What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (11 page)

I desperately wanted to stay in this world, but was this the price I’d have to pay? I decided my cleansing session needed to last an extra-long time, just to delay our intimate encounter.

“I’m ready for my bath, Antonella,” I said, because she seemed to be making no effort towards that end, although I certainly was in no hurry.

“Are you certain you do not want to bathe after?” she replied.

Oh, god. Why would I need to bathe after?

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Although I may need one then too.

I shuddered at the thought of what might transpire that Antonella felt I needed to wash off. She heated the water in the fireplace, and cleansed me from a bucket. With every stroke of the wet sponge, a new excuse for Marco popped into my head.

I was tired. I had a headache. It was that time of the month… Syphilis???
Can we just snuggle?

When I went to wet my hair, Antonella grabbed my hand. “No, Netta! You washed your hair last week. It takes far too long to dry! Will you have him wait all night?”

“Yes?”

Sigh.

“No, I suppose not.”

“All right! You are clean. Let us get on with it!”

Antonella walked out the side door to an adjacent room, and I realized I could delay no longer. I grabbed the clean shift she had laid out for me, put it on, and made my way towards Marco’s chamber. I decided to look at the task like any other unpleasant one I’d encountered in life, like giving a speech in college. I always volunteered to go first just to get it over with. It wasn’t like I couldn’t use a good Renaissance romp; it had been eleven years since I’d even had a body.

As I quietly opened the door and crept into the darkened room, I heard Marco whisper, “I missed you so much. I just had to come home early.”

I had no idea how to respond, since I didn’t know him, and even if I did, it was doubtful I would’ve missed him much.

I heard a rhythmic rustling as I shut the door behind me, followed by a bit of a moan. It seemed that Marco had started without me. I uneasily felt my way to the bed, when I made contact with the warmth of skin and saw the whites of eyes shooting daggers at me. Eyes I could recognize even in the dark. “What are you doing,
idiota
!?” Luciana spat.

My eyes were startled into focus, and I could see Luciana’s glistening brown body proudly riding atop Marco like she was the victor in Giuliano’s joust.

“Oh my god! I’m sorry,” I muttered, then bolted from the room at record speed, dove into my bedchamber and quickly shut the door, out of breath.

“Where did you go? And why are you in your shift?” Antonella questioned.

“I…I….”

“He is waiting! Let us go,” Antonella barked, then got to work changing me into the brown servant’s dress I’d worn the day before.

“Wait. Who’s waiting, Antonella?” As much as I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that I didn’t know anything about my own life, I had to ask. Though I was relieved to know it wasn’t Marco.

“Amerigo, of course. Have you been nipping again?”

“Again?” 

Great. I’m a wine-o, and apparently I’m humping my husband’s cousin.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like Amerigo. We obviously had some kind of connection, or at least he had one with Simonetta, but I only had eyes for Sandro, and I longed to go to him right then.

Chapter 20

Antonella quickly attired me in the homely brown dress, struggling only for a moment while she tucked my huge mane of hair underneath the weird, white skullcap. I couldn’t figure out why Amerigo would want me to dress like a servant. It was bizarre enough that my ex-husband wanted me to slink around the house dressed as a French Maid. These
quattrocento
men were as freaky as any modern man I’d known during my life. I had already given him a five minute limit in my mind, before I’d make up an excuse to go to bed—alone.

I went to leave the room the same way I’d entered, assuming Amerigo could be found in that direction, but Antonella stopped me in my tracks. “Have you gone mad?” she asked.

One of us has
, I thought.
It could quite possibly be me.

She clutched my arm in her not-so-gentle-manner and spun me around to the door on the opposite side of the room. I had yet to explore this part of the
palazzo
, although I’d seen Antonella go in and out that same door many times during these last two days. We crossed the threshold, entering a dreary, sparsely furnished room with merely a cot and a chest to fill the space. The walls were gray and prison-like, with no windows and only one uninspired painting situated in an awkwardly low position on the far wall. Antonella crossed the dismal room—which was clearly her own—and went for the painting, swinging it aside to reveal a small door behind. Antonella held a candle high to illuminate the tight corridor on the other side of the door, which ended at the base of a staircase. As we started down the stairs, my head was swimming with doubt and wonder.

Out of nowhere, someone grabbed me from behind. “Where are you going?” The male voice asked in a whisper, as he held a hand over my mouth to prevent my inevitable scream.

I have no flipping idea.

I turned to face my attacker, only to find Amerigo bursting into laughter. I prepared myself for a kiss or embrace, but instead, he brushed past me and reached for Antonella. I was just a third wheel in this weird scenario. Amerigo, dressed in the same drab colors as Antonella and me, clutched both of Antonella’s hands for a moment, before asking, “Shall we then?”

“We shall!” Antonella enthused.

Amerigo held a small torch, and led the way down the narrow set of tiny, seemingly endless stairs. At the bottom, he dug into his pockets for a key which unlocked a large, rusty padlock, and opened another small door. Antonella and I followed him into a tiny alley, which was only slightly larger than the girth of our bodies. We had to reshuffle ourselves so Amerigo could close the door behind him. Sandro had been correct when he said all
palazzi
had a back exit.

We followed Amerigo around a corner, crouching low through the winding alleyways, avoiding the gaze of passersby, when at last we reached the Borgo Ognissanti. I crossed once again in front of my
real
home. The church of Ognissanti was alive with candlelight. I managed only a glimpse inside, but again caught sight of that familiar nun, who Antonella claimed to be the Abbess. She was sweeping the floor, but stopped as if she sensed my presence, slowly raising her head towards me. I picked up my step to catch Amerigo and Antonella, escaping the Sister Constance look-alike and my realm once again.

We continued the short distance to the Arno River, and traversed what is called the
Lungarno Amerigo Vespucci
in modern times. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the irony. Obviously, it must have had a different name at this time, since I was sneaking around with the teenage version of its namesake.

“What in Madonna’s name are you laughing at?” Amerigo asked in a hushed voice.

“Nothing. Just thought of something funny.”

“She has been giddy since her meeting with the painter yesterday morn,” Antonella added.

“Who? Sandro?” Amerigo questioned. “He is a good fellow, but quite beneath your station.
Do you not think?”

I watched the smile fade from Antonella’s face. She was obviously quite smitten with Amerigo, but just as clearly disappointed in such a statement.

“I’m not concerned with anyone’s station, nor should you be,” I scolded.

“Yes, you are correct,” he said, as he looked to Antonella with sorrowful eyes. But what of Giuliano?” Amerigo asked of me.

“Why does no one ask me, ‘what of Marco’?” I questioned, sarcastically. “He’s my husband for God’s sake!”

Both Amerigo and Antonella stopped in their tracks and looked at me intently, but neither answered. Instead, they simply exchanged a knowing look, and laughed like hyenas in the savanna.

“Does
everyone
know about Marco and Luciana?” I asked, exasperated.

“Marco has somehow managed to keep it from Piero, but if you do not produce a child soon, I would imagine my uncle will soon suspect something is amiss,” Amerigo replied.

“You expect Netta to become the second Madonna, Amerigo? Producing another virgin birth!” Antonella laughed.

“Ha! Then Sandro would have just cause to paint her again in a nice altarpiece!” Amerigo laughed with Antonella at my expense.

I’m a virgin? What the hell!

That was a situation that needed to be rectified before my time was over. I made a mental note to start writing a ‘second coming’ bucket list.

Still dejected, I followed Amerigo across the Ponte alla Carraia, while my mind boggled over the whole celibacy thing. Simonetta could have had any man she wanted, but instead she chose to have
no one
?

We ducked down, as we continued across the bridge and into the San Spirito district of the
Oltrarno
, and the quiet Florentine night became transformed, the air filled with music and festivity.

“I almost forgot!” Antonella exclaimed, as she bent down to the ground and put her hands in the dirt, rubbing it all over her face. Amerigo followed suit, while I remained motionless, puzzling over their odd behavior.

“Would you like this to be the night you are recognized?” Antonella asked.

“Uh…no.” I replied, as I rubbed the grimy dirt all over my freshly cleaned face. Now I clearly understood why Antonella thought I should bathe “after.”

I trailed behind them into a lively tavern, with tattered men clanking silver mugs and playing cards, and grungy-looking prostitutes hanging around the bar.

A wrinkled old man walked over to me, and slurred into my grimy face, “Well, yer a tall drinka’ ale. How mush fer you? I got a gold florin waitn’ fer ya.” The drunkard  searched his pockets. I must’ve still had it going on for him to choose dirt-face-me over the other willing girls.

“Stacia is not for sale, Paolo!” someone barked from behind me. “She is just another field worker trying to have a drink like the rest of us.”

Stacia?
I was shocked to hear someone utter my actual name, and even more surprised when I realized it came from the mouth of Mariano Filipepi.

“Antonella!” I whispered, trying to get her attention, while Mariano exchanged a few more hostile words with the wrinkled drunkard.

“I am Giovanna here, remember,” she whispered back through clenched teeth.

“Right,” I responded, more confused than ever. “That’s Mariano. Sandro’s father.”

“Ahh! Now you should have even more to converse with him about. Make certain he does not open his mouth about us.”

Antonella then skittered away to join Amerigo, who was mingling with the crowd of ruffians, clearly a regular in this less-than-fine establishment. It reminded me of the Imperial Palace in Las Vegas. The only things missing were slot machines and vocal impersonators, and they were definitely down a few Elvises. The place was well-stocked with dirt covered, toothless drunkards, fresh from the fields or streams.

It took me a moment to embrace the situation for what it was. Amerigo and Simonetta could abandon their noble societal roles, and just be teenagers for a while. And as Amerigo, or “Guido” as they called him in the tavern, wrapped his arm around Antonella, I realized that it was also an opportunity for them to act as though they were a genuine couple, because in the real world, the two of them could never be. I was left to be the awkward solo at the tavern. Not quite sure what to do, I sat down at the bar next to Mariano, with the intention of making a little light conversation.

“So, Stacia is short for Anastasia, is it?” Mariano asked.

“What did you say?”

“I did not put it together until we were at the river,” Mariano replied. “That all these nights at the tavern, I have been bearing my soul to
La Bella
Simonetta. You are quite good at the charade.”

I couldn’t utter a word. I figured I’d let him keep talking, so I could find out what else he’d put together that I hadn’t. I studied his face for a moment, trying to read him. As I did, I realized Mariano was a handsome older man. He had sort of a Sean Connery thing going on, with the same curvaceous lips as his son.

“Nice dress.” Mariano continued sarcastically. “You look like a true tanner. You have not washed off the tannin stains from yesterday.”

“I suppose the charade is more convincing that way,” I replied.

“So the bastard husband you are always referring to is none other than Marco Vespucci?”

“And the disappointing son is Sandro Botticelli?” I played along; drawing from the many postmortem conversations I’d had with Mariano.

“I hate when he is called that!”

“I know.” I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to throw my arms around him and cry.

“The usual,” the barkeep grunted, as he slid a crusty-looking mug of burgundy wine in front of me.

I suppose a Kahlua and cream would be out of the question?

Mariano and I drank and chatted, and it became apparent that we did this on a somewhat regular basis. I also learned that Mariano’s dislike of the arts stemmed from the Medici’s use of it as a visual means of propaganda. Mariano spoke of the
Adoration of the Magi
which Sandro had painted for Gaspare di Zanobi del Lama, a banker who was kissing up to the Medici by having Sandro paint the faces of Lorenzo, Giuliano, Piero, Giovanni, and Cosimo de’ Medici as the faces of the Magi.

“And you know Sandro put himself into the painting as well, right?” I queried.

“That is because he is forbidden from signing any of his own work! It belongs wholly to his ungodly patron. Lorenzo would have us believe that his commissions are all about his love of art, and for the people, but they are meant to manipulate us so that we quietly obey him,” Mariano scoffed. “And cheer for this ridiculous joust!”

“Did you know that I’m Giuliano’s prize if he wins?” I asked, starting to understand Mariano’s point of view.

“All of Florence is aware,” Mariano retorted, with a twisted
what-are-you-stupid?
face.

“I hope he loses,” I chided, just before realizing that would most likely make me the prize of an unknown alternative winner.

“You could wish in one hand
La Bella
, and defecate in the other, and see which one becomes filled first. The joust is engineered so that Giuliano will be the winner, just as the last one was fixed so Lorenzo would be champion. You are already his prize.” I was again surprised that Mariano would talk to a lady that way, but I suppose in the tavern, I was no such thing.

Just then, Antonella raced over and whispered into my ear. “Tommaso Soderini is here looking for his stable boy!” she whispered. “We must go before Amerigo is recognized!”

“I’ve met him as well at the Palazzo Medici,” I said, quickly turning my face from the noble Medici relative.

Antonella signaled Amerigo across the bar, causing him to throw some denari coins on the counter, and rush over to us.

“We have to be off to work early in the morn, Stacia,” Amerigo chirped in a high pitched voice.

“Yes, Guido. I suppose we do.”

I turned back to Mariano. “I have to leave, but my guess is that I’ll see you very soon.”

“Yes, I am certain you will. But, before you go, I would like to know something.”

“Yes?”

Oh God, what?

“Why did you choose the name Anastasia?”

I hesitated for a moment, because the truth was that my earthly Russian father had chosen the name for me. I had always disliked it, feeling the name was inappropriate for a dark-skinned, half Native American. But then the perfect answer came to me. “I’m not sure if we ever discussed it, but I believe that there’s life after death, Mariano. Something different than Christian teachings would have us believe. I chose the name because Anastasia means ‘resurrection.’” And with that, I ran out of the tavern behind Amerigo and Antonella.

I’d done little to nothing to help with the Mariano versus Sandro situation, but I suppose I had no choice but to leave when I did. Morning would soon come, and I wanted to make sure we were up and out the door before Marco would arise.

Antonella and Amerigo held hands until we reached the other side of the river, while I trailed behind them. We were equals out here, Antonella, Amerigo, and I. But when the sun would next rise back at the Palazzo Vespucci, everything would be different. At least I understood their reasoning for going to the tavern. It was one answered question. But I had a more pressing question on my mind.