What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (5 page)

We passed through the
piazza
and continued the short distance to the edge of the Arno River, where Mariano began to lay the pieces of hide on the bank. I didn’t hesitate to assist him, and was well equipped to do so, as he had explained the tanning process ad naseum over the eleven years we were together. I could tell he felt it was improper for me to help him, but remained silent on the matter, as I dipped and rubbed the hides, working with Mariano in perfect harmony.

“I had a tannery on the Mugnano,” Mariano later explained, as he rolled the prepared hides back up the Borgo Ognissanti with his cart. “I had many workers.”

“What happened?” I asked, although I knew full well.

Sandro happened.

“I sold the tannery some years ago.”

“Let me guess. You continue to tan hides because Sandro works only when he chooses?”

“Yes,” he conceded. “But how did you know?”

Because you told me until I imagined you as blue in the face.

“That seems to be his impetuous nature. He’s a genius. Creative men can’t be confined to the rules of society.”

“Spoken like a true woman of means.”

“I understand your frustration with him, but in the end, he’ll contribute more to this world than you or I can even imagine.”

Although I didn’t need to imagine
.

Men would attempt and fail to imitate his style and beauty of line for years to come. And the rest, as they say, is history…or, the distant future, depending on how one perceives it.

I wished I could tell Mariano the whole truth; tell him how sorry he’ll be for six-hundred years to come. I longed to tell him about how I once left my nine-to-five existence behind, when I became aware that I wasn’t really living. I wanted to convince him that we don’t have to comply with what society dictates, whichever society that may be. But Mariano had traditional values. In his mind, a man was to get married, start a family, and take pride in working hard to raise that family. He was no different than the fathers of the modern day who want their children to go to college and succeed—not to cast doubts or taint the family name with their eccentricity.

“Is there any way I can help? Anything I can say to him on your behalf? I think he might listen to me,” I offered, feebly.

“It is a frivolous thing he does,
Signora
Vespucci. Can you convince him of that?”

“No, I don’t think I can, because I don’t believe it. And neither do you.”

We walked in silence back to the Via della Vigna Nuova. Even though Mariano rambled negatively about Sandro most of the day, I felt we bonded somehow. Hopefully enough for him to heed my warnings, which, in my opinion, were important words of wisdom—the few I’d ever spoken.

When we were steps away from his front door, he squinted and said, “I feel as though we have met before today.”

“
Déjà vu.
”

“I am sorry. Is that Tuscan?”

“No, it’s French. It’s a term meaning that you feel an event has occurred before.”

“You know French?”

“Only that phrase.” I smiled. “Because I have the same feeling as you—that we have indeed met before.”

“You know full well it is not a feeling, but a truth,
Signora
Vespucci.” My heart began to pound, as he continued. “If you believe I do not know who you are, you would be mistaken.”

Before I could respond, Mariano entered his house and shut the door. I stood motionless for a moment, trying to process his words.

Mariano recognizes the truth. He knows who I am, and he does not seem happy about it.

Chapter 11

Antonella grabbed my arm and yanked me up the stairs as soon as I closed the front door behind me. She tiptoed while looking with paranoia in each direction, presumably for any household members that might spot us.

“You must be careful dressing that way in broad daylight,” Antonella spoke, when we reached the safety of my bedchamber. “If you were seen by any who know you, it would spoil our antics!” She chastised with a smile. I wasn’t sure what “antics” she was referring to, but Antonella felt strongly enough, she immediately went for the servant’s gown to pull it off me again. I hadn’t changed clothes so many times in one day since high school.

“For Madonna’s sake, what is all over your hands?” Antonella queried.

“I was tanning hides with Mariano.” I shrugged.

Antonella sighed heavily. “Will you never learn, Netta? Gardening, reading, tanning…these are not the activities of a noblewoman! Such actions were barely acceptable when we were in Genoa, but here in Florence, you must behave!”

Antonella had been with Simonetta in Genoa. No wonder their relationship was so comfortable.

“I’ll try my best,” I replied.

Antonella dressed me once again, this time returning me to the green velvet gown with the shift underneath. She scrubbed my hands until they felt as though they might bleed, then surrendered to the uselessness of her effort and donned my hands with white silk gloves.

“I should have many hours to prepare you for supper! Must you always give me such a challenge?”

“It keeps you on your toes.”  I smirked.

“Why ever would I wish to be on my toes?” Antonella scoffed.

“Oh, never mind.”

At lightning speed, Antonella returned my hair to the painful, complicated, jeweled mass of braids, applied a second coat of the same cosmetics she had used in the morning, then doused me with perfume. She wrapped a pearl necklace with a large, gaudy brooch around my neck, directly over the thin black cord with the small
Medaglia Miracolosa
charm
—
the only piece of
me
in this Renaissance world.

“I do not know why you always insist on wearing that atrocious thing. It makes you look like a peasant!” Antonella gently pulled on my Miraculous Medal and tucked it under the gaudy brooch.

Always wear it? How’s that possible?

I decided to be bold. “It was given to me by a nun at the Ognissanti.”

“Yes, I know. I know. How many occasions have you spoken of it? The Abbess who told you of the Miraculous Medal, and how Mother Mary would intercede for you at the hour of your death if you wore it with faith. But what faith do you have?”

She’s an Abbess now?

“I have the kind of faith not many understand.” It was a faith that only started when I was given the charm. I had just received my terminal diagnosis and was crying for my mortality, stumbling through the Ognissanti—in my original body. Sister Constance, my rebellious, toothless friend, had given the charm to me, and I’d treasured it always.

But how could it have crossed over? Or was an identical charm given to Simonetta?

These were just more unanswered questions to add to my already long list.

“The sumptuary law restricting your jewelry will not be in effect for another year of your marriage,” Antonella continued. “You must take advantage while you can! I would be honored to wear such a handsome gift from such a dignified man.”

I gazed into the mirror that we had moved into my bedchamber, and examined the pearl necklace with the large brooch. The last shred of me hidden by the gaudy piece of jewelry.

“Since you have warmed to the looking glass, I thought you might wish to embrace another of Giuliano’s gifts.”

I’d given enough grief to Antonella for one day, so I decided just to roll with it and wear the damn necklace. Having finished her beautifying/torture session, Antonella vanished from my bedchamber into the adjacent room. I was afraid to venture from my chamber and have to face one of the many voices echoing throughout the palace, fearing most of all that one of them belonged to Marco.

I heard a rap at the front door and descended the stairs quickly towards it, my heart pounding in anticipation of the man I hoped to find on the other side. My racing adrenaline was only amplified by my desire to cross the threshold before I was noticed by any member of the household who might wish to stop me.

“
Buonasera, Signora
Vespucci,” Sandro said with a bow.

“Please call me Stacia…I mean Simonetta.” I stuttered, and smiled shyly.

“Then please call me Sandro.”

It was so strange that I’d named my son after this renowned painter who now stood in my threshold.

“A word, my lady, before we depart,” Antonella grumbled unexpectedly from behind, leading me forcefully by the arm back into the foyer. She had changed into a red dress with a blue sash covered in yellow wasps, which no doubt represented the Vespucci, or wasps of Florence.

We?

“You cannot stutter and make eyes at the painter in that manner. Not at the Palazzo Medici. You know what will happen,” Antonella scolded.

“No. What will happen?” I asked, not caring how it came across.

“The wrath of Marco will happen.”

“Ahh,” I sighed.

Been there, done that
.

I already had a lifetime of experience with a controlling, jealous husband. I’d spent eighteen years under the thumb of my former spouse, but had liberated myself from his reign and never looked back. Although it was difficult not to be somewhat fearful of a husband I had yet to meet. I decided I should listen to Antonella for the time being.

“Will Marco be there?” I asked.

“No. How could he be?”

Damn. I have no idea.

“Then how will he know who I make eyes at?”

“Enough of these games! You know very well how.”

I was anxious enough in anticipation of meeting
Il Magnifico
without the creepy thought of my husband having a spy or spies at the Medici’s.

Lorenzo de’ Medici was not nobility, not even close. Nor was he elected. He came from a family of powerful bankers, a monarchy of Lords of Florence. But more importantly to me, he was a great patron of scholars, poets, and artists—the most famous ones in history.

Lorenzo was also known for being quite charming and generous. During his rule, he wisely negotiated peace with the various Italian city-states. He was one of the greatest figures of history, and yet this was all I knew of him.

I imagined his palace to be a museum of treasures, an orgasmic array of beautiful things he purchased solely for his pleasure and the pleasure of others. And yet we were going there simply to see a halberd—a weapon of war—proving boys will be boys in whatever age they reside.

As I walked out the door, Antonella remained on my heels. On the Via Nuova, I was met by no less than four men, attired in the same colors as Antonella. The men carried an ornately decorated litter—a wheel-less carriage with red velvet and the same royal blue trim with the yellow wasps.

“Who are these gentlemen?” I whispered to Antonella.

“Your retinue, of course. Here to carry you to the Palazzo Medici.”

“What about Sandro?”

“He will walk alongside you, of course.” She shrugged.

“No, Antonella. I want to walk with him.” I always felt I belonged in the Renaissance in life, one reason being that I hated all modern modes of transportation—cars, planes, boats, helicopters—and always preferred to walk.

Antonella sighed and rolled her eyes as she waved the litter-bearers away. I laced my arm inside of Sandro’s, and his reaction was warm and welcoming, as I led him hastily down the Via Nuova. Unfortunately, Antonella and the retinue trailed close behind.

We turned right, making our way across the
piazza
in front of the swirls and bands of green and white marble that make up the façade of the Santa Maria Novella. It was so pristine and new at this time. The church’s complex marble façade with its S-curved volutes was the first of its kind. I spent a moment taking it all in—the revolutionary church in its first days of glory. Sandro gazed upon it by my side.

“Members of the Rucellai family, who rent the house to my father, commissioned Alberti to design the upper façade of the Santa Maria Novella, as well as the Palazzo Rucellai.”  As Sandro spoke, I leaned towards him, riveted by his every word.

“Really? I didn’t know. How are people reacting to it?” I asked, knowing that the masses inevitably dislike or fear anything new and different.

“Well, my father hates it, of course,” Sandro chuckled. “I feel it is magnificent, is it not?”

“It is,” I agreed, as I turned to look directly into his eyes, instead of at the grand façade.

“One of my paintings resides in the del Lama Chapel. I would take you inside, but the nuns seem to have closed the church doors for the night.”

“Would that be the
Adoration of the Magi
with your self-portrait?” I asked, self-assuredly. I now had his full attention. He stared curiously back into my eyes.

“
La Bella Simonetta
, you have seen my painting?” He gaped, bewildered.

“Of course I have.”

Only a thousand times.

It would’ve been a perfect made-for-Hollywood make-out moment had it not been for the hovering retinue, the swift kick I received from Antonella, Simonetta’s wedding ring on my finger, and my potentially unwilling partner. Instead, we continued down the Via del Giglio through the oldest part of the city. As the sun faded, we made our way around the unembellished church of San Lorenzo—the beginnings of what would always remain a bare brick, unfinished façade.

Sandro opened his mouth, clearly ready to give me another lesson, this time regarding the origins of San Lorenzo. But his words were halted when peddlers of the square, who had been packing their wares for the night, dropped to their knees at the sight of me. One even sang, and another spouted poetry. I panicked, as they circled around us. Though the retinue quickly intervened—forcing the admirers to disperse—and we were soon on our way, it took some time before I could choke down the lump that formed in my throat. Antonella shot me a look as if to say
, that’s why they’re supposed to carry you, dummy.

We approached the Palazzo Medici, the future museum known as the Medici-Riccardi Palace, although it would be years before the Riccardis would claim any ownership. A porter at the entrance immediately stepped aside at the sight of me. He smiled at Sandro and they exchanged a strange greeting which I equated to “knuckles” in my day, then Sandro and I proceeded on through the massive wooden doors, followed by Antonella and the nameless retinue. We passed through an archway into the open courtyard littered with glorious statues, fountains, and laughing partygoers. Ashlar stones formed the borders of the courtyard, curving gracefully over the archways and columns separated by a ribbon of decorative reliefs garnished by the Medici coat of arms. I hesitated before joining the throng of people.

“I assume you know some of the guests?” Sandro asked.

“Of course, but will you tell me their names once again? I’ve met so many people since arriving in Florence.” This was the first time in my existence I could claim “blondeness” as a disability.

“You know Lorenzo, of course,” he said, as he motioned towards an angry-looking man with a prominent, pointed nose and chin, and eyes as dark as his black page-boy hair. I felt in that moment that Lorenzo de’ Medici had to be so charming to make up for his less than beautiful face.

“Standing next to him, his wife Clarice Orsini de’ Medici.” 

Clarice bore a face as flat as an iron with eyes the size of a raccoon’s. She stared daggers at a hooked-nosed man standing a few feet from them.

“The other man is Angelo Ambrogini, but he is called Poliziano by his friends.”

“Why is that?”

“It is derived from his place of birth, Montepulciano, which in Latin is pronounced
Mons Politianus.
Very few in Florence are called by their given name.”

“Yes I’ve noticed…Botticelli.”

“Sandro!” he corrected, playfully.

“Of course,” I reassured him, with a sly smile. “Why does Clarice look so angry at Poliziano?”

“He is in charge of the education for her and Lorenzo’s son Piero. They have frequent disagreements about Piero’s schooling. Her strict, religious way is in direct contrast with Poliziano’s humanist thought.”

“Ahh. I see.”

“Poliziano is also the court poet. Lorenzo has commissioned him to compose a poem about the joust.”

“Joust?” I asked, as I looked at him sideways.

“The joust that Lorenzo has organized, of course.” He scrunched his face in confusion at my ignorance. “They are very popular with the French and Burgundy Courts. That is why Lorenzo has brought them to Florence, to bring alliance with these foreign lands. This will be the second he has held here.”

I nodded silently, as if I’d known the whole time.