at the use of my Christian name. “So who are they?”
“At one of them I can guess,” he said. “For here on the left is a face once seen and never forgotten. I saw her, long ago, when my cousin and I went to Florence with my uncle, God rest his soul. We were to attend a tournament given in honor of Giuliano de’ Medici, Lorenzo the Magnificent’s unfortunate brother.”
(You remember, he was the one carved up by the Pazzi family in the cathedral.)
“She was there, watching from the loge, looking like Guinevere.”
“Like who?”
“Never mind.” He was lost in his reverie. “She was as beautiful as the day. She was Giuliano’s mistress, Simonetta Cattaneo.”
I jolted. “The ‘pearl of Genoa’?”
Now he started in turn. “You have heard her called so?”
I laughed. “All the time. It was Bembo’s sales pitch when he was hawking his pearls. ‘There you are, my lady,’ I mimicked my dead client, ‘there’s only one pearl more beautiful, and that is Simonetta Cattaneo, the pearl of Genoa.’ I remember it well, for when she died of the consumption he was quite put out, for he had to think of a new slogan.”
I smiled at the oddities of my old lover’s ways, but then looked up, fearing Brother Guido would disapprove of such callousness. But he was too excited to note it, if indeed he had even heard.
“It all makes sense! I thought at first that they were wearing white because they were—virgins . . .” He choked on the word. “I mean that in the vestal sense”—I shrugged—“but now I think they are deceased. You were right about the angel wing. The right-hand Grace and the left-hand Grace were real women, who are now dead.”
“All right,” I said. “So we know that the left-hand Grace is Genoa, as she is a portrait, we think, of Simonetta Cattaneo.”
“I’m sure of it, now I have studied the face.”
“And look! She wears a pearl above her forehead! There could be no clearer sign!”
“Indeed. I have never seen a larger. ‘Tis settled.”
I thought of flashing him my midriff, but did not think I should upset our current amity.
“Well,” I went on, “if she is Genoa, and we are definitely heading for Naples, then she’s the last figure of all, not the next.”
“Precisely. So we know where the hunt ends, at least.”
I could not bear to think, for the moment, of the journey that stretched ahead, all the way to alien Genoa, at the other end of our great peninsula. “We know a little of the figure of Genoa, then,” I continued, “but absolutely bugger all about Naples, which is where we’re about to wash ashore.”
“You’re right,” Brother Guido agreed, visibly descending from our recent triumph. “Let us concentrate on ‘Naples.’ To recapitulate: she is dead; she wears a pendant on her rope of hair. She is very fair.”
I shrugged. “She’s all right”
He smiled. “You might even say the fairest of them all.”
Now I was getting annoyed. “That miserable milk-skinned moppet? Are you blind?” Any fool could see I was much better looking.
“You misunderstand me. I merely meant, she is very fair-skinned.” Brother Guido ceased his teasing. “More so than the other maids.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” I cursed my lack of poise. “And much blonder too.”
“So, in summary, our clue would be a blond, white-skinned maiden, dead, who is connected to Naples. Hmm.”
For once, Brother Guido looked flummoxed and began to rub his neck again. He looked so crestfallen that I attempted to cheer him. “Isn’t this where you gallop in with your book learning?”
But even this fail-safe did not seem to lift his spirits. He gave half a smile. “I’m not sure it would be of much benefit in this case. Your own observations, taken from the Primavera itself, are worth far more.”
‘Twas a great compliment, one that should be repaid. “But I’d like to hear.”
He settled to his elbow, stretched out like a Roman senator, and I did likewise. The sun was lowering, and I settled down as if I were a child hearing a tale at bedtime. “The three Graces are a well-known classical theme of antique texts, identified by Horace, Hesiod, and Seneca as Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Thalia. They were three sisters who signify mutual benefit, for one sister gives, the second receives, and the third returns the favor.”
“Then,” I interrupted, “it seems that the idea of an alliance is not such a stupid one. Otherwise why is this fleet of ships—the Muda, as I suppose we must call