The Botticelli Killings

Chapter 6

6Florence, March 24th 1474

the last day of the year in the Florentine calendar

Stop! I cannot draw anymore, my fingers are stiff after sketching two hours with this charcoal. The woman is standing immobile on the wooden platform with her back straight, head held high and chin slightly tilted, while Master Botticelli’s chalk continues its mission across the paper with the same intensity and lightness it has had from the beginning. Scattered pages full of sketches, portraying every detail of the face and body of the model, litter the floor around him.

I no longer question how the two of them can resist hours without any apparent effort. Simonetta holding the same position, whether sitting on a high-backed chair or standing on the platform, simply stretching her fingers and toes once in a while or changing the angle of her smile. That smile of hers!

The Master glued to his table, absorbed in some kind of sacred concentration, sparkling eyes darting from the drawing to her and vice-versa, while his fingers gripping a piece of charcoal raced automatically across the paper. As if seeing and drawing were one and the same for him.

I first entered Sandro Botticelli’s workshop three years ago to become his apprentice and I found myself asking that question many times, especially in the beginning: How is it possible that these two never grow tired? But the silent answer soon revealed itself to my eyes, in all obviousness. Week after week I continued to witness the unfolding of these encounters between lovers, in which the artist and Simonetta consumed their mutual passion and sated their desire without even the hint of touching but ever joined in a quivering silence of raging hearts, burning flesh, gazes overflowing with sentiments of love to the sound of charcoal scratching on paper.

* * *

The last rays of daylight are dying and the painful moment of farewell approaches. I look at the Master. I worship his slim body and height, the straight vigorous legs clad in their customary black tight-fitting hose, the well-defined features of his face framed by thick golden locks and green eyes glittering with specks of gold. However, in this moment his eyes are lost in the enchantment of those perfect feminine shapes.

I have learnt to control my jealousy but at times, like now, I feel a sudden sword pierce my gut. Simonetta’s eyes meet mine and I notice a sudden flash of understanding and complicity. How much does this woman know about me? What can she sense of my emotions? I have not felt embarrassed in her presence for a long time but do still feel a twinge of annoyance when she is around. The irony of it! To think that almost any man in Florence would give the earth to be in my place, able to admire such beauty.

Today, she arrived wearing a surcoat of fine velvet in an iridescent cinnabar shade, the shiny reflection of the fabric following her body with every movement. Underneath, she was wearing a dress in yellow-ochre brocade with sleeves cut to the elbow, so the eye could admire the immaculate lace of the blouse. Her skirt was embroidered with flowering branches fluctuating on the airiness of the abundant petticoats, gracing her figure with the walk of an ethereal creature. But as was the case, more and more often, the Master asked her to undo the rings of braids around her head and remove the complicated fashion of the day. So, she disappeared behind the triptych of wooden panels that he had painted specially for her and freed herself of all the layers of her precious fabrics.

And now she offers herself to our eyes on the platform, covered only by a tunic of white gauze that left her arms and most of her legs bare in full opalescent candour. The rest of her body is easy to imagine under that thin veil, the transparency of which is broken here and there by delicate small flowers of coloured fabric: little roses, carnations and bunches of cornflowers. Her very long golden-red hair caresses the contours of her body as it falls below her hips, some of the shorter locks halting to underline her turgid breasts under the lightweight fabric.

If her husband saw her like that, would he allow her to visit the Sandro’s workshop every Friday? I often asked myself what kind of man would allow such indecency, simply to gain the prestige that a family gains with the presence of one of its members portrayed in the paintings of the famous artist. But it is rumoured that Messer Marco Vespucci is not really that interested in this wife, though all envy him. In fact, it seems he spends his nights out and about in taverns, certainly not looking for women, because he could not find another as beautiful as her, but rather looking for fascinating young men.

It must also be said that times have changed! Art now has great material value as well as a very high spiritual value, independent of religion.

Just a few decades ago, my father, the great Filippo Lippi, to be able to celebrate his faith in love, was forced to paint an infinite number of Madonnas whose bodies were concealed behind the folds of their cloaks. Now, the times have so changed that the Master, who had been my father’s student, can even conceive the project of undressing those Madonnas. Calling them Goddesses, he feels legitimated to reveal the magnificent beauty of their form to the entire world. A beauty able to provoke profound love, so strong as to conduct any soul to salvation.

Someone is knocking on the door, it must be Simonetta’s maidservant arriving to accompany Simonetta back to her palazzo. Her duty should have been to remain here and watch over her mistress the whole time, which is what she did in the beginning. But, as she was bored to death during the sessions, the maidservant began to sneak away at a certain point and take some hours of freedom too. Now, she limits herself to escorting the lady during the short walk to and from their building and our workshop in Via Nuova.

Simonetta realises the time is over and prepares to get off the platform and the Master draws close to her from behind. From the corner of my eye I glimpse a smile on his face. Today, the farewell is not as sad as usual because in a few hours he will see her again at Careggi’s party. He softly rests a hand on her right hip, as though afraid of hurting her, with the other hand he gently sweeps her hair from a shoulder and for a long instant his lips brush against her neck. I should look away but my eyes are glued to the scene, that kiss burning my skin and sending shivers down my back and all through my body.

«Goodbye, Zoe».

Zoe, that is what this woman is called inside the workshop, it is the name that Sandro and only he, neither her husband nor any other man, can call her. Zoe, eternal life, the promise held in that name echoes, the promise of a gift that the great artist honours her with in all of his paintings.

* * *

«Boys, that is enough work for today. Let the celebrations begin!»

The Master walks to the centre of the workshop, his voice joyful but I sense undertones of impatience that irritate me. She has just left and he is already quivering with desire to see her again!

The workers and apprentices shout with joy as they quickly put away the materials and tools, looking forward to the pleasures of the evening and following day to come. Tomorrow here in Florence, March 25th, is New Year’s Eve.

«Are we going to the Annunziata in procession, Filippino?» one of the boys shouts at me. I know what going in procession means for him: it involves meeting his girlfriend, being allowed to offer her sweets and get tipsy together with wine from stalls in the square.

The workers start heading towards their lodgings and Botticelli waves a hand at me.

«Come, let us go and dress for the celebrations».

I nod, full of excitement because the Master and I are going to celebrate the end of the old year and the beginning of a new one together in a wonderful place.

He opens the door and I follow him into the basement and then up the stairs leading to his residence. I have the privilege of sleeping in the house, in one of the guest rooms, because I am now considered Sandro’s assistant. That is not the only reason, as I have always been considered a member of the family. I met the Master while I was still a small child, when he came to learn his profession in Prato, in my father’s workshop. I am almost like a little brother for him and he never made me sleep in the basement, not even in the beginning when I was only a pupil.