“Simonetta,” he said, clasping my hand in his as I entered. “I am so glad to see you looking well. You have no idea how worried I was.”
I tried to smile; I had intended, when he inquired about my illness, to tell him that it had been nothing, a mere fever only, and that I was fine. I had not wanted to tell him the truth. Yet in the face of his genuine concern and happiness to see me, I crumbled. I began to sob, burying my face in my hands as though to hide from him.
“Simonetta,” he said, bewildered. His arms came around me, and slowly, hesitantly, he pulled me against his chest. I stiffened for a moment, knowing I should pull away, but I could not bring myself to do it. Not then, not when I was so in need of comfort and wanted it only from him. I let myself melt into his body, let him clutch me tightly to him. He smelled of paint and candle wax and sweat and, despite my tears, I reveled in this moment of closeness. I thought, in that moment, that I would weep forever if it meant he would never let me go.
“Simonetta,” he murmured in my ear. “What is wrong? Please tell me.” To my dismay, he released me and stepped back, that he might see my face. “You can tell me, whatever it is.”
“I … I am sorry,” I managed.
“Do not be. You have nothing for which to apologize. Here, come with me, and sit,” he said. He took my hand and led me to the back of the workshop, through the back room I had been in once before, and into a small kitchen. He sat me at the rough-hewn wooden table. “Some wine, perhaps?”
I nodded.
He found a glass for each of us and poured some Tuscan vino rosso into each. I took a long sip, taking the opportunity to collect myself.
“My illness,” I said at last. “It … I…” I took a deep breath, composing myself further so that I might finish my sentence. “The doctor has said that I … it seems I have consumption.”
I remembered well the shock and devastation on Marco’s face when the doctor had first made his pronouncement, before we even knew for certain. Yet never before had I seen an expression quite like Sandro’s on another human being’s face. He looked as though his entire world had been shattered right before his eyes, as though he was watching the final pieces crumble into irretrievable ash and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He looked like a man with nothing left to live for.
“No,” he whispered at last. “That cannot be. You are here—and you look as healthy as ever.”
“Il dottore said that I may have had it for some time now and not known,” I said quietly. “This was simply the worst attack.” I hesitated before adding, “Thus far.”
“Did he say…” Sandro trailed off and was silent, as though he could not even bear to ask the question, let alone hear the answer.
“There is no telling,” I said, knowing what he wanted to ask. “It is always so with such things. No one knows except God.”
He stood up abruptly, turning his back to me, dropping his head into his hands. I watched him, paralyzed, wondering what this meant, wondering what he was thinking.
When he turned back to me, his eyes were red-rimmed. “I cannot bear to contemplate a world without you in it,” he said, his voice rough. “And so I will not do it.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Perhaps if we do not contemplate it, we may prevent it from coming to pass.”
We were both silent for a moment longer. Finally he spoke again. “You … do you still wish to pose?”
“Yes,” I replied instantly. “That is why I am here. I want you to finish the painting. No matter what. If I become ill again…” I bit my lip and looked away. “If I become ill again, then I shall return when I am well. And we shall proceed as before.”
He sighed. “Only if you are certain. If you are certain it will not tax you overmuch.”
“It will not. I am going to live my life as I always have, Sandro. I am not going to become some invalid.”
The pain in his eyes as he looked at me nearly caused me to cry out, as though I was bleeding. “But what if doing so would prolong your life?”
I shuddered as I drew another deep breath. “That is in the hands of God,” I said. “And even if staying in bed the rest of my days would prolong my life, I do not think that would be a life worth living.”
He nodded reluctantly. “I understand. And I…” He reached out and covered my hand with his own. “Whatever happens, I should like to think that in this painting, you will live forever. Venus is immortal, after all.”
At this I began to cry anew.
“Oh, Simonetta … please do not cry,” he whispered. “I should not have said that. I wish…”
But he did not finish whatever he had been about to say, and instead kept his hand on mine until my tears subsided.
“Perhaps we should not work on the painting today,” he said at last. “I do not know that either of us is in the right state for it.”
I smiled gratefully at him. I did not feel quite able to disrobe before him again just yet, with the weight of all that had just been said between us—and with my dreams still lingering a bit too vividly in my mind. “I agree,” I said. “I doubt I would have any men writing me verse or serenading me under my window if they had ever seen me cry. I am not one of those confounding women who weeps beautifully.”
Sandro’s lips twitched into a smile. “No, I suppose not.”
For a moment I stared at him, dumbfounded, unable to believe what I had heard. Any other man would have rushed to contradict me, told me that I look sublimely beautiful no matter what. Any other man would not have been honest with me.
That, I supposed, was one of the reasons I loved him.
I started to laugh, softly at first, then harder, until my shoulders were shaking and I could scarcely breathe. Sandro began to laugh as well, and when I looked up at him, both of us had tears of mirth running down our faces.
29
Sandro and I agreed that we would continue work on the painting, when I was feeling well enough and when his schedule allowed. I came but half a week later, after that day when our intimacy was deepened by tears and laughter. With me posing in his original, desired position, he executed two sketches of what the finished painting would look like, albeit without color.