A Little Off the Nose

Fiametta clenched the linen sheet draped around the painting. Where in God’s name was he, she thought – or rather, His Excellency? Out of the corner of her eye, Fiametta could just spot her manager, Signore Giulio, glancing at his pocket watch. Fifteen minutes after noon had come and gone. Though His Excellency had demanded that Fiametta complete the portrait in a bare two weeks, it seemed that Bishop Antonio Cipriani took a more leisurely view of his own time.

Fiametta sighed as her brown eyes wandered to the quadro riportato artwork overhead on the palace’s arched ceiling. The Palazzo Cipriani was among the most beautiful in Rome, owned by one of its most influential families. Late or not, His Excellency had greatly honored Giulio’s small workshop with a commission. If the bishop approved Fiametta’s finished piece – please God, let him be satisfied, she thought – it would join the ranks of dozens of masterpieces housed within the palace’s marble walls. Fiametta was breathless at the prospect of her portrait joining the likes of Caravaggio, Titian, and Poussin. So every ticking second on Giulio’s watch stung Fiametta like the pangs of purgatory.

The sharp squeal of a door sent a shudder down Fiametta’s spine. She and Giulio whipped around toward the gilt doorway they themselves had entered only a half hour prior. A young manservant, liveried with the bishop’s familial crest, strode towards the artists. He offered them a curt bow – quite sufficient for greeting commoners.

“Signore, Signorina,” he declared, “kindly follow me to His Excellency’s chambers.”

Fiametta and Giulio trailed the nameless servant through a wide corridor until he ushered them into a sitting room. The anxious pair hovered in the doorway as he announced their names to the man who Fiametta was now desperate to see. She snatched a breath as another servant appeared and pulled the painting from her sweating palms. At last, the first servant motioned her inside. 

After a deep curtsey, followed by a bow from Giulio, Fiametta spotted the portrait (still carefully veiled) on a large easel between her and an oaken dining table. But her eyes jerked towards the figure in voluminous purple robes seated at the table’s head, who now peered curiously back at her: Bishop Cipriani. For once, Fiametta held her tongue; it was incumbent on the Bishop, who vastly outranked her, to open the conversation.

“Signore Giulio, Signorina Fiametta,” the bishop began, “it is a pleasure to welcome you back to my home. I confess myself overeager to see my first portrait in these vestments!”

I’ll bet, Fiametta thought, for God only knows how much you paid in bribes for that purple cloth…

But Giulio’s sharp squeeze on her shoulder directed Fiametta to the easel. She drew her shoulders back before she reached for the linen covering.

“I trust that Your Excellency will be pleased with the final portrait,” she pronounced, on a paper-dry throat, before pulling the covering off of her work.

Fiametta held her breath as the linen slid to the floor. She fixed her eyes on the wall behind the bishop, waiting for a gasp, a hum, any utterance which might convey its – her – fate.

But the silence stretched, interminably, like the ticking of Giulio’s watch only moments before. Fiametta’s gaze dropped to her patron, who stared blankly at the portrait. Her palms broke out in sweat again as the bishop rubbed the stubble on his chin. Finally:

“Your approach is interesting,” he mused.

Fiametta’s jaw clenched. Though only twenty, she knew well enough that such a banal statement could be fortuitous – or calamitous.

“Interesting, Your Excellency?” she replied.

“Is that a smudge?” he snapped back at her, pointing to the upper right hand corner of the painting.

Fiametta quickly inspected the spot in question. “That is a cloud, Your Excellency.” Her eyes narrowed. “There are usually clouds in the sky, you see.”

“What are those?” he demanded, shoving his finger towards an archway surrounded by coral blossoms.

“Gladiolus, Your Excellency,” Fiametta explained, a bitter edge rising in her voice. “They symbolize integrity and strength, as Your Excellency requested.”

A low hum answered her. “But why are there deer? There, in the forest behind me!”

Fiametta glared at Giulio, who glanced back with a pained expression.

“Those are not deer, Your Excellency,” Fiametta explained. “They are stags – as Your Excellency requested.”

“Really?” the bishop asked. “They look too frail, if you ask me. You should make them more muscular!”

Fiametta’s jaw dropped.

“And my nose,” the bishop continued. “My nose is all wrong!”

Giulio gulped loudly as the bishop turned back to them.

“See, there,” the bishop pointed, “my nose shouldn’t be so bumpy. Make it flat.”

Fiametta’s front teeth dug into her tongue as she stared at the petulant man before her.

“My stomach, too,” the bishop continued, “you could perhaps tighten it a bit, while you’re at it.”

Fiametta opened her mouth to reply, but Giulio stepped forward to intervene. “Your Excellency,” he began smoothly, “the changes you are suggesting would require significant adjustments to the painting. If applied, they will increase the final cost considerably and take some time to...”

But Bishop Cipriani interrupted him with a raised hand. “You don’t think my belly is that large, do you?” he queried Giulio.

Fiametta stewed in her anger as Giulio wasted several more minutes debating the exact girth of the bishop’s belly, then explaining “materials cost” and “artistic license” to the discontented papal prince.  

“I can’t believe we’re arguing over this,” she hissed under her ragged breath. Without another thought, she reached for Giulio’s arm.

“Your Excellency,” she said warmly, “please rest assured! I will be glad to apply all of your recommendations. We will return with the final product in a few days. It will be no trouble at all to complete the commission to your utmost satisfaction.”

At once, the heavy frown flipped into a broad smile. “Splendid!” the bishop replied. “I will anxiously await your revisions, in that case. A blessed afternoon to you both.”

Fiametta curtsied as Giulio gave an astonished, bumbling bow before she dragged him by his shoulder toward the door behind them. As they strode out of the palazzo, painting in hand, Giulio leaned toward Fiametta.

“How will you do it so fast?” he whispered. “What he suggested would mean practically starting over!”

“Trust me,” she answered curtly, striding ever faster ahead of him.

“Trust you?” Giulio stammered. “How can you possibly…”

“Leave it to me,” Fiametta spat at him. “Make no mistake – His Excellency will be delighted with the final product!”

***

Like clockwork, Fiametta and Giulio retraced their steps back to the Palazzo Cipriani only three days later. As they climbed the marble entry steps behind more liveried servants, Giulio glanced nervously at Fiametta’s iron expression. But she merely flipped her chin and stared straight ahead – refusing to allay his anxiety with a single reassuring word.

“You are quite sure His Excellency will be satisfied?” he finally whispered in her ear, desperate to gauge her reaction. “We desperately need the commission, Fiametta. If he refuses to pay…”

“I told you,” she answered firmly, “he will be delighted!”

Giulio gaped at her. “You’ve only had a few days. The man won’t pay for shoddy work!”

Fiametta grinned slyly. “Oh, he’ll pay.”

In moments, the pair – one smiling, one shaking – were ushered back into the elegant sitting room to face His Excellency. The bishop, once again, perched at the head of the massive wooden table – as if he had never left. But this time, Fiametta did not wait for him to speak.

“Your Excellency,” she began brightly, “we greatly appreciated your thoughtful comments on the original portrait. Bearing those in mind, I executed all of the changes which you recommended. I think that your suggestions have marvelously enhanced the overall quality! I have no doubt that you will concur.”

The bishop smiled and nodded warmly. Without further preamble, Fiametta pulled away the cloth.

At once, a cold sweat broke out on Giulio’s forehead. His eyes darted between Fiametta, the painting, and their patron – back and forth, to and fro, in absolute disbelief. Giulio stared at the portrait: the flowers, the stags, the nose, the stomach, in mounting horror.

Nothing was changed. Every detail was the same.

Giulio’s breath turned to rasps as his gaze shifted to Fiametta. She glanced blandly at him, before shooting a triumphant smile toward the transfixed bishop.

At last, His Excellency broke the tension with an extended “Ahhhhh…”

These were the sounds that Fiametta had waited days to hear. Her smile widened as Giulio swallowed sharply beside her.

“Indeed,” the bishop continued, “I completely agree! The adjustments are flawless, and a vast improvement, to be sure. And rendered so proficiently! You can hardly tell where the revisions are from the original, but the difference is night and day!”

Fiametta nodded graciously to the bishop. “We are most appreciative, Your Excellency,” she added. “Nothing is more important to our small establishment than the satisfaction of our generous patrons.”

She then turned her wide smile on Giulio, whose eyes bulged as he quickly composed himself.

“Indeed, Your Excellency,” Giulio chimed in, “we are always happy to undertake any effort needed to ensure our clients’ complete gratification.” He sealed the sentiment with a strained grin.

The glowing bishop clapped his hands as he stood up to examine the portrait more closely. “Indeed,” he replied, “I am most gratified, and delighted to accept the portrait. My servants will finalize the transaction, in full, and I will instruct them to include another dozen scudi over your earlier price as my thanks for your additional efforts.”

“Your Excellency is far too kind,” Fiametta replied silkily. “Truly, the effort was really no effort at all!”

“Nonsense,” the bishop answered. “It was clearly well-earned!” He took Fiametta’s hands in his. “You are wonderfully talented, my dear. Do not ever doubt your superb instincts.”

Fiametta laughed, and looked directly into the bishop’s eyes. “Indeed, Your Excellency. I never do, and I never will!”