By the time he had reached the Mercato Vecchio, Giancarlo’s blood was no longer boiling and his heart rate had returned to normal. He knew his mother meant well, but it was still always frustrating to hear when she gives that lecture. He heard it twice last week alone. Throngs of people filled the open-air market this morning as vendors sold a wide array of merchandise. The pungent fish caught from the Arno that could make even the most stalwart nauseous was sold next to rugs made in the now Turkish Constantinople; freshly cut flowers of red and yellow were on display next to a stall full of little wooden dolls.
“CARNE! CARNE FRESCA!” The scruffy Bernardo Petrucci’s voice boomed across the stalls.
It seemed as if the entire town was in the market this morning, from mothers buying groceries for the day, thieves looking to make an easy profit, and workers looking to take a break from a hard morning at work. In the corner of the market, the aging Luca Strabanieri put on a marionette show for any child or adult that would care to watch. Giancarlo’s spirit was buoyed in this energetic atmosphere as he approached the fruit cart full of apples and lemons.
“Salute Lucrezia,” Giancarlo said to the busty, middle-aged fruit vendor. “How goes your morning?”
“Ah Giancarlo, you know that seeing your face always makes it better.” She said giggling like a schoolgirl. “Every day, an adonis with golden-brown locks greets me at my stall; what more can I possibly want?”
“Careful now, dear Lucrezia, what would your husband think if he heard those honeyed words,” Giancarlo said smirking.
She scoffed, “my husband has barely even looked at me for the past month. Why, he didn’t even blink in astonishment when I told him the news about those traitorous Pazzi; it’s like he wasn’t even listening to me! Too caught up working the orchards to pay any attention to me these days.”
“Well here’s hoping he starts again.”
“I’ll say,” she cackled. “For my sake and his” Lucrezia let loose another cackle, but Giancarlo sensed a hint of desperation in it. “So, Giancarlo, what will it be today? The usual?”
“Si ma donna. Two apples per favore.”
“Uh-uh,” she tisked. “You know I require payment first.”
“Anything in particular?” He asked.
“Surprise me,” Lucrezia smirked.
Giancarlo paused for a second to think, and then cleared his throat.
“A man is blind to see the potential,
The potential exceptional beauty.
In the dark, the cobwebs grow
And as the cobwebs grow, so does melancholy.
But someone comes to ignite the old flames,
For he does this for love and not for praise.
And then the two, in their immaculate gaze,
Well, the two can be lovers for days.”
“Oh Giancarlo,” Lucrezia swooned. “Where were you when I was still young? Hurry now and take those apples; for if you stick around, I cannot be liable for what will happen!”
Giancarlo chuckled as he grabbed the two golden apples from the stall and walked back into the crowd. “Arrivederci, ma donna Lucrezia.”
“Arrivederci Giancarlo, give my regards to Antonio,” she said with a sultry smile. Now it was Giancarlo’s turn to blush.
As he passed through the crowd, he found Antonio sitting on the bench, scribbling vigorously into his notebooks, pausing only to brush away the golden curls falling into his eyes. Giancarlo paused to admire the natural beauty of Antonio. The soft, effeminate features of his body clashed with his long thin nose and chiseled jaw. Antonio stopped scribbling and looked up from his notebook, staring intently at an object that Giancarlo could not see, his eyes filling with excitement, determination, and a glimmer of desire. For a brief second, a craving fell over Giancarlo, but it quickly dissipated as he walked towards him. Antonio was so caught up in his sketching that Giancarlo was able to easily sneak up on him.
“AH!” Giancarlo shouted while lunging for him.
Antonio jumped and let out a small cry. As he saw Giancarlo’s grinning face, he expressed a playful rage.
“Bastardo!” He said, slapping Giancarlo with his notebook. “You could have made me ruin my sketches!”
Giancarlo laughed and moved to sit down next to Antonio on the stone bench. He handed Antonio one of the apples and proceeded to take a bite out of the other. “And what exactly are you sketching out here?” He asked while still chewing the fruit. Giancarlo snatched the book from his hands and found intimate sketches of a male torso and arms.
“Do you remember my friend Leonardo?” Antonio said blushing, “well he said that I should go out to a public area and record what I see: he said that I should describe the tongue of a woodpecker, record the number of fish a fisherman catches, or watch how the meat seller’s chest heaves up and down while he belts out his goods.”
Giancarlo took a second look at the drawings. “Ah yes, your friend Leonardo, the one that associates with Jacopo Saltarelli?”
Antonio hit Giancarlo with his notebook again. “Not funny. But yes, that Leonardo. I think he’s on to something though; as I sit here, observing nature and the life around us, it makes you feel connected to the art you are creating.”
“That might be all well and good, but I’ll tell you there is nothing that makes you feel more connected to the art you are creating than sculpting,” Giancarlo said heartily.
“You are joking, no? Sculpting is the least refined of the high arts!”
“Least refined? How dare you say that!”
“A sculptor is covered in marble dust day and night! Just look at the studio! Your workspace is a mess and dirty with chips of stone littering the floor everywhere you walk! Whereas us fine painters, we apply delicate colors with a fine brush; there is hardly any mess that comes with it.”
“A painter is an artist who is afraid of nature. We may get dirty, yes, but we also mold nature into something beautiful.”
“And while you only mold nature, we capture nature and all of its beauty in a single, divine instant and preserve it for eternity.”
“You may have me beat there my friend,” Giancarlo conceded, “but you cannot argue with the superiority of poetry. Words can always-.”
He stopped in mid-sentence. Across the market, he spotted the most beautiful figure to have ever existed. A girl of sixteen stood next to a middle-aged woman. The sun cascaded down her soft face and her long brown hair as she stood elegantly, patiently waiting for her companion to purchase a loaf of bread. The purple dress that exposed part of her shoulders and the top of her chest contoured around her divine curves. At that moment, Giancarlo knew he had found his Beatrice, and, as she locked eyes with him for a brief second before she shyly looked away, his heart exploded with love.
Antonio tugged at his arm, bringing him back to reality. “Giancarlo,” He said, confused, “Is everything alright?”
“Huh,” Giancarlo responded groggily, his body still in a trance and unable to take his eyes off the girl.
“Words can always what?” Antonio asked. “What are you looking at?”
“Do you see her? Over there, by the bread stall.”
“Who?”
“Her! The one that is, that is beauty incarnate.”
“Beauty incarnate? The one with the purple dress? She is beautiful, yes, but what of it?”
“What of it?” Giancarlo asked incredulously. “She is all that is right and pure in this world and undoubtedly the most beautiful being that God has ever created.”
“Giancarlo, don’t you think you’re exaggerating a bit?” Antonio asked incredulously.
“No,” he whispered, “not at all.”
Header Picture: The Birth of Venus, Sandro Botticelli. 1486.