What Remains of the Fair Simonetta

PRAISE FOR LAURA T EMERY

Disposition of Remains

BOOK ONE IN THE REMAINS SERIES

Emery’s debut novel draws readers into a story of cancer, desperation, and wild hope…Emery is a rare author who infuses her characters and settings with just the right amount of detail to make them realistic while still moving the plot along at a lively clip…An engaging novel about a woman making her final exit on her own terms. —
Kirkus Reviews

An engaging, unique story…Ms. Emery dishes up satisfying portions of history along with cultural and geographical information, all woven together in one woman's journey to find herself, and to find meaning in her existence. A wonderful tapestry of story and interesting facts. —
Emerald Lavere
, Author of
The Wikomsette Series

A great read from a new writer…Laura T. Emery writes with clarity and beauty. Her strong female characters drive this wonderful story of art, romance and tragedy. —
James J. Houts
, Award Winning Author of
The Stock Market Flea Series
, and
Carnival of Cannibals

This is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or living persons, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2015 by Laura T Emery

All rights Reserved

What Remains

of the

Fair Simonetta

A Novel by

Laura T Emery

Chapter 1

When I awakened, I was cold and pale as a ghost, which was fitting, I suppose. I raised my arm in front of my face and recognized that my skin was not only pale, but youthful and plump—a stark contrast to the last memories I had of my dark and somewhat wrinkled complexion. And I could lift my arm.
I had an arm!
Two of them, as a matter of fact. It had been so long since I’d occupied an actual corporeal body that it felt completely foreign to me.

As I stared up from the hard mattress my newly acquired body was sprawled upon, I couldn’t help but admire the ornate ceiling above me. The golden, intricately carved moldings formed octagons, interspersed with diamonds that mingled harmoniously with the blood-red velvet that filled each shape. Every section of red fabric contained an ornamental carving in the figure of a fairytale flower dotted with nymphs and Cupids in place of honeybees. The beauty and detail of the ceiling were reminiscent of a Renaissance Palace; nothing like the Gothic, vaulted ceiling of the Ognissanti where so many years of my years had been spent.

As I continued to study the magnificent ceiling above, I sensed the soft sheets below me. It had been so long since I’d
felt
anything—eleven years to be exact. Eleven years since I said goodbye to my loved ones in Ash Fork, Arizona. Eleven years since Wilbur, the love of my life, and my son, Sandro, had brought my remains to Italy. They put my urn in the care of Sister Josephine, where my ashes spent night after night basking in the last shred of light peeking in through the vaulted windows of the Church of Ognissanti in Florence.

The four post bed, where I lay, was situated in the center of the room, the walls of which were decorated with vibrantly colored frescoes of mythological creatures who danced around me. Never had I seen those particular frescoes before, but their style was all too familiar—the beautiful faces, the lines, the colors. For a moment I thought I’d crossed over into Heaven. But I wasn’t in Heaven, and it wasn’t a dream. I wasn’t capable of dreaming anymore. Nor did I sleep. But I had awakened from something, and eloped from my realm. Somehow, I had left the Ognissanti and hijacked a young girl’s body.
But how? And why?

I relished the feel of the nightgown, how it slid easily over my soft, young skin. But before I had sufficient time to take in my surroundings and savor my new, youthful shell, I was startled out of my reverie by an impatient knock at the door.

“Who is it?” I asked in Italian. It just flew out of my mouth that way. English had been my primary language, but I spent so many years conversing with Mariano in the  Romance language—because he’d stubbornly refused to learn the “radical” English language—that I started to think in Italian, or as Mariano called it, the “Tuscan dialect.”

To my pleasant surprise, the young, female voice on the other side of the door replied, “
è Antonella, mia signora
.”

Who is Antonella? And why is she referring to me as her “lady?”
In my life I’d been a hard-working woman, hardly qualifying for “lady” status.

The door to the room suddenly burst open, and the young girl marched in, sized me up, then firmly placed her hands on her hips.

“You may be the greatest beauty in all of Florence, but how will anyone remember if you do not get out of bed, my lady?” Antonella chuckled. Her simple brown and white gown was antiquated and unfashionable. She had a cute, round, slightly freckled face, with dark hair that was mostly tucked into some kind of weird, white skull-cap thing. The whole ensemble screamed servant.
But servant to me?

“Where am I?” I asked as though it were a reasonable question.

“Our escapades last evening have clearly left you disoriented,” Antonella grinned.

I smiled and nodded, not daring to ask what she meant for fear of drawing attention to the fact that I’d become an unwitting invader of “her lady’s” body.

“We are at the
palazzo
on Via Nuova, and you must get up immediately! Have you forgotten you must sit today?”

“
Sit?
”

I’m not sure if forgotten is the correct term.

Antonella then ripped the soft, warm covers from my body. I looked down for a moment and observed a blonde tangle of Rapunzel-like hair surrounding me. I felt my way up the long locks and realized that they were attached to my new head.

“I need a mirror!” I demanded more forcefully than I had intended.

“Mir-ror?” Antonella repeated clumsily.

“Something to look at myself.”

“Ahh, the looking glass. The gift Giuliano gave to you? The one you scoffed at, and demanded I put away?”

I was in some kind of alternate universe where I’d become a vampire, or a superstitious weirdo who refused to have a mirror.
Nonetheless, I was determined to get a gander.

“Uh…yes, that one,” I mumbled as I cringed in embarrassment, wondering who in the hell Giuliano was.

“It is still in your sitting room. Too heavy for me to lift, I am afraid.”

I was amazed as I sat up and swung my ridiculous new gazelle legs to the side of the bed—such a simple endeavor that most would never have given a second thought, and yet for me, it was a miracle.

When my feet touched the cool, marble floor I realized that my new body was quite a bit taller than my old form had been. I’d once been a waifish creature, and suddenly I was a statuesque blonde who tripped on my new legs as though I were a newly born colt, fearing oxygen deprivation from the new altitude.

“Did you indulge after we parted last night?” Antonella queried.

“Yes…I mean, no. I’m just tired.”

Apparently fearing I was hung-over, Antonella grabbed me by the arm and led me to
my
sitting room. I remembered reading once about how wealthy kids in Florence didn’t like growing up in antiquated
palazzi
, because to keep them authentic, they lacked many modern-day amenities. I, contrarily, thought every inch of this magical place was nothing short of divine. I had asked for my urn to be left in Florence because I loved Renaissance art, architecture, and history as much as life itself.

The walls of the sitting room were blanketed with paintings, all of which were of virtually equal rectangular shapes. The paintings were predominantly portraits of people I vaguely recognized; ghosts of a time long before my own.

Antonella approached a painting of a young, round-faced man, with full cheeks and lips, and a somewhat silly looking feathered hat. As she slid her fingers alongside it, I noticed that the other side was hinged, and then Antonella swung the door open, revealing a storage space where the “looking glass” resided. When Antonella tried and failed to lift the deceptively heavy mirror, I rushed to grab the other end. It was oval in shape, delicately decorated around the glass with curled pieces of silver metal. We turned it around, and propped it at an angle against the wall.

I gasped as I looked down, my youthful countenance now in full view of the reflective surface. The antique mirror lacked the clarity of a modern, factory-manufactured one, but it was clear enough to recognize the face that stared back at me. My reflection had thick, flaxen hair that was impossibly long, with just enough wave to make even a Hollywood starlet envious. My large eyes were the lightest of blue, with amber flecks of the same color as my hair, and perfectly manicured eyebrows rising high above them. My new, soft, pale complexion was milky and smooth and lacked any freckles or moles or other imperfections. My nose, cheeks, and chin were as if they were delicately sculpted by the best of plastic surgeons.

I instantly pulled my nightgown over my head and cast it aside to examine the rest of the package. My swan-like neck rose over a slender, delicate frame covered in untoned, soft flesh. To my initial disappointment, my breasts were not much larger than they had been in my life, but I felt the need to run my hands all over them anyway. My breasts, along with every other part of my newfound earthly body, were miracles and I intended to bask in every intimate detail.

Antonella just stared.

“I have yet to see a dull moment in your company, my lady.”

Just then, I noticed the
Medaglia Miracolosa
, or Miraculous Medal—the only thing I was wearing. The same medal I’d worn in life, and had also adorned my urn in death, was draped from my slender neck. It had always dangled from a silver chain, but now it hung from a thin, black cord. I fondled it for a moment; the thing I treasured for so many years.

To the right of the mirror was a window overlooking the presumed Via Nuova. The usual Florence traffic was replaced by a lonely man wearing a gray tattered tunic and tights, who plodded down the cobblestone street pulling a two-wheel cart stacked with vegetables. This only confirmed what I had already suspected. I wasn’t in a restored Renaissance palace. I was in a newly built one. The mirror was not an antique, but the best that Giuliano, whoever he was, had to offer.

The pieces started to interlock, and the surreal situation began to make some minute sense. I hadn’t desired to be young again. I certainly never aspired to wake up from my death in a Renaissance palace as a great beauty. And despite whatever benefits I may have lost in life by being a dark-skinned woman, I hadn’t longed to be white. But I had wished for one thing in my life; a desire I never thought would come true. For very different reasons than one might imagine, I’d longed to become Simonetta Vespucci.

Chapter 2

I am the greatest beauty in Renaissance Florence.
The teenage Simonetta Cattaneo Vespucci arrived in Florence in the late 1400s from Genoa, and immediately caused a stir amongst the denizens of the city-state. Before long, every nobleman and peasant in Florence became entranced by her extraordinary beauty.

Simonetta would’ve been a modern-day supermodel, but there were no
Vogue
or
Glamour
magazines in which to feature her in her time. Instead, sonnets were written to and about her, and painters clamored to capture her beauty on panel, canvas, and frescoes, to enthrall mere mortals for all eternity. Chief among them was the master, my favorite painter, Sandro Botticelli.

I had the miraculous fortune of becoming Simonetta. I’d joked in life about the notion of boarding a reincarnation time machine to Renaissance Italy, but had no memory of actually embarking on such a fantastical journey.

Mariano must have done this. But how?

Despite the numerous souls that inhabit the Ognissanti, Mariano was the only one I could really talk with in our ghostly realm, but it wasn’t always that way. Mariano had spent the better part of six centuries alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. At first, he was put off by my presence. I was a foreigner to him in every sense of the word. Not only was I an American, I was a half-Native American. I was a woman. A woman from a different era—a progressive era he didn’t understand. Because of my Native American heritage, I wasn’t surprised that I hadn’t crossed over into the great beyond, but I didn’t expect to be judged in the afterlife by a crabby old Renaissance tanner. But slowly, we learned to tolerate each other, and on
his
terms, eventually accept and even enjoy one another.

Everyone else interred at the Ognissanti was quiet except Mariano and me. He felt their silence meant the other souls, buried under the marble floor, were at peace. Other than having a strong desire in life to have a presence in death, as my family had, I couldn’t figure out why I was still lurking about. My Havasupai family all communicated with their fleshly descendants through dreams when the need arose, but my immediate, living family didn’t need me anymore—of this I had recently become very certain.

I always felt I was at peace; all the questions of my life had been answered, all the problems resolved, but Mariano insisted there was something I still needed to do. The truth was, even though I had no regrets, the longer I hung around, the more restless I became and the more I wished to go back and do it again. Not do it differently, just more. I’d appreciated and enjoyed my life greater than most. I clearly saw life for the gift it was, and had treasured every moment.

Mariano, however, had one regret…

He was born in 1394 as Mariano di Vanni dei Filipepi. He and his wife, Smeralda, had four sons—three planned, and one not-so-planned. Both Mariano and I had accidental late-in-life babies. I could fully relate to Mariano in this regard, although for me it seemed it was a much more joyous occasion than it was for him.

Most said Mariano’s youngest son was so sickly because of his parents advanced age at his conception. Mariano was fifty-two and Smeralda forty, which was disturbing to their Florentine contemporaries. Their scrawny, unhealthy son, at the age of thirteen, was barred from doing anything other than setting jewels. This should’ve been an age old enough for him to seek a better occupation, so Mariano could finally retire. But Mariano was relieved when, a few years later, his youngest was at last well enough to apprentice to a goldsmith.

Mariano was a working class
galigaio
, or tanner of hides. He made it a point to only converse with the upper class so his sons could marry well and have noble professions. Otherwise, he steered clear of those who didn’t work hard for a living. His sons did what was expected of them with the exception of his youngest, Alessandro. He had no desire to become a goldsmith, as his father insisted. Alessandro neglected his studies in reading, scribing, and accounting, so he might spend his time drawing pictures, morning, noon and night—thereby irritating his father to the brink of insanity.

From the beginning, Mariano had trouble relating to Alessandro. He was
so
much younger, so awkward and weak, and frankly, just plain weird. Alessandro never married, and outwardly rejected what should’ve been his societal role. Even though he did achieve a certain level of success in his life, Mariano never fully understood him, nor did he appreciate him. He never told Alessandro how much he loved him. But the truth is, Mariano did
love him. And I loved him from afar through hearing Mariano’s memories. But the truth is, I loved his son long before I ever became acquainted with Mariano. I loved him so much, I asked to reside with him for all eternity. I even named my own son after him. For Mariano’s son, Alessandro Filipepi, is known to me and the rest of the world as the great painter, Sandro Botticelli.