Urban Venus (16 page)

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.

I sit there, staring into space as if under hypnosis, whilst I try to work back through the dream in its entirety. Fortunately at this stage Leonora has gone to sleep, and is quietly snoring away, curled on one side, her face pale and ghostly. One glance across at Sophia confirms that she too is no longer in the waking world. She looks almost as washed out as Leonora really; poor girl, the two of them had been close for ages before I came on the scene, friends since school apparently. She has had to see her friend go through such a lot in the past twenty-four hours, more than anyone should have to.

I remove my ‘Dreams’ notebook from my bag and add a quick update before I forget any of the detail, copying down too the name of the rose species from the magazine. Another little piece in the jigsaw, although what the final picture is going to be, is still anyone’s guess.

Fourteen

‘
Yes, Mum, they do have turkeys over here but I think we will be having lamb actually….. Yes, lamb. Yes I know it’s not the same, but I’m in Italy, Mum, not Sussex, I have to go with the flow, and anyway it will be nice for a change….. No, not sure about crackers… Jokes in the crackers? Well, yes, if they do have them then they’ll be in Italian, of course, won’t they…. Yes, Mum, my Italian’s really good now, it won’t spoil my enjoyment of the day I promise you.’

Finally, with a week to go until the big day, I am making the dreaded call home to my parents to reinforce my reasons for not coming home for Christmas. I’d taken the coward’s way out and emailed them first; I thought I could break the news gently and in a more ordered fashion if I wrote it down, instead of it coming out in a garbled mess over the phone and Mum getting all upset. This way she has had time to digest the news; she’ll have done the tears, then the anger, then the disappointment, all with me a thousand miles away. Now she’s made it past that stage and is just worried that I won’t be getting a ‘Proper Christmas’ as ‘They all do things so differently over there.’ Bless her, I appreciate her concern and I do realise that it will be hard for both my parents, as I’ve never missed an Irvine Family Christmas before. It will be hard for me too and I’m sure I will feel more than a little homesick on the day, despite my resolve to stay here.

‘
Proper Christmas’ or not, I’d been looking for a reason not to go home for the festive season, and Leonora’s miscarriage has given me the perfect excuse. Not that I’d want to profit from her misfortune or anything
–
I really genuinely don’t want to leave her in her still fairly fragile emotional state. But this is the only chance I will have to experience a ‘Proper Italian Christmas’. I’ll be back in the UK again before I know it and won’t get another opportunity like this. And of course there are the dreams. I’ve always been a bit worried that they might desert me if I don’t keep up my visits to the Uffizi. I still have so much to discover about Maria. I couldn’t possibly leave her behind, with her story only partially told; Mum would spot instantly that I was distracted by something, and I don’t really need her curiosity right now. Besides which, I’m not in any danger from what’s going on, I still have my head screwed on pretty firmly and I’m able to put it into perspective perfectly well. But I do need to keep following it through, on my own
–
with the support of my friends, of course.

‘
Wow, Sophia, that looks amazing.’ We all gasp in unison as she places the huge, steaming dish containing the roast lamb joint, encircled with tiny, roasted baby vegetables, on the table. Heavenly aromas of rosemary, garlic, thyme and lemon juice fill the apartment. A huge, steaming bowl of
lenticchie
, lentils flavoured with herbs, follows this, enough to feed about four times the number gathered here. Stefano picks up the knife and deftly begins to carve the lamb, carefully laying the meltingly tender slices onto warmed plates.

The six of us are here together for Christmas day, and that’s just perfect. We’d all eaten out last night, along with a few other friends who weren’t decamping to the family abode for the festive season, a relaxed
–
but incredibly long
–
Christmas Eve supper at a fantastic fish restaurant south of the river, and I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a meal quite like it. I know the Italians are passionate about their food, and despite the fact that we kicked off early, around seven, with the
antipasti
, several more courses had to be devoured before the fish course deigned to put in an appearance. Even then we were still going at around two in the morning. Finally there came a point in time at which we all decided it was physically impossible to eat, or drink, another thing – at least until we had to start all over again the next day. As we wended our way home across town, more than slightly drunkenly, we all gave a passing thought to whether we would get any presents like the good boys and girls of Florence, already tucked up in their beds, or would
Il Babbo Natale
spot us still out and about at this late hour as he shot overhead in his sleigh, and keep on flying?

Leonora is slightly subdued today. Not surprising really, as it has only been just over a week since the miscarriage. She decided not to tell her parents in the end; as she is now fine and there is no baby to make an issue of, she thought it was best to leave it unsaid. Apparently her parents are deeply religious, and she feels it would simply be too much for them to handle, that they would take the news of their precious eldest daughter falling off the straight and narrow really badly. Ordinarily she would have gone home to them for Christmas, and so like me, she has had to make an excuse not to be there for the first time. It must be hard for her in so many respects; she seems to be having a reasonably good day and is putting a brave face on things, but it’s very soon after the event and she is still going through the healing process, both physically and mentally. At least she now has the Christmas holidays to relax before her course starts back in January and it’s full steam ahead for her final few months before exams.

‘
Lanzo, your turn,’ shouts Stefano. After stuffing our faces until further movement was barely an option, we repaired to the comfy chairs and sofas to nurse our swollen stomachs, which sit atop our bodies like vast, obscene declarations of overindulgence. We abandoned the decimated dining table without a care, volunteering the boys to tackle it later, which we all know won’t happen without some serious henpecking on the part of the female contingent.

Currently, and surprisingly energetically with stomachs like these, we are in the middle of a game which bears a strong resemblance to charades, only it’s people we have to portray, rather than the usual film, book, song or TV show. So far Dante has plucked Marilyn Monroe out of the hat, who he manages to carry off with little more than a pout and a very sexy wiggle. Amazingly we all guess it straight away, which, we can tell, doesn’t make him feel overly manly, but he takes it on the chin, bless him, hoping for a male character on his next turn and only sulking for a few moments before returning to his usual gregarious self.

Leonora has just picked Sylvio Berlusconi, whom she portrays absolutely brilliantly, by jumping excitedly on Sophia and me in turn, pretending to make mad, passionate love to us, and then proceeding to chase us round the room, rubbing her hands together in full dirty-old-man mode. This has us all roaring with laughter, and as Leonora collapses back onto the sofa afterwards in a fit of giggles, I can’t help thinking just how much better she is starting to look this afternoon. Unlike the rest of us, she hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol all day as she is still on some serious antibiotics, but it’s heart-warming to see my friend with a smile on her face again, and this time I know full well it isn’t just for show.

There is no doubting that I do miss my family and our normal Christmas routine to some extent, and I have a bit of an emotional, wobbly moment when I call home to wish them all ‘Merry Christmas’ and can hear the festivities going ahead in the background, same as ever, without me. But what I don’t miss is Mum’s strict adherence to what she calls ‘Christmas Day Etiquette’; she always insists we sit down to dinner at two, watch the Queen at three and open presents at four. Here it’s entirely different, so much more relaxed, and we have made up our own day as we’ve gone along, ripping open our presents before breakfast, and downing several glasses of
spumante
before anything solid even contemplated passing our lips. I am enjoying the freedom of today so much, and with the alcohol making me more than a little emotional, I realise how lucky I am to have fallen in with such a fabulous group of friends. If I hadn’t met them, I’m sure I wouldn’t have pulled myself out of my post-Ed torpor and settled into the Italian way of life quite so well. I owe them all such a lot.

And then there is the added bonus of having Stefano here with me. I’ve never before spent an actual Christmas day with a boyfriend, and so waking up here with him beside me, warm and sleepy and still just a little bit woozy from the night before, was perfect. He was still asleep when I threw open my shutters to let the Christmas sunshine flood in. I stood there for a few moments, inhaling the fragrances of the garden and feeling very pleased with myself for managing to be here, enjoying the final moments of solitude that a still-sleeping household offers. Eventually I coaxed him awake and we took our time opening our gifts to each other, snugly tucked under the duvet, flutes of fizz on the bedside cabinet. Stefano bought me a gorgeous little silver heart necklace, just perfect, and I gave him a friendship bracelet he’d seen in a shop window a few weeks earlier and admired. We’d cuddled together under the duvet until we heard the others stirring, (Dante and Lanzo had stayed over too, but it was sofas for them) then it had been a mad frenzy of present opening and further popping of corks. I don’t think the excitement levels have diminished all day; I am being carried along on a whirlwind of euphoria and I don’t want to get off.

Boxing Day, or
Santo Stefano
, finds the Uffizi open to visitors once more, and I decide I need some fresh air, a brisk walk across town and a visit to my favourite sixteenth century friend. I’m sure she will be there waiting for me, desperate to impart some more of her story after a bit of a prolonged break due to both the festive period and all the drama just before that with Leonora.

I am bursting with excited anticipation as I wonder what she has in store for me today. Most of the time I find the dreams don’t contain anything earth shattering, although each is amazing in its own right purely for its added insight into what life was like in the sixteenth century, and more importantly, what the implications of that life were for Maria and Titian. I’d left a sleepy Stefano at the apartment with him warning me to ‘Go carefully’, and I know his concern is more for my mental state in the gallery than any risk I might face from being mown down by a mad Italian driver or passing tour party bus.

As I stroll across the Piazza della Signoria, it’s almost as though the all too brief Christmas shutdown never happened. Hordes of tourists, who must have found somewhere to hibernate yesterday to celebrate their Christmases, eat their lunch and open presents, are today back on the streets in full force, as though there is no time to waste, queuing for the Palazzo Vecchio again, crowding round the statues with their cameras and, despite the slight nip in the air, drinking and dining al fresco at the cafés and bars which, although the majority of the shops remain closed for business, are mostly open as usual. The only exception to the rule, in this Piazza at least, seems to be Rivoire, which remains resolutely closed, its shutters uninvitingly bolted down and chairs and tables on the terrace stacked up under awnings, a lone declaration of independence in a sea of mass market conformity. And who can blame them; at least their staff will be enjoying another day of festivities, at home with
la famiglia
instead of hoofing it straight back to work the minute the Christmas spirit has been drunk dry.

I reach the steps of the Uffizi and pause for a few moments to take stock before heading in. Does the sun never stop shining here? It’s a really chilly day and I’m wrapped up in lots of layers, including my thermals, but the sky is just as blue as when I first arrived back in September, and barely a day has gone by which hasn’t been just so. My sunglasses have been a permanent appendage on my head, through the autumn and on into winter. The rain which beleaguers us at home seems so fleeting here; it comes and goes, serving its purpose, refilling reservoirs and watering plants, and the transitory grey skies which follow don’t linger like they do in the UK. It’s uplifting for the soul to see so much sunshine, and glancing upwards at the azure marvel above me I take a deep breath of the clear, frosty air before I skip up the steps and into the building which I have come to know so well.