He gave me a frustrated look. “Please, Simonetta, I pray you. Do not play the high society lady with me now.”
I should have reprimanded him for speaking to me so familiarly in public, but I did not—whether because he finally used only my given name, or because I had longed to hear him speak familiarly to me for so long, I could not say. “Very well,” I said at last. “What is this delicate matter, then?”
“I wish you to pose for me.”
“Ah,” I said. “Since I have done so once before, I cannot quite comprehend why it should be such a private matter now. And I see that you only seek me out when you want something from me.”
“You have not let me explain,” he said. “And that is not true, Simonetta. We converse every time we see each other. If we could do so more, no one would be happier than I.”
“Then, why—” But I stopped abruptly, knowing I could not go on. He was right; we conversed and interacted exactly as much as was proper for two people of our different stations. If it was some further intimacy I wanted—like when he had painted my portrait—well then, I had no right to long for any such thing. And therefore I could hardly take its lack out on him.
When I remained silent, he went on. “It is a very different sort of painting that I have in mind this time,” he said. “That is why it is delicate.”
“What is it?” I asked, almost breathless with anticipation.
He lowered his voice. “A depiction of Venus, being born from the sea,” he said. “I can envision it all, the whole thing in its entirety. And the only woman I can picture as Venus is you.”
For a moment I was quite speechless at these words. Unbidden, I remembered what he had said to me one night as he worked on my portrait: You are the muse, Simonetta. There is no other.
Had his words meant more than I had dared to dream?
“I see,” I said, struggling to regain my composure. “And is it delicate because the Church would, no doubt, not approve of such a work if they were to learn of it?”
He waved this aside. “Perhaps they would not, but that is not the point. No, I … you see, in my vision, Venus is being born anew from the waves, greeting the world for the first time. She must be…” He paused, glancing at me. “Nude.”
Again I fought to speak, but for very different reasons. “And so,” I managed finally, “you ask me to pose for you without a shred of clothing on, in your studio, before your assistants and apprentices—”
“No, no,” he interrupted. “I would not ask you to … no. There would be no one there but me.”
“That may be even worse,” I said. “In my husband’s eyes, anyway. Surely you cannot think Marco would approve?”
“Perhaps not,” he said. “But it is not Marco I am asking.”
I laughed, and the sound was brassy with bitterness. “You spoke similarly to me once before, if I recall. Perhaps it is that you do not know how the world works for women, Maestro Botticelli.”
“Please, Simonetta,” he said. “At least think about it. I know it is a strange thing I am asking, and entirely improper, but—I cannot rid myself of this vision with you at its center.”
“I … I can think about it if you wish, but—”
He interrupted me again. “This painting—this work—if it ends up as I envision it, it may be something great. Something new. Something the world has never seen before.” He paused. “And I cannot do it without your help.”
“Surely there are other women … artists’ models who…”
“No,” he said. “It can only be you.”
I was silent, hypnotized by the intensity in his eyes. I felt that if I did not look away, I would agree to anything he asked me, absolutely anything. The doubts I had felt and wrestled with over the past few years since I had posed for him began to melt away. Is it possible that we have both been waiting and yearning and dreaming and hoping for the same thing all this time? For the restoration of that connection we once had? “I will consider it,” I said softly, looking down.
A hesitant yet relieved smile broke out on his face. “Grazie mille, Simonetta,” he said. “Take as much time as you need to think, to accustom yourself to the idea. We can go about it in whatever way makes you the most comfortable.”
“I can make you no promises, maestro.”
“I understand,” he said. He took my hand and kissed it. “And, Simonetta,” he added, “though we have not been often in each other’s company, do not doubt that not a day goes by when I do not think of you.”
And with that extraordinary pronouncement, he walked away.
*
That night, I lay awake in bed after Marco and I had made love—a short affair, due to the wine he had consumed that night. I had given up trying to take any pleasure in his short, jerky thrusts and simply waited for him to finish. Even the thought that perhaps tonight we might conceive a child brought me no joy, nor any true hope.
No, I could not sleep because my mind was still turning over Sandro’s words, his offer, his plea.
What was I to do? It would be completely improper for me to go along with his request. Paintings of the female nude were not unheard of, but I did not think high-born ladies posed for them. And Marco would never allow it. He had never quite lost his animosity toward Maestro Botticelli, as though he could sense the intimacy that had existed between the painter and me, once.
Therefore, if I was to do this, I would need to do it without my husband’s knowledge or consent. I would need to keep it a secret. Could I do that? What sort of wife kept such a secret from her husband? And would that not be much more trouble than it was worth? What if he found out? I decided that I did not care to imagine that. Marco had never been cruel to me, in deed or in word, but this—this would be a transgression of the sort I had never before even contemplated. He would be furious, and rightfully so.
He would be furious to know that Maestro Botticelli had even asked such a thing of me.
The guilt I used to feel at my enjoyment of my sessions with Sandro came flooding back, having laid untouched and unconsidered for many years now. Even then, the painter and I had always seemed on the verge of something inappropriate, something that felt unfair to Marco. How could I now contemplate such a venture, and the lying that it would involve?
Yet I tried, for just a moment, to leave Marco and his feelings aside. What did I want?
I wanted to do it. I wanted to pose—nude or otherwise—for this great, thrilling work that Sandro envisioned, that he saw when he closed his eyes. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to help him bring it to life. And if a part of that had to do with reclaiming the same fellowship we had had the first time he’d painted me, well then, so be it. I could admit that much to myself, at least. That I missed him and wanted to spend more time in his company than was proper.
But like this? Could I do it, what he was asking? Could I remove all of my clothing before him, let his eyes take in all of me, every last inch of my body? Could I let him see what only my husband had ever seen, or had any right to see?