Urban Venus (31 page)

‘
Break her heart and I will kill you.’

‘
You’d better not, then!’ I joke as we get up to leave.

Twenty-Six

‘
You’re going to need a bit more than that,’ Leonora says as I go to leave the apartment, carrying a small, collapsible umbrella, my only weapon of defence against the raging storm outside.

None of us slept well last night; the storm started in the early hours of the morning and, used only to the gentle chirruping of the local birdlife as night turns to day, the uncharacteristic crashing and banging of the wind, plus the clatter of torrential rain lashing the windows, had us all out of bed and drinking hot chocolate by five-thirty. We sat companionably yawning in our pyjamas for some time, contemplating whether we really
had
to go out today, or if anything we needed to do could be done from home instead. Sophia and Leonora sensibly decided to spend the morning indoors, as it surely must pass over at some time, but I really want to get across town this morning to the Archivio di Stato and so decide to stick to my Plan A.

I’m keen to unearth something that might lead me to Maria and Emilia as soon as I can; I’m not quite running out of time yet, but I’m conscious that I’ve got end of year assessments coming up, and as today is relatively free of lectures and tutorials, there is no time like the present…

However as I hesitate outside our apartment block, wearing Leonora’s full-length oilskin coat, I wonder if I’ve made the right decision. I’m glad she offered me the use of it, but I never imagined someone living here would need, let alone own, a coat like this. It seems more English countryside than urban Italian wear, but Leonora informed me that when it rains here, there are no half measures. And taking shelter for a few moments under the small overhang of the building, I can see just what she means. It hasn’t rained very often or very hard since I’ve been here, so today feels like quite a monsoon.

The Archivio di Stato is a fair way across town, beyond Santa Croce and the library, so I have quite a walk ahead of me, which on a fine day wouldn’t bother me, but today I feel like I’m about to set off on a marathon trek into dangerous territory. I take a deep breath and venture forth.

The backstreets near the apartment are already awash, gutters full to overflowing and drains bubbling up with water that simply has nowhere to go. Hardly anyone is out and about, and who can blame them. A lone young man on a Piaggio scoots past, typically without a helmet, his dark hair plastered to his head, leather jacket shiny as the water runs off him, like a giant black beetle. His wheels send a jet of water from the gutter in my direction, and he looks across with a smile and a ‘
Scusi signorina!’

I don’t really know what to expect from today’s visit. I’ve no idea why a document about the Pope’s visit to Bologna should have been moved to the archives in Florence, but whatever it is and however significant or otherwise, I have to go and have a look. I feel compelled to follow any lead I can, as, let’s face it, there have been few leads so far.

I’ve a vague notion I might have stumbled across the area in Bologna where Maria lived, but that’s about the extent of it, and even that’s more of a feeling than a confirmed fact. So I’m not very optimistic about what today’s findings will reveal, but you just never know. To rehash a tired cliché, I can leave no stone unturned.

Across the city, conditions are no better. I have never seen the Piazza della Signoria looking so forlorn, or so bereft of tourists. A few of the hardier ones are huddled under the arches of the Loggia dei Lanzi, cameras packed away for today into their waterproof holdalls, waiting for a break in the weather to return to their happy snapping. Tables are stacked up around the edge of the square and tied down with tarpaulins, businesses clearly taking a hit as their clientele stays at home or in warm and dry hotel bars.

I slosh across the square, past the looky-looky men who today have swapped sunglasses and postcards for disposable pac-a-macs and cheap-and-cheerful umbrellas, guaranteed to blow inside out on first use. A few tourists, caught short in their lack of appropriate holiday garb are sporting these macs, bright red plastic cape-like things with a hood, and holes for the arms. I suspect I would be wearing one of those now, were it not for Leonora’s coat. I am reminded of the Du Maurier book ‘Don’t Look Now,’ as a red-caped child darts in front of me, attired in the miniature version of this fashion faux-pas, pointy hood concealing her face. I shudder, partly from the chill this weather has created, and partly from remembrance of that creepy tale. This place
does
feel more like Venice than Florence today.

As I pass the Uffizi I make a silent promise to Maria that I will be back soon.
I am trying to find out more about you, my dear friend,
I communicate to her in my head.
Give me time, I’m working on it.

The archives are in an unprepossessing concrete monstrosity of a building, whose complete lack of anything architecturally pleasing is not enhanced by the weather. I shake off the worst of the rain from my coat and head inside, feet squelching in boots which feel like they might never recover from being so thoroughly soaked through.

I am directed to the appropriate room by a very nice – dry – lady on the reception desk whose hair looks too perfect for her to have arrived in this weather. Perhaps she has a kindly other half who dropped her right outside the door this morning, avoiding the need for heavy duty rainwear or a bad-hair-day situation.

‘
Andate nella Sala Studio al primo piano, e firmate il registro,’
she informs me in her brusque, head-mistressy way, and I do just that, up to the first floor, and sign my name in the book. The Sala Studio looks more like an exam hall; row upon row of desks, about two thirds of which are taken up with what appear to be students, industriously working away. I walk over to a free desk, conscious of the soggy squelch emanating from my feet in the deathly silence, dump my things and go in search of someone who can help me with my request.

At the enquiries counter I find a very kind-faced lady of close to retirement age, whose name badge reads Antonella Pasi. I explain to her that I was directed here from a web search I did in the Biblioteca Salaborsa in Bologna, showing her the printout with the reference number, and she disappears into a room behind her counter, instructing me to wait a few moments.

Signora Pasi returns several minutes later looking somewhat apologetic.

‘
Mi dispiace molto, signorina,
’ she begins, ‘
ma questo documento non è qui.
È
stato distrutto durante l’alluvione.’

I try to avoid collapsing into a squelchy heap of mush in my disappointment. How ironic on a day as soggy as today, that the one piece of paper which might have helped me find a small lead to Maria, has been destroyed by flooding.

Signora Pasi goes on to explain that the document hasn’t actually been here for several decades; it was destroyed in the great flood of 1966, that very famous event which obliterated, not just what feels like my only hope of ever tracing Maria, but thousands of works of art in some of the major institutions across the city. I know my loss is a small one in relation to all that, and that piece of paper might not even have proved useful, but it was my one hope, and now it has gone.

I slump down onto a seat by the enquiries desk. Signora Pasi looks concerned as I turn a whiter shade of pale and start shivering. She comes out from behind her counter, and very kindly and concernedly puts an arm around my shoulders.

‘
You are frozen,’ she says. ‘Come through to my back office, there’s a comfortable chair in there and a fan heater. Here, take off your shoes and socks, I’ll soon have those dried out for you. You can sit and recover for a moment. I’ll make you something warm to drink. I can’t believe how cold it is today, this rain chills you to the bone.’

What a lovely lady. She takes over completely and ushers me into her office, where within minutes I am provided with a steaming cup of hot chocolate and a fluffy blanket to cover my bare feet. Being mothered and fussed over is a great elixir, and her constant stream of friendly chit-chat picks me up no end, so much so that I begin to feel embarrassed and start to apologise for my loss of composure.

‘
I’m sorry, I seemed to lose it there for a moment. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘
Don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine now. Was it something really important to you?’ she asks.

‘
I don’t know really.’ I want to explain to her, after all she has been so kind, but I don’t want to reveal too much. How silly would my story seem to an outsider?

‘
Just something I thought might lead me to an ancestor.’ There, I said it. Maria is my ancestor. But still it’s only an assumption; I need that proof that links me to her, need to know how we are related, need to have a piece of concrete evidence in my possession that proves there is a reason for her telling me her story.

‘
I was an ‘
Angelo del Fango
’ in 1966, you know. A ‘Mud Angel,’’ Signora Pasi tells me. I quickly sit up and take notice, wanting to hear more. ‘I was a student here when the floods came. Really, I have never seen anything like it. It was heartbreaking to see so many treasures damaged, so many things completely destroyed. At the time we were more concerned for the works of art than for our own safety, not afraid of drowning. The recklessness of youth, I suppose. What else could we have done but help? We had to save these things, it’s our heritage, it’s what Florence is all about, isn’t it? It wasn’t so much the water that was the problem in many cases; it was the mud.’

She goes on to tell me more about her efforts. Apparently she worked solidly for a year, cleaning, disinfecting and scraping mud and slime off books and paintings, learning about the painstaking restoration process as she went along, and working with experts from the field of conservation.

‘
Mud mixed with oil from all the broken heating tanks around the city, not to mention the pollution from the river. Well, you can imagine. All that muck over all those beautiful things. I’m so glad I did it, though,’ she goes on. ‘Glad I got involved. And it’s how I met my husband.’ At this point she giggles and blushes, like a little girl with her first crush. Clearly he’s a special one and they are still madly in love. Lucky her.

She really is an angel, my Signora Pasi. I feel like I’ve known her forever, and when I finally leave her office an hour later, not only do I have dry feet and a warm glow inside, but I have made a new friend, and as I kiss her on both cheeks, I vow to come back and see her before I return to England.

‘
I promise,’ I say. Her stories have put things into perspective for me. My loss – if it had indeed turned out to be a useful document, and that I will never know – is so insignificant in the face of all that Florence lost in 1966. It’s thanks to people like her that these treasures are still around in the museums, galleries and churches of this great city. Even so, I am still bitterly disappointed, and I know there is only one person who will fully understand, Antonio Di Girolamo, my friend and tutor. I need to pay him a visit.

‘
Lydia,
cara,
I think
you
know in your heart of hearts why Maria talks to you like this, so don’t upset yourself,’ he says, in an attempt to console me.

I’d amazed myself by breaking down in tears as soon as I saw him. I thought I’d sorted it all out in my head on the way there, but I think the lack of sleep last night has magnified this situation into something bigger than it is, turning me into a blubbing wreck in the process.

‘
I think I
knew
in my own mind that I had some kind of link to Tiziano,
well
before I discovered some evidence to prove it,’ he goes on. ‘And you know, that document you were looking for in the archives might have been completely useless to you. Somehow, Lydia, I doubt it would have thrown any more light on Maria’s life. It was probably just a report on the Papal visit, at best. Keep your chin up, my dear, and keep going with your family research; you just never know what you might happen across. But even if you don’t find anything, I think you know in your heart that Maria chose you for a reason, don’t you? I was lucky enough to find something, but you have a much harder task ahead of you. You’ve no idea how the link reaches all the way to England, for one thing, so where are you supposed to start looking? At least my family has always lived in much the same part of Italy, so I had something to be going on with.’

It does make me feel a bit better, I suppose, but I so want to find something which proves Maria’s existence, other than the ‘facts’ inside my head.

I need your help
, Maria, I plead.
You have to give me something more in the dreams. Tell me where I can find you.

Twenty-Seven

‘
So you will do it? Really?’ Vincenzo had asked me as we sat enjoying a prosecco together on the Piazza della Signoria. ‘I really can paint you?’

Shoot me if you will, and think what you like, but yes, I’ve succumbed. I am going to pose for Vincenzo, and yes, I’m going to pose for him without my clothes on. I am about to become, dare I say it, another one of his nudes, and yes, there are a fair few of them, and no, I’m not threatened by that, really I’m not.