10

Short, stout, his voice graceless, Giovanni Boldini has chosen a small, secluded drawing room with pale-colored walls and

an oblique light to illuminate the amber skin of the lady of the house. A luminosity full of green and spring, warm like the

air flowing in through the half-closed shutter of that turbulent March. Around them, dark damask armchairs; on the floor,

a huge Persian rug. Franca's friends follow her, chatting and deciding where to sit, while she informs the servant woman that

she is not to be disturbed. The door closes. The painter, who has already prepared the base on the canvas, studies her for

a few seconds, his hands joined on his chest.

"I swear you're a vision, Donna Franca." He has a hint of a French accent—he has been living in Paris for thirty years.

She smiles, but only with her eyes. "I didn't consult you about the dress. Are you happy with it?"

She opens her arms to be admired, but the painter stops her. "Almost..." He takes her by the wrist, as though to lead her

in a dance. "We need a little more light." He steps back, hands on his hips. Franca tries to imagine how he sees her; then

she senses it and that makes her feel uneasy.

Stefanina approaches. "Another necklace?"

Boldini nods, practically skipping. "Yes, something to highlight her neckline... a brooch or a pendant."

Franca puts her hand on her friend's shoulder. "Remember the gold bangles I bought in Istanbul? Grab those, please. And the

orchid-shaped diamond and platinum brooch, the one Ignazio gave me on our first wedding anniversary."

Stefanina vanishes behind the door, while the other women seat themselves in the armchairs. Boldini is thinking, conducting

Franca around the room, searching for the best light. He lifts the pearls to her face, drops them again, wraps them around

her, then lets them go, all the while muttering in a blend of Ferrarese and French. She herself is so slim and beautiful,

it's almost comical to see this small man next to her.

"Mmm... it's really hard to find the right angle for you. You're so..." He makes a gesture that could be vulgar, but

he manages to spin it as appreciative. Stefanina returns with the jewels and Franca puts them on. No, the bangles aren't suitable:

the sleeve of the dress covers them. The brooch is better and gives even more light to the velvet drapery patterns.

Boldini goes to the large canvas. The portrait will be true to life and Franca will appear as tall as she stands now. He slides his glasses to the tip of his nose and starts to sketch the outline of her figure, but stops, mid-stroke, when he reaches the line of her shoulders. He looks at Francesca. "Excuse me, Signora... Could you lend Donna Franca your shawl?"

"My... Oh, yes, of course, here it is."

Laughing, Francesca hands her shawl to Franca, who doesn't know what to do with it, prompting a giggle.

Concentrating, Boldini asks her to position it around her body, so that the white fabric may light up her bare shoulders.

Her black hair glistens in the spring light as she plays with the shawl, draping it around herself.

Then she turns her head to catch a remark from Giulia. That's when the painter stops her. "Like this! Stay still like this!"

he commands, his eyes wide. He climbs onto a platform he uses when he paints, and sketches long, intense strokes, trying to

capture the light.

Franca obeys. Taken by surprise, engrossed, her lips half open, her hip thrust forward in a sensual motion that ripples from

her arm, like a wave.

She doesn't know that at this moment a painting is being created that will turn her into a legend.