Urban Venus (25 page)

‘
It looks like I have a big job on my hands, then,’ I say, feeling a bit overwhelmed but also quite excited now at the prospect that I might be related to one of these characters. ‘Just supposing I’m related to Maria, I don’t even know her surname! It’s a very long way back from the Irvine family of twenty-first century Britain to the Vecellio’s and co of Renaissance Italy. There’s a long way to go until I – hopefully – bump into one of them, so with any luck her name will have come to me in a dream by then.’

‘
Her name is Maria Rossi,’ he says simply. ‘I don’t mention it in the book, and I don’t know why really. It just never became relevant, but it is definitely Rossi. You must excuse me now, my dear. I have a lecture to get to. But before I do, this is for you.’

He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a mint condition copy of ‘A Life In Art’. ‘Your own copy,’ he says. ‘Look inside.’

I open the cover gently, with reverent respect for a brand new (and quite rare) book, not wanting to break the spine, and flick through the first couple of blank pages to the title page.

‘
To Lydia, a fellow dreamer. Wishing you the very best of luck with your research. All good wishes, Antonio Di Girolamo.’

‘
Thank you, Antonio,’ I say.

Twenty-One

I leave the café and cross the Piazza del Duomo, heading down one of the backstreets behind the main shopping area, not wanting to get caught up in the ever-present tourist mêlée, but needing to get to the gallery as quickly as I can. Florence seems suddenly changed to me; sunnier, brighter, more picturesque. But then it dawns on me that this isn’t just a frame of mind brought on by my meeting with Antonio – and I feel we know each other well enough now for me to call him that – but spring has really sprung in the past week, only I’ve been too wrapped up in the Stefano and Di Girolamo sagas to really notice.

Like the blossoming trees, my sense of self esteem is bursting forth, and with it the value of these dreams, now that my story has been corroborated and I have a ‘fellow dreamer’. After talking to Antonio, I no longer feel I’m some kind of circus freak, and most importantly, I’m no longer alone in my experience. I feel normal again, I have an ally in my dreams, a companion for my research and, most importantly for my sanity, someone I can turn to who will fully appreciate what I’m going through.

I’m moseying through the city on a mission, head held high and nose up in the clouds when I turn a corner and almost bump into a man clutching a take-away coffee.
How un-Italian, carrying your espresso around in a Styrofoam cup,
I think, then do a double-take as I look up and realise that the man is Stefano. Just as well we don’t quite collide; I don’t much fancy having to wear his coffee down my shirt for the rest of the day. But at this particular moment, that’s the least of my worries.

‘
Stefano, hi, how are you?’ I ask.

‘
Good thanks. You?’ he replies rather curtly, his expression blank and unreadable.

This is the first time we have come face to face since our break-up. I suppose it had to happen some time, and it’s probably a blessing that, as it’s unprompted, it is also unscripted and therefore neither of us has had to worry about rehearsing embarrassing openers to hide our discomfort. This is as natural as it’s going to get between us for the time being, and now that we have met, the situation has lost some of its scariness.

He leans across to kiss me on both cheeks, smelling of himself, gorgeous as ever, and a pang of something shoots through me, I’m just not really quite sure what. He looks well and I comment on this, my voice managing to sound normal and not betray me as either a heartless man-eater who hasn’t been affected by the break-up, or a bitter jilted lover – neither of which I am, of course.
Just keep it all on an even keel and you’ll get through this,
I think to myself.

A petite, dark-haired woman emerges from the coffee shop and links arms with him, as though staking her territory in the face of competition.
Don’t worry, darling, I’ve been there. You can have him now.
An unexpectedly bitchy thought I know, and I am surprised at the shot of jealousy which spears me like a real physical pain in my chest. How dare he move on so quickly; I thought he was heartbroken after we split, but clearly he has found a diversion in Adriana, by which name she is introduced.

‘
Adriana, hi, nice to meet you,’ I manage to utter without any of the rancour which only moments earlier had hit me full frontal.

I don’t want to be with Stefano, and I know that. Our relationship was lovely whilst it lasted, but it was way too complicated. Stefano couldn’t get to grips at all with the way I have chosen to live my life, and that makes us completely incompatible. But seeing his gorgeous, smiling face glancing downwards as a replacement pretty face glances upwards, so adoringly, really hurts. That was me only a few weeks ago. How nice for him that he had a reserve girlfriend waiting in the wings, to call on in his hour of need, and that he can move on so quickly.

I make my excuses about needing to be somewhere, and leave them to one another and their coffees.

Today I am to be presented to the Doge! What an honour for a girl such as I, whose background could not be more humble! I cannot quite believe it.

The reception is a meeting of the great minds in the worlds of art, literature and music. Tito is well respected and well known within the Palazzo Ducale; he has of course been commissioned several times to paint for
Monsignor el Doxe
, the Doge, and the great man himself has many paintings in his palace which bear my likeness. Of course, like the rest of Venetian society, he does not know that I am Tito’s lover, merely that I am the beautiful woman who has become his muse, the inspiration for some of his greatest works. For the Doge is a connoisseur of fine things, and likes to surround himself with the best this great city has to offer.

Tito and I are so rarely seen together in public; even on this occasion we cannot appear overly familiar with one another, and no one must guess our secret. Tito’s wife is not expected to attend, of which I am glad. I have not yet had the honour of meeting her in the flesh –
and indeed have no desire to. But there will be a multitude of people who know him well, and whose respect he commands in the art world. As one of the more famous painters in Venice, he cannot afford to have scandal brought upon his head. If they choose to look at us together and interpret more than simply artist and muse, then they have the free will to do so. But at no time must we offer up any indication that we are lovers; this must stay as mere speculation on their part. This is a spiritual place, and Tito is a married man, after all. There are certain values which need to be respected in public, even if they may be flouted in private…

Tito spends more and more time at my
casa
these days. Much as he adores his children, they are now growing and becoming less needful of him, and his relationship with his wife does not fulfil him in the same way that ours does, so he informs me. It is not just our love-making, which is always immensely satisfying to both body and soul, but simply the time we spend together just talking, about everything and nothing, as though no subject were beyond our reach. He discusses art with me as though I were an expert, and my own ignorance and lack of education aside, I am coming to understand something of this strange little world he inhabits.

We feel as though we belong together and that my rightful place is by his side. It is through no fault of our own that destiny was a little tardy in bringing us to one another, even if he should by then be espoused to another woman and have fathered children with her. In that he was simply doing what society expected of him; marrying well, into his own class and continuing the family line. Now there is a child growing in my belly, it is confirmation for both of us that our relationship, though unrecognised in the eyes of the Church, is in fact blessed by Our Lord.

Fortunately our child is still small within me, and well disguised by the folds in my gown, so it is with a great sense of righteousness and a feeling that I have nothing of which I should be ashamed that we glide together through the magnificent Porta della Carta,
the grand entrance to the Palazzo Ducale, in anticipation of the great event before us. We are greeted by a guard, immaculately attired in colours so vibrant that it takes me back to that day in Bologna, when I observed those magnificent soldiers in the procession of Il Papa, from a small window at Rosetta’s.

Oh, but how I have moved up in the world since then! Today I am to be introduced to some of the grandest people in society; in the past I had met such people, but my place was to serve them with my body. Today it is my beauty, grace and demeanour they will admire, I am sure, not what feelings of lust I can inspire in them. Today I come before them as a lady, not as a whore.

The guard leads us up a vast flight of stairs and through a corridor to the most magnificent room I have ever set eyes upon. Tito whispers in my ear to inform me that this is the Sala del Maggior Consiglio. I would not like to speculate how many important decisions of City and Republic have been made here, when the Great Council meets to discuss its business. Tito has been here on many an occasion, to participate in such meetings.

Today the room is not set out for a council, however. With great awe I see before me a huge throne, fit for a king. A long line of finely-dressed citizens forms a slow and stately procession from that throne to the door by which we have just entered. We join the back of this body as each waits patiently for their own moment of presentation to the Doge, before moving to the end of the room where the less formal aspect of the reception is taking place. Here, a number of servants, also dressed in bright colours, flit amongst the crowd like exotic birds, serving titbits and small morsels of delicacies, whilst others follow behind more sedately with wine, which flows from their ewers into elaborate golden goblets.

Tito turns to me to ensure that all is well, and sees my face lighted up in wonderment, as I gaze from painted ceiling to gold-embossed chair, from vast window with breathtaking views of the lagoon to the fine robes of the crowd before me. It is too much for a simple girl such as me to absorb, despite the relative opulence in which I now reside.

I too am attired in the finest robes money can buy, and therefore feel I can match these grand people, at least in appearance. My gown is of the most exquisite silk and lace, my hair dressed in the most fashionable style of the day, with small braids around my face, interlaced with delicate pearls and other precious stones. My darling Tito is so generous in providing them for me, and my dear Clara is indeed a skilled artist to create this masterpiece of a coiffure that I sport this day.

Slowly we make our way along the line, exchanging small snippets of conversation with the persons around us. Already I have been introduced to so many people of superior class, some of whom have such important roles to fulfil within this great city. I feel very honoured to be here, as finally we near the great throne.

I am not surprised to see that His Serenity, Pietro Lando, is dressed in the finest garments of all, as befitting his status as our esteemed leader. He wears luxurious golden robes and slippers, but his headdress, the
corno ducale
is the most striking aspect of all: a strange horn-like bonnet made of gemmed brocade, beneath which I can see peeping out a white linen cap. It is a
camauro
, Tito informs me, not unlike the ones that the Sisters at the convent are required to wear to cover their hair. Its modesty contrasts vividly with the opulence of the rest of his outfit, and indeed the surroundings.

As we draw nearer to him he notices me studying him carefully, and to my surprise, holds my gaze for a few seconds. Is it that he recognises my face from the images covering his walls? And then it is our turn:

‘
Serenissimo Principe
, may I present to you Signore Tiziano Vecellio and Signorina Maria Rossi,’ the guard announces. I sweep into a deep curtsey before him, only looking up at the great man once I have paid my compliments and he has requested that I rise.

I rub my eyes as I wake up in room twenty-eight, hastily gathering my things together and heading for the door. I never feel like I want to hang around after a dream; I need to get outside and back to reality, clear my head with some fresh air.

So Antonio was right; the woman I need to search for in my family history is Maria Rossi.

But where do I start?

Twenty-Two

Vincenzo is not in his room when I arrive. But then he wasn’t expecting me; I have called by unannounced. Maybe he’s taking a lecture, or off doing whatever else it is he does in the name of being a tutor – which probably involves drinking coffee and chatting up pretty students somewhere, knowing him.

I decide to wait and plonk myself in one of his armchairs. I pull out my ‘Dreams’ notebook; I might as well put the time to good use and update my journal for the dream I’ve just had. So, Maria is genuinely Maria Rossi, it would seem, although why I should ever doubt Antonio is anyone’s guess. I suppose it just feels good to have it confirmed, via my own dreams, before I launch off into what could be an absolute bottomless pit of a family tree hunt. Let’s face it, I have no idea whatsoever in which direction I should be heading.