“Far be it from me to contradict so noble a lady as your mother,” he said, a leather-bound notebook and a bit of charcoal in his hand as he sat. “But you shall be sitting here for some time, and so it is best to sit comfortably. Let your back rest against the chair.”
I did as he said, albeit hesitatingly. “Will it not … be the wrong pose for a portrait?” I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. “Forgive me. I should not ask you such questions, not when I know nothing of what I speak.”
“Never apologize for asking questions, Madonna, and certainly not to me,” he said. “You may ask me whatever you wish within these walls, and I shall always answer honestly. I will begin by addressing this very question: for your portrait, I wish to capture you in a natural way, such as you might look while relaxed, or in the company of a friend.” A hint of a smile came to his lips again. “Such as you are at this moment.”
I smiled, feeling more than my body relax now: my mind, it seemed, was letting go of some of its tension as well. “Thank you, signore. I see your aim, and I applaud it.”
“Now,” he said, his sketchbook propped up on one knee. “Let us begin.”
It was a strange experience at first, being sketched. Signor Botticelli—or, more rightly, Maestro Botticelli, as he was the master of his own studio—stared at me with those penetrating eyes of his, letting them roam over my face, the curve of my jaw, the line of my neck, the tumbling tendrils of my hair, which I had asked Chiara to leave mostly loose. Then his gaze would flick down to the paper before him, his hand moving rapidly before glancing back up to take me in anew. In the beginning it was all I could do not to fidget under his scrutiny, and for a moment I dropped my eyes to the floor.
“No, Madonna.” I started slightly at his voice, gentle though it was. “No. You must keep your chin up, your eyes up. Look right back at me. Si,” he said enthusiastically as I met his gaze again. He paused, gazing at me, then continued, more gruffly, quieter. “Si. Just like that, per favore.”
Soon, once the initial awkwardness had passed, I felt myself reveling in his gaze, enjoying it. But I could not quite say why. Surely there was no shortage of men who wished to—and did—look at me. Yet there was something very different about this. Botticelli did not wish to possess me, as men who looked upon me with desire might. His study of me went deeper than that, deeper than flesh and skin and beauty and even desire; his gaze went right to my soul, as if only in rendering me on the page—and later the canvas—in perfect accuracy could he come to understand what was within. And, perhaps, reveal it to me.
This was, I realized, the very same way he had studied me across the Medici dinner table the night I had first met him. He had been sketching me in his mind.
And I, boldly staring back at him, was given ample opportunity to study him in turn. He really was quite handsome, I realized, yet in a different way from Marco’s dark yet buoyant charm, or Giuliano de’ Medici’s gilded, godlike perfection. His features were strong, chiseled, as though they’d been cut from marble; his blond hair tumbled in unruly waves about his face, threatening to curl at the ends. Several times as he drew, he would lift his other hand to push his hair off of his face, only to have it fall back again. And his eyes, his eyes that saw and sought to reproduce so much truth and beauty, were of a lovely light color. Green, perhaps? Or hazel? They seemed to change with the light, with his emotions, with his thoughts.
So hypnotized was I by this strange give-and-take, the studying and being studied, that I jumped slightly when he spoke again. “I am going to reposition you slightly, if I may, Madonna. I have completed my sketch of you straight on, and now I would sketch you in profile, which is how I am thinking of painting you.”
“Of course,” I said, trying not to let him see how flustered I was.
He moved toward me and I rose, allowing him to shift the position of the chair. “Sit once more,” he said. I obeyed, and he hesitated for a moment. “If I may … touch you?” he asked. I nodded quickly, and he placed one hand softly on my chin, bringing it up and forward just slightly. “Si,” he murmured. “Just there. Hold that pose, Madonna, if you please.”
He retreated to his chair, seized a fresh bit of paper, and resumed sketching. I could still feel the warmth of his fingers where he had touched me. It was awhile before the sensation faded.
The light coming in through the windows of the studio shifted and changed a bit as Botticelli sketched. He seemed to be endowing this sketch with much more detail than he had the first. I wanted to ask him about it, ask him why that was, as he had encouraged me to ask him anything and everything, but did not want to break the spell that had fallen over the room.
Finally, he stopped and leaned back in his chair. “I realize now that I quite forgot to remix those paints my assistant botched,” he said, his voice sounding oddly loud after so long a period of silence. “But no matter. I have kept you long enough for one day. When next you return, I shall paint. I may be able to start in the meantime.”
“Indeed?” I said, struggling to pull myself back into the world—the world of conversation and practical considerations. “And when should I return?”
He met my eyes. “The day after tomorrow, if you can,” he said. “And if you would wear that same dress, that would be most helpful.”
I looked quickly down at my gown, having forgotten which one I was wearing. Had it truly only been this morning that Chiara had dressed me? “Certainly,” I said. “That is perfectly agreeable.”
He rose from his chair, and I did the same. “Until then, Madonna,” he said. “I shall look forward to it.” His voice betrayed an earnestness that went beyond mere politeness.
“As do I, already,” I said, wondering if he could hear the sincerity in my own voice as well.
The way he lingered as he took my hand and kissed it told me that he did.
16
I returned home that afternoon feeling buoyant, elated; yet also sad that the day was over. The day after tomorrow, I consoled myself, I would return.
Marco was home already when I arrived. “Simonetta, moglie mia,” he said, rising from his chair in our sitting room and greeting me with a deep kiss on the mouth.
“My, husband,” I said when we broke apart. “Pray, do not kiss me so this early in the evening, or I shall want to retire before we’ve eaten our supper.”
His eyes sparkled at my words. “I could be persuaded to feast on you, and you alone,” he said. “But you are right. And we are invited to dine with my parents this evening.”