Gabriel's Rapture

His voice caught, so he took a moment to sip some water before continuing. Something about the comparison between Julia and Eve made him feel vulnerable, naked, hearkening back to the night he’d given her an apple and held her in his arms under the stars.



The audience began murmuring, wondering why a polite pause to take a drink had extended into a break. Gabriel’s color deepened as he raised his eyes to look at his beloved once again, desperate for her understanding.



Her ruby lips parted into an encouraging smile. Instantly, Gabriel exhaled.



“Botticelli’s muse is a saint, a lover, and a friend, not a cardboard cut-out of a woman or an adolescent fantasy. She is real, she is complicated, and she is endlessly fascinating. A woman to worship.



“As I’m sure you’re aware, the preciseness of the Greek language allows one to speak more perspicuously about the different kinds of love. A modern treatment of this discussion can be found in C.S. Lewis’s The Four Loves, if you’re interested.”



He cleared his throat and smiled winningly at the room.



“Finally, consider the painting to my left, Primavera. One might expect to see the face of Botticelli’s muse reflected in the central figure in the painting. But consider the face of Flora, on the right. Once again, she bears a similarity to Beatrice, Venus, and the Madonna.



“Surprisingly, Flora appears twice in the painting. As we move from the center of the painting to the right, you see Flora pregnant, swollen with Zephyr’s child. Zephyr is on the far right, hovering amongst the orange trees with the second depiction of Flora, as a virgin nymph. Her expression is marked with fear. She’s fleeing the arms of her prospective lover and gazing back at him in panic. However, when she’s pregnant, her countenance is serene. Her fear is replaced by contentment.”



Julia flushed as she remembered how kind Gabriel had been to her the night before. He’d been tender and gentle, and in his arms she’d felt worshipped. Remembering the myth of Flora and Zephyr she shuddered, wishing that all lovers would be as tender with their virgin partners as Gabriel had been.



“Flora represents the consummation of physical love and motherhood. She is the ideal of storge, or familial love, the kind of love manifested from a mother to her child, and between lovers who share a commitment that is not based solely on sex or pleasure, but is between married partners.”



No one but Julia noticed the white knuckling as he held the edge of the podium with two hands. No one but Julia noticed the slight tremor in his voice as he pronounced the words pregnant and motherhood.



His eyebrows furrowed as he collected himself, shuffling his papers for a moment. Julia recognized his vulnerability for what it was, fighting the urge to go to him and embrace him. She began tapping one of her tangerine colored stiletto heels in anticipation.



Gabriel caught her sudden movement and swallowed hard before continuing. “In early writings on Primavera, Flora was asserted to be the likeness of La Bella Simonetta, Botticelli’s muse. If that is true, just on visual inspection alone, we can assert that Simonetta is the inspiration for Beatrice, Venus, and the Madonna, for all four ladies share the same face.



“Thus, we have the icons of agape, eros, philia, and storge all represented by a single face, a single woman—Simonetta. To put this another way, one could argue that Botticelli sees in his beloved muse all four types of love and all four ideals of womanhood: saint, lover, friend, and spouse.



“In the end, however, I must return to where we began, with Beatrice. It is no accident that the inspiration behind one of Italy’s best-known literary works was given Simonetta’s features. Faced with such beauty, such goodness, what man wouldn’t want her by his side not just for a season, but for a lifetime?”



He gazed around the room gravely.



“To quote the Poet, now your blessedness appears. Thank you.”



As Gabriel ended his lecture to enthusiastic applause, Julia blinked back tears, overcome with emotion.



Dottore Vitali retook the podium, extending his thanks to Professor Emerson for an illuminating discussion. A small group of local politicians presented him with several gifts, including a medallion depicting the city of Florence.



Julia remained in her seat for as long as possible, hoping that Gabriel would come to her. But he was deluged with members of the audience, including several officious art historians.



(For it was considered brash if not egotistical for a mere literature professor to analyze the crown jewels of the Uffizi’s collection.)



Reluctantly, she trailed behind him as several members of the media plied him with questions. She caught his eye, and he gave her a tight, apologetic smile before posing for pictures.



Frustrated, she wandered around some of the adjoining rooms, admiring the paintings until she arrived at one of her favorites, Leonardo da Vinci’s Annunciation. She was standing close, too close really, noting the detail in the marble pillar, when a voice sounded in her ear in Italian.



“You like this painting?”



Julia looked up into the eyes of a man with black hair and very tanned skin. He was taller than her, but not overly, and was of a muscular build. He wore a very expensive black suit, with a single red rose pinned to his lapel. She recognized him as one of the guests who sat behind her during the lecture.



“Yes, very much,” she responded in Italian.



“I have always admired the depth that da Vinci gives to his paintings, particularly the shading and detail on the pillar.”



She smiled and turned back to the painting. “That’s exactly what I was studying, along with the feathers on the angel’s wings. They’re incredible.”



The gentleman bowed. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Giuseppe Pacciani.”



Julia hesitated, for she recognized his last name. He shared it with the man suspected of being Florence’s most famous serial killer.



The man appeared to be waiting for her to respond to his greeting, so she suppressed the urge to run.



“Julia Mitchell.” She extended her hand in a polite gesture, but he took her by surprise when he grasped it between both of his hands and drew it to his lips, looking up at her as he kissed it.



“Enchanted. And may I say that your beauty rivals that of La Bella Simonetta. Especially in light of this evening’s lecture.”



Julia averted her eyes and swiftly removed her hand.



“Allow me to provide you with a drink.” He quickly flagged down a waiter and took two champagne flutes from his tray. He clinked their glasses together and toasted their health.



Julia sipped the Ferrari spumante gratefully, as it gave her a distraction from his intense stare. He was charming, but she was wary of him, not least because of his name.



He smiled at her hungrily.



“I am a professor of literature at the university. And you?”



“I study Dante.”



“Ah, il Poeta. My specialization is Dante, also. Where do you study? Not here.” His eyes wandered from her face to her body to her shoes, before traveling to her face again.



She took a generous step back. “At the University of Toronto.”



“Ah! A Canadian. One of my former students is studying there right now. Perhaps you are acquainted.” He stepped closer.



Julia elected not to correct him about her citizenship and stepped back once again. “Toronto is a large university. Probably not.”



Giuseppe smiled, showing very straight white teeth that glinted strangely in the museum light.



“Have you seen Piero di Cosimo’s Perseus Frees Andromeda?” He gestured to one of the adjacent paintings.



Julia nodded. “Yes.”



“There are Flemish elements in his work, do you see? Also, notice the figures standing in the crowd.” He gestured to a grouping on the right side of the painting.



Julia stepped to one side so she could take a better look. Giuseppe stood beside her, a good deal too close, watching her study the painting.



“Do you like it?”



“Yes, but I prefer Botticelli.” Stubbornly, she kept her eyes on the painting, hoping he would tire of standing closer to her and move away.



(Preferably across the Arno.)



“Are you a student of Professor Emerson’s?”



Julia swallowed noisily. “No. I—I study with someone else.”



“He is considered to be good by North American standards, which is why he was invited here. However, his lecture was an embarrassment. How did you come to discover Dante?”



Julia was about to argue with Giuseppe about his characterization of the lecture, when he reached out to touch her hair.



She flinched and immediately retreated, but his arms were long and his hand followed her. She opened her mouth to reprove him when someone growled nearby.



Giuseppe and Julia turned their heads slowly to see Gabriel, sapphire eyes flashing, hands on hips, flaring out his open suit jacket like the plumes of an angry peacock.



He took a menacing step closer.



“I see you’ve met my fidanzata. I suggest you keep your hands to yourself, unless you’re prepared to lose them.”



Giuseppe scowled before his face smoothed out into a polite smile. “We’ve been speaking for several minutes. She never mentioned you.”



Julia didn’t wait for Gabriel to rip Giuseppe’s arms from his sockets, thus sullying the Uffizi’s pristine floors with his blood. Instead, she stood between the two men and placed a hand on Gabriel’s chest.



“Gabriel, this is Professor Pacciani. He’s also a Dante specialist.”



A look passed between the two men, and Julia realized that Pacciani was the man who’d rudely interrupted Gabriel’s lecture by muttering and coughing.



He lifted his hands in mock surrender.



“A thousand apologies. I should have realized from the way you looked at her during your…speech that she was yours. Forgive me, Simonetta.” His eyes moved to hers and rested there, his mouth parting in a sneer.



At the sound of his sarcasm, Gabriel took a step closer, his fists clenched.



“Darling, I need to find somewhere to put my glass.” Julia shook her empty champagne flute, hoping it would distract him.



Gabriel took the glass and handed it to Pacciani. “I’m sure you know where to put this.”



He grabbed Julia’s hand and quickly pulled her away. The guests parted like the Red Sea in front of them as they made their way through the Botticelli room.



Julia saw person after person stare at them and she blushed even more deeply.



“Where are we going?”



He led her into the adjoining tiled corridor and began walking toward the end of it, far beyond earshot of the other guests. Pushing her into a dark corner, he positioned her between two large marble statues perched high atop plinths. She was dwarfed by the towering forms.



He grabbed her purse and tossed it aside. The sound of the leather hitting the floor echoed down the corridor.



“What were you doing with him?” Gabriel’s eyes flamed, and his cheeks were slightly red, which for him was a rare occurrence.



“We were just making small talk before he—”



Gabriel pulled her into a searing kiss, one hand tangling in her hair and the other sliding down her dress. The force of the contact propelled her until she felt the cold wall of the Gallery against the naked skin of her upper back. His hard body aligned with hers forcefully.