what they can get.’
‘I really appreciate you telling me about your family,’ I say to Vincenzo now, to convince him that I really am OK about discovering I’m going out with a millionaire, which I suppose he must be. I’ve almost managed to recover from the shock of seeing how much he has paid for me to stay here. ‘But I still want you to let me pay for something now and again. I could never fund this sort of thin
g, of course,’ I say, waving my arm around at the opulence of the hotel bar, where we are having a drink together, ‘but just let me buy the odd round of drinks now and again, won’t you? Let me feel useful?’
‘OK I will. I hope it doesn’t change anything, well, for us,’ he replies.
‘So we are an ‘us’ then, are we?’ I bravely venture, needing to have my status confirmed. ‘You referred to me as your girlfriend the other day. Does that mean we are ‘officially dating?’’ I waggle my fingers in the air to denote the speech marks.
‘I think we are, don’t you? I really, really like you, Lydia. You know that.’ He reaches across the table and takes hold of my hand, raises it to his lips and kisses it gently, all the time looking into my eyes. A shiver runs up my spine. I have a boyfriend again, it would seem, and he is very, VERY rich. But that doesn’t matter, because he is also very, very lovely. The money is a bonus – and a huge surprise – but I am not shallow enough to be swayed by it and I would like him just as much without it. I’m glad, and very relieved, to realise I feel that way. I’d hate to think I was also one of those mercenary, money-grabbing women he’d referred to.
We both go our separate ways for a while to freshen up and get ready for the evening ahead. Vincenzo is taking me to a restaurant he knows – is there any city in this country where he doesn’t have the perfect venue for a date at his fingertips? So I retreat to my room to fill my vast Jacuzzi bath with bubbles and have a long soak. Having seen the room prices, I’m glad I’m not in a suite – why would I need all that space just for me, all for the price of a brand new Punto? Nothing could justify that sort of expense, and given the choice, I think I’d go for the car. But now that it’s mine, I don’t plan to waste this luxury, and I do plan to either use up all the gorgeous toiletries left in my bathroom, or pop them in my suitcase and take them home. A bit of both, probably.
I think my room must be classed as a ‘Deluxe Kingsize’, and it is pretty luxurious. The bed is massive and would comfortably sleep a family of six without them rolling over and the little one falling out. The high ceiling is lit with chandeliers, and the huge full-height windows offer a stunning view across the uniformly red roofs of the city to the Bolognese hills beyond.
The furniture is very French in its style; I sit in one of the luxurious Louis XV style armchairs and gaze around the room, trying to commit every little detail to memory. And then, like a five-year-old with an uncontrollable bubble of excitement building in their chest, I am seized by the urge to bounce on the bed, and so that is exactly what I do. As I leap up and down, sending plump cushions flying to the floor, arms waving, I let out a ‘whoop’ of sheer joy, feeling more exhilarated than I’ve felt in a very long time.
The next morning Vincenzo has to meet up with his client to discuss and plan the commission, so I am to be left to my own devices for most of the day. As we pass through the marbled foyer together, he asks the concierge to provide me with a map and a list of recommended places to visit, which I accept graciously, but actually what I want to do is just wander, get a feel for the place, see where I end up.
An hour later, having strolled briefly around the Piazza Maggiore and taken in some of the well-known sights, I find myself in a second-hand bookshop, flicking through the shelves for something, anything, that might bring me closer to Maria and her time here. I have no expectations of actually finding anything, but you just never know; you don’t find unless you look.
There is an old, tattered book about Pope Paul III which I pick up and flick through. He was after all the reason Titian came to Bologna, bringing him to the city in which he would meet his lover; a moment in time which would define and shape the rest of his life. I look up Titian in the index and there are quite a few references to him, so I decide to buy it, and leave the shop. I can flick through it later, back at the hotel; right now I want to do some serious sight-seeing.
I join the hordes of tourists queuing to climb the five hundred steps up to the top of the Torre Asinelli. I’d paused a little while ago to grab a coffee and drink it on the steps of the Fontana di Nettuno, first picking up an English newspaper from a stand nearby. The vendor, clearly marking me out as just another tourist (how dare he, I consider myself semi-native now, and my Italian accent is almost perfect!) began to sing the praises of ‘the best thing ever you can do in Bologna’, so I decided bravely to give it a go.
Two hundred steps in and I am beginning to regret my decision. Three hundred and fifty steps in, and thoroughly bored of the view of the well-upholstered, ascending backside in front of me, I am hot and thirsty. Four hundred and seventy-something steps in and I am almost passing out from heat exhaustion. But now I have made it, I am at the top and I emerge suddenly into the dazzling sunshine, blinking and reaching quickly for my sunglasses and water bottle.
And I have to say, the newspaper vendor was right. The view is heavenly. I gaze down onto a sea of red roofs, interspersed with the verdigris domes of churches, whose scale is reduced to model-village proportions by the altitude. Have I really climbed that high? The shadow cast by the tower throws a dark line across the city like a sundial, pointing in a westerly direction, which, once I have worked out my bearings, I realise is back towards the Piazza Maggiore, almost following the exact path I took to come here.
I move to the south side of the roof and try to indentify more landmarks. It all looks so different from here; even the other towers seem insignificant in their size. I spot a further, smaller dome which must be that of San Domenico. That’s where I plan to make for later, taking in San Petronio first, which is sort of en route. Today will be a day of churches and towers, I think, but that seems to be largely what Bologna is all about. I’m going to immerse myself in culture, then when that all gets a bit too much, do some shopping, buy a few souvenirs, that sort of thing. Vincenzo and I aren’t meeting up until the early evening, so I have the whole day to do exactly as I want.
Despite an enormous blow-out breakfast at the hotel this morning, I don’t quite make it as far as San Domenico before hunger strikes, so I head back into familiar territory, towards the Piazza Nettuno, in search of a café where I can grab a bite to eat. Gazing out of the window as I munch on my panino I spot the entrance to a library, the Biblioteca Salaborsa, and decide that this will be my next port of call. I need to find out more about what life was like in Bologna in those days, and what better place to start.
‘This might sound like an odd request,’ I nervously begin my question to the librarian, ‘but I’m looking for information on brothels in Bologna in the sixteenth century.’
The librarian isn’t fazed by my question at all, and instead beckons me to follow her poker-straight back towards the relevant section. Amazingly there are some books which contain such information, although she explains that I might have to do some digging, so she helps me to the nearest table with a selection of volumes, and leaves me to it.
I soon become engrossed in a section on how syphilis was brought to Bologna – in 1495 by the French apparently! – which is all fascinating stuff, and goes some way to explaining why the brothels were set up, to try and contain the disease and reduce the spread, keep prostitution off the streets and all that. It says there was even a hospital dedicated to the treatment of it.
I am also interested to discover that Bologna was the only Italian city in those days which permitted women to take up a profession (other than prostitution, of course) and even allowed them to study at the university. For such a forward-thinking city, then, it was amazing that so many brothels existed, along with a record ninety-six convents, presumably with the intention of saving the souls whose ways had strayed from the path of righteousness. A city of two wild extremes, it would appear.
But how do I find out which brothel was the one where Maria lived and worked? And is there really likely to be anything written about one such establishment, which has long since closed down? The only clue is the dream I had of the Pope’s visit; she was able to see him pass by from her windo
w, so what I need, if such thing exists, is something to tell me the route he took through the city on that visit in 1537. Huh, what likelihood is there of finding that?
I decide to stop trawling through books and return to the twenty-first century way of doing things instead, hitting the library’s extensive website, which is being heavily plugged on all the walls around me. With little hope of finding anything I type ‘Pope Paul Bologna 1537’ into the search engine and sit back to wait and see what gems of information this throws up.
I am amazed to hit instantly on one or two articles which might actually help. Apparently the Papal procession took the principal route through the city (well, I suppose that should have been obvious, really) along the Roman road, coincidentally called the Via Emilia. I scratch around for the Via Emilia in my guide book, only to discover that whilst this route still exists historically, the part that runs through the city now goes under several different street names, Maggiore, Rizzoli, Ugo Bassi and San Felice. I have already walked along those streets today, maybe passing the site, or even the actual building, where Maria used to live! Suddenly I feel a lot closer to her than ever, and a tiny shiver of excitement runs down my spine.
The article about the Pope’s visit is fairly sketchy, but then it’s bound to be. It’s not like there was any newspaper reporting of such events in those days, no tabloid journalists hurriedly scribbling down details of outfits, routes, who said what to whom, what the crowd’s reaction was, et cetera, snapping away on a jumble of cameras to secure ‘the’ shot of the day. It has merely been documented as an event that took place, for posterity and historical purpose, and nothing more. But then I scroll down to reveal a pencil sketch of the procession passing through town, which bears an uncanny resemblance to the sight that Maria saw from her window.