Authors: Sara Downing
The whole process leading up to me agreeing to it has been quite amusing though. For me, at least. I knew exactly what Vincenzo was getting at when he asked me initially, even though he didn’t once refer to me being nude. My English sense of humour couldn’t stop me from having some fun, so I pretended I was going to be in some costume or other, getting all excited about ‘which style of period dress’ I was going to be wearing, or ‘choosing a hat’ to suit the outfit. I knew full well he didn’t actually want me with
any
clothes on at all, apart from maybe a carefully placed scarf, or some flowers or jewellery, a bit like Maria. He just didn’t quite have the courage to come out and say it, which was quite sweet, really.
So there was plenty of wind-up value to be had from stringing it out this week, until I finally admitted to knowing what he’d wanted all along.
‘
You mean, with no clothes on? Naked?’ I’d said, pretending to look shocked and horrified that he should dare ask such a thing of his girlfriend. I put my hand over my mouth to feign horror but couldn’t keep the twinkle of mischief from my eyes, and at that point he knew I’d been winding him up.
‘
Of course I will,’ I said, much to his relief, and slight disbelief that he hadn’t seen through me. Spot the difference between the Italian and English sense of humour – ours is way too warped for them.
So here I am, posed and at the ready. And slightly nervous, too. Vincenzo has seen me lots of times without my clothes on, but this somehow just feels more….. naked, I suppose, which must seem daft, but there you go. Something to do with feeling like I’m laid out on a slab – a corpse awaiting a post mortem.
I’ve also given some brain time to the fact that people, REAL LIVE PEOPLE, with whom I don’t have the sort of relationship that involves removal of clothing, will actually see me in this painting WITH MY CLOTHES OFF. They will know what I look like naked. Arghh. What if my Dad sees it? I banish that thought quickly, or I will be off this couch and fully clothed again before Vincenzo has even picked up a brush.
Vincenzo’s nudes, or at least the ones that I’ve seen, have generally been pretty contemporary in their style. So there is nothing of the Renaissance Maria in my pose, none of the detailed background or general air of sumptuousness and suggestiveness as in her paintings. But on the whole they are tastefully done, I have to admit. Bar one or two, but I made it quite clear to Vincenzo that my painting was going to be tasteful, or simply not happen. So I have a plain white background behind me, and am lying on one side on a grey, modern chaise-longue type thing. The whole effect will be ‘pale but luminous’, as Vincenzo puts it. He can see the painting in his head already, he tells me. I am going to look beautiful, he also tells me, as I gulp back something akin to stage fright.
As Vincenzo starts to sketch and I gaze around the room (with my eyeballs only, of course, as I’m not allowed to move a hair on my head) I feel some empathy with Maria, and all those hours upon hours she must have sat still like this for Titian. She had a lifetime of it, and made it a labour of love, but I know now that this single sitting will be quite enough for me. I don’t see my future as an artist’s muse, somehow. Life’s too short for this level of inactivity.
So, what am I going to think about for the next few hours, now that I have a bit of time on my hands….? Mmmm, work? End of year assessments? No, too dull. Where I’m going to live when I go back to uni? How I’m going to feel about leaving Florence and everyone and everything about this place that I love? No, too depressing. I don’t want to go there at the moment. Plenty of time to deal with it all later in the year, when I really need to.…
Actually, just managing to stay awake could be a problem, I think, as my eyelids droop and I yawn for the second time – and am reprimanded by Vincenzo for it.
I clench Clara’s hand tightly, and see her wince with pain as my fingernails dig into her flesh. I am caught in the grip of the most extreme agony I have ever known. ‘Clara, help me, I am dying!’ I scream as this latest contraction seizes my body and grips it in its devil’s clutch for those few brief, but never-ending seconds.
‘
No, Maria, you are not dying, you have a life inside you! You are going to live, and bring this child safely into the world,’ she whispers softly and calmly, my wonderful Clara. How I wish my Tito could be with me now, but this is no place for a man; childbirth is women’s work. Better that he should come later, when all is done. Then I can present his daughter to him. For I feel now, stronger than ever, that this child is female.
I come to with a small judder, and realise I’d started to doze off. I look at Vincenzo for a reaction, expecting to be scolded again, but he is engrossed, so much so that I wonder if he actually needs me here at all, or if he’s just making up my image on canvas from the memories in his head.
A dream. I started to have a dream, didn’t I? About Maria, I think? I’m pretty sure it was. A tiny snapshot of a Maria dream. But I only dream in the Uffizi, so how could it happen here? Maybe just a coincidence; it has to be that.
Lovely smell in here. Must be those roses on Vincenzo’s desk. Can’t look round at them now. Too tired. He’ll be cross. Smell nice though. Pink, I think. Love pink roses…
‘
It hurts so much Clara, help me!’ I scream again as another contraction grips. ‘I do swear this child will cleave me in two! If I should die, swear to me you will look after her? Promise me, Clara?’ I yell, seizing her wrist, in case she should not fully have understood my plea.
‘
You will not die, Maria, I will not let you,’ she says, stroking my hair back from my face with a cool cloth, as the midwife examines my belly for the umpteenth time. But I am witness to the brief flash of fear which graces her gentle features.
‘
It is still not time, Mistress,’ the midwife says, and this I cannot comprehend. How long must it take for this child to come out of my body? I can bear it no more.
The roses. Oh, yes, I can smell them once more. Did I nod off again for a moment? Vincenzo is none the wiser, his face a picture of utter concentration as he scribbles hard and fast.
‘
Those roses, Vincenzo, can you move them closer, somewhere I can see them?’ I ask, interrupting him. ‘I need something to focus on here, or I think I’m going to fall asleep. How’s it going, anyway? You’ve been at it for a while now.’
‘
It’s only been half an hour, Lydia,’ he replies. ‘I’m going to need you for a bit longer than that, yet, I’m afraid. Are you OK? Another half hour or so and we’ll have a break, get you something to eat. Can’t have you falling asleep on the job, can we?’ He gives me one of his dazzling smiles, then remembers my request for the roses, and leaps up to grab the vase from his desk, placing it on a small table to the side of him before returning to his canvas.
‘
Funny, it feels like I’ve been here for hours already,’ I say, breathing in the scent of the roses, and trying to recall where I’ve seen that particular variety before. Oh yes, in the hospital when Leonora was there, and…. with Maria, of course. They are just like the ones she is always surrounded by. Funny, they don’t seem to smell in the dreams, or if they do, that particular sense has never survived as a memory. Smelling in dreams, is that possible? We can touch, hear and feel in dreams; can we smell and taste too? Or is smell something which creeps into a dream from the real world, like dreaming you can smell bacon frying, only to wake up and find someone has made your breakfast?
I did start to dream about Maria, didn’t I? How odd. I do think about her a lot, but I’ve never had a dream anywhere but in room twenty-eight.
Sleepy again. Roses are gorgeous. Petal just dropped off. Whoops…
‘
Where is Tito, I need him here with me,’ I bleat to Clara, who stands to one side as the midwife again examines me. How I have had enough of people touching me, prodding me, feeling they have some right to my body! Please, God, let this baby come out of my belly soon; let me reclaim this body as my own.
‘
She is nearly ready,’ the midwife says to Clara, ‘keep on with the cold compresses, she is very warm and I do not want her to distress herself too much. She will need her strength when the time comes to push.’
‘
Very well,’ Clara replies, and returns to my side, mopping my brow and gently stroking my hair back from my face.
‘
Is the baby coming soon?’ I ask, hoping they will consider me still capable of understanding what is happening. I am not stupid; I am in pain! This child is taking a lifetime to emerge from my body, and I know I am physically very weak, but I have not lost my mind. They should not discuss my situation behind my back. How rude of them to do so!
‘
Does she know?’ I hear the midwife whisper to Clara. How indiscreet they are! No sense in whispering if I am still to hear what they say!
‘
What is it that I should know?’ I demand of Clara, suddenly lucid and clear of thought again, finding the strength to pull myself up on the bed.
‘
Lydia, wake up? Lydia, are you OK?’ I can hear someone calling to me. Is it Vincenzo? I suppose it must be. Maybe I dozed off again, but I don’t know what he’s getting so worked up about.
‘
Yes,’ I go to reply, but it seems my lips won’t form the words. Someone seems to have glued them together and the words won’t come. Why can’t I open my eyes? Too sleepy, can’t do this, can’t answer any more questions.….
‘
Clara, what is it that I should know? Where is Tito? Is he awaiting news of us downstairs?’ I beg. ‘I know it is not usual, but please send for him. Ask him to come up, I have to see him. Just for a few moments. I simply need to see him; it will help me so much. Please?’
A glance passes between Clara and the midwife, such that I know something has happened. Something they do not want to share with me.
‘
Is he ill? Is that why he is not here?’ I ask but then concern gives way to anger: ‘I am giving birth to his child and he promised to look after us. Why is he not here?’
‘
Lydia, my love. Oh God, what’s happening to you?’ I can hear the alarm in Vincenzo’s voice. Why is he panicking? I’m just having a little nap, that’s all. What’s the fuss about? He has wrapped me up in something furry and warm, and I can hear him frantically jabbing at buttons on his phone, his voice higher pitched than normal as he makes a call. ‘The ambulance will be here soon,’ he says. ‘Stay with me Lydia.’ Well, I’m not going anywhere am I? I’m way too tired to even get myself off this sofa. Nothing seems to want to work. Limbs are all floppy, I’m so tired. But I’m fine. I’m just having a rest. If only Vincenzo would stop flapping.
There is a rush of air as someone joins us in the room and starts fiddling with me. Get off! Who are you and what are you doing to me?
Why can’t I tell them I’m OK? I’m trying to speak, but they can’t hear me. I don’t know who this person is, touching my neck, lifting my eyelids, feeling my wrist. Who are you? Go away, will you, I’m having a little snooze…
‘
Where is Tito? Why isn’t he here?’ I ask again, frantic with worry now.
‘
He is gone,’ Clara says simply, and the way she says that word denotes its finality.
‘
Why is he gone? Does he no longer love me?’ I begin to sob. ‘He promised to take care of us. We were to return to Venice and live as a family once the child is born. What do you mean, ‘gone’?’
‘
Do not distress yourself, Madam, it is not good for the baby,’ begs the midwife, gently stroking my arm and trying to make me lie down. But I sit up again and find an inner strength to go on.
‘
Get this baby out of me! I need to find Tito. Get this baby out of me now so that I can go after him!’ And then I do lie back on the bed, spent after my outburst, desolate tears of bitter sadness rolling from my eyes.
‘
Why has he left us, Clara? Why now?’
We seem to be in a fast-moving vehicle. Vincenzo carried me to it in his arms, all wrapped up in this lovely furry throw, although why he wouldn’t let me walk, I really don’t know. He could at least have let me stand up and put my clothes back on. Although I think I might be a bit too sleepy to manage that.
It’s making some sort of noise, like a police car, or something. We’re going so fast! If I could ask why or where we are going then I would, but it seems I just have to lie here and let them do what they want. I wonder where they’re taking me? But I just want to go back to sleep, so I don’t mind where I am as long as I’m horizontal…
Vincenzo keeps talking to me in a really funny voice. It’s all kind of high and squeaky, not like him at all. I can feel him holding my hand, and he keeps stroking it and squeezing it. He’s made a lot of phone calls too. I hope he’s not driving, AND talking to me, AND making all those calls. I know he’s Italian and they drive like, well….. But there’s a limit. So who’s driving then? Where are they taking me? Don’t we need to get back and let him finish that painting? He won’t be too happy about the interruption, will he? Why can’t everyone just calm down and let me sleep? I’ll wake up in my own good time…
‘
His wife knows of you, Maria,’ Clara replies. ‘And of the child, too. That is why he brought you here to Bologna for your confinement. Back to your home town in all its familiarity. And he hoped to take you both back to Venice with him, despite his wife’s wrath. But I’m afraid he left at first light this morning. There is a letter for you. Would you like me to read it to you?’