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I’ mi trovai, fanciulle, un bel mattino
di mezzo maggio in un verde giardino.
“Give it back to me, now!” cried Agnolo.
Lorenzo stood a few feet away, holding the hat he had just snitched from the poet’s head, a defiant smile painted on his lips. “Come and get it,” he replied.
Usually, Agnolo did not think too much about his physique. As much as members of the brigata liked to joke about his fragile constitution and his modest height, these characteristic did not bother him- after all, he had a great mind to make up for them. However, for once he wished that nature had been more generous in that regard. Had he been tall and strong, he would have been able to get his hat back and wipe that sardonic smile off Lorenzo’s face without any difficulty. Yet there he was, awkwardly standing on the tip of his toes, trying to recover his possession as Lorenzo held it above his head.
“For Heaven’s sake,” he breathed, “this is no longer funny.”
Lorenzo’s expression suddenly became serious. “You are right,” he said, “I am sorry. There you have it.” He lowered his arm, putting the hat within Agnolo’s reach… and then, just before the poet could grab it, he turned around and ran away.
“Bischero,” he screamed, “When I catch you…” Though it was more an if than a when. Although he tried his best to keep up with Lorenzo’s pace, soon the distance between the two was big enough that he could no longer see him. The surroundings certainly did not help: was he still pacing around the countryside, or had he hidden behind a tree, silently laughing as he observed his friend’s clumsy run?
Soon enough, Agnolo had to stop and catch his breath. His legs hurt, and his heart was pounding in his chest. Yet it did not have time to recover its normal rate. Just as it was starting to slow down, someone grabbed the poet from behind. And who could it be, but Lorenzo?
Taken by surprise, Agnolo let out a high-pitched scream and fell to the ground, dragging Lorenzo down with him.
“You’re cruel,” he protested, as the older man lay on top of him, immobilising both his arms with his strong hands.
“What can I say,” Lorenzo replied, “you look so adorable when you are irritated and helpless…” Then, he pressed a gentle kiss on the poet’s lips.
The agitation of the past minutes had been replaced by a pleasant peacefulness as they rested on the grass looking at the sky, wrapped in a soft embrace.
Then, Agnolo lifted his head from Lorenzo’s chest. Until that moment, he had been almost entirely unaware of his surroundings. Now, in a state of blissful relaxation, he finally allowed himself to gaze around. “It’s beautiful here,” he said, “look at all those flowers.”
Lorenzo grinned. “Getting sentimental as usual, eh?” he asked. However, his attention had been caught, and he had to recognise that Agnolo was right. Laid out for them to behold was a multitude of flowers of all shapes and colours. Shades of red, white, yellow, and violet shone amidst the grass, like many precious gems. It truly was a delight for the eyes.
“This looks like something Sandro would paint,” said Lorenzo, but Agnolo did not seem to notice. In fact, he no longer was by his side. By now, he had gotten up to take a closer look at the flowers. He wandered around, occasionally kneeling to examine, smell, and pick the varieties that he liked the most. When he returned to Lorenzo he was holding a lovely bouquet. “For you,” he said.
Lorenzo accepted the gift with the hint of a smile. Then, he started reciting, “Belle, fresche e purpuree viole,/ che quella candidissima man colse,/ qual pioggia o qual puro aer produr volse/ tanto più vaghi fior’ che far non suole?”
Agnolo playfully rolled his eyes. “Oh, you and your violets…”
“What’s wrong with them?” asked Lorenzo, “I always thought it was a very good composition.”
Agnolo nodded. “Probably one of your best poems. It almost resembles actual poetry.”
“And what exactly is actual poetry?”
“Well… my elegy, for instance.”
Lorenzo huffed. Of course he would say that- he always did. Agnolo loved him with all his heart and worshipped him like a god, yet there was one fact that he never lost sight of: he was the better poet of the two. He constantly stressed this basic truth, as if it were a necessary premise of their relationship. And maybe it was, for it bridged the distance that naturally existed between them. They were not equals: in all other matters, Lorenzo was Agnolo’s superior. Yet in the realm of letters, Agnolo could feel the control he lacked in real life. There, he could openly challenge Lorenzo, reminding him that, when he held a pen in his hand, he was in charge. Ironically, by putting his skill at the service of his patron and lover, he exercised a sort of dominance over him. When he wrote for him, he had the power to make choices, and Lorenzo had to temporarily relinquish his own power. Whenever he acted as Agnolo’s muse, he had to accept that he was nothing more than passive matter in the poet’s capable hands.
But this was not the case now. Lorenzo grabbed Agnolo’s arm, forcefully dragging him down to steal a passionate kiss from the poet’s proud mouth.
When their lips parted, he realised that he had dropped the bouquet. Some of the flowers that the poet had carefully put together now lay on his chest, while the rest was all around him.
“See?” he said, “All that effort for nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“They looked so beautiful until you decided to pick them. Soon they will be dead and dry.”
Agnolo looked at Lorenzo with a hint of disappointment. As much as he loved him, it always hurt a bit when his romantic gestures were met with the usual cynicism. “Well, they are not dry yet,” he returned, “And even when they will be, you could find some use for them. Maybe put them in a book of your terrible poetry.”
Quando la rosa ogni suo’ foglia spande,
quando è più bella, quando è più gradita,
allora è buona a mettere in ghirlande,
prima che sua bellezza sia fuggita:
sicché fanciulle, mentre è più fiorita,
cogliàn la bella rosa del giardino.