desperately.
What can I do?
It is a problem for me to worry about, young lady. I will solve it.
When? How?
Ideas are not rainbows that appear in the sky, at least not often; they can be worked on, planed like wood, improved with friction. Have I worn you out? You look quite unwell. Would you like to go home and rest?
I do not need rest. I want to be of service.
Simone taps his mottled cheek. Are you sure you want to offer your help?
Laura Agnelli insists she does.
Very well, then.
The painter gives her folded garments belonging to Giovanna and bids her put them on behind the screen. The rich fabric, blue and red, is heavy in Laura’s arms, the clothes cut slightly too big for her. Simone organizes his materials: pen, brushes, ink, new parchment. Arranges chairs: one for you, and one we will pretend is the angel. He gives her the codex.
Laura is pinched by self-consciousness. How should she sit? How should she hold the book?
The man mutters for her to do whatever she thinks best.
Laura forces herself into stillness and grasps the book of hours.It is the most fabulous object she has ever held. Maestro Simone, is there a difference between a closed book and an open book?
A vast difference. (Simone breaks an egg and separates out the yolk, neglects to tell her what the difference is.)
Laura opens the book, then closes it. Open, it ought to be open. Randomly—it is a page from the Penitential Psalms, and what Laura recognizes as De profundis. It used to be a favorite passage of hers. Her mouth dries. De profundis clamavi, ad te Domine. Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord. She sits upright, using her backbone in a pose she hopes is both modest and resolute.
Simone Martini commences a new Marian modello, the first he has made led by the instincts of an orphan. The novelty of the experiment reignites his enthusiasm.
They fall into a half-trance.
Time is measured for Simone by his progress, outline correction face hair feet chair blue gold. He is transfixed by the delicate doll that materializes—she has a sweetness, a primness, and a restlessness—as though the figure on the page would drop her book on the floor, stand up, walk away. His experienced eye discerns it is not exactly right for the altar (it lacks drama, narrative, presence). He did not expect immediate gratification but senses this is the closest yet he has come to his Virgin. He is on his way at last.
For Laura, it is oddly similar to sitting in private. She soon realizes the painter is consumed by his work. Though he concentrates on her appearance so intently, he is barely aware of her person as long as she does not move. She finds this easier than the hours she endured when Simone was trying to ignore her and she so frequently irritated him. It is a relief. It is an opportunity to think, to untangle some of the mess.
De profundis clamavi, ad te Domine. Domine, exaudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem deprecationis meae. Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.
Laura, you are slumping.
The girl straightens, her muscles aching. Maestro Simone—her voice cracks a little—will your wife, will Giovanna, come today?
No, she is visiting her parents.
I should like to see her again.
You had a pleasant conversation, did you? I shall ask her to come by next week.
I should like to see her again very soon.
I am sure she would like to see you too.
Laura trembles. As soon as she can, please.
Simone Martini raises his gaze to her. Whatever is the matter?
Her skin has turned to a dreadful pallor.
The artist sets aside his tools and goes to her. He asks whether she is sickening, and she does not deny it. Should he send back to the hospital for a physician?
She refuses. It is true that Laura has the urge to cry, but she does not want to shed tears on anything that does not belong to her, least of all the precious book of hours. She
What can I do?
It is a problem for me to worry about, young lady. I will solve it.
When? How?
Ideas are not rainbows that appear in the sky, at least not often; they can be worked on, planed like wood, improved with friction. Have I worn you out? You look quite unwell. Would you like to go home and rest?
I do not need rest. I want to be of service.
Simone taps his mottled cheek. Are you sure you want to offer your help?
Laura Agnelli insists she does.
Very well, then.
The painter gives her folded garments belonging to Giovanna and bids her put them on behind the screen. The rich fabric, blue and red, is heavy in Laura’s arms, the clothes cut slightly too big for her. Simone organizes his materials: pen, brushes, ink, new parchment. Arranges chairs: one for you, and one we will pretend is the angel. He gives her the codex.
Laura is pinched by self-consciousness. How should she sit? How should she hold the book?
The man mutters for her to do whatever she thinks best.
Laura forces herself into stillness and grasps the book of hours.It is the most fabulous object she has ever held. Maestro Simone, is there a difference between a closed book and an open book?
A vast difference. (Simone breaks an egg and separates out the yolk, neglects to tell her what the difference is.)
Laura opens the book, then closes it. Open, it ought to be open. Randomly—it is a page from the Penitential Psalms, and what Laura recognizes as De profundis. It used to be a favorite passage of hers. Her mouth dries. De profundis clamavi, ad te Domine. Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord. She sits upright, using her backbone in a pose she hopes is both modest and resolute.
Simone Martini commences a new Marian modello, the first he has made led by the instincts of an orphan. The novelty of the experiment reignites his enthusiasm.
They fall into a half-trance.
Time is measured for Simone by his progress, outline correction face hair feet chair blue gold. He is transfixed by the delicate doll that materializes—she has a sweetness, a primness, and a restlessness—as though the figure on the page would drop her book on the floor, stand up, walk away. His experienced eye discerns it is not exactly right for the altar (it lacks drama, narrative, presence). He did not expect immediate gratification but senses this is the closest yet he has come to his Virgin. He is on his way at last.
For Laura, it is oddly similar to sitting in private. She soon realizes the painter is consumed by his work. Though he concentrates on her appearance so intently, he is barely aware of her person as long as she does not move. She finds this easier than the hours she endured when Simone was trying to ignore her and she so frequently irritated him. It is a relief. It is an opportunity to think, to untangle some of the mess.
De profundis clamavi, ad te Domine. Domine, exaudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem deprecationis meae. Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.
Laura, you are slumping.
The girl straightens, her muscles aching. Maestro Simone—her voice cracks a little—will your wife, will Giovanna, come today?
No, she is visiting her parents.
I should like to see her again.
You had a pleasant conversation, did you? I shall ask her to come by next week.
I should like to see her again very soon.
I am sure she would like to see you too.
Laura trembles. As soon as she can, please.
Simone Martini raises his gaze to her. Whatever is the matter?
Her skin has turned to a dreadful pallor.
The artist sets aside his tools and goes to her. He asks whether she is sickening, and she does not deny it. Should he send back to the hospital for a physician?
She refuses. It is true that Laura has the urge to cry, but she does not want to shed tears on anything that does not belong to her, least of all the precious book of hours. She
Similar Books
