“And does he know, now,” I said, my voice thick with tears when I spoke again, “how long I may be expected to live?”
Marco hesitated again before speaking. “He could not say,” he said. “In truth, as I said, we thought we might lose you over these past few nights. But since you have recovered—well, there is no telling.”
“It might be years,” I whispered. “I might live to be an old woman yet.” I paused, trying to muster the strength to speak past my sobs. “Or I might die tomorrow.”
“No.” Marco leaned across the bed and took my hands in his. “You have recovered for now. You can be well again, and go about your life. This attack has passed. The doctor said if this attack passed, you would recover.”
“For now, marito,” I said, speaking the words he would not. “I will recover for now. Until the next attack. And then my life will hang in the balance all over again.”
“Do not think like that,” Marco said. “As you just said, you may yet live to be an old woman.”
I laughed through my tears. And in many ways the idea was ludicrous. I was twenty-one years old. I could not fathom the idea that my life could end in a matter of months. Not then, not as I lay on that bed—still weak, still weary—but awake and very much alive. I could have risen from the bed and gone about my life right then. How was I to accept the idea that my youth, my vitality, my beauty might not save me?
“But even if I do, I shall carry this disease with me all my years, never knowing when it may strike,” I said. “Perhaps it would be better not to live so long.”
“Simonetta,” Marco said, his voice breaking. It was then that I saw there were tears in his eyes as well. “Do not say that.”
“Maybe it would be for the best,” I said. “Perhaps it would be better for everyone if I did not live to have my beauty fade.”
*
I insisted on getting up from bed that very day and walking about the house a bit. I took some broth sitting at the dining room table, then fell back into bed, exhausted but not willing to admit it.
My parents arrived from Genoa the next day, Marco having sent for them when it appeared I may not survive. It was wonderful to see them again, even if my father was stoic and silent and my mother could not set eyes upon me without bursting into tears. They stayed only a few days, long enough to assure themselves that I was well enough again, and I was not altogether sorry to see them go.
A few days after I awoke, Marco mentioned from his spot at my bedside, “Your painter wrote while you slept. Two days ago, perhaps.” His worry about me dulled the scorn that would normally have been in his voice.
Suddenly I remembered. I had dreamt, too, of Sandro. My face, and then my whole body, flushed as I remembered the things I had dreamed.
“He did?” I asked. “What did he say?”
Marco’s face became disapproving as he replied, sharpening my guilt. “He sought to arrange the next date for you to pose for him. I replied and told him you were ill.”
“And what did he say to that?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
“Nothing,” Marco said shortly. “What else would there be for him to say, Simonetta?”
My husband’s words were a challenge, one that I did not take up. What, indeed, I mused. I supposed there was nothing he could have said, in the interest of propriety. But had he worried? Was he concerned for me? Did he know the true extent of what is wrong with me? And … would he still have me as his muse? As his Venus?
What good was being the most beautiful woman in Florence if the man I loved did not care for me?
“I shall write to him,” I said, getting up from the bed, heedless of my unseemly haste. All that mattered was that I return to posing as soon as possible, for what if the worst should befall me before the painting was finished? “I shall tell him that I can return next week, if that suits him.”
Marco caught my shoulders and gently pushed me back onto the bed. “Simonetta, really,” he said. “Whatever this painting is, it can wait. Indeed, given your condition, it may not be wise for you to return to sitting for him, in any case.”
For a moment, my guilt urged me to say what I knew Marco wanted to hear, that I would not pose for Sandro again, or even see him. I can be a good wife, can I not? I can do that for him, I tried to tell myself. Yet I knew that, truly, I could not. I had to see Sandro again, no matter what.
And did Marco deserve such devotion? What kind of man left his wife, whom he thought was dying, to visit his whore? My nightmare of her and Marco flashed again through my mind. You cannot blame your husband for an illusion of your fevered brain, Simonetta, I reprimanded myself. But it was not only a dream, not really. Such a scene had occurred, and would again.
I had loved Marco, yes, and in some ways I still did; yet I had begun to feel that my love was wasted on him.
“I will continue to pose for him,” I said aloud. “I will help him finish the painting. I made a promise, after all. This … this disease changes nothing.”
“It will need to change some things, perhaps,” Marco bit out.
“Not this,” I said. “And I do not think quarreling with you is helpful, given my condition. Do you, marito?”
With that, Marco let the matter drop, though the scowl did not leave his face for some time.
Later that day, when Marco stepped outside for a bit, I rose and went to my desk, where I penned a missive to Sandro:
Marco tells me you wrote whilst I was ill. I have been very ill, in truth, and shall speak of it more when I see you again. I am recovering now, and I wish to help you continue the painting, if indeed you still need my help. I can return next week.
I signed it simply Simonetta, and sent it off with Chiara. She brought me back a response almost immediately:
Mia bellissima Simonetta,
I have been worried about you, more so than I can possibly say, but your husband’s reply to my note let me know in no uncertain terms that any further inquiries by me would not be welcomed. Please, if you are feeling well enough, return to me Tuesday next at 2 of the clock. I shall be waiting for you.
He, in turn, signed it simply Sandro.
I read the letter twice, then tossed it into the fire. Your husband’s reply to my note let me know in no uncertain terms that any further inquiries by me would not be welcomed.…
Indeed. I wanted to fly into a rage at Marco, demand by what right he carried on correspondence on my behalf, but I could not, for then he would know that Sandro had written to me directly. And, as my husband, he had every right.
Instead, I let my mind repeat to me the rest of Sandro’s letter.
Mia bellissima Simonetta … return to me.
I shall be waiting for you.
28
On the appointed day, I appeared at Sandro’s workshop. He was alone, as he always was when he arranged for me to pose. At the sight of him, my explicit dream of him from my illness flashed through my mind, and I found myself suddenly a bit short of breath.