What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (9 page)

“The mosaic is a portrait of Minias with Madonna and Christ,” Sandro continued, as I stood mesmerized, thinking there couldn’t possibly be anything more beautiful at that moment, when Sandro gently pulled my arm, and guided me to turn around and look behind me. “
This
is why it is my favorite place,” Sandro sighed.

I instantly understood when I saw the magnificent view that dwarfed even the site of my precious Piazzale Michelangelo. Being even higher above Florence, we could see the muted, but breathtaking, candlelit rooms of all the homes of Florence. I imagined if it were daytime I’d be looking at field after field of red irises surrounding the small city-state. This Florence was a miniature place, compared to the one I knew.

“Shall we go inside?” Sandro proposed.

I hesitantly followed him into the place of worship, fearing I might vanish from my new realm upon entering a place so similar to my churchly home. But I had a special fascination with the art and architecture of Italian churches, and the beauty of this sanctuary, glowing in the torchlight, erased any fears from my mind. Every inch was ornately decorated, even down to the crossbeams that held up the ceiling. The patterned floor composed of green marble imbedded with
opus sectile
in a complex, white lacy design represented the signs of the zodiac.

“The Chapel of the Crucifix in the center of the nave is new. It was designed by Michelozzo,” Sandro added.

“It’s beautiful,” I marveled, having difficulty with the concept of anything in Florence being
new
. Even in this time period, Florence seemed full of relics from the past, including the already several-centuries-old bones of Minias himself.

              The warm sound of the Gregorian chant of the monks resonated through the air as we walked into the oldest part of the church, which contained a crypt and the displayed remains of Minias. I crept up to the corpse as close as I reasonably could, but it was impossible to tell whether his head was attached or not. Despite the macabre view, I felt a certain kinship with the inhabitants of the crypt. And while I didn’t long to go back to my quiet resting place in the Ognissanti, I was at peace with the knowledge that it was my destiny to return. This day was a unique privilege, and I’d be eternally grateful for it—
literally.

After a good deal of time in the church, Sandro migrated back out through the large wooden doors. I stood for a short while on the stairs of the Miniato, allowing my dress to blow in the wind so that Sandro could sketch the folds of fabric. However, he immediately noticed that the heavy velvet wouldn’t take the breeze the same way my transparent shift would.

“I suppose that means we must return another time,” Sandro mused, as he sat on the steps and motioned for me to join him. I nervously planted myself beside Sandro, as he opened the wine cask and poured the Chianti into a goblet for us to share under the starry sky, while soaking up the view of the magical skyline once again.

Though we had technically just met, I’d spent a lifetime loving Sandro, even if it was from a place that was as far as one person could get from another; a place so distant, it could never be reached—until now. I realized that in my lifetime, I had really just loved the idea of him, the mind behind the beautiful paintings, the face staring out from
The Adoration of the Magi
. I imagined how much love he had for Simonetta, having painted her face over and over again. But the actual man was just as intriguing as the fantasy version, and he sat so close to me, I could feel the warmth emanating from his body. He was real; tangible; not just brush strokes on a canvas, but flesh and blood. Yet, what could I do? If I risked telling him the truth of who I was, it would surely send him bolting as fast as he could to hide from me in the cave of Minias. I wasn’t about to scare the hell out of him as my last act on Earth.

It wasn’t as though I was in any position to express my feelings to Sandro. Putting aside my alleged husband, I would’ve never met him if he were not painting my image for Giuliano. Most importantly, it wasn’t about me and what I felt. I was here for him and his father. I had succeeded in my mission. It was over.

We returned to the Palazzo Medici where Antonella remained, bored in the courtyard with the retinue, completely unaware of our departure. Sandro led me back to the armory room, where I’d posed earlier that evening. He grabbed the sword I had used to shadow-stab the imaginary Giuliano, and a shield that was on display close by.

“Poliziano has given me an idea,” he explained.

Together with the retinue, we walked back through the streets of Florence as a silent group, despite the fact that a million questions almost slipped from my tongue.

Why did you paint the waves that way in the Birth of Venus? Why does St Augustine look like Mariano? Did you really love Simonetta?

Unfortunately, I didn’t think even
he
knew the answers to any of those questions…yet.

When we approached my front door, sure to never see Sandro in the flesh again, I threw my arms around his neck, and closed my eyes to avoid whatever judgmental glares would come from Antonella and the retinue. Sandro’s stiff posture should have given me the clear message to back off, but I didn’t. And within a second or two, his arms slid around my waist, and embraced me tightly. It brought enough joy to my spirit that I was ready to accept my fate and return to my realm. But, as I pulled back from Sandro and our eyes met, tears burned to push forward. It was such a strange sensation. One I could barely remember having felt before. Irrationally crying at such a moment would have everyone rightfully fearing for Simonetta’s sanity, so I quickly turned and fled into the
palazzo
before the tears began to pour.

Sobbing, I ran up the stairs towards my bedchamber, and immediately fought my way out of the green velvet dress, wondering how more Renaissance women didn’t die of self-strangulation during the disrobing process.

By the time Antonella came knocking at my bedchamber door, I’d pulled myself together somewhat. I didn’t want to be rude to her, since she had put up with my crap all day, but luckily she really didn’t seem to think anything I did was all that unusual for Simonetta. I hoped my emotional outburst came off as routine behavior for her as well.

As I opened the door, she entered in silence and washed me with a sponge and warm water from a bowl she’d brought with her, ignoring my swollen, wet eyes. Even though I hadn’t known Antonella before that day, and she’d spent much of it scolding me, I would miss her almost as much as Sandro.

When it appeared she was finished with the washing process, I gave her an overly-zealous hug. Then she quietly exited into an adjacent room, seemingly aware that words weren’t needed.

Truly exhausted in mind and body, I was ready to face my fate and go back. I’d been restless in the Ognissanti, but not unhappy. Perhaps now I could go on with more contentment—having this one day to hang onto, as I’d clung onto the memories of my life for all those years. Because when it comes right down to it, our memories are what we are.

I had met Sandro Botticelli, and could now calm Mariano’s fears that he’d been a bad father. I had the added bonus of parading around Florence as the greatest beauty the city has ever known. I’d even managed to avoid an encounter with Marco, my alleged husband.

After putting on the clean shift Antonella had left for me, I crawled into the cold, hard bed—which somehow felt amazing— as I once again admired the ornate ceiling. I hadn’t felt tired in eleven years, but now I was ready for my mind to shut off—if only for a moment—before vacating this wondrous place.

Chapter 16

I lay on my back, in hopes of avoiding bed sheet creases on my beautiful face. I pulled the covers up to my chin, and closed my eyes, letting my flaxen hair fall around my shoulders. But a sudden thought forced me to reopen them.

If I’m here, where the hell is Simonetta?

Sandro rested at the feet of Simonetta in the Ognissanti, with my urn placed atop his gravestone. Sandro and Simonetta were quietly bonded together so near to me in the Church, and yet I couldn’t sense their presence in the afterlife. Dead or alive, their bond was something I would never know or understand, so I resolved to return to the task of sleeping.

I shut my eyes again, and before I knew it, I found myself back in the Ognissanti—safely returned to the dark, cross-shaped church. My vacation from my cold reality had ended. But in the church, I could sense nothing but profound silence. No nuns or monks roaming the aisles or chapels, the visitors gone for the night.

I absorbed the familiar sights before me: Giotto’s newly found crucifix in the left transept, Botticelli’s
Saint Augustine
in the nave, and the many frescos by Ghirlandaio scattered about. The now more recognizable faces of the Vespucci family were again surrounding me. The graves of Sandro, Simonetta, and even Amerigo Vespucci, the great explorer, all fixtures of my environment.

Trying to embrace my inevitable reality, I called out, “Mariano! I’m back! And I have so much to tell you!” I received no reply. Instead, I perceived only cold, eerie silence. “Mariano! I met you in person! And I met Sandro!”

I desperately wanted Mariano’s gratitude for saving his relationship with his son. I wanted him to know where I’d been, and what I’d done. I wanted to tell him everything.
Mariano
. My only friend.

“Mariano! Where are you? Are you angry with me?”

Still no reply. The deafening stillness made me feel so alone.

Could Mariano have moved on to the afterlife?
Had he found the light he always talked about?

He had no more unfinished business to resolve. I dreaded the thought of spending eternity without him, an infinite number of days and nights alone and restless once again. Even though I’d not longed for Mariano’s ghostly company while in my fantasy existence, I needed it now. I needed him to know.

I examined every crevice and nook of the small church for something different, some clue as to what was going on, but everything was the same as I’d left it—except the spirit of Mariano was missing; gone from this realm.

Then I sensed a different presence, and instantly knew it wasn’t the spirit of Mariano. The stagnant air became tense, as my earthly home had been invaded by the unwanted. I felt it all around me, lurking somewhere in the Ognissanti. I searched the darkness for fear that the presence was an evil spirit. But then I heard the familiar howl, and realized the spirit was mischievous, but not overtly malevolent.

The trickster materialized, appearing in the form of the coyote. There was no doubt this was because of my Native American origin; the essence of my mind creating the trickster in the tangible form to which I was accustomed. The coyote of Native American folklore is sometimes portrayed as a creator, or a warrior, or even a clown, but for me, he was always the sage messenger of truth in his convoluted and annoying way. He strutted his beautiful, multicolored coat through the nave, and howled again.

There were only two periods of time in which I’d seen the trickster before; times when I was ignorantly blind to the obvious truth—during my life, but never in the afterlife.

What was he here to tell me this time?

The coyote sauntered through the church and reached the Vespucci Chapel. He jumped the small fence that prevented tourists from defacing the graves, and pawed at the resting place of Sandro and Simonetta, then sniffed for a moment at my urn.

“What do you want, trickster? Why don’t you just show me what I should obviously know! Where is Mariano?”

The coyote just looked at me with that coyote grin I’d learned to hate, and strolled away into the darkness. I seethed with the same anger I’d felt when Wilbur brought
that
woman to my ethereal home. I wanted to break out of my ghostly prison again, and reclaim Simonetta’s body. I missed being her and I longed for my beloved Sandro.

Was it all a dream? Was any of it real? I was dead, after all, that much I knew, and I’d never dreamt in the spirit world before. I’d been fooled in life, and the coyote had set me straight, but what was he trying to tell me this time?

What was it?

I searched the cold, empty darkness for the answers. I searched within everything I knew to be true. I spiraled into a vortex of confusion; not knowing anymore what was real and what wasn’t. And then a hand was upon me. Flesh and blood.

But how could I feel it?
 

“Simonetta! He is here!”

Chapter 17

I opened the eyes I once again possessed, and found Antonella standing over me.

“He arrived earlier than expected,” Antonella proclaimed.

“What? Who?” I questioned in my foggy confusion.

“The painter! He is here!”

“Holy shit!” I bellowed, to the shock of Antonella. I jumped out of bed, now accustomed to my legs.
My legs
. Somehow this had become my world. The Ognissanti was the dream
.
I could hardly contain my excitement at being back, but realized I’d never really left. “Wait, Sandro is here?”

“Oh, is he Sandro now?” Antonella tsked. “You are to sit for him. Remember?

Oh no
. Now I was in a time loop, like Bill Murray in
Groundhog Day
, doomed to relive the same day over and over until I got it right. What did I do wrong the last time? I shouldn’t have hugged Sandro. That was it! Or maybe, I shouldn’t have made him leave the Medici’s to go to the Miniato. Giuliano could have become horribly angry about our departure from the Palazzo Medici, and prevented Sandro from ever painting again. Or there was the possibility that I just hadn’t done enough to fix the relationship between Mariano and Sandro. The more I thought about it, it could have been anything I’d done or didn’t do.

I made up my mind to get it right this time. And yet, if I had to live any day again and again, it was a glorious day to be chosen.

“What should I wear for the sitting, Antonella?”

At least I knew what she was talking about this time around.

“I suppose the same thing as yesterday. Nothing!” she laughed.

Yesterday
.

It was the most beautiful word she could have uttered. The fact that there was a “yesterday” meant that there could well be a tomorrow. I wasn’t in a time loop after all. I was in Simonetta’s body for the foreseeable future. Then, the inevitable thought struck me.

What am I still doing here?

Perhaps my day with Mariano hadn’t done the trick. Or was there was another reason. But how was I to know? I was ultimately alone in this world with no one to guide me.

“What are you waiting for, my lady?”

I was waiting for answers that would never come. Still groggy, I stood up wearing only my shift and made my way to the door.

“He has asked that you pose in his
studiolo
this time, so you may want to don clothes for the short journey,” Antonella laughed.

“Oh, right.”

She helped me into a royal blue gown with gold brocade, and began to pinch, brush, and pin me in a hurried fashion.

“He wanted my hair down, remember?”

“You know it is improper to go outside with your hair loose and uncovered, flaunted like that!”

Even though it was less than a five minute walk to the Via della Vigna Nuova, and the whole pinning and unpinning thing seemed ridiculous, I decided not to argue and just go along with it.

After being swiftly prepared, I rendezvoused with Sandro in my sitting room with as much excited anticipation as ever.

As we greeted one another, he avoided my gaze. Perhaps my embrace the night before was a bit too much for him. I knew, it is said, that Botticelli was hopelessly in love with Simonetta, but perhaps it was just a story, like the legend of Minias reattaching his own head.

We left for Sandro’s
studiolo,
with Antonella right on our heels.

“I’ll be all right, Antonella. I can go by myself.”

“How will that look if you are gone, and I am still here? Again!” Antonella fretted. “What will Luciana say?”

“Why don’t you just take the day off? Have some quality
Antonella
time?” I suggested.

“Take the day off?” she questioned, as if the words were completely foreign to her. “What are you speaking of?”

“Have a day for yourself. Do whatever you like.”

She smiled at the prospect. “No one must know,” she whispered to Sandro.

“And no one will,” he replied.

Antonella walked us as far as Sandro’s house for appearances sake, then went her separate way as we entered. Up three flights of stairs we rose.

“Your
bottega
is in your house?”

“I do not have a
bottega
. Although with Lorenzo’s help, I hope to one day. In a
bottega,
I would be the master artist in charge of lesser artists and apprentices. I have learned from masters and struck out on my own,” He opened a door and led me in. “But unfortunately, have made it no farther than my father’s attic.” Sandro waved his arm and said, “My
studiolo.
”

The
studiolo
walls were covered in lavishly painted frescoes, clearly by his own hand. Not remotely religious, there were images of beautiful women dancing around the walls, hair flowing, and diaphanous gowns billowing in the invisible wind. And in the center, there was…
me.

As I noticed the resemblance, he lowered his head in shame.

“Although we have just met, Simonetta, I have seen you before. Beheld you in my mind for so many years. I feel as though I have always known you in my paintings. So when I saw you in person for the first time from my window, when you arrived with Marco from Genoa, I knew I must paint you from life. I offered to paint the standard for Giuliano.”

He moved close to me as I continued to examine the fresco, running my fingers down the image of my current body and face.

“Why do I look so sad?” I asked.

“Because you are confined to this mortal world, when you are clearly meant to reside in a higher plane.”

You have no idea.

It was the first time his admiration for Simonetta became so apparent. As I turned to him, I looked deeply into his hazel eyes, noting the fear that dwelt within them. I inched closer, testing how close I could get before he’d flee. He stood frozen, never taking his eyes off me, as I continued to draw closer. I could almost hear his heart beating. He was not the god I had made him out to be for so many years in my head. He was no longer an idea, but a flesh and blood man—a good man, who spent his days searching for beauty and admiring others.

I drew closer still, grazing my lips against his, and yet he didn’t move. I was changing history. Or was I? The history books would call it platonic love, and yet Sandro would someday ask to spend his afterlife buried at the feet of Simonetta.

Who does that?

As I gently forced my lips upon his, the frozen statue of a man suddenly sprang to life, clutching me around my waist and neck, pulling me into him as he kissed me with enough fervor to bridge the six-hundred year generation gap between us.

He pressed me up against the wall, against the fresco bearing my face; my perfect ass smothering the docile beauty he had painted. He kissed my neck and pulled at my hair, undoing Antonella’s painstaking handiwork once again. I wanted him so badly, and yet, it wasn’t meant to be. He pulled away and looked into my eyes. “I am sorry. I know not what I do.”

“It’s all right, Sandro,” I said, running my fingers through the waves of his silky, dark hair. I’d forgotten how much I loved to do that to a man.

“I cannot take advantage of a thing so precious as you.”

“I believe it was
me
taking advantage of you.”

“Even so, your virtue must be protected.” I began to protest, but he continued. “Also, the Medici favor me, but such favor would turn quickly if they had any knowledge….”

“How could they? We’re alone here.”

“Lorenzo knows everything, and he will do anything for his brother.”

I could see how wary he was at the thought of betraying them. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to cause difficulty for you.”

“You have no need to apologize. I am no better than a dog.”

Without another word, he fled the
studiolo
. He left me not only hot and bothered, but alone and embarrassed that I’d been so forward with him. And yet, it was clear that a small part of him didn’t mind, even relished my advances. I felt so lost in that moment; unsure whether to leave or stay. More than ever, I was uncertain of my purpose in this world. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to screw it up.

I stayed to admire the rest of the frescoed walls, knowing the real Simonetta must have seen them, and must have felt the same way about Sandro as I did. How could she not? 

In the center of the room, there was a workbench covered in terracotta bowls containing black, red, blue, yellow, and white powders. There were eggs resting in a basket, cloves in the process of being ground, paint brushes soaking in containers, and gold leaf meticulously placed in a wooden box. The floor was covered in dried paint drops and sawdust, with golden frames scattered about.

After a while, Sandro returned with a broom in hand. I reached for it, relieved. “Are you ready for me to pose?”

“Actually, I thought you could tidy up the place,” he said, before leaving the room again.

One minute I was too good to live in this world, and the next minute, I’m the maid
.

The paint-stained wood floor, was covered in all sorts of debris, and needed more help than a broom could rectify, but I decided to try anyway. I was sweeping when Sandro returned with a spool of cloth. He burst out into laughter, and grabbed the broom from me.

“It was said in jest, Simonetta.”

Of course.

So nervous in his presence at that moment, I hadn’t recognized the obvious joke.

“I just wanted to prove, despite what Luciana says, that I do know how to use this thing,” I said, trying to make a quick recovery.

“I never had a doubt,” he said as he smiled. Sandro set the broom against a table, then surprised me as he moved close, and pulled the rest of the pins from my tresses. Piling the pins on the table, he brushed my hair, taking care to start at the bottom and work his way up. He was so much gentler than Antonella, and even that simple act stimulated the already awakened passion in my body, as his soft hand brushed across my face.

After a long while, he set the hairbrush down, then stood behind me for a moment. I reached for the broom, but he gently intercepted my hand. “Not quite yet.”

Had he changed his mind? Would he take me after all?

He reached around my neck, gathered the full thickness of my crazy-long hair, and swept it over my left shoulder. My heart pounded as he untied the back of my dress. He disrobed me slowly, caressing my shoulders, as he pulled the gown down far enough so I could step out of it. I stood quivering in only my shift, as he hung the dress neatly on a hook, then paced slowly in front of me. I waited in anticipation for him to grab me, and have his way with me against the fresco of my own face. Instead, he picked up the broom and swept the floor, clearing a large area of the room. Then he handed the broom to me, arranged my hair, and molded my barely clothed body to the position he desired—all while going to great lengths to avoid any eye contact.

Sandro stepped back slowly and grabbed the spool of cloth, unrolling it onto his newly cleared area. It was a fringed, silky taffeta, somewhere around four feet by eight feet, with a pictorial of a meadow already painted on it. This done, he immediately went to work transferring the sketch he had drawn over to the cloth. He did so with painstaking precision, only occasionally glancing up at me. Then, out of nowhere, he suddenly stood up. “Wait! Let us do away with the broom. I almost forgot about the sword and shield I borrowed from Lorenzo!”

He retrieved the shield and sword from a corner, and approached me again. I could hardly tolerate the excitement he created just standing so near; every nerve in my body awakened in his presence. All I could think about was the few moments earlier, when his body and lips were pressed against my borrowed counterparts. It seemed so right, and yet, he acted as though it didn’t even happen. I felt the slow burn of insecurity rising to the surface. I was
La Bella
Simonetta, and he was supposed to have unrequited love for me! Not the other way around. Though perhaps his love hadn’t developed in a day.

“Last night, while at the Medici’s, I was inspired with a concept for the banner,” he said, as he handed me both the sword and shield.

Instead of using an easel this time, he hurriedly unfurled his paper on top of the cloth, then sketched more voraciously than ever. As he was down on his knees I had the privilege of watching his every marking; creating life on parchment. My countenance suddenly inhabited a flowery meadow, and was riding atop flames, with my shift billowing in the breeze. I was holding the shield and sword aimed at Cupid, who was tied to a tree.

I could almost feel myself becoming one with his creation. My emotions entwined with the man and his masterpiece. But for Sandro, it seemed his interest was only in the art; I was the prop that made it all possible. The painting was his focus—that is, until Mariano barged in.