What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (12 page)

Why would Simonetta have chosen the name Stacia? 

I couldn’t even fathom an answer to that.

Chapter 21

Back in the narrow staircase, Antonella waved goodnight to me with her unencumbered hand as Amerigo caressed the other. He lured her up the stairs, past the door leading to her small chamber and up another flight, presumably to his much more luxurious digs. There I was, the virgin beauty, left to my own devices.

I washed the dirt from my face and used the fireplace to heat up the water left in the bucket, so I could lather my long hair. I just couldn’t go along with the once a month hair washing thing. I took my time brushing my tangled locks and braiding them, anticipating the pain that would result if I waited for Antonella to do it in the morning. I couldn’t help but worry a bit for Amerigo’s safety if Antonella’s lovemaking was anything like her coiffuring.

I decided to try to sleep and tucked myself into the hard bed again, taking in the frescoes and the magnificent ceiling above, before blowing out the candle and plunging the room into darkness. I needed my beauty rest so that Sandro could capture my image without dark circles under my eyes for all eternity. Gone was the fear that I may not wake here, but back in my realm.

Within moments of closing my weary eyes; however, I was back in the Ognissanti once again, but only as a guest, not as a resident. I wasn’t surprised to have returned there in my dream. When I was alive the first time around, my dreamtime was generally spent in Havasupai, the home of my Native American people, or with my relatives who had passed on before me—some of whom I’d never known in the flesh. I always had some connection to that otherworldly plane, although I didn’t always recognize it for what it was. Even when I had understood that there were messages and guidance on the other side, I usually didn’t know how to interpret them. Even after my death, I continued to visit the places and people of my heritage for a while, but one day it stopped. I hadn’t really even noticed that I’d been fully taken into the realm of the Ognissanti until Wilbur’s visit with his new girlfriend broke me out of my oblivion.

My lucid dream took me back to the nave of the Ognissanti. I’d given up searching for or calling out to Mariano. I knew he wouldn’t be there. This time I sought clues; minute details that I’d never noticed, nor had a need to consider before. I came across the ornate Medici coat of arms imbedded in the marble floor. The symbol had five red circles and one blue circle representing the “
palle
” or “balls” of the illustrious family. The concrete Medici coat of arms that decorate almost every building in Florence have five three-dimensional spheres attached to them. Mariano had told me that an enraged contemporary of Lorenzo’s and Giuliano’s grandfather, Cosimo I, claimed, “That he had even emblazoned the privies of the monks of San Marco with his balls.” The Medici were laying claim to Simonetta even in her final resting place.

I made my way to Sandro’s great painting, the
Saint Augustine in His Study,
with the face of Mariano, wrinkled and wise, with his gray eyes furrowed in frescoed contemplation. Augustine was in his tiny cell, surrounded by many objects: an ornate Cardinal’s mitre, leather-bound books on unknown subjects, a twenty-four hour Italian clock, and a detailed armillary sphere—the latter of which angered me, thinking about the legend that the fools of the 1400s thought the Earth was flat until Christopher Columbus set them straight. But what caught my eye was the small red Vespucci coat of arms on the ceiling cornice above the fresco, clearly indicating it was commissioned by a member of my new household.

There was an open book on a lectern in front of the Saint, and another in his hand, which he held, while also grasping his quill and ink. But there was also an open book on the shelf behind Saint Augustine’s head.

Why would he need a book open on the shelf?

I had never noticed the strangeness of it before. There was scribbling on the pages of the book on the shelf made to look like words, along with some geometric drawings. The book was clearly representing the Saint’s intense scholarly study. But when I looked closely upon the nonsensical scribbling, I deciphered some actual words amongst the garble:

              Where is Brother Martino?

              He fled.

              And where did he go?

              He is outside the Porta al Prato.

These words had nothing to do with what I’d learned about Saint Augustine from Mariano, who had taught me that Augustine was the Bishop of Hippo Regius in Africa in the early centuries after Christ, nowhere near the Porta al Prato
.
In fact, the Florentine gate did not yet exist during the time of the patron saint of printers and theologians. Augustine had a close relationship with his fellow philosopher, Neo-Platonist, and master of rhetoric, Saint Jerome, but I was not aware of any history regarding a Brother Martino.

I made my way past the choir, around to the chapels, where I sought out the circular, blue and white gravestone of Sandro where I’d spent so many years of my life and death. The rail protecting the art and tomb markers had letters from Botticelli admirers stacked on top, as was usual. I recalled sitting with him for hours next to that rail, contemplating what it would’ve been like to meet him, and never imagining I’d actually get the chance. Here he rested quietly at the feet of Simonetta, my body and soul mate from another era. I had no personal experiences in my life that would help me relate to her, but amazingly I didn’t find it difficult to be her, to live in her world. And of course, it felt good to be back on the other side of the rail.

Chapter 22

W
hen my eyes opened once again, I noticed a clock similar to the one in Sandro’s
Saint Augustine
perched on the nightstand next to my bed. The twenty-four silver Roman numerals of the clock surrounded a red center, with gears exposed in the back. The time shown was exactly twelve hours later than that displayed in the painting, with the only hand pointing to the Roman numeral thirteen, which made no sense to me since the sun was just beginning to rise.

I leapt out of bed, eager to get out the door before Marco had something to say about it. Not only had he mentioned that we would speak in the morning about my modeling for Sandro on a daily basis, but I was surely already in trouble for the awkward encounter with he and Luciana’s naked bodies the night before.

I quickly pulled a coral colored jacquard gown from the wardrobe and attempted to put it on over my shift. Without Antonella, I only managed to get my left arm through its corresponding sleeve. The stiff fabric wouldn’t allow my right arm all the way through, nor could I pull it off so I could choose another dress. I had my right arm suspended over my head, with the wicked gown partially covering my face and the back still open. Even if I could put it on by myself, I couldn’t possibly leave the
palazzo

without Antonella. I used my free hand to feel my way to her rusty door handle, my other arm still flapping in the air. As I shuffled sideways into her small chamber—my vision still impaired by the dress that was half covering my face—I found nothing but a sparse, uninhabited room.

Antonella was still with Amerigo.

I was confident that the two of them found snuggled up together was a scene that would not go over well with any of the
palazzo
’s other residents.

I felt my way to the painting that disguised the small door, then foolishly leaned against it while pulling out the slide lock, causing me to topple ass-over-teakettle onto the landing of the hidden staircase. Fortunately, I managed to right myself before accidently falling down the flight of stairs or breaking a limb. I contemplated abandoning my quest, but needed to find Antonella for her sake and mine.

I crab-walked sideways up the dark stairs, using the wall to steady myself with my upraised hand, when I reached the next landing. I felt around for a while, searching for whatever crevice Amerigo and Antonella disappeared into. I fumbled upon a doorjamb, and worked my fingers down to a latch. I prayed as the door creaked ajar that the room on the other side belonged to Amerigo. As my left fingers clasped the gown to pull it down slightly from in front of my eyes, I could see enough to conclude it was certainly Amerigo’s chamber. The walls were lined with framed maps and the desk littered with compasses, a sextant, and other tools of cartography. He was never going to be the merchant his father wanted him to be.

“Antonella,” I whispered, though all I could perceive was a motionless lump in the bed. No one moved.

“Antonella!” I said a bit louder. When I again received no response, I shook the bed a bit, hoping to rouse her.

Suddenly, the face of Amerigo sprang up from under the covers and when his eyes fell upon me with my one arm raised over my head, he yelled and lunged, clearly not recognizing
The Fair Simonetta
in my disheveled guise. Instinct dictated that I should immediately run in the opposite direction, but the dress was once again blinding me and I fled, full speed, directly into one of his maps on the wall. My forehead smashed into the sturdy frame and my body crumpled to the floor.

When I tried to sit up, I was no longer attached to Simonetta’s body. Rather, I was a floating mass hovering weightlessly above her; again a spirit, helplessly watching as Amerigo came to the aide of the limp body on the floor.

I tried to climb back in to my borrowed shell, but it was no use. I was drawn through the walls and out of the
palazzo
into the Renaissance dawn, caught between this world and mine. Then I found myself confronting the façade of the Ognissanti, only this time it was the 1400s version—Gothic, dark and grim with the field spanning off to the right. Had I inhabited a body at that moment, my fight or flight instinct would’ve kicked in, the adrenaline helping me race away from my realm, but I had no molecules with which to fight. Instead, I hovered over the field, which served as a graveyard to the residents of the Ognissanti district. Men, women and even children were lying serenely, buried in the ground under the morning rays.

As I absorbed the peaceful scene, it morphed before me into something darker, as the coyote appeared once again, this time strolling casually across the soil that covered the forgotten souls. I floated over a mass of graves: Giovanni Veneziano-master goldsmith-1468, Fra Giorgio Donato-faithful Umiliati monk-1459, Fiametta Rosso-devoted mother-1472. Then I saw what the coyote intended for me to see: Simonetta Vespucci-
The Flower of Florence
-26 April, 1476.

How could I have forgotten such an important detail?

The endorphins that had possessed my brain since awakening must have blocked out the painful truth. Even though I’d been granted a second chance on earth in the form of Simonetta, I was doomed to die again, this time as a very young woman. It had eluded my memory that she was cut short in her prime by the ravages of tuberculosis, essentially drowning in her own blood, causing all of Florence to mourn
La Bella Simonetta.

But why is she buried out here?

The graveyard no longer exists in the modern era, the city having encroached and swallowed it up long ago, replacing it with shops and apartments. In the twenty-first century Simonetta lies inside the Ognissanti with Sandro situated humbly at her feet. Is it possible that only the members of families important to history were moved inside the Ognissanti, and Florence just expanded over the rest? That Sandro landed at Simonetta’s feet as a matter of convenience, not from his longing desire to spend all eternity with her as the legend goes?

“Simonetta, wake up!”

“I can’t. I’m dead.”

“I assure you that you are not. But you could end up that way if Marco finds you in here,” Amerigo scolded with his hand resting on my shoulder.

“What?” I asked, as I rubbed my forehead. I was back in Simonetta’s body, still splayed on the cold floor of Amerigo’s bedchamber. “What day is it?”

“It is the day of
Tyr,
you silly woman.”

Oh, for god’s sake
.

“No, I mean what’s the date?

“It is the twenty-six of the month of
Janus
.”

“Of what year?” I huffed in exasperation.

“It is the year fourteen-hundred and seventy-six after Christ, of course. Are you in need of a physician?”

“No, no. I’m all right.” I shook my head. The last thing I needed was to draw any more attention to myself. The month of
Janus
must be January,
meaning I only had three months to live.

“What are you doing here?” Amerigo interrupted my horrifying realization.

“I didn’t want you to get caught with Antonella. I came to wake her up, and…well…I couldn’t put my dress on without her.”

“I can see that…silly woman.” Amerigo smiled as he helped me up from the floor and the rest of the way into my dress. He even took the time to lace it up in the back. Amerigo was no stranger to the inner workings of women’s clothing. “Has Anto ever slept later than you?”

“I don’t know,” I whined.

“She is up with the roosters every morn. She woke an hour ago, and is fetching you breakfast.”

I declined Amerigo’s offer to help me back to Antonella’s room. My pride and vitality were more damaged than my head.

Sure enough, by the time I scurried back down the stairs through Antonella’s room and into mine, there she was with my hard bread, cheese and wine—prepared to torture me with her beautification.