Yet he was, it seemed, taking my silence in entirely the wrong way. “If you do not wish to stay … if you do not wish to continue the work anymore, or if you never wish to see me again … then I understand. I am sorry,” he went on, fixing his gaze firmly on the floor. “But I had to say it. I could not go on without saying it any longer.”
I knew that if I did not find my voice right then, all would be lost. “You must let me speak, as well,” I said finally. “Know that of this chorus of voices you refer to, all of which claim to love me and desire me—know that yours is the only one I have heard, louder than the rest.”
He looked up at me again, as though scarcely daring to believe it.
“Know, too,” I went on, “that yours is the only voice I have cared to hear. Know that…” I trailed off, tears springing to my eyes, “know that I have loved you long, since before I was able to admit it to myself.”
“Simonetta,” he whispered. He stepped forward and cupped my face in his hands. “I have loved you since—”
“The moment you first saw my face?” I asked, then wished I had not.
He frowned for a moment, then chuckled. “No,” he said. “I could see that you are beautiful. But I did not love you until that day when I first asked you to pose for me, when we spoke of philosophy and the Church and learning.”
I felt as though my heart might burst from happiness.
We stayed there for a long moment, his hands gently cradling my face, our lips a mere whisper apart, breathing the very same air. He seemed to move closer to me, ever so slightly, and again I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to, craving his lips to close the distance between us. I wanted to do it myself, but something held me back.
He was so near … we were so near … and there was no longer any doubt between us.
But we both knew that if we kissed at long last, we would never be able to stop there. And so we must stop before we ever started.
My tears had returned before he spoke. “It cannot be,” he said, his voice ragged. “It cannot be, Simonetta. You know it as well as I do. Tell me you do.”
I nodded, even as my heart screamed at me to deny it. “We cannot,” I whispered. “I would not wish to endanger you. Marco, if he found out … I do not know what he would do. And you would lose the Medici patronage, surely, or…”
Sandro nodded. “Yes. And I fear for you, as well, if he were to learn you had been unfaithful. He does not seem a violent man, but … I cannot take such a chance with you, my beloved.”
My tears were flowing freely as Sandro wrapped me in his arms, holding me tightly against his chest.
This is as close as we shall ever be to one another, I thought, weeping harder. This close, and no closer. There is no way. It is not meant to be.
But if just this once, just tonight, we might be together and have no one the wiser …
No. I cannot endanger Sandro and his talent in such a way. I love him enough for that.
Bitterly, I thought Marco had been willing enough to whore me out for his own gain; could he really complain, truly, if I gave myself to the man whom I loved? But he could. He could, and he would. It was not fair.
But I pushed my thoughts aside, not wanting to ruin this one, too brief moment with such vitriol.
Finally, we drew apart. “I … what I said before still stands,” Sandro said. “If you wish to leave … I will understand.”
Drying my tears on my sleeve, I shook my head. “I will do no such thing,” I said. “You must finish this painting, Sandro. Even if no one ever sees it but the two of us. Someday we can tell the world that we loved each other, and your painting will be our message.”
He nodded, and I saw that his own eyes were damp as well.
“Now, away with you,” I said. “Gather your brushes and paints, maestro.”
He laughed and went to do as I said.
I removed my clothes, as I had done so many times before, yet this time it was different. This time, as I stepped onto the pedestal where I took up my pose, the truth was as naked as I. This time, I marked the look of desire in his eyes as he beheld me, as he began to work, and knew I was not imagining it. This time, I let my own love and desire show on my face; I looked at him and thought of all those forbidden things I had dreamt of but knew could never be. And this time, I let him see them as well.
Perhaps, I thought, it is enough to love, and know that I am loved, truly loved, in return. Perhaps that is all I need. Perhaps it can be.
34
The next morning dawned warm and fair, as though Mother Gaia herself was in love. I met Chiara’s eyes in the mirror as she dressed me and smiled. “Let us go out today, Chiara,” I said. “We shall go for a stroll. It is such a lovely day.”
She met my smile with one of her own. “Why, whatever you wish, Madonna. If you are certain that you are well enough.”
Today, even her well-meaning concern would not irritate me. “I have never felt better,” I said.
Her smile widened. “Indeed. I can see that is true. You seem exceedingly well, Madonna, and if I may…” She trailed off, and I nodded for her to go on. “Happier than you have been in some time.”
I could feel the warmth of Sandro’s words of love beneath my breastbone, where I carried them now and forever. “I am. Oh, I am.”
Chiara did not, as I half expected she might, inquire as to the source of my newfound happiness. Perhaps she had made her own conclusions, and I cared not if she had. All she said was, “Then by all means, Madonna. You are right; it is a beautiful day, indeed.”
Once we were both fittingly attired we left the palazzo, stepping out into the golden sunshine. “Perhaps a stroll along the Arno?” Chiara suggested. “Or did you have a destination in mind, Madonna?”
“I thought we might walk to Santa Maria Novella, to see Maestro Botticelli’s new painting,” I said. “It has been installed in one of the chapels there, I hear.”
If Chiara had any private thoughts on my wish to see this painting, she kept them well to herself. “That sounds most illuminating,” she said, and we set off through the narrow streets into the heart of Florence.
We were nearly sweating by the time we reached the Dominican basilica, presiding serenely over a large piazza. The exterior was adorned with geometric patterns in marble, and the interior—much like the Duomo or San Lorenzo with its plain, graceful arches—featured columns patterned in green-and-white-striped marble.
I had been in this church a few times before and had always liked it: it was simple but beautiful, and not so large that the light from its windows did not brighten and warm the interior. It was much less gloomy than the Vespucci family church of Ognissanti, where we usually attended Mass and which only let a minimum of light in.
As Chiara and I stepped inside Santa Maria Novella that day, I found that what I was looking for was not far to seek. We had just dipped our fingers in the holy water by the door when I saw the painting, adorning a chapel immediately to the left of the entrance.