Urban Venus

Chapter Eight

‘La Signorina Irvine, benvenuta!’ Finally getting to grips with my name, Vincenzo welcomes me flamboyantly to his exhibition, with kisses on both cheeks. I manage to accept his greeting swiftly and sweep by, clutching my catalogue to my chest and leaving him to encircle himself once more with an adoring posse of admirers and groupie-type girls, queuing up to butter his ego.

In this huge salon on the third floor of the gallery, I’m momentarily too bowled over to hang around and chat to him just yet. It’s not the paintings themselves which have produced such a reaction in the first instance, although I’m sure they’re brilliant and I will have a look in a minute – I don’t want to appear too keen, do I? But the setting itself is stunning, with its hugely high ceilings and vast windows, and an amazing feeling of light and space, despite the age of the building. Lucky man, securing an exhibition slot here; what better place to showcase your work and hopefully earn a few commissions? There’s something to aspire to; I can’t see my own paintings ever being good enough to command an exhibition room like this, but there you go.

I spy Vincenzo over my shoulder, making an attempt to break away from the group but being besieged once more, and I start to focus on his work at last, looking up the first piece in the catalogue as I do so. Look busy and engrossed, I say to myself, then perhaps he’ll leave you to browse in peace. Although why I don’t want him hanging around me whilst I’m looking at his paintings, I’m not really quite sure.

Despite my initial misgivings about him, Vincenzo has proved to be worth his weight in gold in the past few weeks. For his assistance in settling me into the course, helping me find the most useful lectures to attend, and generally keeping me on an even keel he has been brilliant. But there’s still this nagging feeling in the back of my head that there’s something about him I find really unsettling, even though he has done nothing to reinforce those notions in any way. He is incredibly good looking, and sexy too, there’s no doubt about that, and it is a bit of a distraction, how could it not be? My tutors back home were several centuries older than him and you’d have to have pretty low standards in the self-worth stakes to think about going there, even if your overwhelming ambition was to sleep your way to a First. And I haven’t felt in any way that Vincenzo’s been trying to crack onto me, or flirt with me. But the bizarre thing about all that is that I’m actually quite disappointed that he hasn’t tried, despite trying to convince myself that I’m relieved he isn’t setting out to ‘groom’ me as his next model and muse. Over the past couple of weeks I’ve heard more stories about his carryings-on with students and it’s made me even more convinced that I’m not going to become either a notch on his bed-post, or his next nude model, or both. No, that’s not for me. Definitely not.

So why do I find myself feeling slightly down at heel about the fact that he hasn’t tried? Surely it’s not just some vanity thing, or me feeling that I might have lost my touch? If a sexy young tutor decides I’m not gorgeous enough to merit his attentions, whilst he clearly isn’t slow to spread it about with the rest of the female population at the university, must there be something wrong with me or am I maybe not attractive enough? I’d like to think I wasn’t quite that shallow. Let’s just hope he’s being honourable and just doing his job, for once without the need to resort to sex to reinforce the tutor/student relationship.

I hover in front of one of his paintings, called simply, ‘Girl, Nude.’ Well, she’s that OK. Very nude. There is an element of the voluptuous renaissance nude reclining girl about her, and whilst the painting isn’t quite shocking in the way that some pornographic images can be, it’s verging on the ever-so-slightly dodgy, with just a little bit too much of her visible. God, I don’t want to end up there, with my bits on display in an art gallery for all and sundry to see. I don’t recognise her, which is a relief, as I’d hate to have to sit next to her at a lecture, with what I’m seeing right now! I know it’s all in the name of art, but somehow when it’s dead artists and dead subjects it all seems a lot more bearable. Not when they’re walking the streets of Florence this very day. Call me a prude, if you like, but that’s just the way it is!

Talking of nudes, I’ve been back to the Uffizi – same room, same painting – and I did have another dream. I’d stayed away for a while – using the excuse of too many lectures plus a multitude of essays to submit. I thought I might ‘cure’ myself of the dreams by giving the gallery a wide berth. I’d imagined that once I got over the tiredness, maybe the dreams wouldn’t come any more. But despite my best intentions, I had to go back just to see what would happen, as though some strange power was reeling me in like a helpless little tiddler on the end of a very long line. I had to go back at some time – I can’t avoid the place for the entire rest of this year, after all. It’s going to be a fairly integral part of my studies. So on the very first occasion I’d been back to room twenty-eight in a few weeks, there I was, snoring on the bench again within minutes.

I remember quite a lot of the dream, too. There was something to do with a Papal procession (not being a regular church-goer, or even that religious, it all felt a bit ecclesiastical to have come from my head!) and a young girl who I think works in a brothel. I was her again, whoever she is. I have an overall impression of her occupying quite a gentle and calm existence, despite the way she makes her living. She comes across as quite a serene and graceful sort of character.

I can recall the me/her character meeting a man for the first time, a man who I felt was to have a defining effect on my/her life in the future. Again it was that overwhelming notion of being loved and cherished like no other, to the same extent that I’d felt it in one of the dreams from before. What I’m supposed to make of it, I really don’t know. I wish I had even an inkling as to why I keep getting these dreams, but I have to say, they are hooking me in and I’m intrigued to find out what happens next, a bit like waiting for the next instalment in the soap opera that is the life of this young woman, whoever she is.

Bizarrely everything feels out of sequence in the dreams; I don’t really feel like they’ve come at me in any particular order. It’s more like they’re random snapshots of various moments in time, with no regard for chronology. I think what I need to do is start writing them down, try to make some sense of them. I need to start logging people and places that recur, try to put the events into some kind of sequential order, if that’s at all possible. But that’s easier said than done; at the moment I’m not even entirely sure if the male character is the same throughout. I haven’t really seen, or at least remembered, enough of him from each dream. The sense of adoration is similar every time this man is present, so I would like to hope he is one and the same and that this is some kind of disjointed love story playing itself out in my head. But what’s it doing in my head and who planted it there in the first place?

‘Come stai, Lydia? Che pensi della mia mostra?’ It’s Vincenzo, desperate to know what I think of his great works. Although I’m standing in front of one of them, catalogue in hand and looking like an authentic art buff, I’m actually completely away with the fairies and thinking about my dreams. His words, over my shoulder and out of the blue, his breath warm and fragrant against my neck, startle me with a shiver down my spine and I’m immediately back in the twenty-first century with a bolt.

Vincenzo has managed to shake off the ensnaring net of what looked to me like paparazzi, cameras swinging around their necks as they jostled for the best shot, best quote. I calculate that they must be slightly higher up in the food chain than the normal ‘paps’, given their desire to photograph and interview an up-and-coming young artist, instead of chasing half-baked celebrities around in their murky little lives. If Vincenzo’s work is attracting this much interest, the outside world must consider it worthy of attention.

‘It’s fantastic,’ I reply to Vincenzo, and I’m not exaggerating in the name of flattery. It really is very good. So far I have spotted only a small handful of paintings that may or may not be studies of my student contemporaries, but I’m also relieved to see that the works are not entirely a depiction of the female form in all its lush beauty. Some are landscapes, some abstract works, a real mix, even some that I would term a bit ‘mass-market’. He certainly is incredibly talented, and I find myself telling him just how fabulous I think it all is, with reference to some of my favourite pieces. Whilst he’s thrilled that suddenly I seem to be so impressed despite my earlier indifference, he then appears to spy someone over his shoulder that he wants to avoid, and with a downward glance and his hand firmly on my elbow, steers me into a quieter corner of the gallery, where there is a huge abstract painting which takes up two thirds of the wall space. His next comment makes me wonder if it was just a ploy to get me alone:

‘This is my favourite work,’ he says. ‘Join me for dinner tonight and I will tell you all about it, what inspired me, and what it actually is.’ And this last bit he says with a very serious expression, looking deeply into my eyes as though I am honoured to have the painting’s secrets revealed to me, and me alone.

‘I…..um…….er, OK then,’ I find myself saying, all too quickly and feeling like a bit of a dipsy female, despite my earlier resolutions and the fact that I had every intention of saying no to him. But dinner can’t hurt, can it? I have no aspirations of it being any more than dinner after all. We will go to some upmarket restaurant, sit in a well lit corner, and I will make doubly sure he has no illusions as to what buying me dinner will ultimately buy him. In any case, I probably won’t have to fight him off; he’s shown zero interest in me in that way before, and I’m sure he will act very honourably tonight and things will continue in the same vein.

‘Lydia, you’re not!’ Sophia exclaims as I fill her in on my plans for this evening. ‘After everything you’ve said, you’re meeting him for dinner! Well, just be careful.’ She is sprawled on my bed, alternately leafing through a magazine and chatting to me, whilst I change for my big night out with Vincenzo.

‘Stefano will be disappointed. He really likes you, you know. He’s just been keeping his distance after, well, you-know-who.’ I like the way she doesn’t like to mention the ‘Ed’ word. ‘He didn’t think you’d want to rush into anything just yet.’

‘Do you know, I’d never picked up on that,’ I say, genuinely surprised, but beaming from ear to ear nonetheless. All the men in our little posse have been absolutely lovely to me since I arrived here, but in my naivety I hadn’t picked up on any glimmer of interest from any one of them beyond that of friendship. I love them all dearly, they are such good mates, and I wouldn’t really want to get into a relationship with any of them for fear of it changing the dynamics of the group and the possibility of losing a friend for good if it were all to go pear-shaped. Still, it’s nice to know I haven’t lost my touch entirely. There I was, in a wasteland of male attention, then like buses, suddenly two come along at once. But Vincenzo hasn’t got a ticket to ride on my love-bus, oh no, this is just a working night out. We are going to talk art and all things intellectual, and he’s going to explain his work to me, nothing else. We won’t stray into any areas of conversation where meanings might be misconstrued. We’ll stick to the straight and narrow, and all those other just-good-friend clichés. I relay this to Sophia and she gives me a strange little knowing smile.

Vincenzo had said he’d pick me up, as the restaurant is on the other side of town, too far to walk to in heels, south of the river on the Lungarno Guicciardini. Nove, it’s called. Quite trendy, and also quite pricey, so Sophia tells me. Good job the treat is on Vincenzo, then. Not the sort of place my student allowance could stretch to.

But when the taxi arrives, it’s empty. ‘Signore Tizzaro awaits you at the restaurant, Signorina,’ the taxi driver informs me, and we speed through a network of back alleys and one-way streets before crossing the Ponte alle Grazie, which affords me a fantastic view of the Ponte Vecchio, on the side of the Vassari corridor. Now that is something I really must do whilst I’m here. Apparently it helps to have friends in high places when it comes to securing tickets to one of Florence’s best kept secrets. A hidden passageway connecting the Palazzo Vecchio to the Palazzo Pitti, via the Uffizi and a network of corridors across the city, all lined with works of art not generally seen by the public. It sounds magical – note to self to talk to Vincenzo about how to get my hands on a ticket. I’m sure he must be able to pull a few strings amongst his art-world contacts.

The Arno looks beautiful by night, strings of lights along the river bank backlighting the stunning architecture and that famous skyline of domes and towers. The streets are a-buzz with office workers and shoppers heading home after a busy day, and the evening throng just venturing forth for the night. The atmosphere is as electrifying as ever and despite myself I feel quite exhilarated and full of anticipation for the evening ahead.

As the taxi pulls up at the restaurant, Vincenzo steps out of the shadows and opens the car door for me. If I didn’t know who he was, I might have mistaken him for one of the doormen, as he bows low with one arm towards me and the other behind his back, saying ‘La Signorina Irvine, posso aiutarti?’ It’s all quite comical really; no one has ever offered me their arm before, and I feel as though I’ve been transported back in time to the age of chivalry – although in this country I’m pleased to report that chivalry is still alive and kicking. I can’t help but stifle a giggle though, as it all seems a bit out of place at this buzzing, vibrant restaurant, whose loud music and trendy clientele spill from the bar area onto the streets around us.

The waiter shows us to our table, and it isn’t in a well-lit, public area of the restaurant, as I’d hoped. No, we are outside on the covered terrazza, complete with amazing river view, but more worryingly, very atmospheric lighting, so much so that it’s almost completely dark. It seems to be packed with young, good-looking couples, who without exception seem to be holding hands across the table and gazing into each other’s eyes. Oh no, I appear to have been sucked up from the streets of Florence and transported to the set of Nightmare on Valentine’s Day, The Movie. Take me home!

OK girl, stay professional, this is a business dinner, I tell myself. No need to cave in because he’s brought you to such a romantic place. Yes, he is gorgeous and looks even more so than normal tonight, but you are not here to be seduced so just don’t let it happen.

Vincenzo settles me at the table and doesn’t seem to notice that I’m more than a little uncomfortable, or at least if he does, he doesn’t let it bother him. He probably likes the feeling of control that unnerving a woman brings. With a quick click of his fingers, champagne is promptly popped and the waiter is pouring it expertly into two flutes.

‘To Anglo-Italian relations,’ he toasts, with something of a self-satisfied grin, and I fear he isn’t referring to some football match or other. His smugness implies that, for him, the outcome of the evening is a foregone conclusion, and I will be in his bed before the night is over. Well, no way.

‘To the success of your exhibition,’ I counter-reply, hoping to bring the conversation back to where I want it, on safer territory. ‘Did you make many sales?’ I ask, hoping that if I get him talking about himself and his work, his two favourite topics of conversation, then he will be off and running.

‘I did pretty well actually, and got a couple of commissions out of it too, which is great,’ he starts. Fantastic, crank him up and off he goes, as planned. I try to stop looking worried, un-tense my shoulders which are currently up around my ears, and start looking interested as he goes into detail about which paintings he has managed to secure sales for, and where the commissions are to be based.

‘Bologna, that sounds brilliant,’ I respond enthusiastically, and he launches off into detail on what this particular commission involves.

‘Not till next summer, though,’ he adds. ‘I can’t neglect my duties here, and the university would never give me time off. Besides which, I have too many students I care about too deeply to leave behind.’ He gazes at me like a love-sick puppy, and I make sure my hands are firmly in my lap so he can’t reach out and grab one of them across the table.

I try again to get him to tell me some more about Bologna, but now as I attempt to nudge the conversation in the direction of his own life, he turns the subject back to me. This isn’t part of the plan at all. It’s going to be hard work and we’ve only just had our starters. So at this juncture I decide to tell him about something I had planned to keep to myself, at least for now – my dreams.

Vincenzo sits with his chin on his upturned hands, raptly attentive, whilst I tell him about the dreams. In recounting them to a third party I find I remember more detail, and I start to see some sort of jumbled story emerging. But who is this girl, and why is she trying to get into my head to tell her story? I’m not into the supernatural in a big way, I don’t believe in ghosts, and I’ve never really paid much attention to people who claim to have had a ‘past life’ and all that sort of mumbo-jumbo stuff. Or so I’d thought until this moment. But right here and right now, telling this girl’s story for her, I feel that there should be some sort of explanation as to why she is ‘haunting’ me, which really is exactly what she is doing. Have I been ‘chosen’ to have these dreams? I don’t see loads of other people becoming semi-narcoleptic the moment they set foot in that room, so why me?

Vincenzo gives off the impression that he has been listening seriously to my stories and my attempts to interpret them, but then suddenly he gazes around the room impatiently, as though he’s bored, and clicks his fingers (I hate it when people do that in restaurants – it’s so rude!) for the waiter to come over.

‘More champagne for the Signorina!’ he commands, as I protest that, no, thank you, I have had quite enough and am perfectly happy with my San Pellegrino sparkling water for the rest of the meal.

‘Well, what a fantastic imagination you have, cara,’ he exclaims, in something of a patronising tone of voice, once the waiter has been sent packing with his tail between his legs. ‘Whoever would have imagined you could come up with all that just by looking at a painting? You should put your ideas onto canvas, you know, then maybe this ‘girl’ of yours will become more real to you. But honestly, all this talk about you being ‘chosen’, I mean….. come on!’

I hadn’t expected him to be so dismissive and I am cut to the quick, feeling very silly. It’s too late now, I have told him all about it, so whatever he thinks of me, it’s too bad. With any luck it will dampen his ardour, which has to be the upside of it all.

Sophia and Leonora seemed to take me quite seriously when I told them about the dreams. Well, at least whatever they were really thinking, they hadn’t let on, and they just showed genuine concern about me and my habit of falling asleep in strange places. Plus I could see in them a growing interest and intrigue in the female character who was starting to emerge as something of a persona in her own right. They weren’t dismissive like Vincenzo, far from it. It hurts, not being taken seriously, and somehow you expect your friends to take you seriously. And yes, I know that to the casual onlooker the whole thing must be a bit weird, but after several weeks out here, Vincenzo knows me pretty well, and I have to say I’d hoped he’d be a bit more supportive.

Vincenzo slips away discreetly to settle the bill and do whatever the male equivalent of ‘powdering one’s nose’ is – knowing him it’s probably a bit of self-adulation in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting his crotch and making sure his bum looks pert enough in his tight black jeans. Whilst he’s away I decide that I’m not going to let what he said bother me; he can doubt me if he wants to, I don’t care. I know something strange is happening to me here, even if he just thinks I’m mad.

When we pull up outside my apartment there is one tiny, awkward moment when I think Vincenzo is going to lean over and kiss me, and then he quite obviously decides not to, instead leaning in towards me and giving me a kiss safely on each cheek before stroking my nose gently with his finger, like you’d do with a cute child. He thanks me for my charming company and hops out to open the taxi door for me. Pausing on the pavement, he looks at me hard and chuckles quietly to himself before climbing back into the cab with a ‘Ci vediamo domani!’ See you tomorrow.

Yes, see the mad-woman tomorrow.