Chapter 30
James
La Fornarinaand La Velata hang before me on the far wall of the bed chamber of Battista Sforza’s apartment in the palazzo. It’s a fitting place for the works to hang—in the room where the great duke’s beloved wife slept—because the subject is rumored to be Raphael’s mistress. The love of his short life. His muse.
In both works her dark eyes penetrate me, their intensity forcing me to search for some hidden message. The portrait on the left—the half-naked painting of his lover—is soft and intimate, while the formality of La Velata makes you feel as if you should bow before her. Both masterpieces are haunting. As if they aren’t paintings at all, but the actual spirit and soul of the woman he loved trapped within a frame.
“What do you think?”
I turn to find Zio standing behind me, his jacket draped over his arm, his eyes flitting back and forth between the two paintings.
“I think Silvia is an absolute genius to have obtained these from Barbarini and the Palatine,” I say, clearing off my notes from the bench beside me to make room. “She must have had something on their curators.”
“She just may. I have heard that museum curators are a scandalous bunch.” He hangs his jacket on the edge of the bench and sits gesturing toward the paintings. “She is lovely, though, is she not?”
I nod. It’s impossible not to find the subject beautiful, with her oval face and stunning visage—but the reverence that Raphael injected into the work—the light and contrast, the color infused in her skin tone, the attention to detail on every single part of her—that is what I can’t escape. His work is always hard for me to leave, but these portraits—these are infused with passion. Everything he felt for this woman is immortalized in every brushstroke.
“I have noticed you’ve been a bit absent this week, Gi. Tutto bene?” Leo asks, tossing me a sidelong glance.
“Everything is fine, Zio. I’ve just been working on spicing up my stale lectures.” I hold up my notes from my lap, and he chuckles at the dig.
“Va bene. I thought maybe you were hiding. Avoiding someone—”
Here we go. I touch my temple to preemptively stop the throb to come. It’s not like I need a reminder of her right now. She sneaks into every waking moment—every sleeping moment as well.
“You rarely miss a dinner, Gi. And you are staying at the apartment. I can’t remember the last time you stayed there in the summer,” he adds, looking my way.
“The apartment needed repairs, so it’s just easier to stay there after working on whatever the issue of the day is,” I tell him.
“Forse, but Nina told me you fixed everything on Wednesday and yet here we are.” He points between us.
“Do you miss me that much, Zio?”
He pushes his lips together and shakes his head. His eyes look into me like the woman’s in the portraits. I let out a breath and look down at my notebook. There’s no use deflecting here. Leo can see right through me. Always could.
“She will be gone before you know it,” he says softly, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “Time has a funny way of haunting us when it is wasted.”
Her face after that kiss, the way she pulled back as if it had somehow hurt her—it was enough to tell me exactly what I needed to know. It doesn’t matter how long she’ll be here if she’s not willing to give what I want. And now that I know what that is, I can see that it’s impossible.
“It’s safer this way,” I say, shutting my notebook and slipping it into my bag.
“Just like it is safe not to follow your dreams to London?”
I stand and slip the strap of my messenger bag over my shoulder, sliding my camera back into the center of my chest when it gets knocked aside.
London again. How do I explain to him that this offer that Davenport’s making is just a pipe dream? Yes, when he saw that photo I took in la Basilicata years ago and recruited me, I was interested then. But I was twenty-something—young and ambitious with no finger on the pulse of what really matters. Photography was a passion that consumed me—now it’s a slow burn that I’ve learned to control. That kind of passion is dangerous.
“I appreciate how much you care, Zio. You know I do. But everything I need is right here.”
He looks up at me, his eyes sad, and I have to turn away—look out the window into the courtyard—because I know he’s thinking about Nonna and my parents. Silently blaming them for all the chances I will not take.
His voice is low when the opening words of his favorite proverb reach me. “Chi non va non vede, chi non vede non sa e chi non sa se lo prende sempre in culo.”
If you don’t go you won’t see, if you don’t see you won’t know, if you don’t know you’ll always take it in the ass.
Charming, no?
“I’ll see you at dinner tonight,” I tell him, making eye contact one last time. Maybe this will keep him from tossing perverted proverbs at me.
He turns his mouth down and dips his chin, lifting his hand to shoo me away.
And I take the dismissal like a get-out-of-jail-free card and hurry out of Battista’s chamber before he changes his mind.