Authors: Sara Downing
And I am enthralled from the start. Signore Di Girolamo rounds up and captures his audience like the Pied Piper within seconds of the start of his lecture, and I sit completely rapt for the full hour, not even breaking my gaze to glance around the room at the others present, or, surprisingly, the artwork lining the walls. At the end, as he starts to pack his things together, he is suddenly surrounded by a swarm of students, all wanting to ask more and get inside his brilliant mind.
‘
You are English, yes?’ the guy next to me asks, as I’m busy observing this scrum and packing away my own notes, still in thrall to the greatness of Signore Di Girolamo. ‘What did you think of our fantastic professor? Isn’t he brilliant? I am Eduardo,’ he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. Oh no, not another Ed, even if he is an Italian version and looks nothing like my Ed. Has he been sent here to haunt me, a flashback from my painful past? Don’t be so silly, Lydia.
‘
Mi chiamo Lydia. Piacere,
’ I reply, seizing the proffered hand, and not wanting him to think that like most English people abroad, I can’t have a go in the native tongue.
‘
How are you settling in? Have you fallen in love with our beautiful city yet?’ he asks in Italian, and I manage to formulate a sensible reply which doesn’t sound half bad, I think. He understands me, anyway. ‘A few of us are going for a coffee now. Would you like to join us?’ he asks.
I can’t believe how welcoming everyone is here. There I am, thinking I stand out like a sore thumb as the English girl, but these guys are going out of their way to include me in their circle of friends. It would be great to get to know some people on my course; I can’t expect Sophia and Leonora to keep providing ready-made friends and do all the hard work, so I accept gladly and gratefully. I will have to sneak back into the gallery on my free pass later and go and see the Raphael work properly, but I can’t miss an opportunity to make some more friends.
‘
We are going just round the corner from here,’ Eduardo adds. ‘We no drink
caffè
in this piazza, too expensive,’ he goes on in English, wagging a finger and smiling. ‘We know a lovely bar, not far from here, well, not very lovely but
caffè
is good. I show you, you come with us.’
I follow him and his small band of friends, who each introduce themselves to me with a welcoming smile and a handshake. I can’t recall making friends ever being this easy in my first week at Newcastle. Freshers’ Week seemed to be fraught with pressure to get in with the ‘right’ crowd, join the ‘cool’ clubs, and work out where to be seen and with whom. Florence doesn’t seem half as fake and pretentious as all that; everyone I have met so far has been genuinely lovely, with no ulterior motive in getting to know me other than that they would like me to be their friend. Simple as that.
Eduardo was right about the bar; it’s far from lovely. It’s the sort of place that if I were on my own, I would give a very wide berth to; one of those typical little backstreet cafés you see all over any big city in Italy, a bit grubby and seedy looking, with most customers standing at the bar drinking their coffee. (I hadn’t realised until now that they charge you more to sit down – common mistake of the foreigner.) Fortunately one of the group knows the owner, Mario, so we do get a table, for no extra charge, and I am glad of it, as there is no lingering over coffees as compact as these, and without a table there would have been limited opportunity to get to know the rest of the crowd I have come here with. Not a latte or a cappuccino in sight at this time of day; they are the territory of the tourist, apparently. Nothing that milky should be drunk post-breakfast, so I am told. So it looks like no more long frothy coffees for me as I try to integrate myself into the Italian way of life; it’s straight down the hatch with this potent blast of thick, black liquid.
I leave the café an hour later with two of those shots coursing round my veins, feeling very energised, and intent on going back to the Uffizi to have a look at the Raphaels. Those duly visited and notes taken, I find myself again in room twenty-eight. I start with a closer look at Flora and Eleanora, then end up on the bench in front of my Venus. Funny how easily I am drawn here……..
‘
Maria, wake up. Come quickly,’ the whisper in my ear stirs me from a gentle slumber. ‘He is here, he has come to see you.’ Clara hands me my robe which I quickly pull around my shoulders, and locates my silk slippers tucked under the side of the bed.
I descend the staircase nervously. It is several weeks since I have seen him; I do not know what his reaction to me will be. Did I give myself to a man who will cast me aside, like the others have done, or have I found in him someone to whom I will be very special, as he is to me, who will look after me and cherish me as I long for so very much? But if so, why does he come to me in the depth of the night, if not for just one purpose?
‘
My darling….’ I start as I set eyes on him, but he motions to me to be silent, placing his index finger gently over my lips and steering me quickly into a side room. It is cold in here, the fire long since extinguished. Only the upstairs rooms require heating at night; once the gentlemen have retired for the evening with the girl of their choice, Rosetta dampens the fires downstairs, her job for the night done, all monies collected, doors closed until the morning. She can retire to her own bed
–
alone.
It is fortunate that I also find myself alone this evening; tonight for once there is no male company for me. Rosetta is a kind mistress, I believe. She does not force us to work every night, nor will she insist we work if we are tired, or ailing, or suffering our monthly curse. Provided we succeed in earning our keep for the week, a headache or simply a wish for some peace can provide a night of respite. And the gentlemen who visit are only of the finest class; they are kind and generous to us and do not treat us in the manner our profession befits. Yes, I have been lucky here, I know that.
He places his hands gently on my shoulders and looks me directly in the eye, before lowering his head as if in slow motion and brushing my lips with the most fleeting of kisses. Then he seems to come to, out of his mesmeric state, and remembers the purpose for which he has come. ‘Pack your things quickly, my love. You are coming with me tonight. My carriage awaits us outside. Clara will say nothing to Rosetta, it is agreed.’ Here he gently taps his pocket to show that Clara has been remunerated for her silence. ‘Go now, fetch your clothes and your possessions; I will wait here for you.’
So I am to be spirited from this place, at last! But now the hour of my departure approaches I find myself fearful. I have been happy here, despite the manner in which I earn my living, and well looked after, and I cannot help but feel a little apprehensive about what the future holds. It is one thing to make promises to one’s love in the depths of night, another to bring them to fruition and to make good those pledges for eternity. Can he really keep me safe, and love me like he tells me he wants to?
With great speed I dress and pack my affairs, which are few and of little worth. Casting a brief backwards glance at the place which has been my home for all these years, I spy Clara’s earnest face watching nervously from the window as I climb into the waiting carriage.
Six
I leave the gallery in something of a daze. What is it about that room that sends me to sleep the moment my bottom hits that bench? I’d brought my books with me to take some notes, but barely had I withdrawn pencil from case than I was out for the count once more. It’s like some weird art-hallucinogenic thing going on; just a few minutes of exposure to it and I am off. I wonder if the other rooms in the gallery, or even other paintings, would have the same effect on me, but then I haven’t put that to the test and I’m not sure I want to either. One set of dreams at a time is more than enough for me to cope with.
Am I reading too much into all this? Perhaps I am just still really shattered; all the excitement of arriving, meeting so many lovely new people and being so completely and utterly overwhelmed by the beauty and culture around me wherever I go? I just need to pull myself together and get on top of it. Yes, that’ll be all it is, pure lack of sleep and over-tiredness.
Another dream. This time I remember it a little more clearly. I couldn’t begin to say where I was, or even who I was, even though I know quite clearly ‘I’ wasn’t me, but I do have a strong image of the man in the dream. He was my lover, whoever he was. His face was unfamiliar, and although the ‘me’ in the dream knew him, in real life I have no idea who he is. But I did recognise the look in his eye as one of sheer adoration; that look is quite easily translated from subconscious to conscious state. A bit like the look I used to see on Ed’s face in the early days.
Go away, Ed, stop invading my thoughts, you bad, nasty nobody
.
The kind of love I felt in this dream was far beyond anything you and I ever experienced.
I remember it being night time, and wearing something long, silky and floaty, a nightie perhaps? Why was I meeting this man in my nightie? I wrack my brains to try to bring some more detail from the dream back to life but at the moment it won’t come. But bits of dreams tend to have a habit of creeping up on you when you’re least expecting them; something you do or say during waking hours can spark off a memory from the subconscious, in the same way I suppose that the tiniest daytime thought or insignificant action can trigger a certain dream the following night. It’s all somehow linked in these crazy, clever and complicated human brains of ours.
Dreams always seem to lose a lot in translation – there’s nothing harder than having to try and explain a really exciting or funny dream you had to someone without it sounding like a whole load of tosh, and I know that if I voice this one, even just to myself, then its meaning will fade. Dreams are a bit like books written in your own, personal language, or code, I suppose, only to be understood by you and no one else. They make perfect sense whilst in your head, but are so hard to verbalise. Although at the moment I don’t understand this one; I just don’t remember enough about it and I desperately hope some of it will come back to me soon.
My phone beeps in my pocket, bringing me out of my dream-obsessed state. It’s a text from Leonora. ‘Hope day 1 going well. Aperos @ 6 in café Strozzi, v. del Trebbio. See you there! xx.’ I text a quick reply back to say I’ll be there and load up my ‘Map’ app for the umpteenth time today. I’m sure I’ll get my bearings here eventually; I have to, I practically swallowed the guide book whole before I came out. GPS position located, I realise it’s not that far and decide to walk along the Arno, then cut back up into the town. I haven’t been along the riverside much yet so it gives me a chance to see a few more sights.
As I turn away from the river and into the Via de’ Tornabuoni I gasp, instantly wishing I had been born to landed gentry, instead of being the daughter of a couple of retired office workers from Sussex. Even new money would do, any kind of wealth, I’m not fussy just as long as there is lots of it. This street is quite literally bulging with designer stores, their vast and opulent window displays positively oozing with gorgeousness. Salvatore Ferragamo sets the standard for what is to follow with its huge, illustrious store overlooking the Arno, delicious bags and shoes screaming ‘Buy me, buy me’ but simultaneously flashing their expensive price tags with a ‘Ha, you can’t afford me, you’re only a student,’ taunt. Ahhhh if only. One day I am going to be rich and come back to that shop, completely confident of my status and unabashed at my spending power like the wealthy young couples I can see inside now, and BUY SOMETHING REALLY EXPENSIVE. Or even several things.
My big sister, Evie, would love this part of town, I know that for a fact. Now there is a girl who is born to shop and has the means to do so. I must drop her a text over the next couple of days; it would be great to get her out here and show her the sights…. And maybe she’d take me shopping…….?
I traipse past the others; Prada, Gucci, Bulgari, Cartier – all the best names have a presence here – and swoon at the window displays. Beautifully attired shoppers, well-heeled and high-heeled, zip from one store to the next, oversized bags crammed with goodies dangling from their arms and proclaiming
‘
Recession, what recession?’ There I was thinking we were in the middle of a global financial crisis, but quite clearly the cutbacks have not cut back
their
budgets.
I turn from temptation and the certainty of a lifetime of debt into the little side street and track down the café. Leonora and Sophia are comfortably ensconced in the far corner, looking a bit like they’ve been there all day. I wonder where exactly in their timetables the study fits in, but clearly it doesn’t impact too heavily on their social lives. Dante, Lanzo and Stefano are there too, plus a couple of other girls I haven’t met yet, so my social circle is set to expand yet again. Leonora is sporting a fine-looking shopping bag of her own from one of the stores I have just passed. I would wonder how she managed that on a student’s allowance had I not picked up from conversations yesterday that her father is a banker in Rome, pretty high up in one of the top financial institutions. Obviously papa wants his little girl to be able to buy the odd treat now and again. Lucky thing, can’t begrudge her that I suppose.
Drinks ordered and a chair found for me, everyone is keen to know how
l’inglese
fared on her first day all alone in the big
città
, and I regale them with tales of the flirty Vincenzo and the fight, the stupendously great Signore Di Girolamo and my charming new friends from my course. I surprise myself at just how much of this I manage to recount in Italian; at this rate I should be coping pretty well with the native tongue within a couple of weeks. I am walking proof that total immersion is the only way to learn a language.