The Lost Diary of Venice Page 13

  Rose bent to read the description of the painting out loud. “It’s supposedly an allegory of spring, with Venus as the central figure, since she ruled the month of April.” Gazing back up at the robed woman, she briefly wondered what it must have been like to live when gods and goddesses governed the months. It was the end of April now; she imagined Venus smiling benevolently down on them as they wandered the empty gallery. And poor blindfolded Cupid drifting above. Rose squinted at the Three Graces dancing in the grove. Which of them would his arrow pierce?

  “William! Look—there! On her neck!” Without thinking, Rose grasped at his forearm. Warm, sturdy muscle, the bristle of hair under her palm. “Oh! Sorry!” She clutched her hand back, gaping up at him wide-eyed. Her cheeks were burning, undoubtedly fuchsia, nothing to fix it.

  He was grinning down at her like she’d told a joke. “It’s okay. What am I looking at?”

  “Oh—the necklace, there. On that one.” She pointed up at the Grace in question, still pressing the hand that had touched him to her chest. “It’s just like the one in Giovanni’s portrait. I didn’t see it—” She almost said “last time,” but caught herself. William didn’t seem to notice but stepped closer to examine the sketch.

  “It is like Giovanni’s, isn’t it…”

  “And it’s a sapphire!” She was already pulling up search results on her phone. “Here, listen to this: ‘The dancing Grace in Botticelli’s Primavera is seen with a sapphire pendant. At a time when bodies were believed to be governed by four temperaments, the sapphire worked to cool fiery passions, and the gem was thereby associated with wisdom and fidelity.’ ”

  “Wisdom and fidelity. Guess that confirms it.” He scratched his jaw, dissecting the image. “And is the model for this Venus the same as in The Birth of Venus?”

  “Well, let’s see.” Rose located the small placard explaining that room’s theme. The first time she’d visited the exhibition she’d just breezed through, mostly curious to see what the university had been able to get on loan; now she wished she’d been more thorough.

  “Okay, so this room is about the myth of the muse.” She began to paraphrase the curator’s notes. “Botticelli is usually linked to a specific model, Simonetta Vespucci, who was the great beauty of her time. People identify the Venus in Primavera and The Birth of Venus, as well as several other portraits, as her.” Rose glanced up to see one of the paintings in question hanging on the next wall. A woman’s profile, brassy blond hair braided and knotted, decorated with pearls. “But I guess there aren’t many facts to prove that these women are actually Simonetta. The paintings could just as easily be ideals of beauty.” She quoted the last line of the notes directly: “Yet the notion that Botticelli fell so in love with Simonetta that he repeatedly painted her likeness, even a decade after her death, persists to this day.”

  “What do you think of that?” William was examining another painting now, hung in an overwrought gold frame. A satyr, kneeling over a nymph.

  Rose shrugged. “We all love a good love story.” She paused, considering. “But the way we tend to think about muses seems so patriarchal to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t mind how the Greeks understood the muse, which was as sort of a divine spirit—separate from the artist—who would come visit him or her and inspire the work. But this interpretation…” Rose gestured loosely at the women in the room, with their swan-like necks, their fair hair falling in uniform waves. “It just seems like ‘muse’ is a nice word for a woman the artist is sleeping with, or wants to sleep with, right?”

  William gave a sharp cough, then tugged at the corner of his collar. Rose continued, oblivious. “I’m sure I’d feel differently if we saw as many male muses, but it’s always a woman who has these ideals of beauty, or chastity, or whatever projected onto her. I mean, women weren’t even really allowed to be artists themselves until relatively recently.”

  A twinge in William’s gut. He could envision his studio now, page after page filled with sketches of Rose’s face littering his desk. He’d been sneaking looks at her all afternoon, trying to catch the way light hit her bones, every quirk in her features: the slight asymmetry of her eyebrows, the bump in her nose. Reminding himself it was all for his art. Had he been projecting his own ideals onto her? Suddenly feeling claustrophobic in his own mind, he shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “So, should men not make portraits of women at all then, or…?”

  “Oh no, I think it’s natural to want to paint the object of your affection, right?” She turned to him, her eyes gray against the stark white walls. “And I know women have inspired lots of great art, and that’s wonderful, it really is. I just wish there was more equal representation, that’s all.”

  William bobbed his head as if he’d been chastised, bending to examine another piece. Had she offended him? Frantically, Rose tried to recall if there’d been paintings of women on his website. She hadn’t seen any…then suddenly, thankfully, she remembered what was in the next hall.

  “But actually, speaking of equal, I think there are some sketches of men coming up.” She made a show of peeking through the doorway into the next room, as if she didn’t already know what was there.

  “Well, let’s see?” William swung a hand out, inviting her to lead the way.

  The next room was filled with images of men, although, upon closer inspection, they all turned out to be the same person. Sketched by Michelangelo, in the distinct red chalk the artist favored, most of the drawings—like the studies for Primavera—were practice for later paintings or sculptures. Quick, gestural renderings of torsos, profiles of faces, the shapes of thumbs and feet. Some were clearly unfinished, with whole sections that seemed more like absentminded doodles. Rose half-expected to see a Renaissance grocery list scrawled in one of the corners. Loaf of bread, jug of wine. After they entered the room, their Saint Bernard attendant meandered out into the previous hall, offering them the illusion of privacy.

  “Okay, my turn.” William stood in front of the curator’s sign. “So, you’ll be happy to know this is about the male muse.” He shot a grin at her. “All the art is dedicated to Tommaso de’ Cavalieri. He was a nobleman from Rome, and apparently Michelangelo was completely in love with him. Hmm.” He crossed his arms, frowning at the text. “I definitely don’t remember that from art school.”

  “I think they used to sweep those sorts of details under the rug…”

  “Well, truth be told, I wasn’t the best student. I barely remember anything about the Renaissance. Time to buy some books, I guess.” He sighed and rubbed his cheek.

  Rose’s ears perked—should she get him an art book? Books were her specialty, after all, so it would make sense…Immediately, her mind began rifling through the possibilities. She stepped closer to read the notes over his shoulder.

  “Was it unrequited? Hmm, doesn’t say…” She was near enough to smell him: earthy tang of skin and some warm spice, like dry grass in summer. Vetiver maybe. Had he put on cologne? When he sidestepped to look outward she did the same, watching him assess the walls crowded with letters, poems, and sketches.

  He gave a low whistle. “That’s a lot of art for it not to be requited.”

  “I’m pretty sure no matter what, Tommaso would have had to marry if he was a nobleman.” She began tracing the perimeter of the room, hands clasped behind her back. “Poor Michelangelo. But at least some great art came out of it?”

  “That it did.” Again William thought of the sketches he’d done, the magnetic pull his studio had been exerting on him lately, with a force he hadn’t felt in…how long? In years? “But if they couldn’t be together, or if it was unrequited, then is making all this with one person in mind…is that weird? Is it sad?” He wished it was just an idle question.

  “Well, it’s not like he could help how he felt, right?” Rose stared at a drawing of a braw
ny Zeus, considering. “I think making art is the highest form of expressing that longing then. What are his other options, getting depressed? Drinking too much wine? At least this way something beautiful comes out of it…”

  “At least there’s art,” William repeated. Rose nodded, and they both went quiet then, walking in a slow choreography through the room, squinting at the work. Tommaso with an eagle. Poems written for Tommaso. Sketches of Tommaso’s knees and profile. Silently, they ambled into the next hall, walking in slow motion past the last few portraits of Greek muses, neither of them ready to be done quite yet. Then William ducked his head, and she noticed a pair of double doors just past him.

  “Want to see the sculpture garden?”

  He spun around, following her outstretched finger. “Sure!”

  The garden was really just a balcony with one set of sculptures on either end. They rambled to the edge to look at the city stretching away below: rooftops and neat green rows of trees domed by cloud-swirled sky.

  “I still can’t wrap my mind around how old the book is.” He leaned to rest his forearms on the ledge.

  “I know. Giovanni could have even met Michelangelo if he had gone to Rome. And Titian would have been alive in Venice when he was writing the treatise. Think about that!”

  William gave a scoffing laugh. “And here I am, painting second-rate landscapes.”

  “Don’t say that.” Should she tell him she’d looked at his website? No, better not. “I’m sure your paintings are wonderful.”

  He stared ahead, as if trying to spot something on the horizon line. “They sell well, but that doesn’t really mean anything. I’ve been wanting to change my style for a long time now.”

  “Are you going to?”

  He looked back at her over one shoulder. “I think so, yeah.” A quick grin, like he had a secret, then he turned to gaze out at the city again.

  They fell silent; a breeze picked up and stung Rose’s eyes, drawing water. She wiped at them with a knuckle, then wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. Another question surfaced, was out of her mouth before she had time to second-guess it:

  “Are you glad you moved here?”

  William shifted off the ledge, began rolling his sleeves down. He gave a sigh that was heavier than she would have expected. “I’m still getting used to it, to be honest. I miss the city more than I thought I would. Even the sounds at night. I miss that.” They both observed the grid of streets stretching out below, clean and orderly. “How about you—you were there for school. Do you miss it?”

  Normally she would have said yes, named reasons that were similar to his. “No. I like the quiet here. I find it calming.”

  “I can understand that.”

  Another wave of silence, then he looked down at her and nodded as if she’d asked another question. Wordlessly, they made their way back to the elevator. Rose gave a small wave as they passed their attendant; he closed his eyes at her and dipped his chin into his jowls. At the elevator, William held the door open, then pushed the lobby button with his thumb. She tilted her face up toward him.

  “Hey, thanks for getting me out of the shop. This was really nice.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” The elevator felt warm and close after the terrace.

  Out on the sidewalk, he studiously kicked at a nonexistent pebble. “Do you want a ride, or…?”

  “Oh! No, that’s fine, I brought my bike, and it’s a nice day.” She peered up at the white whorls overhead. “Nice-ish, anyway.”

  “Okay, well…see you around? Maybe I’ll come by again, if you find another sketch or something?” His expression was hopeful.

  “Absolutely. I’ll count on it.” He smiled at that. After a beat, they both turned and walked away in opposite directions.

  * * *

  On the drive home, William replayed the afternoon. Looking at art with her, taking turns reading the curator’s notes out loud. Sharing a single interest. How long had it been since he’d wandered a gallery like that, actually talking about the pieces? Long enough for him not to remember the last time.

  There was something else to it, though—the pleasure of being around a woman who didn’t regard him with pity, head leaning to one side, asking how he was, really. William, the cuckolded husband. The man who couldn’t keep his wife loyal. They’d told only a few friends back in New York what had happened, but inevitably everyone found out. Pigs in mud, he thought, getting to enjoy drama like that without any risk to their own marriages. In particular, he remembered running into the wife of an old art school friend on the way to the same subway turnstile. She’d always been flirtatious with him, shooting little glances out of the corner of her eye during dinner parties. That afternoon, though, she’d looked at him like he was a child whose toy had been taken by the class bully, then forcefully tugged him into a hug that taught him even hugs could be humiliating—a cloying, maternal embrace. He’d lied about which train he was catching just to get away.

  With Rose, though, he could suspend history, at least for a little while. He could be himself again—William the successful artist. William the Man Who Has It All. He hated to admit how much he’d loved watching her blush after she grabbed his arm, how it’d fanned to life a dormant virility, prowling in some lower recess. Was that how Sarah had felt with Mr. Boat Shoes? Had there been something in her life she’d wanted to suspend, leave behind, even for an afternoon? Why hadn’t she ever talked to him about it?

  “Goddammit, Sarah.” William smacked the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. How did she always manage to get him to start seeing her side, no matter how angry he was at her? He glanced at the clock on the dash. He could still stop for food before she got home. He couldn’t handle her cooking, not tonight.

  The grocery store doors slid open to harsh glare and shining linoleum, an inexplicably loud nineties boy band song blaring over the speakers. William swung his cart aimlessly through the maze of canned and dried goods, the outer ring of produce clinging greenly to life. A package on a bottom shelf caught his eye. Drink umbrellas, bright cerulean and pink. A flash of tropical cheer tucked in between plastic forks and sacks of paper napkins. He picked a box up, tossed it in his cart.

  As he kept roaming the aisles, he began to wonder when he’d see Rose again.

  12

  DOMENICO CRIVELLI WAS A PROFOUNDLY bald man with a compensatorily thick beard that reached nearly down to his breastbone, lustrous and gray. Similarly, what he lacked in height he made up for in girth, with a round belly and perennially red nose betraying a lusty appreciation for life. Although he was a nobleman—and a former senator—by evening Domenico was more likely to be carousing with poets than dining with politicians. Tonight found him flitting around the entrance hall of his home like a portly moth, greeting each visitor with ebullient kisses and exclamations before darting off to the next new arrival.

  “Giovanni! Welcome, welcome! Word tells me you’re painting a portrait of Venier’s girl?” Domenico’s eyes were glassy: he’d gotten a head start on his own refreshments.

  “I am—in fact, she may be here tonight.”

  “Superb!” Already, Domenico was glancing past Gio, eyeing the next group of visitors walking in the door. He gave Gio’s shoulder a friendly slap, then glided away toward a matron bedecked in pearls and feathers. “Madam, you look as beautiful as the day I first met you!” Domenico’s voice melted into the chatter of the guests.

  Gio squinted around, finding a nook near the entrance to station himself in. The main room was choked with an assortment of characters—some clutching small pieces of art or books, others instruments. One woman struck his eye: she’d piled her auburn hair into a crown of curls that framed her face, which was dominated by an aquiline nose. The curls, paired with her stiff posture, reminded him of the proud lion sculpture that guarded the Piazza San Marco. As she crossed the floor, Domenico bustled to meet her.r />
  Aurelio, meanwhile, made his presence known well before he actually appeared, the unmistakable boom of his laughter bouncing in from the street. When he arrived, Domenico clasped both hands to the alchemist’s cheeks, pressing their foreheads together. They exchanged quick words, and Aurelio gave several pats to the leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Arm in arm, the two wandered from sight, heads bowed together conspiratorially. Shortly after, servants began distributing trays of ruby-red cordials in long-stemmed glasses. Gio took his, wincing slightly at the powerful combination of berry and liquor. By the third sip, however, he tasted only sweetness.

  Soon Aurelio reemerged and made his way to Gio. “I see you’ve found some libation?” He nodded at Gio’s glass, eyes twinkling.

  “And I see you’ve been sampling your own wares.” Gio reached out to pinch a ruddy cheek. Aurelio cheerfully batted the hand away but did not disagree.

  “A new recipe using juniper berries! I’m working on it with an alchemist up north, it’s our secret project.” Aurelio waggled his eyebrows at Gio. “Come, let’s greet Maddalena.” With that, he launched his body into the crowd, guests turning to raise their drinks in cheer at every step. Aurelio happily greeted each one, somehow never breaking stride. Gio followed in his wake, blinking hard against the glare of crystal, the glint of silk and gems in the light.

  As they approached, Gio recognized the woman he’d been watching earlier. The lioness with the regal bearing—of course it would be her. She was deep in conversation with a frail-looking man he recognized as a member of the Orsini family, no doubt explaining in tedious detail the features of his father’s famous garden. Aurelio thrust himself into their circle.