The Woman in the Painting. Kerry Postle

to read this,’ she said as she handed it to me. I trembled as I took it. I looked at her, my heart flipping between hope and despair. She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, beamed at me, then nodded. ‘New home, new start,’ she said. I unfolded the message, my breath becoming easier as I read each wonderful word.

       Dear Pietro,

       My maestro has asked me to discuss terms of apprenticeship with you. Please be at Hostaria dell’Orso next Thursday, at 7.

       Federico

      But it was Thursday already. Panic replaced my newfound relief. What was I going to wear? What was I going to say? How? Where? Who? When? I walked back and forth, my mind racing. ‘Stop this.’ I looked at Margarita, saw her outstretched arms. I melted into her embrace. I shook. She calmed me. ‘There now. Everything is going to be all right.’

      *

      It was six o’clock when I heard the knock on the door. I sat up, bleary-eyed. I must have fallen asleep.

      ‘Time to wake up, sleepy head. Time to leave for the hostaria.’ It was Margarita. I opened the door and she took my arm. She’d come to take me to my meeting.

      ‘I-I-I-I c-c-c-can’t. It’s t-t-t-too late.’ Her hand tightened. She pulled me after her; she said nothing. She was taking me to the tavern. I ran my fingers through my hair, straightened my clothes. The sun disappeared, taking the warmth of the day with it. I was soon wide awake.

      The tavern was down one of the streets where I’d met Luca. I shuddered at the memory of the sinister figure who had crouched over him. ‘Not far now,’ Margarita said, her voice reassuring. Her hand squeezed mine.

      When we got inside, groups of men were playing cards and dice, roaring with every round and roll, while wine sloshed over jugs transported by big-armed men and round-cheeked women. A small band of musicians played in the corner, while lovers, the worse for wear, groped each other greedily, not caring who saw them. Laughter and loud voices filled the air while fat-stinking candles and flickering oil lamps kept the darkness at bay. I thought of the cloaked figure, of Luca, of Death. All outside. Life spilt over all around me. I gave Margarita a little smile.

      ‘Pietro! Over here!’ There in the corner stood Federico, waving at me. Luigi at his side.

      Margarita pushed me towards them.

      ‘It was hell tracking you down,’ he said. ‘Spoke to your father.’ The background noise in the tavern masked my silence.

      ‘You’ve found him now,’ Margarita said. ‘When can he start?’ I was surprised at her audacious intervention and when Federico opened up to her, his mouth as round and red as a poppy in the morning sun, I was grateful too. And she continued to fire questions at the two apprentices in rapid succession, which revealed more to me than I’d ever thought possible about Raphael and his studio. ‘What is he like?’

      He was talented, courteous, just, and good-natured.

      ‘What of the education you receive?’

      The training both boys received was appropriate and thorough. They glowed like disciples as they regaled us with tales of the care Raphael took in teaching them. Margarita made sounds of appreciation.

      ‘This artist sounds perfect indeed,’ she mused. ‘There must be some catch.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t tell me that he’s hideously ugly with the body of a barrel and the jowly face of an old cockerel?’ This time the boys laughed. Luigi dug deep into his pocket and pulled out his own miniature portrait of Raphael – a copy of a copy, no doubt. Seemed to be a lot of them about. He presented it to Margarita. I watched her, knowing that she’d seen something similar before. She said nothing and raised her eyebrows in mock delight. But what she had seen had wiped the smile off her face.

      ‘Portraits tend to embellish,’ she added. ‘They often improve on nature.’

      ‘L-l-like Sebastiano’s of you?’ I’d found my tongue at last.

      She laughed and struck me playfully about the ear.

      ‘He’s beautiful,’ Luigi added with a blush. ‘The most beautiful man you’ll ever see. And though this portrait is beautiful, the person is yet more so.’

      ‘We think that’s he’s perfection,’ Federico whispered. I had seen the artist and knew the words of his apprentices to be true. I sipped my wine, deep in thought. But the notion of perfection was too much for Margarita.

      ‘Please, boys. Stop this nonsense. You had me going there for a while with this fairy story. But you’ve gone too far. Perfection, indeed! Here, let me look at that likeness of him again.’

      Luigi held it out to her. She studied it carefully.

      ‘He’s probably a vain, ridiculous creature, like all artists.’

      Federico and Luigi looked crestfallen.

      ‘Sorry, I’m not talking about you,’ she said. ‘But you know what I mean.’ They didn’t.

      At that moment a handsome young man, well-built and with thick, dark hair, caught my eye.

      ‘Margarita?’ He knew her. His eyes flicked from her to the rest of our group. Anger thrust him towards us.

      ‘Oh no,’ she whispered. ‘Come. Let us talk,’ she said, addressing the attractive fellow. She led him away. His large, manly hand caught her elbow. She pulled away. Her eyes flashed a warning. ‘I’ve never pretended,’ I heard her say to him, ‘I’ve never deceived you.’ Honesty. She unleashed it upon this would-be suitor and it wounded him. I looked on for a while but I soon lost interest.

      ‘Raphael …’ It was Luigi. ‘His only weakness is women.’

      The two apprentices poured lively talk into my ears as keenly as I poured red wine down my throat. By the time the candles had burned to their bases I was happy, and completely intoxicated. Fear had released my soul from its ugly claws. I would soon be resuming my artistic training at the most exciting workshop in Rome.

      I looked around. Margarita’s young man had long gone. ‘It’s time I got you home,’ she said to me, her arm now holding me upright.

      ‘Fortune favours the brave,’ I slurred, satisfied with myself.

      ‘Yes. It takes a man of exceptional valour to put away more wine than he can handle, and seize an opportunity when it’s handed to him on a platter,’ she said.

      *

      During the following days my skin tingled and my breath quickened every time I thought of Raphael. I would be there in his workshop soon. Luigi and Federico had told such marvellous tales about him. While I believed them, Margarita did not. She sniffed around like a hungry hound seeking to tear the meat from the bones of the apprentices’ extravagant claims. She was in a strange mood. Jealous, I told myself, of my good fortune.

      She hunted around. Though she knew few people who mixed in artistic circles she knew a few who loitered around the edges. A servant friend of hers who worked for Cardinal Bibbiena was one of them. ‘She says there’s not a woman who hasn’t desired him,’ Margarita reported back to me, ‘nor, if she’s been lucky enough to get it, who hasn’t been satisfied more than by any other man before.’ This news seemed to appal her, though it thrilled me. ‘He’s a philanderer! Woe betide any woman who trusts him,’ she added, waving her finger up and down in my face.

      ‘And what’s worse is that Cardinal Bibbiena is one of the artist’s patrons.’

      She paused to cough. She found the information unpalatable. ‘There. Your artist’s a bought man,’ she persisted with the finger wagging. ‘And when you’re a bought man you’re trapped. Only as good as the man who pays you. And believe me, Bibbiena is not a good man.’

      Her words confused me. One minute she had a hand on my back pushing me towards him, the next she was doing all she could to keep me away from him.