Urban Venus

URBAN VENUS

Sara Downing

Venus of Urbino
by Tiziano Vecellio (Titian)

© Sara Downing 2011

The right of Sara Downing to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All characters in this publication are fictitious or are historical figures whose words and actions are fictitious. Any other resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Venus of Urbino
by Tiziano Vecellio reproduced by kind permission of the Uffizi Gallery, Florence

© Cover Design – Liz Bryan 2011

For Jack, Harry & Emilia

One

Bologna, 1541

The carriage rolls with a thief-like stealth through the sleeping streets as I take my leave of this beautiful city, my childhood home. The golden façades and porticoed passageways are illuminated by the final rays of moonlight before the cloud sweeps the nightlight from the sky; it serves to make an easier passage for the driver, but reveals to me the streets and alleyways that I will see no more. Now I prefer the darkness.

The rearing Torri loom before us, the huge towers that pierce the skyline and seem to point to heaven itself, outstretched like fingers pleading for the forgiveness I know cannot be bestowed upon me. Their towering greatness serves to make me feel small and unimportant, my crime simply to love a man who could not be mine. We reach an open space, away from the narrow streets, and the driver picks up speed, whipping the horses to go faster and spirit us from this place. I pull my dark cloak around my head as the breeze cuts through me, and shiver with fear and the knowledge of an uncertain future. In as much as I know I cannot stay here, it pains me to go, and my heart pounds fit to burst from my chest as I consider what I have forgone.

How can I leave this man who has loved and cherished me more than anyone in my short life? But I have to go; to stay would mean certain persecution. The man I love had no choice but to disown me, for his own sake and for the sake of his family. I so dearly wish that he could come with me, but it is not possible. He has his reputation to consider; it cannot be hindered by his love for a woman who is not his wife. He is long since gone from me.

A sleeping pigeon, startled by the carriage wheels, flies up like a black ghost, its wings flapping in the semi-darkness like the cloak of the devil himself. This beautiful city, once so welcoming to me, now appears menacing and evil; why should I want to stay?

We speed through the Piazza Maggiore and I permit myself one last glance up at the church of San Petronio, its huge campanile cutting the shadows of the square firmly in two. A sudden spear of moonlight illuminates a stained glass window, and the image of Our Lord is revealed to me. Am I worthy of looking upon his face? I feel I should deflect my gaze, lower my head in shame, but I am drawn to see his visage one final time. As I glance upwards, his enigmatic smile is sufficient to bestow upon me his blessing and forgiveness.

I am now resolved to do what I must, despite the sinfulness of such an act in the eyes of the Lord. As the carriage makes a sharp turn into the Via d’Azeglio I pull my cloak tightly around me and throw myself onto the street below.

Two

Florence, Present Day

‘
Ecco, signorina
,’ exclaims the
tassista
, the unfortunate Florentine taxi driver who has had the onerous task of transporting me and my luggage from the station. And plenty of it there is, too. The term ‘travelling light’ has yet to make it into my vocabulary, let alone my way of life, and the poor man had spent ten minutes outside the station, attempting to squeeze every last suitcase and holdall into his small, battered (and almost certainly un-roadworthy) Fiat, for the final leg of my journey.

Fortunately I’ve been lucky enough to have had plenty of offers of help with my heap of clobber at all the various en-route changeovers; there seemed to be a steady supply of willing passengers (usually male, so chivalry can’t be entirely dead, can it?) or porters to help me disembark from one leg of the journey and re-embark on the next. And that was without employing any of my feminine wiles on them; not that I’d dream of capitalising on being a mere petite little thing, with a tonne of luggage, and more than slightly challenged in the ability-to-carry-one’s-own-bags department. I know I’ve packed too much, and that’s my own fault, but there you go. I’m going to be here for the best part of a year, so I need it all! I just don’t have enough arms to carry it myself, so any offers of help are greatly appreciated.

I suppose I have fared pretty well on this journey, all things considered. Flying just wouldn’t have been an option for me; the check-in chick at the airport would have taken one look at my personal luggage mountain and run off screaming, not to mention the hideous amount in excess baggage charges I’d have had to pay. Anyway, I’ve made it now, and as I hand the driver a twenty euro note, I don’t expect to see any change from it, despite the relatively short trip. The poor man has had to work hard for his money after all.

What a place this is! I’ve only ever seen Florence in 2D, and the 3D version is really quite overwhelming. ‘Shabby chic’ has to be a term that was coined for this city; my short taxi ride brought me past palazzos and through piazzas, under archways and alongside gothic churches in glorious gilded stone and marble, all teeming with history but with an unexpectedly welcoming feel to them. There’s culture by the bucket-load here, no doubt about it, but none of it daunting in the way that it can be in some big cities. To me, Florence seems to beckon you to explore and enjoy; nothing is hidden away behind barriers like a museum piece, preserved for posterity but never experienced by the masses.

The streets are heaving with tourists and locals alike; the latter go brusquely about their daily business, the former trail languorously, guide-book in hand as they gaze upwards at the magnificent domes and towers, oblivious to the crowds hurriedly trying to get past them. The inevitable parties of Japanese tourists shuffle quickly from street to street, following their umbrella-clutching guides, and snapping away on the myriad high-tech bits of photographic equipment that dangle round their necks.

And here I am, finally, outside the place that is to be my home for the next year. It, too, is steeped in that same gorgeous shabby-chic as the parts of the city I have seen so far – a tall medieval building on several stories, each floor seemingly with its own style, almost as if it had been built one layer at a time by different architects, like some sort of gigantic wedding cake. No doubt it has simply been modified countless times over the centuries; some of the changes remain and others have crumbled to reveal the original detail in the structure behind them. Whatever its history, it’s a far cry from my student accommodation in Newcastle, a typical little early twentieth century northern two-up-two-down ‘back-to-back’, complete with original outside loo (and one indoors now too, thankfully), back yard, and a view of the identical row of houses behind it. I’d been happy there though – at least until recent events had conspired to make me otherwise – and I hope it will be available to rent again when I return to Newcastle next autumn to do my final year.

With a deep breath for courage, I grab what I can manage of my bags, leaving the long-suffering taxi driver to carry the rest, and turn the heavy iron handle of the little door in the huge oak gate on the front of the building. The taxi driver steps through behind me, calling out a ‘
Buonasera signorina, e buona fortuna!
’ as he heaps my luggage in a pile, happy to leave me quickly and move onto the next (hopefully less demanding) customer, now that his job here is done. Whether he is wishing me luck for my stay in Florence, or merely with getting all my bags up to my apartment, is anyone’s guess. I’m going to need luck for both, I suppose.

What greets me inside that little door is far from what I’d expected. In my head is a cool, slightly tatty but grandly marbled vestibule of a large block of apartments; instead I open that door and step into a magical garden. It’s brimming with bougainvillea, roses and hibiscus flowers, and surrounded on three sides by a high brick wall, giving it an air of complete stillness and tranquillity, and shielding it from the prying eyes of neighbours; a tiny, perfect and fragrant oasis within the heart of this bustling city. I can’t believe how fabulous it is; the surprise takes my breath away and I stand there, rooted to the spot, trying to get my wits together.

I spy a pair of slim, brown feet with cyan-painted toenails peeping round the side of the building; presumably another resident soaking up a bit of sun and enjoying this beautiful space. I decide not to go any further for fear of disturbing whoever she is and making a nuisance of myself in my first moments here, but just as that plan formulates, the feet drop to the ground, and the person attached to them comes around the corner.

‘
Ciao!
’ the gorgeous vision before me exclaims, shaking her mane of glossy dark hair almost in slow motion, like something from a shampoo ad, and stretching her lithe form. ‘You must be Lydia,’ she exclaims in perfect English with only the merest lilting hint of an Italian accent. ‘
Benvenuta a Firenze!
I am Leonora! I am your flatmate! Pleased to meet you!’ and at this juncture she grabs my hand in both of hers and shakes it vigorously, whilst proceeding to plant a kiss on each of my cheeks. ‘I thought I would wait for you here, help you with your bags,’ she goes on, surveying the luggage around my feet. ‘Good job I did,’ she adds, laughing.

Leonora can obviously spot an English person at ten paces – how else could she have been so sure that I was
her
new flatmate and wasn’t moving into one of the other apartments? I hope it’s just my mountain of luggage giving me away and that I’m not letting the side down in the fashion stakes by dressing like a dowdy Brit. But one glance at Leonora’s attire – perfect figure-hugging designer skinny jeans and simple but elegant black strappy top – confirms that yes, I probably do look like your typical English girl abroad, in my cropped summer trousers, pastel tee-shirt and flip-flops. And my (relatively) pale complexion probably has something to do with it too. I think I’m quite brown (for once it hadn’t been a bad summer back home) and by UK standards I almost certainly am, but compared to Leonora’s naturally gorgeous olive glow, I look positively anaemic.

I am as overwhelmed by this friendly, gushing welcome as I had been by my first glimpse of that walled garden; Leonora must think I am stupid, as it’s a good couple of minutes before I manage to emit a single word. Although that’s partly explained by the fact that she barely comes up for air. She is obviously glad to have a target on which to practise her immaculate English, but at this rate I anticipate I won’t be making much improvement in my own Italian linguistic skills – it’s going to be all too easy to speak to her in English.

When Leonora finally stops regaling me with the joys and wonders of ‘
La vita fiorentina’
(she is going to have to fill me in on the finer details of the city all over again at some point, as this is all way too much too soon and I can’t take it in) she grabs a few of the heavier looking bags and bounces energetically on her endless legs towards the building to escort me upstairs to our apartment.