At last the wagon rolled to a stop. The young Devil’s voice instructed me to turn to the right. I heard movement, felt hands reaching for me; with their help, I climbed blindly from the wagon. He took my elbow, and urged me to move quickly, just short of a run; I lifted my skirts, fearful of tripping. Even with the unspun wool in my ears, even without sight, I sensed the change as we moved from the sunwarmed air inside, where the air was closer and cool.
Fingers gripped my arm, forced me to stop; my guide gave a low whistle. A pause, then the sound of a different whisper, low and muffled, unintelligible through the wool. A warm body stood before me, then turned. The Devil and I followed. We walked a short pace, then climbed a flight of stairs. I was made again to stop, and listened to the groan of heavy wood sliding against stone, as if a wall were being pushed aside. A faint breeze stirred as a door opened.
I was led at a more leisurely pace for a moment, over a floor gritty from a dusting of sand. I had passed by enough artists’ botteghe to recognize the pungent smells of boiling linseed oil and caustic lime. I was pressed to sit upon a low-backed chair. In a smug, cheery tone, the Devil addressed a third party, loud enough so that I could clearly distinguish each word.
“Ask and you shall receive.”
“Will you bring what I asked for?”
“If I must. After that, how long do I have to myself?”
“Give us no more than half an hour, to be safe.” The voice was masculine, soft. “Make sure we don’t run over the time.”
At the sound of the voice, I reached for the blindfold and pulled it up and off my head.
The Devil was already gone, his steps sounding in the corridor. The man standing over me, reaching for the piece of cloth at the same time I removed it, was clean-shaven, with softly waving shoulder-length hair streaked brown and iron, parted in the middle. He, too, wore the habit of a Servant of Mary.
For an instant, I failed to recognize him. Without the beard, his chin appeared sharply, unexpectedly pointed, his cheekbones and jaw more angular; the stubble that glinted in the diffused light was now mostly silver. He was still handsome; had his features been any more perfect—the eyes less deep-set, the bridge of the nose less prominent, the upper lip less stingy—he would have been merely pretty. Leonardo smiled gently at my confusion, which made the creases in the corners of his light gray eyes more noticeable.
I pulled the wool from my ears and said his name. Instinctively, I rose. The sight of him evoked memories of my Giuliano, of Lorenzo. I remembered his letter to Giuliano, advising him of the Duke of Milan’s intentions, and felt grateful. I wanted to embrace him as a dear friend, as a family member.
He felt the same. I saw it in his brilliant if uncertain smile, in his arms, which hung determinedly by his sides but tensed with the desire to rise, touch, enfold. Had he been able, he would have lifted his fingertips to my face and read the contours there. He loved me, and I did not understand why.
Behind him was a window covered by a piece of canvas, cut to the window’s precise dimensions, hung from a rod and attached to ropes which served as pulleys to raise or lower it. At the moment, the canvas was raised, revealing a thick layer of oiled paper—opaque enough to bar all scenery, translucent enough to permit yellow filtered light.
“Please sit,” he said, then gestured to a stool. “May I?” When I nodded, he pulled it across the stone and sat down in front of me.
Behind him stood an easel bearing a large wooden slate; I leaned forward and caught a glimpse of cream-colored paper folded over the top edge of the slate and pressed against the easel to hold it in place. To the left of the easel, a lamp burned on a small table bearing scattered pieces of charcoal and a small pile of downy chicken feathers. On the floor beside it was a basket of eggs, a stoppered bottle of oil, and a few crumpled, stained rags.
“Madonna Lisa,” he said warmly. The robe’s severe black emphasized the hollows of his cheeks. “It has been a long time.” Abruptly, an odd reserve overtook him. The smile faded; his tone grew more formal. “Please forgive the secrecy. It protects you as well as us. I hope Salai did not frighten you.”
Salai: Little Devil. The perfect nickname. I let go the briefest of laughs. “No. Not much.”
He brightened at my amused expression. “Gian Giacomo is his given name, but it hardly suits him. Incorrigible, that boy. He came to me as a street urchin; over the past several years, I have done my best to educate him. He has learned his letters, albeit badly, and makes a passable artist’s apprentice. Still, I despair, sometimes, of ever teaching him more civilized ways. But he is loyal to the death, and thus very useful.” His tone grew kindly. “You look well, Madonna. Motherhood suits you. Salai says you have a fine son.”
“Matteo, yes.” I bloomed.
“A good name. And is he healthy?”
“Very!” I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. “He eats all the time and wants more. And he is always moving, except when he sleeps. . . .”
“Does he take after you?”
“I think so. His eyes are blue now, like agates, but they’ll darken soon enough, I’m sure. And he has so much hair, so soft, with little curls—I take my finger, like so, at his crown, and make it all twist together in a big ringlet . . .” I faltered as I caught myself. Francesco’s eyes were icy blue, his hair quite straight. I had almost admitted that my son looked like his father—with curling hair, and eyes that would certainly be dark. I had been on the verge of describing the sweet dimple in his cheek—Giuliano’s dimple.
My tone cooled. “It seems you know a great deal about me and my husband,” I said. “Are you back in Florence? I thought you were at Ludovico’s court in Milan.”
His expression was indecipherable. “I am. But I have come to Florence for a little while, on holiday.”
“And you have brought me here, with all this secrecy, because . . . ?”
He did not answer because Salai arrived with a tray bearing wine, and cheese, and nuts. Leonardo rose and took it, then banished his assistant; he took the tray over to a long, narrow table that covered almost the entire expanse of the wall behind us. He had a good deal of difficulty making enough space to set it down.
I turned, thinking to offer help, and was so fascinated by what I saw that I rose and went over to investigate. On the table were levels and wooden slices with long, sharp edges; heaps of gray-white minever pelts, with holes where the hairs had been painstakingly plucked, one by one, were arranged in heaps next to a pair of scissors. There were piles, too, of feathers—the largest, darkest ones from vultures, the paler ones from geese, the smallest, most delicate from doves—and of translucent, wiry pig bristles. On the far end was a wooden bucket, streaked with lime and covered with a cloth; the floor beneath was speckled with plaster. Near it, in neat, careful rows, small, rolled pellets of color—white, black, yellow-tan, warm pink—lay drying on a cloth beside a large pestle and mortar, which held a few tiny nuggets of brilliant malachite. There was also a large slab of red stone which held a pile of dark yellow-brown powder, a palm-sized grinding stone, and a thin wooden spatula with a sharp edge. A number of paintbrushes were in various stages of construction: a vulture feather had been plucked, the tip cut away. A thick bunch of pig bristles had then been carefully inserted into the opening and tied firmly in place with waxed thread. There were a number of very slender spindle-shaped wooden sticks; one had been inserted into the barrel of the quill so that it could withstand the pressure of an artist’s hand.
“This is a painter’s studio,” I said to myself, delighted.
Leonardo had set the tray down and studied me, amused, as he poured wine into a goblet. “After a fashion; it’s only temporary. The one in Milan is much nicer. Go ahead, touch whatever you like. Please.”
I drew in a breath. I reached for a half-finished brush that wanted a handle. It was made from a dove’s stripped feather; the creator had carefully inserted white minever fur, strand by strand, into the cutaway quill, and trimmed the brush to an impossibly sharp
point. I touched the silky tip with my finger and smiled. It was an instrument for painting the finest detail: a single hair, an eyelash.
I set it down and pointed to the dried pellets. The colors were amazingly uniform. “And how are these made? And used?”
He set one goblet down and filled another; my questions pleased him. “You see the ocher there, on the porphyry?” He indicated the powder on the red stone slab. “The best ocher is found in the mountains. I found this in the forests outside of Milan. There, if you dig, you can find veins of white and ocher and sinoper of all shades, from black to a light reddish brown. The mineral is many times washed, then many times ground, until it’s brilliant and pure. Then it is worked up with linseed oil—or water, if one prefers—and dried. This particular black here isn’t sinoper, but from burned almond shells, which makes a very nice, workable color.”
“And this? Is this sinoper?” I pointed at a pink pellet.
“The cinabrese? It’s made from a mixture of lime white and the very lightest shade of sinoper. For painting flesh. When I’m ready to paint, I crush a bean with linseed oil, as much as I need.” He paused and gave me a strangely curious, shy glance. “I know we have many things to discuss, Madonna. But I had hoped . . .” He handed me a goblet of wine. I was too nervous to want it, but I accepted it out of courtesy, and took a sip so that he felt free to drink from his own glass. He took a token swallow and set it down. “I had hoped we might relax a bit before launching into difficult subjects. And I had hoped you might consent to sit for me, if only for a little while today.”
“Sit for you?”
“For your portrait.”
I let go a short laugh of disbelief. “What would be the point?” I challenged. “Lorenzo is dead. And Giuliano . . .” I didn’t finish.
“I would still like to complete the work.”
“Surely you are doing this for some reason other than a sense of obligation to dead men.”
He did not answer at once. He turned his face toward the viewless window, bathing his features, his hair, in the buttery glow. His eyes were clear as glass, almost colorless, filled with light. “I saw your mother,” he said.
He spoke so softly I was not sure I had heard aright. I jerked up my head. “What do you mean? You knew my mother?”
“I was acquainted with her. She and your . . . her husband, Ser Antonio, were often guests at the Medici palazzo in those days. Before she became infirm. I was never introduced to Ser Antonio—he was quite shy and often remained out in the garden, or speaking to the stablehands. But I sat twice beside your mother at banquets. And I spoke to her often at Carnival celebrations. Like you, she had a good eye for art. She appreciated it, understood it.”
“Yes.” I could not speak beyond a whisper. “So she was often at the Medici palazzo?”
He gave a slow nod. “Lorenzo was quite taken with her—as a friend. He showed her his collection, of course. He respected her opinion greatly. Her family had always been friends with the Tornabuoni—the family of Lorenzo’s mother—and that was how they met. Through Lorenzo, of course, she met Giuliano.”
“Was she—did everyone know she was having an affair with him?”
His eyelids lowered. “No, Madonna. Your mother was a woman of great virtue. I honestly don’t believe that she and Giuliano—” He broke off; to my surprise, he flushed.
“You don’t believe they were . . . together . . . until?” I prompted. I did not want to embarrass him, but I had waited for years to learn the truth about my mother’s life.
He lifted his gaze, but would not look directly at me. “The night before Giuliano was murdered—I saw her on the Via de’ Gori just outside the Medici palazzo. She was going to see him; she was radiant with joy, so happy. And . . . the light was very tender, very gentle. It was dusk, and she stepped from the shadows. I . . .” His voice trailed; he was overwhelmed by the task of trying to convey what he had seen, something numinous and fleeting. “There was no harshness of line, no clear delineation between her skin and the air that surrounded it. She emerged from the darkness, yet she was not separate from it, not separate from the sky or the street or the buildings. And it seemed as though . . . she were outside time. It was an amazing moment. She looked to be more than a woman. She was a Madonna, an angel. The light was . . . remarkable.” He stopped himself; his tone became practical. “You must forgive me for such foolish ravings.”
“They’re not ravings. They sound like poetry.”
“You know how beautiful she was.”
“Yes.”
“Imagine her a hundred times more beautiful. Imagine her lit from within. I wanted very badly to paint her, but . . . Giuliano was murdered, of course. And then Anna Lucrezia fell ill.”
“She wasn’t ill,” I said. “Her husband couldn’t father children. He struck her when he learned she was pregnant.” It felt odd to speak of my father so distantly, so coldly, when I loved him despite all his sins.
Leonardo’s eyes flickered with anger and pain, as if he had been struck himself. “So. He always knew.”
“He always knew.”
It took him a long moment to gather himself. “I am sorry for it. That night, I had resolved to paint your mother. I had wanted to capture that beautiful essence and show her as joyful. As content. The way she was then, going to Giuliano, not the way she became. She had a natural radiance—and you have it, too, Madonna Lisa. I see her in you. And if I could be permitted to record it . . .” He broke off. “I know it is terribly awkward to have you sit now, but I have learned the capriciousness of fate. She was with Giuliano that night; she was happy. And the next day, he was gone. Who knows where you or I will be tomorrow?”
He might have said more in an effort to make his argument, but I silenced him by laying a hand upon his forearm. “Where,” I asked, “would you like me to sit?”
He let me look at the charcoal sketch upon the easel first, the cartone, or cartoon, as he called it. It was made from the drawing done in the garden at Santo Spirito, the day after Lorenzo’s funeral. No longer was I glancing over my unfinished shoulder at the artist, as I had been in the silverpoint drawing; now I sat with my full face shown directly to the viewer, with my shoulders and body turning only slightly away. No longer was I only a head with the merest intimation of shoulders and headdress; I had hair, long and free as a young girl’s. I had a décolleté that would bring down the wrath of Savonarola’s militant cherubs. I had hands, and enough of a body to convey the fact that I was sitting.
As I stood beside Leonardo, gazing at the drawing on the easel, he glanced at me, made a small sound of disgust, and at once retrieved a chicken feather from the little table and very lightly swept it over the paper. The feather’s edge darkened; the charcoal beneath it disappeared.
“Sit,” he said, utterly distracted. “The chin. I must get it right.”
I went and sat. Feather still in his hand, he followed me and, with meticulous fussiness, arranged me just so: chin perfectly straight, with no tilt up or down, head turned at a precise angle away from my body. He did not care, at the moment, about the positioning of my hands. In fact, he gave me my wine goblet and insisted I have some before he started.
I sat in silence as he finished erasing his crime; then he took up the charcoal fastened to its wooden stick and, with a deft, flourished move, corrected the chin. And then he stared at me. Stared and checked my nose against the drawing, my right eye, my left, each eyebrow, and my nose. I grew restless and let my gaze wander: It lit upon the wall near the easel—on a small panel of wood that had been coated with plaster and was drying. Next to it was a sharp wooden slice which had obviously been used to scrape the panel’s surface smooth.
“Is that what you will use—for the painting?” I asked.
He frowned, faintly annoyed at the interruption. “Yes. It needs to dry for a few days.”
“Is the surface made of just plaster?”
“Plaster,” he said, “of a sort. Very fine gesso sottile, plaster of
Paris with some of my own adulterations. First comes the white poplar. Then good linen is glued to it, to make a base for the gesso. Then it is made very smooth, like ivory. When it dries, I’ll transfer this sketch to it.”
“You’ll copy it?”
“I’m far too lazy for that. I prick the cartone, attach it to the gessoed panel, and sprinkle powdered charcoal over it. It goes on very quickly that way. Then we start the painting. Which we will do the next time we meet, if fate permits.” He gave a small sigh. “Please take some more wine, Madonna.”
“You are trying to get me drunk,” I said. I meant it as a joke, but when I caught his eye, he did not smile.
“We have enough difficult things to talk about, don’t you agree?”
In answer, I took an earnest sip of my wine. It was cheap and slightly sour. “Why don’t we talk about them, then? I’m tired of appearing content and angelic.” I stared up at him. “You didn’t bring me here just to paint my portrait or speak of happier times.”
His tone darkened. “Very well. Tell me the truth, Madonna. I . . . saw you with Francesco del Giocondo—”
He was going to say more, but I interrupted. “When?”
“At your child’s baptism.”
So. He had been watching when Salai arranged for me to get the note.
He continued. “Do you love him?”
His tone was bitter. My cheeks burned; I stared down at the stone floor.
He let go a barely audible sigh, then softened. “Am I mistaken, or are relations between you strained—at least, on your part?”
I raised my face. “How do you know that?”
My answer seemed to please him. “Through casual observation. It is very difficult to completely conceal one’s emotions. And I did not detect much affection in your gestures. This is not the first time I have successfully divined such . . . unhappiness between husband and wife.”