What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (25 page)

Chapter 44

Luciana remained pleasantly mute throughout the next day as I spooned soup, wiped sweat, forced fluids, and medicated her with the horrible tobacco syrup and other herbal concoctions Marco purchased from the apothecary. Pride prevented her from uttering any words of thanks, but I felt a tiny bit of emerging humility prevented her from spewing any scornful ones either. I took her cooperation and silence as a small step in the right direction.

Marco, who was astounded that she had survived the night, made short frequent visits to check Luciana’s status in between his duties to his father, though I didn’t allow him in the room without his face covered. Despite all the wretched things Luciana had said and done to me, I couldn’t handle the guilt of another death on my hands, so when Marco offered to sneak a physician through Sandro’s house—one who would surely let her blood—I wouldn’t allow it. Instead, I convinced him the physician would no doubt inform his powerful father, and all would be lost.

Marco was so grateful for my doting care of his lover, that he offered to plead my case for freedom to his father, but I was just as happy not being an active participant in the Vespucci household for the time being. My confinement made it easier to invest my thoughts in Sandro, and my energy in Luciana.

Antonella avoided the whole scene. She made only one silent, obligatory visit to accompany me during my free time on the roof. It was a relief to remove the napkin from my face, since much of the time I felt like I might faint from asphyxiation. Carlo spent the hour on the roof grinning at me from the false knowledge Marco had planted, implying that I’d finally given myself to him. Carlo was all too pleased that my imprisonment had caused me to bend to Piero’s will.

When evening came, and it seemed the danger of Luciana’s imminent death had passed, I asked Marco to watch over her for a while so I could see Sandro, assuring him that Luciana would likely continue to sleep soundly.

“But…what if she awakens and requires something?” Marco asked. “Should I get your attendant?’ His eyes pleaded as he sat down on the bed and stroked her hair.

“Uh…if she needs something, then give it to her!” I shrugged.

Helpless nobleman.

I restrained myself from giving him an
oh-no-you-didn’t
head shake.

Still in my ugly servant’s dress, I ducked through the hidden door behind the painting, through the staircase, and into Sandro’s chamber. I startled him as I quietly snuck in.

“Simonetta!” He smiled and embraced me. “How does Luciana fare?”

“I think she’s past the worst of it. She’s sleeping now.”

“That is a blessing,” he sighed. He had clearly spent almost no time in this space since his move from the Via della Vigna Nuova, as the room was in disarray, with clothing strewn across his small bed and sketches rolled up and stacked in a corner. We were in such a rush to get to Luciana the night before; I hadn’t really paid much attention as we dashed through his quarters.

“My father thought it was odd that I chose this particular chamber,” Sandro whispered, as he noticed me scanning his room. “There are many larger ones in the house, but I insisted on keeping this one since it was closest to you.” He smiled. “Filippino is just next door.”

I absorbed all the objects in the room, wanting to know everything I could about him, each intimate detail. I sat on the bed next to Sandro and picked up a book on his nightstand before thumbing through its pages. Chills ran through me when I realized it was a handwritten copy of Dante’s
Paradiso.
It rested on top of Alberti’s
Treatise on Painting,
and next to the books rested a coin.

I scooped up the silver coin and examined it. On one side, there was a picture of a woman draped in a large scarf with a javelin in her right hand and a bundle of javelins off to her left—just as the Abbess appeared in my dreams. On the flip side, was the engraved word
Constantia
.

I looked up at Sandro in shock. “Where did you get this?”

“Ahh, I had forgotten. ‘Twas given to me by the Abbess at the Ognissanti on the night you ran out suddenly. She said I am to give it to you as an offering of faith.”

“What?”

“You were clothed as a nun, remember?”

“Yes, but this isn’t a religious coin. Look.”

He examined it carefully. “Hmm. I wonder why the Abbess would want you to have a coin bearing the image of the goddess Constantia?”

“Goddess?”

That shriveled old woman is some kind of deity?

“Yes, the goddess of constancy.”

Constancy. She has always been there
.

I leapt up from his bed. “Sandro, I really want to see your
Saint Augustine in His Study
! Can we go now?” I understood at that moment that she had the answers I sought all along.

“I can think of no reason not to.” He smiled and stood as well, impetuous as ever.

As we tiptoed through his house and out the front door, terror ran through me at the thought of what I might discover, but I needed to know.

We made our way down the Borgo to the church, and found the Ognissanti eerily lit with torches, and the door cracked open as if waiting for us. I followed Sandro through the dimly lit nave. Rows of pews stood empty under the vaulted ceiling, and the nave appeared devoid of any living souls.
Except one
. The coyote sauntered out from the left transept, cocking his head to the side with his knowing smirk, then trotted up next to me as if escorting me down the nave. Sandro never turned in his direction, but I could feel his warm canine breath on my legs and launched a swift kick his way. When my foot found no purchase, I had to keep myself from tripping. I turned to glare at the creature, but just as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone.

Sometimes I hate that bastard.

Sandro led me into the choir, and even though I’d seen his
Saint Augustine
a million times before in my future, I was still in awe as he pulled the cover from it. And it wasn’t quite the same. Sandro had painted rays of light that filtered in from the left side of the painting, creating an almost ominous glow.

The portrait of Augustine wore Mariano’s face, as he sat in his study, his gray curls and beard framing his furrowed his gray eyes that stared in the direction of Ghirlandaio’s
Saint Jerome in His Study
. I examined all the objects surrounding Augustine once again: the Cardinal’s mitre, the armillary sphere, the myriad of books, and of course, the text within the garbled words, the meaning of which I now understood.

“You recognize the clock of course.” Sandro grinned. I looked again at the red-faced twenty-four hour Italian clock in the upper right hand corner of the fresco.

“It’s just like the one from my bedchamber.”

“Yes.”

Though I never know what time it is on the weird clock.

“How did you choose the time?” The solitary hand pointed to the Roman numeral “one.”

“It is the first hour after sunset; the canonical hour in which Saint Jerome died in Jerusalem. The legend states that Augustine was in his monastic cell in Hippo Regius, about to write a letter to Jerome. You see how he grasps the inkwell, quill, and paper in his left hand?”

“Oh yeah.” The items also looked identical to their counterparts in my nightstand.

“Augustine was startled by an ineffable light, and the voice of Jerome called out to him, telling him that he would sooner enclose the ocean in a small vessel, clasp the whole earth in his fist, or halt the movements of the heavens before he could describe the beatitude that he was experiencing in death.”

“So that’s why Mariano looks so surprised…uh…I mean Augustine.”

Sandro laughed. “Yes. I used my father’s countenance because I see him as a wise man— at times—but mostly because he understands and craves the light.”

A female voice interrupted from behind. “It is quite ingenious, is it not?” I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Neither of us had noticed her slip into the room, and Sandro jumped a bit in startle.

“Thank you, Abbess,” Sandro replied.

“Sandro, may I have a private word with your companion? I should like to show the would-be sister my cell.”

“Of course.” He bowed politely, and stepped away.

I felt mesmerized by this eternal woman, unable to speak. Before I knew it, she took my young hand into her wrinkled one, and led me through the back of the choir and into the convent. Her hand was warm, the flesh of a live woman. Apprehension raced through me as we walked past cell after cell, down the gray, dismal corridor.

I had no doubt to which cell we were headed. Straight ahead, framing the door was a dull, silvery aura which barely shone through the gloom of the place. The aura may have been imperceptible to the non-believer of miracles, but at this point, I firmly believed.

She opened the seemingly mystical door, but all that rested behind it was a gray, empty space.

Maybe I was wrong about her.

“You have
no
possessions?” I asked. “I know you have to live sparsely, but there’s nothing…”

“What need have I of possessions?” She shrugged, as she adjusted her wimple and veil.

“I guess…I don’t know,” I answered, closing the door behind us. When I turned to face her again, we were no longer in her barren cell, but in the meadow outside the Porta al Prato, near the lone olive tree where Sandro and I first made love.

“I thought you might be more at ease out here,” she said, and with a wave of her arm she illuminated the grassy plain.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of the wildflowers. The caressing breeze tickled my legs through my dress, and I experienced every pleasant, visceral moment I’d shared with Sandro all at once. When I looked back to the Abbess, she was no longer a wrinkled, toothless old crone, but young and beautiful, with dark silken hair twisted into a pony tail and only a drape partially covering her milky bare form. She held the javelin to her side.

“You’re Constantia,” I acknowledged.

“That is one of the names I am called,” she said with a gleaming smile.

The coyote appeared once again, and gazed lovingly at Constantia, before affectionately rubbing his body across her legs.

“And the coyote? Why is
he
here?”

“Constancy needs the companionship of chaos to keep balance. He appears as the coyote because your mind has made him so.
”

“And you have always been here?” I mused, as the coyote took a seat next to me. I resisted the urge to give him a good shove.

“Yes. In some form or another.”

“But why the old nun guise?

“You were not ready to accept me for who I am. Even now that you have been part of the otherworldly realm, you still needed a familiar form to gaze upon, and a tangible object to connect you.” Constantia played with her Miraculous Medal. “You had the Medal that Saint Catherine took credit for all these centuries,” she said sarcastically, “And yet you still feared me.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

“But I am here to guide you, Anastasia.”

“So why
am
I
here?”

“You have been here with Simonetta since the beginning, but you have not allowed yourself to remember.”

“I
am
Simonetta?”

“A part of you is her, just as she is a part of you. You are eternally connected. Do you think it a coincidence that you were so instantly affected by Sandro’s every painting in your lifetime? Simonetta brought you back here, to accomplish what she did not the first time around.”

“Yes, I
do
know. She never told Sandro she loved him.”

“And now you have done what you came here to do.”

“But, wait,” I pleaded. “My time here can’t be over. What about Mariano? And what about our plans? I’m supposed leave with Sandro for Rome in a few days.”

“Anastasia, he does not intend to go to Rome. You know he cannot go there with you. There is nowhere in all of Italy the two of you can be together. Sandro loves you so much, he would do anything. He intends to flee, and give up painting out of his love for you.”

“Give up painting?” The horrifying thought caused me to sink to the ground. “Oh my God. Where would the world be…? It would change everything.”

“You know what you must do, Anastasia.”

I sat in a heap with my head lowered to my knees and my arms curled over my ears to prevent me from hearing any more. I couldn’t allow it to happen. I refused to let him give up his passion and deny the world his creations. Sandro had to paint.

When I lifted my head, I was back in Constantia’s cell, but she had vanished. There was nothing left to be said.

Chapter 45

I sat dumbfounded on the floor of Constantia’s cell for a time, before wandering out to rejoin Sandro in the choir. I found him resting on a bench with his chin in his hands, contemplating the two frescoes in front of him: his
Saint Augustine
, and Ghirlandaio’s
Saint Jerome
. I slumped down next to him, and laid my head solemnly on his shoulder.

“Does the Abbess have you convinced?” Sandro asked, as he brushed a stray hair from my face.

“Convinced of what?”

“To join the Umiliati order,” he laughed.

Sandro always had a way of cheering me up. “No. I think I’ve broken half the commandments just today.”

“You never offered an opinion of my fresco.” Sandro motioned towards the wall.

“It’s brilliant, of course.” I clutched his arm. “And beautiful, just like you.”

He leaned over and kissed me, then paused for a moment before glancing around. “Perhaps I should not do that here.”

“Just another commandment broken,” I quipped, and gazed again at his fresco. “Does your father know you’ve painted him as Augustine?”

“I intended to show him tonight.” Sandro shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “But my mother was in a particularly foul disposition, so he abandoned the house for the tavern.”

“Your mother.” I’d almost forgotten about that horrible, screeching shrew. “She thinks I’m a whore from the brothel. I came to see you the night of the joust…and your father answered the door, and….” I suddenly remembered that look in Mariano’s eyes after I embraced him, and the question that Constantia ignored.

What about Mariano?

“Sandro, I need to see your father.”

“You need to see…my father?”

“Yes. He knows me as Stacia, the field worker from the tavern.”

“My father thinks you are a field worker?”

“No. I mean he knows it’s me…now. But before I even met you, Antonella, Amerigo, and I snuck out of the
palazzo
to the tavern countless times, and I would talk with Mariano there.”

Countless, because I still had no idea how many encounters we’d shared.

Despite what Constantia thought I should know, I still had no memory of Simonetta’s life prior to my arrival. But I knew my relationship with Mariano was on a very personal level, and I couldn’t leave Florence in any fashion without saying goodbye to my afterlife soul mate, knowing what his fate would be.

“As you wish,” Sandro finally replied.

We made our way across the river in silence. Sandro started to speak several times, but stopped himself. Deep down, he must have known he had nothing to fear.

“When we get to the tavern, do you think I could have a moment alone with your father?” I asked.

“I cannot send you into such a place by yourself,” Sandro replied.

The noise of the tavern could be heard as soon as we stepped off the Ponta alla Carraia.
I was about to argue my case for going it alone, when I saw the familiar Paolo stumbling towards us. His tattered, filthy clothes hung in shreds from his body, and his odor preceded his voice.

“Ya’ got any change for an ol’ man?” he begged.

“Well at least you asked for something different this time.” I shrugged, and Sandro reached into his satchel for an offering.

Paolo clumsily pointed towards the brothel with one hand, as he grasped the coins from Sandro with the other. “Ya’ see there’s this girl I’d like ta’—”

“Oh, no you don’t!” I scolded, as I smacked the change from his hands. “You’d better get away before I kick you again!” Paolo quickly scurried off, and Sandro looked at me in shock. “It’s a long story,” I explained. “I’m just gonna go on in alone, okay?”

“Yes, I believe you can handle yourself,” he conceded, and sat down on a bench near the river. He appeared particularly confused when I stopped to rub dirt on my face, before making my way into the tavern.

Mariano was planted in his usual barstool, hovering over a goblet. I squeezed myself in between him and another lonely customer, who, instead of pinching my behind as expected, kindly relinquished his stool to me. Mariano glanced up from his goblet, which had clearly been emptied a number of times judging from his glazed, half-mast eyes.

“Simonetta Vespucci!” he semi-slurred, with a numb expression.

“No, I’m Stacia. Remember?”

“Yes, Stacia. You grace us lowly peasants with your company, eh?”

“Mariano, I’m also a lowly peasant.” I glanced around to see who might be listening, then leaned in towards him. “And I’ve been locked in my chamber for weeks,” I whispered.

“What? That is an outrage!” He stood from his chair and pounded an angry fist on the bar, causing all eyes to turn towards us.

I quickly pushed him back into his stool. “It’s all right, Mariano. Sandro helped me sneak out.”

“Sandro again,” he huffed. “
My
only brother left all the money to Sandro. The Medici and the Rucellai adore him. It’s always about Sandro. The world loves him…even you.”

“So do you Mariano. And you should show it!” I barked. It was clear to me now that the problems between father and son boiled down to nothing but pure and simple envy. “Don’t you realize he would do anything for you? He’s just doing what makes him happy. Can’t you see that?”

Mariano coughed a few times before responding. “But…
you
….you were my…friend. You are the angel that healed Jacopo, if only for a moment. You are not of this world. I never thought any mortal man could capture your love, or I would have tried…for myself.”

“I’m a flesh and blood woman, Mariano,” I replied, although I knew it wasn’t entirely true. “And I love you as well. You’re my friend and my soul mate, but I have to say goodbye to you now.”

“Fare thee well, then.” He waved dismissively, without questioning the reason for my sudden adieu.

“Why don’t we help you home?” I offered. He was drunker than I’d ever seen him
. I think.

“I am no concern of yours,
Stacia.”
He turned his back to me and asked the barkeep to refill his goblet. I put a hand to his dismissive shoulder, knowing once Sandro left for Rome they would never see each other again.

“Mariano, you don’t have much time to make things right with Sandro. You just have to trust me.” He never turned in my direction. I resigned to the futility of having a conversation he probably wouldn’t remember anyway. Maybe there were some problems I just wasn’t meant to resolve.

Exasperated, I took a swig from some gent’s goblet, then sauntered out of the tavern to meet Sandro, who still waited patiently outside. I contemplated proposing we drag Mariano’s sad ass out of the tavern against his will, but somehow I knew it wasn’t the right move.

When we made our way back through Sandro’s house and into the Palazzo Vespucci, we stopped in Antonella’s chamber to check on Luciana.

Marco leapt up upon our arrival. “She awakened briefly and required some water,” Marco explained. “So I gave it to her.” He was obviously proud of himself for completing a menial task. I immediately excused him.

After observing Luciana for a time, Sandro and I went into my bedchamber. I felt drawn to the window and gazed out over Florence, while mulling the evening’s events. I became lost in thought, clinging to my Miraculous Medal.

My reverie must have lasted longer than I thought, because when I snapped out of my fog, I realized that Sandro had drawn a complete sketch of me. He captured every detail: my tired, schlumpy posture, the disheveled hair that peeked out from my skullcap, the hideous brown servant’s dress, and the black cord that held the charm around my neck. It was a true “warts and all” sketch minus what remained of the dirt I’d rubbed on my face.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “I look dreadful.”

“I have never seen you so thoughtful,” he replied. “Twas an expression I had not yet captured from you. And I want them all.”

He set the sketch down on the chair, and removed my skullcap, allowing my hair to fall freely. He then took a cloth from a bowl of water that rested on a nearby table and wiped the grime from my face. Tears came to my eyes as he kissed me softly, despite my haggard appearance, and before long he was making love to me even more gently—as if he knew what was to come.

In the afterglow, I lay on his chest for a time, almost drifting off to a peaceful sleep before I heard Luciana call for me. Not for Marco, but for
me.

“Simonetta!”

I threw on my shift, then moved back to Sandro to study each individual detail of his face. Kissing him with all the passion I could muster, I tried to express every emotion I felt for him with the touch of my lips against his.

I donned both Sandro and myself in the makeshift masks for the trip through what had now become Luciana’s chamber. When Sandro went for the door to the hidden staircase, I reached for his other hand, and his eyes smiled as his fingers slowly slid from mine, and the door closed behind him.

Luciana coughed uncontrollably, and her flushed skin told me her fever had risen again. I stood motionless as she called out to me once more.

“Simonetta!”

Still frozen in place, I considered Constantia’s words:
You know what you must do.

If I ran away with Sandro now, I would surely live longer. We could spend our days, together in obscurity, hiding from the powerful families that would seek to destroy us. But he’d never paint another masterpiece. And most of his best work was yet to come—
The Birth of Venus, Primavera, Pallas and the Centaur, Venus and Mars.
I trembled as I recalled Sandro’s oeuvre, and felt the loss of each piece vanishing before me.

But if I refused to go with Sandro, his heart would be broken for all time. Even though I knew he would continue to paint, it was Simonetta’s wish that he understand her love for him, not give it, then take it away. It was my whole purpose for being here. I knew I was left with only one choice. I moved towards Luciana, who was now pleading for my help, removed the Miraculous Medal from my neck and tied it onto hers, then pulled the mask from my face.