What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (10 page)

Chapter 18

I knew Mariano well, as much as any spirit could know another. But in the flesh, he was a different man. I suppose Mariano was like any good friend. You never know what someone is really like until you live with them, sharing the same space day in and day out; learning what they’re like when they let their guard down, and the stresses of life get to them. In the Ognissanti, we had no stresses of life, but here it was different.

“I heard at the tavern that you left Pisa before the work was complete,” Mariano barked at Sandro.

“I was needed here, father.”

“You were needed there! You are so determined to paint despite what I think, and yet you left the job incomplete?”

“Lorenzo wanted me in Florence. I paint the standard for Giuliano.”

“You shame the family!”

So much for my patching up the relationship between Mariano and Sandro.

Mariano didn’t even notice I was there, before he stormed away. His outburst caused Sandro to slump over behind the banner, and retreat into a melancholy stupor. Clearly, my job was not yet done.

“Your father will be very proud of you…in the future,” I proclaimed.

I didn’t say how far in the future.

“He doesn’t understand. The Pisans know not what they want. They commissioned me for one thing, then had me begin something else. Back and forth, on and on. Lorenzo would not tolerate it. He looks out for me. He understands my worth even if my father does not. Many will come from all the city-states to see Giuliano in
La Giostra.
They will see my standard amidst all the pageantry.”

Sandro vented for only a minute, and with that, he was over it. He turned his attention back to his sketch of the banner.

It pained me to know that the banner wouldn’t survive, but the story would last forever, put into poetry by Angelo Poliziano.
Only
the story would survive. The tale of how the humble painter fell in love with the Genoese beauty, only to have her swept away by the great, arrogant Giuliano on horseback.

All while Marco did what?

I couldn’t believe that’s how the story would end. I now knew Simonetta in a way no one else could—from the inside out. Could this have been what she wanted? And Sandro?

“Your banner will be the main attraction of the tournament, Sandro. Not Giuliano.”

“Forgive my correction, my lady, but
you
are the main attraction. You are the reason they come from far and wide, to catch a glimpse of
La Sans Pareille.”

“La Sans Pareille?”

“My father told me you speak French, the language of courtly love.”

“Oh….not really…” I mumbled, regretting my whole
Déjà vu
comment to Mariano.

“All of the French Court will know that you are
the unparalleled one,
as I plan to include that caption at the bottom of the standard.

The unparalleled one.

Those words kept repeating themselves inside my head. Simonetta was always made out to be this otherworldly creature, and yet I still felt all the discomforts a mortal body brings—the annoying inconveniences I’d become unaccustomed to: hunger, thirst, fatigue, sensitivity to hot and cold, desperation for the toilet—which had not yet been invented. Fortunately, the physical aches and pains in my teenage body were literally nonexistent compared to the ailing mass of flesh I’d left behind so long ago.

There was something I wasn’t seeing. Some deeper truth and meaning to it all. This was an era of higher contemplation, when men spent hours discussing philosophy, politics, alchemy, and spirituality. They couldn’t be that focused on some hot chick. And what was Mariano’s story? Why was it not enough for him that his son painted for the ruling family in Florence? Even if it was from his father’s attic.

It was difficult for me to concentrate on any of the questions and issues at hand since I was still in my ultimate fantasy world—even if it was stark, cold reality for everyone else.

Chapter 19

At the appointed time, Antonella returned to escort me back to the Palazzo Vespucci, but it was entirely too soon for me. I still had this fear that any moment might be my last, and I wanted to spend as many moments as possible with Sandro, basking in Simonetta’s Renaissance glory. This was a fear that had carried over from my lifetime, but it had taught me to live each moment to the fullest, and that was what I intended to do in this world as well.

As Antonella and I strode down the Via della Vigna Nuova, past the vineyard towards the Borgo Ognissanti, I wanted to share everything with her—my previous lifetime, my eleven years with Mariano, my miraculous resurrection—but I knew I couldn’t. Instead, we talked about her day of leisure, which she spent browsing for luxuries she couldn’t afford at the Mercato Nuovo. Antonella thanked me profusely for her free day, and hinted nonstop that she was in desperate need of another.

“Tomorrow you should visit the Miniato al Monte,” I insisted. “It’s a beautiful place.”

She nodded in agreement, as she looked longingly towards the
Oltrarno
, or
beyond the Arno
district, with a smile that stretched nearly from ear to ear.

When we entered the
palazzo
, she followed me up to the bedchamber, planted me in my chair, and primped me once again. When my coiffuring was complete, I sat motionless and stared blankly at her, since I had no idea what I was supposed to do.

“Well, go on,” she insisted.

“Where am I going?”

Antonella huffed. “To supper, of course. I know you do not like to sup with them, but do it for
him
.”

I couldn’t imagine the horror of whoever
them
was, and why I wouldn’t wish to sup with
them
. My days had already been such a marvelous blur of the surreal. Unless I was to dine with plague-stricken murderers, I couldn’t conjure a meal that would be anything short of incredible.

“Are you coming?” I asked Antonella.

“We have been over this before, Netta. You are the noblewoman. I am the attendant. In
Firenze,
it matters not that we have been lifelong friends. And as much as I long to be near him, I cannot. I will see you after supper.”

Antonella had been Simonetta’s lifelong friend.

At that moment I realized Antonella offered a fulfilling relationship, as well as insight into Simonetta’s psyche.

With that, she waved her arm towards my sitting room. I entered the vacant space alone, looking around for a moment at all the portraits decorating its walls, when I heard the clanking and chatter of merrymaking. I followed the sound through my sitting room to the neighboring dining area where another ornately decorated space awaited me, equal in intricate detail to my sitting room or bedchamber. The dining room was lit with a myriad of candles, which illuminated a sea of frescoes and a ceiling, table, and chairs trimmed with gold. At the large table sat a group of men, woman and children.

“
La Bella
! Here! Next to me!” The voice belonged to the same young man who had beckoned me in the courtyard the prior morning. He was cheerful and handsome, about seventeen, I guessed.

I took my place next to him, fully expecting to be groped or slobbered on, but the young man didn’t really take notice of my appearance. After the men stood in a quick greeting, the other diners carried on, oblivious to my presence.

“You went again to the Medici Palazzo and did not take me!” The young man said.

  I took a moment to examine the young man’s face, searching for a resemblance to one of the characters in the painting of the Vespucci family that hangs in the Ognissanti. He had blue eyes and dark curls, which framed a round, rosy-cheeked face. At once the light illuminated in my dull mind—I was sitting with the teenage version of the cartographer and explorer, Amerigo Vespucci, for whom the Americas are named. I felt at that moment I was destined to meet every dead inhabitant of the Ognissanti while in this world.

With childlike glee, Amerigo pointed to the map. “I have heard of a man in the North, a master of the wind, who seeks to reach the East Indies by sailing westward,” he continued to whisper, while pointing to the mass of lines. I looked around at the group of old crows discussing politics and recent hangings, and realized that I—or Simonetta rather—was the only one Amerigo’s age. It was clear he didn’t want the rest of the table to hear his words.

“Would this man be Christopher Columbus, by any chance?” I asked with a sideways glance, feeling bold in the company of my teenage friend.

“
Cristoforo Columbo
.
Si
!  How did you know?” he asked, perplexed. Before I could respond, he added, “Ahh, I forgot, you are from Genoa. Same as he.”

“That’s right,” I replied emphatically, although I always thought Columbus was a Spaniard. That Columbus bastard refused to admit he didn’t land in the East Indies, therefore dubbing Native Americans—
my people—
“Indians” before he caused many of them to be slaughtered. Realizing I went to the dark side, and it was probably written all over my face, I tried to lighten the mood.

“I’ve heard he has this crazy idea that the world is round,” I laughed.

“It has been known since the time of Aristotle that the Earth is a sphere, you silly woman,” he scoffed, as he elbowed me in my side.

Oops.

“You drew this?” I asked Amerigo.

“Yes. It is of my own creation. You see, Cristoforo studies the winds, and follows the sun and the stars, but I am convinced that we can more precisely know our location while at sea.”

“How?”

“By also looking to the position of the moon and the red planet named for the god of war,” he added for dramatic effect.

“You mean Mars?”

“Exactly! These lines run east to west,” he said, pointing to the map once again, “Easily calculated by measuring the distance from the sun to the horizon. But these lines, I believe, can be calculated using a triangular distance between the Earth, Mars, and the moon!” His excitement caused him to raise his boyish voice enough to pierce through the jibber-jab at the table. Suddenly one of the older men stood up, gray and stern, as he pounded his fist on the solid walnut table.

“Amerigo! I told you that you must concentrate on becoming a successful merchant, and stop talking about crazy things that will get us all tossed out on our rears!”

I couldn’t help but think that all fathers in the Renaissance could use some anger management therapy.

“But father, why not speak freely now, since they are not due back until the morrow? And this
will
help us become more successful. I shall return from my voyage with all manner of goods like Florence has never seen!” He stood up and raised his right fist in the air for triumphant emphasis. “We shall be rich beyond compare!”

“Amerigo!” his father chided, while casting his eyes towards Luciana. The angry servant had entered the dining room carrying a tray of food. He apparently didn’t want Luciana privy to the conversation.

I forgot about the discussion, as I was suddenly mesmerized by the heaping bowl of pasta that smelled divinely like pesto, and fresh bread resting on Luciana’s tray. I hadn’t realized just how crazy hungry I was. All the needs and cravings of my body had blurred together, as I hadn’t experienced any for so long.

The room went pin-drop quiet as all eyes turned to the beautiful Moorish woman, while she served dinner, smiling graciously at all the men. I was the last to face an empty plate and would continue to be as Luciana lifted her nose to the sky, flashed me a nasty grin, then marched out of the dining room. The men were too busy ravaging their food to pay attention to the fact that my wooden trencher remained empty. They were shoveling their food in with their hands, grabbing and biting—all except Amerigo.

“Here, take mine,” Amerigo whispered, as he shook his head. He scraped his pasta onto my trencher using his only utensil—a sharp knife. “Luciana!” Amerigo called cheerfully, as he made his way out of the room. “It was so good, I must have more!”

He returned with an overflowing trencher of food. “Her envy of you is unbecoming of a woman so beautiful,” Amerigo said, as he ate in a slightly more refined manner than his older relatives. I, on the other hand, quickly crammed the pasta into my face like a wild animal before Luciana returned. Fortunately, napkins were provided.

The sound of heavy footsteps suddenly resonated through the hallways, loudly enough that everyone paused for a moment. This time, I wasn’t the only one who was in the dark about what was going on.

“Is it possible they are home early from Piombino?” Amerigo asked of me.

“I suppose,” I shrugged, having no idea who
they
were.

A few moments later, a pair of men, appearing to be father and son, entered the room. Every diner at the table stood and nodded their acknowledgement to the elder of the two.

“Piero, you were not due back until the morrow!” Amerigo’s father remarked, as he vacated his chair to make room for Piero.

I was late to the gate in offering the expected standing up thing, taking time to wipe a piece of pasta that was hanging from my mouth. The men’s bottoms were already on their way back down to their chairs when I caught the drift. .

“Our business was completed early,” Piero replied to the group, as the son loomed over Amerigo. I was struck for a moment by the younger man’s familiarity, though it wasn’t from the paintings in the Ognissanti. It was something else I couldn’t place. Then it struck me all at once.

As Amerigo met the young man’s, gaze, he immediately stood up in reverence to make room for him as well. Shortly thereafter, the twenty-something year old man sat beside me, absentmindedly grabbing my hand and kissing it.

“How do you fare, my darling?” the handsome man asked, as he looked to his father for approval, rather than at me.

“I’m…well…Marco,” I stammered. Somehow, I instinctively knew he was Simonetta’s husband. He didn’t even glance at me as I searched his face, noting every curve and furrow. Even though his dark hair was longer, and he had a few days’ worth of facial stubble, his piercing green eyes gave Marco a striking resemblance to my twenty-first century husband—the one I’d run away from and divorced because I loathed him so much.

The air in the room became static and tense. The presence of one or both of these men caused a quiet but palpable anxiety amongst the diners, which soon infected me as well.

As Luciana graciously served the two newcomers to the table, Marco seemed to be making a show of doting on me with disconnected affection, telling me how much he missed me, speaking of the business during the journey from which he just returned, all while seeking no input or response from me whatsoever.

Finally, he asked, “Has the banner for Giuliano been completed?”

“No, Sandro…Botticelli has barely started. I would imagine it will be several weeks before he’s done.”

“I should hope not, since the joust is in less than two sennights!”

“What’s a sennight?” I whispered between my teeth to Amerigo, who was now seated on the other side of me.

“Ahh, you Genoese,” Amerigo whispered sarcastically. “It is half a fortnight, silly woman.”

Well, that wasn’t helpful at all.

“The painter has requested that I model in his
studiolo
every day until it’s done,” I insisted to Marco.

“We will discuss that in the morn, after a good night’s sleep, my darling,” Marco said with a soft tone, but a harsh expression meant just for me.

After the meal was finished, Amerigo and the other family members slowly abandoned the table. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, so I waited until the last of the diners—Marco and Piero—arose, then followed their cue. It appeared that most were off to bed due to the lateness of the hour. I nervously sauntered behind the two strangers, but both turned left instead of right towards my bedchamber.

I tried to scamper off to my chamber on my own, but Marco stopped me. “Are you having your bath before bed?” He again looked to his father in such an odd manner.

“Yes,” I stammered, relieved to forestall any alone time with Marco as long as possible. I quickly tucked myself behind the door of my bedchamber with my heart pounding.

“How was supper?” Antonella asked, scaring the daylights out of me. I hadn’t expected her to be there.

“It was fine,” I shrugged. “Marco’s home.”

“I thought he was not due until the morrow?”

“Apparently, he returned early.”

Lucky me.

For just a moment, I wished to be back in the Ognissanti—back in the cold, dark realm, alone with Mariano and my thoughts—to avoid the inevitable. A husband just back from travel would have certain expectations of his wife; expectations I was more than reluctant to fulfill.

I had the urge to run away, like I had from my first marriage. I wanted to take off and tell no one where I was going, but it wasn’t exactly like I could drive off in my Mercedes, and use my credit card to check into the nearest Marriott.