Urban Venus

by Sara Downing

  ‘I was dreaming about Maria,’ I reply. ‘I’ve never done that before outside the gallery, so to start with I just felt a bit sleepy and didn’t give too much thought to it. I think those roses sent me off, you know, those ones on your desk. Maria always had roses like that around her. Such a strong smell. She’s dead,’ I say again, as the pain of memory hits once more.

  ‘Of course she’s dead,’ he laughs, ‘she lived nearly five hundred years ago.’

  ‘No, you know what I mean,’ I say impatiently. ‘She died in the dream. Can you bring Antonio in? I want him to hear all this.’

  Antonio comes into the room clutching a small bunch of flowers. Not roses, I’m glad to say. Bless him, he must have nipped to the hospital shop at break-neck speed after I woke up.

  ‘How are you, my dear?’ he asks in his gentle, fatherly way.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I reply, smiling in confirmation.

  ‘Well, I must say you look remarkably well for one whom we considered in such grave health mere moments ago.’

  ‘I dreamt about Maria,’ I tell him. ‘She gave birth to Emilia. And Titian sent the baby away. To live in France. With a couple who were going there. They went to Paris. Then she killed herself. Maria, I mean.’ I blurt out the bare facts in short, sharp sentences, wanting to tell him everything all at once, and knowing he will want to hear it, as it is the resolution of his own story, too.

  ‘Slow down, slow down, my dear,’ he says, taking hold of my hand and patting it with his other. ‘It sounds like you have a lot to tell us, but there is no rush.’

  ‘How could he do that to her?’ I ask, once I’ve recounted pretty much everything I can remember to Vincenzo and Antonio. ‘They were so in love, they meant everything to each other, and he threw it away so easily. He always thought he was having a son, but Maria wrote him a letter to tell him about Emilia, after she’d been taken away. She had nothing to live for, poor girl.’

  ‘That would be why my story ended so abruptly,’ says Antonio, and I have to say he almost looks relieved, not at the outcome obviously, which is a tragic one, but that he now knows there is a valid reason for his own dreams coming to an end as they did. They ceased at the moment in time when Tiziano Vecellio pushed Maria Rossi and their daughter, Emilia, from his life. There was nothing more for Antonio to dream about, as the love of Titian’s life was no longer with him. Titian wouldn’t have known what had then become of Maria, I should imagine.

  ‘Things were very different in those days,’ Vincenzo says. ‘There must have been a huge stigma attached to having a child out of wedlock, and Maria probably would have fared better in life on her own, had she chosen life. And it was a very brave decision she took, not to.’

  ‘And the child would have been well taken care of, too. Raised as though she were their own.’ Antonio says.

  ‘But with Titian asking the painter to give the child the name of Urbino, surely everyone would know she wasn’t theirs?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, but she could have been a poor orphan that they took in,’ Antonio replies. ‘Don’t forget they moved hundreds of miles away from their home. No one would have known them in Paris, least of all asked questions about their child’s origins. ‘Urbino,’ you say. What a fortunate choice of name for her, especially as you had your dreams in front of that painting! You must be so relieved to find out what happened to Maria, even though it’s not the ending you might have hoped for?’

  ‘It’s a horrible ending for her, poor girl, but at least I know what happened now. It’s no wonder she wanted me to know her story. Things like that just don’t make it to the history books, do they? But it still doesn’t explain why I had the dreams,’ I say. ‘I still have no evidence that I might be related to them, I’m just assuming I am, like with you and your relationship to Titian. And calling the child Urbino just complicates things, doesn’t it? I can’t follow down the Rossi or Vecellio lines of investigation any more.’

  ‘Urbino is a very unusual name,’ Antonio says. ‘It’s a place, and not a commonly used surname in Italy, really. Would you like me to look into it for you? Let’s see what else we can find out. I’ll go and do that now for you. You just concentrate on getting better.’

  ‘There goes a man with a mission,’ Vincenzo laughs, as Antonio leaves the room, intent on his next piece of historical detective work. ‘If anyone can find out something, then he’s the one.’ And he turns back to me. ‘This is all great stuff, and I know you’re pleased to have a resolution to the dreams and all that, but I’m just so relieved you’re OK.’

  ‘Can we go home now?’ I ask, impatiently tearing at the covers and looking around. ‘Where are my clothes?’

  ‘Oh, they’re probably still in my study, sorry. I didn’t think to bring them in all the panic. I’ll call in that bossy doctor to start the discharge process and I’ll nip back and get them for you. We’ll have you out of here soon, don’t worry.’

  Vincenzo has tucked me up in bed back at the apartment, despite my protestations that I feel absolutely fine, and that there was never anything medically wrong with me in the first place.

  ‘But that doctor insisted,’ he says. ‘She wasn’t very happy about you going home so soon, but I promised I’d take care of you, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do, whether you like it or not.’

  At that moment Sophia sticks her head round the door, checking it’s OK for her to come in. She is bearing a tray with some fruit juice and a Panini.

  ‘Room service!’ she announces, popping the tray down on the table beside my bed. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine, and really, all this is lovely, but I’m not ill. Honestly. I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow, you’ll see. In fact, I’d be back on my feet now if this man here would let me get out of bed,’ I add, jabbing Vincenzo affectionately in the ribs. ‘But thank you, you’re all doing a great job of looking after me.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she says, leaving us to it, but then, ‘Oh, someone else to see you,’ and Antonio’s head appears round the door.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ he asks, and I try not to sound impatiently cross when I reply:

  ‘Yes. Fine. Really. Thank you.’ It’s lovely that they’re all so concerned about me, but really, they don’t need to be. ‘That was quick. Did you manage to find anything out?’

  ‘Well, it’s interesting,’ he begins, perching on the side of the bed. ‘I did some research into the origins of surnames, and Urbino isn’t a very common one, so there aren’t many references to it. But there is evidence of a small cluster of D’Urbino’s in Paris in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, one of which may or may not be your Emilia. If she had married of course, then her name could have changed, and none of these might be her, but on the other hand, perhaps her adoptive parents told her who she was when she came of age and she decided to keep her name throughout her life as a reference to her heritage? But that of course, my dear, we shall never know. All we do know is that the Urbino name surfaces in Paris, where we know Emilia went, so that has to be encouraging news, doesn’t it?

  ‘And…. and this is the really interesting part,’ he goes on. ‘Urbino and your name, Irvine, are actually from the same ‘family’, as it were, of names. Urbino kind of evolved into Irvine, as the ‘b’ sound isn’t terribly French when it occurs in the middle of a word. They can make the ‘v’ sound much easier in their native tongue, you see.’

  I try not to leap out of bed with excitement at this news. Vincenzo has to practically hold me down.

  Antonio continues: ‘So Urbino evolved into Urvino and then lost the Italianate ‘o’ from the end. Urvine and Irvine sound the same, and to all intents and purposes are the same name. Spellings were easily confused over the centuries, particularly when only a small proportion of the population could actually write their own names. So there you go. Irvine equals Urbino! Perhaps that is your link?’

  He sees the look of utter excitement on my face and smiles.

  ‘I think it’s mo
re than a ‘perhaps’, Antonio,’ I reply. ‘And actually, rumour has it that my family is of French origin. You never really know, do you, as these stories get passed down through the generations, and you’re never sure quite how much truth there is in them, but I think you have just confirmed things for me! I have to be related to Emilia! I am Lydia Irvine, otherwise known as Lydia D’Urbino! Hey, that has quite a ring to it! I like it!’

  Antonio leans in and gives me a big hug. ‘I’m so pleased for you, Lydia,’ he says. ‘I know there’s still nothing concrete as such to prove your link to Emilia, but I think this is as close as you are going to get, don’t you? As long as you are certain in your own mind, then that’s all that matters. And I think you are now, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Very. Thank you so much Antonio,’ I say. ‘I have a feeling there won’t be any more dreams now. Maria’s all done with me, isn’t she? Her story is complete. Although I might have to pop back to the gallery at some point, just to check….’ I look across to Vincenzo to gauge his reaction.

  ‘No you don’t, not yet!’ Vincenzo laughs.

  Twenty-Nine

  ‘James, darling, we need a photo,’ Evie says, thrusting her phone into her husband’s hands. ‘Here, in front of David. Hang on, wait a sec until there’s a gap in the crowds, will you? We don’t want everyone’s heads getting in the way of David and his lovely body, do we?!’ She turns to me and giggles. We both produce a perfectly-timed cheesy grin and point to the statue as James clicks the button and the photo is a done deal. ‘I must send that one to my friend, Grace, back home. Her new bloke looks just like him. It’ll make her laugh.’

  ‘Just let me get one with my camera, too,’ James says, pulling an expensive-looking piece of kit with an enormous lens from its special padded case. ‘Takes a much better quality of photo than these phone camera things,’ he mutters, handing Evie’s back to her.

  ‘What is it they say about a man with a big lens?’ I giggle to Evie, as James twiddles the lens and instructs us to pose again, but sensibly this time. Nothing should ruin his shot, and certainly not two mad sisters pointing to David’s private parts. Heaven forbid it should turn into a tourist snapshot, and not a piece of art.

  ‘No, that’s big cars. But hey, maybe it applies to lenses, too,’ she laughs. ‘Not so, in James’ case, dear sister, I hasten to add.’

  ‘Too much information!’ I reply, putting my hands over my ears before she reveals any more intimate details.

  My mad sister and her husband have come to stay, making their long-promised visit to see me, and I have to say, their timing couldn’t be better. I’d managed to persuade Vincenzo not to call my family after the hospital incident; I wasn’t ill as such, anyway, and the last thing I wanted was my parents jumping on a plane and dragging me back to the UK with them. I need to enjoy my last few weeks here in peace. God knows it’s going to be hard enough to leave when I do have to.

  So I can relax and enjoy Evie’s visit. I’ve had my results for this year – and passed with flying colours, the dreams are all over and done with, and so the rest of the time here is my own, to soak up this wonderful place as much as I can before I have to leave it behind.

  It helps to have someone to show round, as it makes me realise just how intimately I know Florence now, plus it forces me to visit places I haven’t been to for a while, one last time. Typically for Evie, she insisted on shopping before sightseeing, and so we have done the smarter shopping quarters this morning, followed by a beautiful little restaurant for lunch. It was well outside my price bracket, so I’ve never been there before, not even with Vincenzo – but James was picking up the tab – and now we’re planning a few touristy bits and pieces before I introduce them to Vincenzo, later on this evening. I’m a little nervous about that; I so want Evie to love Vincenzo. I don’t see why she wouldn’t, but it’s a little scary introducing the love of your life to your family.

  We have an Uffizi tour planned for this afternoon, with me acting as guide. I’ve been back to the gallery just the once since the dream I had in Vincenzo’s office, and although I didn’t linger in room twenty-eight, there was no feeling, as I passed the painting, that Maria had anything else to tell me. She doesn’t, I know that; her story is complete and her spirit is gone, but I have to admit I feel kind of bereft, as though it were a final acknowledgment that that period of my life is over. I was very privileged to have those dreams, I think, to have been the chosen one for Maria to tell her story to. In a way I’m glad it’s all over, but part of me misses her deeply.

  Evie has a novel approach to taking in the gallery, whizzing through some rooms like a whirling dervish, and lingering in others, when her attention happens to be caught by a particular piece.

  ‘Uh, she’s just like this round the shops,’ James bemoans, deliberately holding back as she tries to drag him through to the next room at her pace. He seems rather taken with the busts and statues in the First Corridor, pausing to read the inscriptions and standing back to fully admire them. Evie gives him a chance to catch up when she reaches the Second Corridor at the end of the gallery, overlooking the Arno, stopping to admire the view, up-river towards the Ponte Vecchio. Then she switches sides and people-watches the swarming crowds below, her second favourite hobby after retail therapy.

  ‘So, this new man of yours,’ she starts, plopping her designer handbag on the plinth of a statue (not allowed, I’m sure – must keep an eye out for guards) and swiftly parking her bottom next to it. ‘Tell me more. He’s a lecturer you say. Handsome? Sexy? Rich? And more importantly, does he treat you well?’

  Evie, bless her, is never backwards in coming forwards when it comes to my boyfriends, hence my slight trepidation about this evening. When Ed and I broke up and I filled her in on the details, it was as much as I could do to prevent her from seeking him out and disembowelling him on the spot. I suppose it’s something to do with the age difference between us; she feels protective of me, like a surrogate mother sort of thing. And in the absence of parental presence, I think she feels it’s her job to carry out the Spanish Inquisition of my new lover. I just hope Vincenzo’s shoulders are broad enough to cope with it. I go on to extol his virtues, in the hope that she will start the evening with good expectations of him.

  ‘Hey, I know this one,’ Evie says a little later, pulling me away from the Bronzino painting in room twenty-seven and through the archway into room twenty-eight. I know exactly which painting she is referring to; after all, Venus of Urbino is one of those paintings everyone wants to see in the Uffizi, hence the crowds milling around it on a pretty constant basis. Although there are quieter moments, I know that…..

  ‘I love this one,’ she goes on. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous? Just look at that hair, oh, and I’d never noticed that little dog before. Sweet! Come and sit over here with me for a mo, will you? We can wait till the crowds have gone and have a proper look. Do you know, I always thought the painting would be bigger than that.’

  ‘No, it’s OK thanks, I’m just going to carry on over here,’ I protest, not wanting to take up my regular place on the bench. ‘I… er… I spent a lot of time in here doing… er…. research, so I know that one pretty well. But you go for it, I’ll just be over here. She is lovely, though, isn’t she?’ I can’t help throwing a backwards glance at Maria as I move to the other side of the room.

  I’d decided before Evie arrived that I wasn’t going to tell her about the dreams. She’s always been a ‘face value’ sort of person, not a dreamer by any means, and much more of a practical ‘doer’, so the notion of her little sister being transported back to the sixteenth century in her mind just wouldn’t wash with her. I’d asked Vincenzo what he thought, and even though he’s never met her, he too thought it probably best just to keep it amongst those who already knew and understood.

  Maybe one day I’ll get round to writing about it; I have so many notes, after all, I’m sure I could knock up a volume of a similar size to Antonio’s in no time. One day, when I have some time
on my hands. Maybe then I’ll tell my family how I came by the knowledge…

  Anyway, here I am gazing at Flora instead – also Maria, I know, but I’ve never had the same pull to this or any of Titian’s many other works of art. Strange really, but I do feel quite safe looking this way whilst Evie gets her fill of Venus. There she is now, muscling in on a tour guide – an English-speaking one at that – and staring interestedly as the woman recounts the history of the painting in great length. Huh that’s what you think, I chuckle to myself as the guide explains how the exact identity of the model is still a mystery. Oh no it’s not….

  Sneaking another quick glance at Venus, I can’t help wondering what happened to Bella, Maria’s little dog. I hope she ended up with Clara; I’m pretty sure she would have taken care of her when her mistress left. Despite that final snippet of unfinished business I can’t see Maria wanting to summon me back to dreamland to tell me about her dog’s fate, much as I’d love to go there again, just for one last time.

  I needn’t have worried about introducing Vincenzo to my sister. Half an hour in, Evie is chatting to him as though they have known each other for years. I suppose it helps that Vincenzo has called upon his huge reserve of suave, Italian charm, and as I glance across the table at them, he has her pretty much eating out of his hand.

  James is trying to have a serious conversation about art with me, so I have one ear on that, making sure I nod and make a few noises in the right places, occasionally contributing with an interesting fact that he probably wouldn’t have known, and the other ear on what my boyfriend and sister are talking about, just to make sure they don’t stray into dangerous territory. But what likelihood is there that I might have to leap to Vincenzo’s defence and rescue him from my sister’s clutches? Let’s face it, this is a man who has been brought up on a diet of charm, and somehow I don’t think he’ll need my help.