| Isabella |
| Three months ago, I met a goddess. It took only four days for you to progress from a beautiful stranger to a naked model to mould, to a worshipped lover, to a stranger again. On the street, your look made me turn. That smile, that sharp glance, that quick step - all burned into me as if tattooed on the underside of my eyelids. But you passed, not noticing my attention, and vanished, ghostlike, into the crowd. I hunted through the busy piazza for hours in the blistering afternoon sun. Exhausted and defeated, I almost gave up the search when I saw you. Your face was high above the crowd, framed in the window of Palazzo Vecchio. A man in formal dress exited the immense front doors of the government building and brushed past me. �Excuse me,� I said, stepping behind him. The man stopped and faced me. �Yes, Sir?� he replied. �Do you know the woman in that window?� I asked, pointing up to your face. �Yes, that is Isabella di Aragona, the Duchess Consort of Milan.� My heart leapt. I wondered how a master painter�s apprentice could gain her favour. How could I be so fortunate as to touch her fair hand, caress her soft moon face? �Why does she sit there?� I inquired. The man looked at me before responding. �Her father, King Alphonse II, is visiting the city and wanted to see the restorations to its interior. Isabella is a lover of art and architecture, and demanded to come along. I have been their guide, you see. We have been walking all day, and I�m afraid she is worn out. Sitting in the window overlooking the piazza gives her just as much pleasure as appreciating the new stonework in the courtyard.� The man looked from my face to the window and back to me. �Excuse me, I have an appointment to attend.� He bowed and walked away. I stepped closer to the building, shielding my eyes to see your face. You looked down at me, paused, and glanced away. I was convinced you had seen me, though. �Isabella!� I called. Your name was carried through the open window by the gentle wind. �Please allow me to see your face up close.� Even from such a distance, I could see your cheeks reddening. I am sure you heard the hammer in my chest. You turned your head, and your long lean neck appeared to be bleached by the bright sunlight. I stumbled forward, crashed through the doors of the town hall, and ran to your window. I bowed low before you, quickly so as not to be noticed by a passing dignitary. You gave me your gloved hand, and offered me a seat. In haste, I introduced myself, telling you that I was an aspiring painter with a famous master. At the mention of my occupation, your eyes widened. I knew that you had to be immortalized in a portrait. After stating my intentions and receiving your promise to visit me the next day, I made my way home, barely noticing the setting orange sun. Beauty like yours is rare. Not like Botticelli�s seductive Venus, whose appearance is merely heightened by the knowledge of her godliness, the allusion to minor elemental gods at her side. Her goddess figure is unnoticed beside yours. I discovered the jewel in you. When you entered my cottage the next morning, you brought the perfection of the day with you. The breath escaped my lips in a gasp, as the light that you brought inside reverberated around the room. Your name dripped like candle wax from my tongue. I brought my face to yours. With the deliberate movement of my hands, I slowly revealed your shoulder, your collarbone, your breastbone. My rough and worn fingertips grazed your cream skin. I touched the small birthmark on your chest � your only imperfection, but it could be removed from the portrait. �Please, sit,� I urged, and you sat on the edge of a chair. Your brown hair fell heavily, but not touching the perfect line from your cheek to the soft swell of your bosom. You were a form, a figure almost too painful to behold. It pains me to think of that first portrait and its innocence, and unaddressed lust. My hand trembled as I drew the curve of your eyebrow, and the dip in your neck. I wanted to ask for you to stay, to undress slowly in my flickering candlelight. I wanted to feel the pull of your body against mine. Instead, I watched you step through the gate, shutting it gently as if cradling a baby to sleep, and disappear. �Please,� you said the next morning. �I do not want to be the Madonna today.� You had been seated on the same chair, a bird perched on your finger. The robe hung around your shoulders, and exposed your attractive neck. I was startled by this statement � I did not expect my lovely subject to give her opinion of my art and work. I continued to set up my paints and did not respond. I set a fresh canvas before me. You dropped your beautiful dress to the floor. The erotic beauty of Botticelli�s Venus was eclipsed by your calm face. The smooth skin on your hips and thighs and the cup of your breasts were more than worthy of adoration. I painted your nude form, the paintbrush arching with every contour of your body. Dropping my paintbrush, I knelt beside you. I readjusted your uplifted arm, and the angle of your head. �Raise your eyes slightly,� I offered. Your hand found mine. This touch brought me out of my daze � you were no longer a shape to be painted, but a woman. The sudden change in mentality shook me and I pulled my hand away, placing yours on your stomach. I picked up my paintbrush. I ran to my master�s villa to show him what I had accomplished in our sittings. He looked at the drawing with a critical eye, and pulled it closer to his aged face. �I know this woman,� he said, and smiled. �Her father is my patron, but I have not seen her in quite some years. I did not know that she is so fair.� �You know her family?� I asked, stunned. He nodded. �Quite well. I understand they are to leave town soon.� �Are they?� The shock made my hands shake. Why had you not told me that you were leaving so soon, that our sittings were nearing a sudden end? I took my portraits back, and fled from his villa. There was no sitting on the fourth morning. Your fallen countenance would not permit such a moment of creativity. You told me you were leaving the next morning, and we were never to see each other again. There was no struggle to get you into my bedchamber, to feel your warm body against mine. I held you, whispered heartfelt words into your ears. I made promises for a future we could never have. Then you were gone. You are still gone. I tried to get you out of my mind. It seemed like your smells and touches were burned onto my flesh. Every surface and every corner you graced with attention holds your memory. Last week I saw my master for the first time in three months - not since that day that I showed him your portraits. �It is good to see you,� he started but looked deeply into my eyes. �You have aged. Has so much changed these months?� �It is good to see you,� I responded, faking a polite smile. �You have not brought any drawings?� He looked to my hands, having noticed that I had not brought my portfolio. �No. I have lifted neither pencil nor paintbrush since I last saw you.� �Ah, my friend. I am lucky to not have the same problem. I have started my next painting, and I wanted your initial opinion of it. Here � ,� he said, and directed my attention to a canvas. My eyes wandered over the painting�s dark surface and the subject�s mysterious smile. �I call it Mona Lisa.� Only, I knew that face was you, my beautiful Isabella. |