Chapter 49 Chapter Forty-eight

That afternoon, when I was told of a visitor, the chapel was nearly half finished. We are very free here, so visitors are not uncommon, but very few people come to see me.Tommaso and Cristoforo have not been heard from, they seem to have disappeared from thin air.Sometimes I picture some fancy country house on the edge of the city, where two men who survived a brutal war live together until one of them dies first. I had him—because the messenger said the visitor was a man—take him to the study.I said I'd be there after I washed my brushes and my hands.I forgot that Protila was already there, sprawled over her desk, busily illustrating a newly transcribed copy of the Psalms.I opened the door, and I saw them sitting together at the table, basking in the sweet afternoon sun.

"Do you understand? This will make the lines better." He said and handed the pen back to her. She looked down for a moment. "Who did you say you were?" "An old friend of your mother's. Do you often illustrate the Bible?" She shrugged.Although she was well enough to talk to the young artist who taught us how to paint, she was still shy when it came to men. "I'm asking because you've done a great drawing, it's so good, I'm worried if it's going to distract people from the Bible." I heard my daughter click her tongue, which she had learned from Irilah to express frustration. "Ah, I don't see why you think that. The better the illustration, the more it brings the benefactor closer to Christ. Which is more pious to write the name of Jesus Christ, or draw his image beside it?" "

"I don't know. Is that a smart question?" "Of course it is. The man who said that was a clever painter. Maybe you haven't heard of him. His work is very fashionable now. His name is Leonardo da Vinci." He laughed, "Leonardo? Never heard of it. How do you know what this Leonardo is talking about?" She looked at him seriously, "We're not as isolated as we seem, and some news is more important than others. Where do you say you're from?" "He comes from Rome," I said, and passed through the shadow of the room into their sunshine, "passing Florence and a monastery by the sea, The exhaled moisture freezes in the nose."

He turned around and we looked at each other.I recognized him immediately, despite his stylish attire.He has become much stronger physically, and the shyness of his youth has long since disappeared.Now anyone can see that he is really handsome.Confidence is a dangerous thing: lack it and you will lose yourself, too much and you will invite other disasters. As for me, with my nun's cloak covered in paint and my face beaded with sweat from concentrating for so long, what did he think of this nun standing in front of him?I am still so ugly, still so like a giraffe.But I never try to dress up to please others.I have hands big enough to do a man's work, to paint, and sometimes to masturbate, to get that poetic pleasure that Ilila used to say.As a result, I myself changed from a girl to a woman unconsciously.

She looks at both of us.Now there are two pairs of cat's eyes in the room, I couldn't help laughing, and stroked her head gently. "Don't draw that, boy. It's sunny outside. Go out for a while, and paint what God has done in nature." "Oh, but I'm tired." "Then you can go lie in the sun and let the sun lighten the color of your hair." "Really! Is it possible?" Worried that I would change my mind, she packed up her things and left. We stood for a while in silence, half a lifetime apart. "She's good at drawing," he finally said, "You teach me well."

"No need to teach. She has a unique vision and steady hands." "Like her mother?" "It's more like her father. But he's dressed in bright clothes now, and I suspect that his first teacher may not recognize him anymore." He flipped his coat open, revealing the red lining. "You don't like it?" I shrugged. "I've seen better dyes in my father's workshop. But that's old, when painters cared more about their paint than the color of their clothes." He smiled a little, as if my vitriol pleased him, and closed his clothes again.

"How did you find us?" "It's not easy. I wrote many letters to your father, but he never answered. I went back to Florence three years ago, but there was no one in your house. I didn't know any of the servants, and they couldn't tell why. I was with the bishop one night this winter, and he boasted that a nun in one of his convents, with the help of his gifted daughter, painted the chapel herself." "I see, I'm glad Rome provided you with such a drinking companion, but I don't want that painter I knew before to degenerate to please Bishop Salvetti. However, as long as you get drunk, maybe you Can't even remember his name."

"I don't really remember his name. But I do remember how I felt when he mentioned the story," he said quietly, knowing that my sharp words were nothing more than a cover for what I felt. "I've been looking for you for a long time, Alexandra." I felt a rush of dryness and heat spread all over my body.Irilah was right: women never stop thinking about men.Missing leaves them vulnerable when they return. I shake my head. "It's like a lifetime ago. I bet we're both different now." "You look the same," he said softly. "Your fingers are still as dirty as ever."

I hid them away, as I used to do as a child. "You've learned to be glib now," my voice was still stern, "where's your shyness?" "My shyness?" He was silent for a while. "Some disappeared in the hellish life in the chapel, some were scared away in the Florentine prison, and the rest were locked away in me. When I was young, I met To a girl who dresses richly and speaks harsh words, but whose soul is far purer than those who wear holy garments." There is a power in his voice that evokes memories of the past in me.I sense something is tangled inside me, but it's been so long that I'm no longer sure what is joy and what is fear.

The monastery, once spacious enough to seem large enough to hold my entire life, suddenly seemed cramped when the door was closed.There is a picture of the "Nativity of the Virgin Mary" on my bed. For this picture, I made hundreds of sketches of our daughter, and then drew the chubby baby.I saw a smile on his face. "Did you draw her to church?" I shrugged. "It's just a sketch." "But they are very vivid. Like Girandayo's Nativity. The last time I was in Florence, I went to see that chapel again. Sometimes I think I couldn't draw a better picture than it. "

"Is that so?" I said. "That's not what our bishop says. He's always selling us the latest fads in Rome." He shook his head. "I'm not sure you'd like the art in Rome very much now. It's become a little... too much about the human body." "Man is as important as God," I said, remembering our late-night conversation with our learned nun. He walked past me to the window.Outside, a group of young nuns were crossing the cloister for vespers, their laughter mingling with the sound of the bells. We stood and looked at each other.There was so much to say, but it was becoming difficult to breathe, as if someone had lit a fire in the room and sucked the air between us. "You should know..." I stammered a little. "You should know that I have given myself to God now." Then I said firmly, "And he has forgiven my sins." He looks into my eyes, those cat eyes are serious now. "I know. God has given me peace too, Alexandra. But in those peace there is not a day when I am not thinking of you." He took a step towards me.I shook my head, contradicting his words.I live a peaceful and self-sufficient life by myself, and changing this life will bring pain. "I have a child and an altar to paint on," I squealed. "I don't have time to think about these things now." But even with my words, the old Alexandra came back to me.I sensed her surging desire like the head of a giant dragon, waking up from a peaceful sleep, sniffing the air, a burst of great power and flame passing through its lower abdomen.He also noticed it.We stood so close, his breath was right next to my ear.Although the road was full of dust, his taste was sweeter than I remembered.He took my hands and entangled my fingers with his.Our two filthy bodies form a palette.We always desire each other so strongly, even when we don't understand the sexuality of men and women.I made a last ditch. "I'm scared." The words blurted out. "My life has changed over the years and I'm scared now." "I know. I was scared at that time too, you forgot." He pulled me over, kissed me tenderly, pushed my lower lip away with his lower lip, and stuck his tongue in, teasing my lust.His kiss was so warm that I remember it years later, even though we were all pre-grown at the time... He stopped. "But now I'm not afraid," his smile lit our faces. "I can't tell you how long I've waited for this moment, Alexandra Sage." He took off my clothes slowly, carefully taking off my clothes layer by layer, and looked at me until finally he removed my underwear, and I stood in front of him naked.What worries me the most is my hair, which no longer hangs down my back like a river of black lava.With the turban removed, the short, disheveled hair stretched out like a weed, but he reached out to touch it, to play with it, as if it were still beautiful and would give him great joy. I've heard that some men like to fantasize about having sex with nuns.This is of course the gravest crime, for such adultery is rebellion against God.I think that alone is enough to put the heads of the lusty ones down; which is why they usually only dare to do so after they've gone mad from fighting or getting too drunk.But he was neither, he was madly gentle. He put his hands on my crotch, along the inside of my thighs, and slid his fingers into my pussy, fondling the folds of skin he found there.His eyes were as unscrupulous as his hands, watching me from beginning to end.Then he kissed me again and whenever he stopped, he called my name over and over again.He was so at ease throughout, it made me laugh, what makes someone who used to be so timid become so confident? "Since when have you become so sophisticated about these things?" "Since you let me go," he said softly, kissing me again, closing my eyes with his lips, "don't even think about it now," he whispered in my ear, "for once, let your lively Stop thinking." He lay on the bed with me and once again gently and precisely separated my vagina with his fingers, looking me in the eye as he did so.Seeing that I didn't respond, he used his fingertips to walk back and forth at the opening of the vagina, and gradually increased the strength, so a sweet and tingling pleasure began to rise in my body.That afternoon, he opened my eyes to something I had never imagined before: the uniqueness of sex and the beauty of desire.What I remember most is the feeling of his tongue kissing me, like a kitten, sticking out a little tongue quickly to lick the milk.Whenever I groaned, he always looked up and watched me tangled with him, his bright eyes beaming with laughter. It is said that in heaven, the light of God changes the nature of everything, so you can look through solid things to see what lies behind them.When the sun was dim and it was dusk, I could see through his body and see his soul.I felt at last, after so many years, the musical experience that Irilah had told me, the sweet sound of the vibrating strings. Because of his talent in painting, the dean allowed him to stay for a while.By night he taught me the art of the body, by day the Help me with the chapel work. When he was not with me, he accompanied Protila; under his tutelage, Protila made great progress in painting.His erudition aroused her curiosity, and I could see their growing closeness in art and conversation. The more time they spent together, the more I knew what to do with myself. Even without him, Protila would have left me sooner or later.I have always understood this fact.She has a bright future ahead of her, the walls of the convent simply cannot contain her, and I have nothing left to teach her.She was nearly fourteen, the age at which teenagers must find a teacher in order to develop their gifts.If ever there was a city that could house a young girl of genius, it is Rome today.I don't need to worry about the rest. I arranged for them to leave before the heat came.Of course, when I told her about it, she had nothing but loss and fear in her eyes.Thinking of how my mother's sternness had made me more rebellious, I decided to persuade her gently.All the reasons didn’t work, so I told her a story: There was once a young girl who longed to be able to paint so much that she made a big mistake in her life. to her own daughter.After hearing the story, she at least agreed to leave me.Looking back, she was a much more docile child than I used to be. Her trunks are full of my hopes and dreams, as well as my manuscripts tucked away in velvet.I don't need it now, and it's worth more than an elderly nun's entire possessions.He watched it carefully before I tied it up for the last time.I watched his fingers move along the lines in awe.I know he will take good care of it as I do, so that it will be mentioned in history one day.