Tony was striding alongside him, and I was almost running to keep up.
‘You can go up to the second floor and walk around freely, but the first floor is out of bounds for safety reasons,’ Marco said, pressing the button to call the lift and handing us both a map.
‘Where do we go to seeThe Birth of Venus?’ I asked, having visions of myself crawling through the air-conditioning unit to get to it, if it was on the first floor.
‘The Botticelli Room is on the second floor.’
The lift arrived with a loudtingand Tony waved me in ahead of him.
‘Enjoy yourselves,’ Marco said, with a smile.
‘Grazie, Marco,’ Tony said, patting him on the back again.
‘Grazie mille,’ I added, sick with excitement as the lift doors closed and we were catapulted upstairs.
‘You didn’t think to mention that Marco was the curator then?’ I asked, deadpan.
‘I don’t like to brag,’ Tony said, with a shrug. ‘I’m sure he can introduce you to the bin man if you’d feel more comfortable?’
‘Yes please, that would be great.’
‘I’ll speak to him about it.’
‘You do that.’
The lift stopped, the doors slid open, and we stepped out into the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was supposed to be a hallway, but it looked and felt like an old Italian palace, smooth marble floors, alabaster walls, and intricate frescos on each section of the ceiling. Paintings adorned every wall, but I couldn’t get distracted by Michelangelo, Raphael, or any of the other Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; I wanted to go directly to the Botticelli Room, without passing Go or collecting £200.
‘Can we go straight there?’ I asked, eyes shining. Tony nodded and we walked as fast as we could down the corridor. ‘It’s a shame we’re not wearing socks,’ I said, looking at the shiny floors. ‘We could have had a good skidding race along here.’
‘Maybe later,’ Tony murmured, as we reached the room. A huge space with several pieces of Botticelli’s work on the wall.Where was it? Where was it?
‘There.’ Tony nodded to the left. And there she was.The Birth of Venusin all her painted glory, sitting happily behind a thick layer of glass. No tomato-soup protesters getting to that one. The two of us stood in reverent silence, looking over every inch of it, drinking it in. She was smaller than I’d imagined. This angelic face had watched over me my whole life. Quietly observing me growing up; brushing my teeth in the shower before school, shaving my legs for the very first time, Sunday bathtime with oils and candles, my disgraceful, teenage drinking years and every single one of my hair colour disasters. No comment, no judgement. And the original painting had been hanging out in here the whole time.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ I said, taking a step closer.
‘It sure is,’ Tony replied. ‘Over five hundred years old and thousands of people still queue up to see it every single day.’
‘Art does funny things to people,’ I said, gazing at the details. It was incomparable to the photos I’d seen in books. I’d even done the virtual Uffizi tour online, so I thought I knew what to expect, but to see the real thing, up close and personal, was a totally different experience. The intricate etching on the thick gold frame, the way she hung there, so unassuming. Modest. Ethereal. Don’t mind me. Venus had been Botticelli’s muse, but she’d also been mine. Opening my mind up to the idea of art as a way of communicating with the world, and the next generation. The idea that artists, centuries before I’d ever existed, had got their paints and easels out, just as I had, and imagined what a goddess might look and feel like. That paintings were puzzles to be deciphered, with each different element a symbol for something else. Flowers for birth and love, shells for fertility. Every ingredient carrying its own unique message. I felt a sense of calm at finally meeting her in person.
‘Has she lived up to your expectations?’ Tony asked.
‘I think so.’ I nodded, still staring. ‘She’s an absolute beauty.’
‘Signor Botticelli at his best,’ he said.
‘It was a nickname, you know… Botticelli. His real name was Alessandro di Mariano di Vanni Filipepi.’
‘Not quite as punchy. Especially when you have to sign all your paintings by hand.’
‘Botticelli was his brother’s nickname… he passed it down.’
‘Small barrel,’ Tony said, frowning in thought. ‘That’s the translation.’
‘Yep. He had a bit of a belly apparently. Presumably his brother did too.’
‘I might adopt it myself,’ Tony said, slapping his washboard stomach.
I laughed. ‘I’m not sure it would work as well for you.’
