Urban Venus

Chapter 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.

What am I doing here? Well, for some reason I felt a strong urge to tell Vincenzo all about my conversation with Di Girolamo. Antonio did say it would be fine for me to share what he’d told me with my tutor, provided I stipulate that this gem of information about his dreams isn’t then to be beamed across the art world. He doesn’t want to see it up in lights on any of the social network sites, or have anyone from the press contact him about it. Actually I’m amazed he trusts Vincenzo – I know there’s always been an element of academic rivalry between them, and they are like chalk and cheese – but at the end of the day I suppose they’re both professionals and each strongly respects the other’s abilities, artistic and personality differences aside. I’m glad he did give me permission, as I think being able to confide in Vincenzo will make things a lot easier for me.

That last dream – the scene at the Doge’s palace – was amazing. I really must plan in a trip to Venice one day soon – before I leave Italy, otherwise it could be years before I can afford to come back. I’d love to visit some of the places I’ve been to as Maria, see them as they are now but with the advantage of insight into how they were then and what took place within the walls of some of the most historically significant buildings in Venice. Structurally, they’re probably not intrinsically different, I imagine, other than that they are now overflowing with tourists instead of lords, ladies and gentlemen – well, maybe still a few of those, or the modern-day moneyed equivalent thereof, staying at the pricier hotels.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and run a quick internet search on Pietro Lando. And there he is – there’s even a picture of him – Doge from 1538 to 1545 it says, so that would fit in just right with the period. I have to say he doesn’t look half as formidable on my nine centimetre touch screen as he looked in the flesh.

And that look he gave me, or rather Maria. A look of recognition, I think. After all, his walls were heaving with images of her in one form or another. Maybe – just maybe – despite all those strong Catholic ethics kicking around, he was just giving Maria ‘the eye’. Looking a pretty girl up and down. With looks like hers, she must have stood out like a rose in a bed of weeds amongst all those stuffy artists and academics. Bet he thoroughly enjoyed being introduced to her. What a shame the dream came to such an abrupt end; I would love to have eavesdropped on the conversations which took place after the formal introductions were over. Did it turn into ‘another wild party’ at the Doge’s palace? Somehow I doubt it, but it seems they got up to a lot more in those days than we give them credit for. I know for a fact that behind those chaste façades they well and truly lived the high life, but none of that detail reaches the history books, does it?

‘Ciao, Lydia, è un vero piacere vederti! Cosa fai qui? Isn’t our tutorial on Thursday, or is this just a social call?’

I’m lost in contemplation and almost jump out of my skin as Vincenzo bursts through the door, quite within his rights to be there of course, and quite obviously surprised to find me in residence. Fortunately he’s on his own and, after the initial shock of seeing me, is very welcoming.

‘Ciao, Vincenzo,’ I reply, ‘I just wanted to pop by for a chat, that’s all. I hope that’s OK and you’re not too busy? I have something really important to tell you.’

‘Well, I suspected something similar,’ Vincenzo says, once I’ve finished filling him in on Antonio’s news. ‘I know I’ve always been slightly sceptical about you and your dreams, but I’d like to think I’ve always been supportive, haven’t I?’ He waits for me to nod in confirmation before going on, so I do. ‘Your dreams came as a bit of a shock to me, but I never doubted your sanity, or that you were telling the truth.’

How magnanimous of you, Vincenzo, I think to myself. What about that disastrous meal out we had together in the early days, when you treated me like some kind of lunatic and couldn’t get away from me quickly enough? Have you forgotten that now you know me a little better? But I don’t voice any of these thoughts; I just sit passively and give him the chance to explain how he feels.

‘So hearing that he’s had a similar experience to you just backs up what you’ve been going through, doesn’t it? It’s quite amazing that there are two of you out there. How long ago did he have his dreams? His book is quite recent, isn’t it?’

I explain the background to him a little more, and Vincenzo is hooked. I think any final traces of doubt are erased from his mind by the fact that it’s all centred on a different painting, in a different city, albeit with the same underlying story and some very similar experiences to my own. He is also intrigued to hear that the copy of the book he has is the second edition (he’s probably never even looked inside the cover to discover this) and even more so to hear how Antonio lost his nerve with it at the final hurdle, failing to make it available to the wider public yet again.

‘I will have to read it now,’ he says. ‘No excuses! And you’ve read it all presumably, and found a lot of similarities between his story and yours?’

‘Yes, loads. In fact, there’s nothing in there at all that I’d disagree with. It’s more a case of him having seen things, or experienced certain events, from a different perspective, and very often it’s something completely new, that I haven’t dreamt about, but which fits in perfectly with my own story. But the frustrating thing is, Antonio’s book stops too soon. When Emilia – his illegitimate daughter – is born, the story stops dead. He can’t explain why; he just didn’t have any more dreams after that. I really hope my dreams go beyond that point; I need to find out what happened to her. It might be the only clue I get as to where I fit into all this, and if I might be related to one of them as well.’

Vincenzo perks up at this. He sits upright in his seat, his hand goes out instinctively and lands on my knee, and there is an expression of deep surprise on his face. I know the hand-on-knee business is just his tactile Italianate way of doing things, and I’ve got used to it. Usually I brush it off, but this time I don’t; it feels quite comforting so I leave it there. His eyes meet mine – I imagine to check for a reaction when I don’t flick him away – and, pushing his luck a little further, he gives my knee a gentle squeeze. Again, I don’t react.

‘Yes, it turns out Antonio is a direct descendent of Titian. Through Titian’s marriage to Lavinia, his second wife, so he’s not related to Maria or Emilia. He suspects that was the reason he was chosen, and he reckons it might be the same for me. Just think, we could both be related to one of the greatest artists of the Renaissance!’

‘Wow! So what are you going to do? Start researching your family tree? It’s pretty exciting, isn’t it? It’s all quite amazing, this idea of you being ‘chosen’, and being a direct descendant and all that! What a lot to take in!’

I’m pleased that Vincenzo is so enthused about it all this time round. He seems to have lost the air of concern and scepticism that he had before.

‘I’ll help you, you know,’ he offers, excitedly. I am deeply grateful – and relieved – as this conversation could have gone either way. It feels good to have him on my side, and I say simply:

‘Thank you, Vincenzo.’

‘So, how about dinner?’ he asks, cheekily striking whilst the proverbial iron is hot. He’d retracted his hand from my knee in order to give vent to his excitement just now, but with this proposal it comes creeping back again. But as he says this I become conscious of his touch and move away slightly so he can no longer reach my leg.

‘Isn’t it nearly that time of day – look?’ He turns the face of his watch towards me to answer his own question. If not yet quite time to eat, it’s certainly aperitivo time, and after all the excitement of today, I could really do with a drink. Then it hits me that I’ve spent the whole day caught up in Maria et al, and what with meeting Antonio, going to the gallery and coming here, I’ve managed to completely shirk my academic commitments. And missed two lectures, I realise. Oh well, it’s a bit late now, and it’s not like I haven’t had an enlightening day, even if it wasn’t entirely scholarly. Highly educational, nonetheless.

‘Dinner would be lovely.’ I accept politely, surprising myself to find that I really would like to go out with him, despite the lingering memories of last time, and my resolve never to get involved with him.

‘But let’s go and grab a drink somewhere first, shall we? It’s a bit early, and I’m gasping. No fancy restaurants, tonight, mind you,’ I tease. ‘You treated me last time so this is my shout, but you know what a student budget stretches to, or rather doesn’t.’

‘Don’t be silly. I would really like to treat you, Lydia, so please let me. After all, it’s not every day you get such exciting news. I will take you somewhere nice and you can tell me all about how you plan to dig up your ancestors. We will formulate a plan together.’

Forty-five minutes later, after a quick prosecco in a nearby bar, which we both needed and which barely touched the sides, we are in a taxi on the outskirts of Florence, joining the Siena superstrada at Certosa and heading out to the countryside. We are going ‘somewhere special’ – the only clue Vincenzo would give me, and that was imparted with a secretive grin and sparklingly mysterious eyes. Uh-oh, what am I letting myself in for here? If we’ve journeyed off to the middle of nowhere together, I can’t exactly beat a hasty retreat if things get too much for me. There’s no way I can afford the taxi fare back from the back-of-beyond.

I relax a little though and banish such thoughts when I catch sight of the view. Since arriving in Florence, I haven’t actually ventured out of the city at all, and even though it’s a beautiful place to live, with more than its share of lush, green areas to stroll around in and escape the inner-city hustle and bustle, to see some vast open spaces out of the window of the taxi is nothing short of uplifting. Urban dwelling can be claustrophobic, and it’s not until you remove yourself from it for a while that you realise just how much so. I love the countryside, and although I was brought up in suburbia, the rolling fields of Sussex were never far away. As a family we would escape whenever we could, for a walk or a climb on the Downs.

The day is warm, and despite the efficient air conditioning (this isn’t one of your run-of-the-mill beaten-up Florence mini-cabs) I put the window down to allow the breeze from outside to blow in my face. It might only still be motorway air, but it’s the widest, most open space I’ve been to for months, and I close my eyes as the wind whips my hair back from my face.

Once we pick up speed and my hair starts flying in too many directions all at once, I close the window again and turn to look at Vincenzo. He has clearly been unabashedly watching me enjoy the breeze, and now that my eyes are open again, it’s a second or two before he snaps out of his trance and reaches for my hand, which is resting beside me on the seat.

I look down at his large, tanned hand covering my more delicate, paler one and say: ‘I hope this isn’t some plan to whisk me away and seduce me, Vincenzo.’ I whisper this in English as I don’t want to incite the non English-speaking driver to start eavesdropping on our conversation. I think, and hope, it comes across in a light-hearted way, as it’s meant as a bit of a joke. The trouble is, I have to lean in very close to him to say it, and as my lips almost brush his ear, he looks like he’s enjoying our brief moment of close contact just a little too much. I see a frisson of something – I don’t know quite what – pass across his face as he listens to me.

Vincenzo knows I take all his attempts at seduction with a pinch of salt, and that I have no qualms about giving him a big shove if he gets a bit too full-on. Recently our relationship, when we’re not doing the serious, academic stuff, has become one of good-natured banter, and I have to say it’s fun. There’s a bit of a standing joke between us that he will always have a pop at chatting me up whenever he feels like it, which is fine just as long as he doesn’t mind me knocking him back gently.

But there’s something different about today. Oh yes, I know I’m always saying he’s a terrible flirt, and a womaniser, and I would never go there, not if he were the last man on earth and all that sort of stuff. But today….. I can’t quite put my finger on it. There’s something about the way he’s been looking at me, and he was so lovely earlier when I told him all my news, so understanding and sincere.

Stop it, girl, this is Vincenzo we’re talking about here, you know, the one you swore you’d never get involved with. He’s bad news, you know he is. And he’s your tutor for goodness sake! Get a grip girl!

The angel on my right shoulder is doing battle with the demon on my left again. Yes, I know, I know. How many times have I said I wouldn’t…. Yes, yes….. But today he does look even more gorgeous than normal and somehow it doesn’t feel sleazy, or wrong.

We whip down the narrow lanes of the motorway at a speed likely to induce car-sickness in even the hardiest of traveller. The driver seems to take great delight in zigzagging in and out of traffic as though he were performing stunts instead of ferrying passengers; he’s not simply using the inside lane to overtake, but undertaking and ducking and diving as he pleases. The Mercedes badge pointing skywards from the bonnet weaves from left to right like a gun sight, searching for the next victim to overtake. Aim…. fire…… we’re off again, and I hold on to the passenger handle above the door as we swing once more to the left.

So, when we do leave the dual carriageway, remarkably still alive and with the contents of our stomachs intact, it’s with a huge sigh of relief on my part. Vincenzo looks unfazed, but then he’s been raised on that sort of driving. Perhaps his Mamma used to ferry him and his siblings around in a similar fashion, so it is second nature to him. I’m just left with the thought that they should provide sick-bags in the back of taxis, like they do in planes.

Off the motorway, the driving doesn’t improve much, and in fact becomes more dangerous as there is now only one lane for each direction of travel. This doesn’t prevent our driver from spending pretty much an equal amount of time in each, despite the fact that the road curls round a steep incline like a helter-skelter as we navigate the rolling Tuscan hills, up one slope and down another. I try to focus on the breathtaking scenery around us; the rows of majestic cypress trees, the tightly packed vineyards and olive groves which seem to hang on the most inaccessible of hillsides, but in such regimented lines that they look as though they have been measured out with a geometry set. Somehow the farmer must manage to negotiate his tractor down these steep slopes to tend to his crops; that must be an even hairier ride than the one we’re experiencing now. Maybe that’s how they learn their motoring skills round here…

I’m distracted from my still-heaving stomach, when what must be our ultimate destination starts to come into view. Atop a distant hill there is a fortified construction, a high wall interspersed with towers which must encircle a town or village within. It’s a breathtakingly surreal sight; so austere against the backdrop of all this lush verdure.

‘Is that where we’re going? What’s it called?’ I ask, excitedly.

‘It’s Monteriggioni,’ Vincenzo replies. ‘The most perfect little walled town in Italy. It’s a sleepy little place in the daytime, there are just a few shops and suchlike, but there is lovely hotel with a fantastic restaurant. That is where I am taking you tonight. The views across the Tuscan countryside are unsurpassable. We can dine outside and watch the sunset together.’

‘That all sounds very romantic, Vincenzo,’ I joke, grinning at him flippantly, but then notice that he looks a little hurt. He’s not playing with me; he’s actually being serious for once.

Vincenzo was right; Monteriggioni is an absolute gem of a place. It’s tiny; there’s just the one main square where the taxi deposits us, avoiding the requisite dusty climb from the car park like the majority of visitors. Flanked with tourist shops and pizzerias, it’s set off by a church pretty enough to merit a bigger, grander location than this. A couple of parallel, cobbled streets lead away from the square, one of which houses the hotel we are heading for. It’s all very quaint and picturesque, and in the absence of a camera to capture the scenery, I have a sudden urge to go and buy a few postcards to mark the moment. I don’t really feel like I’ve been a tourist since I arrived in Italy, but today I want to behave like one.

‘Well, if we’re doing some shopping before we eat, you have to come and see this little shop down here,’ Vincenzo says as we leave the tabaccheria, pulling me by the hand towards the left-hand side street. We pass a shop selling enticingly colourful shoes and bags – but he pulls me quickly past that – and stop outside a tiny jewellery shop with a glass front door. A quick peep in the window reveals an Aladdin’s cave of tempting display cabinets, glinting with gemstones and silver. Creazione Gioielli – Artemisia says the sign on the door, along with another one reading Attenzione al gatto – beware of the cat.

‘Can we go in?’ I ask.

‘Why else would I bring you here?’ Vincenzo replies, rolling his eyes, and pushes open the door.

‘Ciao, Simonetta,’ says Vincenzo.

‘Vincenzo, come stai?’ The pretty, dark-haired girl at the counter starts with surprise, removes her magnifying eye-piece and puts down her tools. She comes round to the front of the counter and kisses him enthusiastically on both cheeks. Oh no, not another ex, surely?

They launch into a burst of fast-paced Italian before Vincenzo pauses to introduce me:

‘Meet Simonetta, my cousin,’ he says. Phew, not an ex, after all. Although I then launch into another very uncharitable set of thoughts involving other possible ex’s that Vincenzo might have brought here to visit his cousin and her conveniently-located jewellery shop. I go to shake her hand, in my formal English style, but she pulls me forward instead, and I am subjected to the double-kiss strategy as well.

‘Piacere, Lydia,’ says Simonetta, seeming genuinely pleased to meet me, and not in any way giving me that ‘So you’re the latest love-interest in Vincenzo’s life’ look. I would like to think Vincenzo and I are exclusive to Monteriggioni, and that this hotel we are about to dine at isn’t his usual location for seduction – assuming of course that is what he has planned for this evening. With the number of women he must have gone through even in the few months I’ve known him, I’m pretty sure it would cost a fortune if he’d brought them all here. We’ll just have to see what reaction we get from the hotel staff later, whether they recognise him, coming for the first time with his new…. er….. partner. Which I’m not, of course, and have no intention of becoming.

Whilst Simonetta and Vincenzo are busy catching up in break-neck Italian, I decide to have a browse around the shop. It’s only tiny, but there are enough cabinets crammed with jewellery to keep me busy for ages. It’s all painstakingly hand made – by Simonetta herself – and is absolutely beautiful. I stoop to stroke the black cat curled up on a chair at the side of Simonetta’s workbench – hardly the scary creature the sign on the door implies. He purrs whilst I tickle his tummy, before settling back into his slumber.

Jewellery shops back home either seem to be high-end ones which I can’t stretch to on my budget or the cheap-and-cheerful bangles and baubles ones, full of the sort of stuff I wouldn’t give houseroom to. This place is in a league of its own. Simonetta’s jewellery is expensive but not crazily so (although there are one or two locked cabinets which I will steer clear of). The quality is first class; everything is supremely original in its design and expert use of gemstones, yet it has nothing of the home-made look to it. It’s gorgeous; I could spend the rest of the evening happily browsing my way through it all, maybe try a few pieces on, just for fun.….

I am particularly drawn to a beautiful silver chain with a pear-shaped pendant containing a dark blue, iridescent stone which I don’t recognise. When Simonetta notices that I might actually be a serious customer, she breaks off from her conversation with Vincenzo to come and help me.

‘This is a Labradorite,’ she explains, opening the cabinet and handing the necklace to me. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? If you hold it up to the light, look at all the colours you can see.’ Before I can say, It’s lovely thank you but a little out of my price range, she has popped it round my neck and fastened the clasp. I move across the room to the mirror, fingering it gingerly. It is beautiful, the chain long enough for it to sit low down on my neckline, which is now far from pale due to the recent warm weather, and so creating a perfectly bronzed back-drop for it.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I gasp. But I have just spotted the price tag lying on the counter – one hundred and eighteen Euros, heaps more than I can afford.

‘It’s yours,’ Vincenzo says, and I start to protest. I didn’t come here to be lavished with expensive presents; it’s just not the way I operate. This being Vincenzo, I can’t help feeling he’d expect something in return, even though I know that’s an uncharitable thought in the face of such generosity.

‘I couldn’t, Vincenzo, don’t be so silly,’ I continue to protest.

But he already has his wallet out on the counter, and is reaching inside for his credit card.

‘It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?’ he says. How does he know that? ‘Treat it as an early present from me. I really want you to have it, it looks so perfect on you. Besides which, I’m family, and Simonetta will do me a deal, won’t you? Really, it’s not as lavish a present as you think.’

He is very persuasive but I don’t want Vincenzo to think I can be ‘bought’, and in any case why would he buy me a birthday present at all, especially one as precious as this? But it is a beautiful piece of jewellery, and I have so few lovely, quality things like this, so I surprise myself by changing tack. I stop trying to argue against it and say ‘Thank you Vincenzo, you are very generous and it’s very kind of you.’ I plant a kiss on his cheek and his grin of satisfaction is almost as huge as my own.

Deal done, goodbyes said to the talented Simonetta, and wearing my new necklace, whose silky smoothness I keep stroking to reassure myself it’s still there, we move round the corner to the hotel where Vincenzo has reserved us a table.

I start to feel underdressed for the occasion when the impeccably attired waiter greets us with a tray of aperitifs as though we have just arrived at a wedding, and escorts us to our table. We are seated in a prime position on the arbour-covered terrace, at a discreet distance from a couple of larger, boisterous tables, with the most stunning view over some of the countryside we crossed on the way here.

The view from up here is amazing. The whole town itself doesn’t feel especially high as you approach (although I might feel differently if I’d had to climb up from the car park I suppose), but because the landscape drops away dramatically into the distance, there is a huge feeling of space and altitude, breathtakingly so. I spend the first few moments as we sit, taking it all in and looking around me.

‘Beautiful,’ Vincenzo says, but when I turn to agree with him I find he is studying me, not the scenery. ‘That necklace really suits you, you know,’ he continues.

Oh, here we go. Next it will be: Your eyes are like pools, I’d like to dive into them. Your lips are like cherries, I’d like to nibble on them… Or some equally corny chat-up line, like something out of one of those cheesy Mills & Boon novels.

But instead he looks me squarely in the eyes and says: ‘You are so different, Lydia, different from all the other girls.’ Yes, and there have been plenty of those to compare to, haven’t there Vincenzo? ‘I’m not trying to chat you up, believe me, it’s just that I really, really like you. Always have done. You’re not like the others; you mystify me. I don’t know how to tread with you.’ And he actually sounds sincere. Vincenzo can do sincere when he wants to.

If Sophia and Leonora could see me sitting here, being sweet-talked by this man, they’d be pulling me up by the scruff of my neck and whisking me out of this establishment before you could say ‘Arrivederci.’

I am determined not to fall for it.

‘You’re lovely, you are,’ Vincenzo whispers drunkenly into my ear in the back of the taxi. He’s been holding my hand since we left Monteriggioni, but now looks as though he’s about to doze off, his eyelids doing battle to stay open, his head beginning to loll.

We had a very pleasant evening in the restaurant; he didn’t try to declare his undying love for me any more, nor did he try to put his hand on my knee, up my skirt or anywhere else, or exhibit any other signs of worryingly over-friendly behaviour. In fact, he was very charming company throughout and we’d talked and laughed about everything and nothing.

The evening had stayed balmy, and we decided on a little walk around the town before jumping back in the taxi. He held my hand as we strolled along, neither of us speaking. Suddenly he pulled me to him and kissed me ever so gently, just for a short while, before releasing me, stroking my cheek and tucking a stray lock of hair tenderly behind my ear. All of which left me gasping for air and slightly dizzy. I know he’s had a lot of practise, but that was some kiss, and I felt like the heroine of a romantic novel as I stood there panting and trying to pull myself together. If he noticed how flustered I was, he pretended not to notice.

Back in the taxi, I too feel like I’ve had enough to drink this time to pass out and let the entire terrifying return journey wash over me. I glance across at Vincenzo, who is now fast asleep, a few of his stray dark curls twirling onto the back of the seat. I am surprised at how little I am beating myself up over tonight’s events – but then there is always the cold light of day of tomorrow in which to do that. Reality will no doubt dawn that I let Vincenzo kiss me, and I kissed him back! Oh no, what are the girls going to say?

Sophia is still up when I get back to the apartment, so I decide to bare all now and get it over with.

‘Just be careful, Lydia,’ is all she really has to say, seeing my dreamy-eyed expression, ‘you know what he’s like.’

Yes, I do.