Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

XVI

  That Sunday the sky was blue, lit by a sun too feeble to soften the gripping cold. My thickest cloak, of scarlet wool lined with rabbit fur, was not enough to warm me; the air stung my eyes and made them water. In the carriage, my mother sat rigid and expressionless between me and Zalumma, her black hair and eyes in striking contrast to the white ermine cape wrapped about her emerald velvet gown. Across from us, my father glanced solicitously at his wife, eager to obtain a sign of encouragement or affection, but she gazed past him as if he were not present. Zalumma glanced directly at my father and did not bother to hide the outrage she felt on behalf of her mistress.

  Count Pico rode with us and did his best to distract my father and me with pleasant comments, but there was no ignoring my mother’s humiliation, icy and bitter as the weather. Arrangements had been made for us to meet privately with Fra Girolamo directly after the service, so that he could lay hands upon my mother and pray for her.

  I gasped as we rolled up to the entrance of the church at San Marco. My awe was not generated by the building-a plain structure of unadorned stone, of the same style as our parish at Santo Spirito-but rather by the number of people who, being unable to find room inside the sanctuary, pressed tightly against one another in the doorway, on the steps, all the way out into the piazza.

  Had Count Pico not been with us, we would never have gained entry. He called out as he stepped from the carriage, and at once, three generously sized Dominican monks came forward and escorted us inside. Their effect on the the crowd was magical; it melted away like wax before a flame. In a moment, I found myself standing between my mother and father not far from the pulpit and the main altar, beneath which Cosimo de’ Medici lay entombed.

  Compared to the grand Duomo, San Marco’s interior was sedate and unremarkable, with its pale stone colonnades and its simple altar. Yet the mood inside the sanctuary was feverish; despite the numbing chill, women fanned themselves and whispered, agitated. Men stamped their feet-not against the cold, but out of impatience-and monks groaned as they prayed aloud. I felt as though I were at Carnival, awaiting a much-anticipated joust.

  The choir began to sing, and the processional began.

  With rapt expressions, worshipers turned eagerly toward the parade. First came the young acolytes, one holding the great cross, another swinging a thurible which perfumed the air with frankincense. Next came the deacon, and then the priest himself.

  Last of all came Fra Girolamo, in the place of highest honor. At the sight of him, people cried out: “Fra Girolamo! Pray for me!” “God bless you, Brother!” Loudest of all was the cry “Babbo! Babbo!” that sweet term only the youngest children use to address their fathers.

  I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck trying to get a glimpse of him. I caught only the impression of a frayed brown friar’s robe poorly filled by a thin figure; the hood was up, and his head was bowed. Pride was not among his sins, I decided.

  He sat, huddled and intimidated, with the acolytes; only then did the people grow calmer. Yet as the Mass progressed, their restlessness again increased. When the choir sang the Gloria in excelsis, the crowd began to fidget. The Epistle was chanted, the Gradual sung; when the priest read the Gospel, people were murmuring continuously-to themselves, to each other, to God.

  And to Fra Girolamo. It was like listening to the thrum of insects and nocturnal creatures on a summer’s night-a sound loud and unintelligible.

  The instant he ascended the pulpit, the sanctuary fell profoundly silent, so silent that I could hear a carriage’s wooden wheels rattling on the cobblestones of the Via Larga.

  Above us, above Cosimo’s bones, stood a small gaunt man with sunken cheeks and great, protruding dark eyes; his hood was pushed back, revealing a head crowned by coarse black curls.

  He was even homelier than his nemesis, Lorenzo de’ Medici. His brow was low and sloping. His nose looked as if someone had taken a great axe-shaped square of flesh and pressed it to his face; the bridge jutted straight out from his brow in a perpendicular line, then dropped down at an abrupt right angle. His lower teeth were crooked and protruded so that his full lower lip pushed outward.

  No messiah was ever more unseemly. Yet the timid man I had seen in the procession and the one who ascended the pulpit could not have differed more. This new Savonarola, this touted papa angelico, had increased magically in stature; his eyes blazed with certainty, and his bony hands gripped the sides of the pulpit with divine authority. This was a man transformed by a power greater than himself, a power that radiated from his frail body and permeated the chill air surrounding us. For the first time since entering the church, I forgot the cold. Even my mother, who had remained subdued, beaten, and silent throughout the ritual, let go a soft sound of amazement.

  On the other side of my father, the Count clasped his hands in a gesture of supplication. “Fra Girolamo,” he cried, “give us your blessing and we will be healed!” I glanced at his upturned face, radiant with devotion, at the sudden tears filling his eyes. At once I understood why Zalumma had once derided Savonarola and his followers as piagnoni-“wailers.”

  But the emotion swirling about us was infinite, wild, genuine. Men and women stretched forth their arms, palms open, pleading.

  And Fra Girolamo responded. His gaze swept over us; he seemed to see us, each one, and to acknowledge the love directed at him. He made the sign of the cross over the crowd with hands that trembled faintly from contained emotion-and when he did, contented sighs rose heavenward, and at last the sanctuary again was still.

  Savonarola closed his eyes, summoning an internal force, and then he spoke.

  “Our sermon comes today from the twentieth chapter of Jeremiah.” His voice, loud and ringing against the vaulted ceiling, was surprisingly high-pitched and nasal.

  He shook his head sorrowfully and lowered his face as if shamed. “I am in derision daily, everyone mocketh me… because the word of the Lord was made a reproach unto me…” He raised his face skyward, as if looking straight at God. “But His word was in mine heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I was weary with forbearing…”

  Now he looked on us. “People of Florence! Though others mock me, I can no longer hold back the word of the Lord. He has spoken unto me, and it burns in me so bright I must speak or be consumed by its flame.

  “Hear the word of God: Think you well, O you wealthy, for affliction shall strike you! This city shall no longer be called Florence, but Den of Thieves, Immorality, Bloodshed. Then you will all be poor, all wretched… Unheard-of times are at hand.”

  As he spoke, his voice deepened and grew stronger. The air vibrated with his booming assertions; it trembled with a presence that might well have been God.

  “O you fornicators, you sodomites, you lovers of filth! Your children shall be brutalized, dragged into the streets and mangled. Their blood will fill the Arno, yet God will not heed their piteous cries!”

  I started as a woman close behind us let out an anguished howl; the church walls echoed with racking sobs. Overwhelmed by remorse, my own father buried his face in his hands and wept along with Count Pico.

  But my mother stiffened; she seized my arm protectively and, blinking rapidly from anger, tilted her chin defiantly at Fra Girolamo. “How dare he!” she said, her gaze fixed on the monk, who had paused to give his words time to take effect. Her voice was raised, loud enough to be heard over the wailing crowd. “God hears the cries of innocent children! How can he say such horrid things?”

  Just as my mother had clutched my arm protectively, so Zalumma quickly took my mother’s. “Hush, Madonna. You must calm yourself…” She leaned closer to whisper directly into my mother’s ear. My mother gave an indignant shake of her head and wound her arm about my shoulders. She pressed me tightly to her side as though I were a small child. Zalumma ignored the preacher and his piagnoni and kept her keen gaze focused on her mistress. I, too, grew worried; I could feel the rapid rise and fall of my mother’s bosom, feel the tension in her grip.

&
nbsp; “This is not right,” she whispered hoarsely. “This is not right…”

  So many in the church were crying and moaning, murmuring to Fra Girolamo and God, that not even my father noticed her; he and Pico were far too captivated by the preacher.

  “Oh Lord!” Fra Girolamo cried sharply. The monk pressed his forehead to his folded hands; he released a bitter sob, then raised his tear-streaked face toward Heaven. “Lord, I am only a humble monk. I have not asked for Your visitation; I do not crave to speak for You, or to receive visions. Yet I humbly submit to Your will. In Your name, I am willing, as Jeremiah was, to endure the sufferings inflicted by the unholy on Your prophets.”

  He gazed down at us, his eyes and voice suddenly tender. “I weep… I weep as you do, for the children. I weep for Florence, and the scourge that awaits her. Yet how long can we sin? How long offend God, before He is compelled to unleash His righteous wrath? Like a loving father, He has stayed His hand. But when His children continue to err grievously, when they mock Him, He must, for their good, mete out harsh punishment.

  “Look at you women: you, with sparkling jewels hanging heavy round your necks, from your ears. If one of you-only one of you-repented of the sin of vanity, how many of the poor might be fed? Look at the swaths of silk, of brocade, of velvet, of priceless gold thread that adorn your earthly bodies. If but one of you dressed plainly to please God, how many would be saved from starvation?

  “And you men, with your whoring, your sodomy, your gluttony and drunkenness: Were you to turn instead to the arms of your wife alone, the Kingdom of God would have more children. Were you to give half your plate to the poor, none in Florence would go hungry; were you to forswear wine, there would be no brawling, no bloodshed in the city.

  “You wealthy, you lovers of art, you collectors of vain things: How you offend, with your glorification of man instead of the Divine, with your vile and useless displays of wealth, while others die for want of bread and warmth! Cast off your earthly riches and look instead for that treasure which is eternal.

  “Almighty God! Turn our hearts from sin toward You. Spare us the torment that is surely coming to those who flout Your laws.”

  I looked to my mother. She was staring with a gaze fixed and furious, not at Savonarola but at a point far beyond him, beyond the stone walls of San Marco.

  “Mother,” I said, but she could not hear me. I tried to slip from her embrace, but her grip only tightened until I yelped. She had turned stone rigid, with me caught in her grasp. Zalumma recognized the signs at once and was speaking gently, rapidly to her, urging her to free me, to lie down here, to know that all would be well.

  “This is the judgment from God!” my mother shouted, with such force that I struggled in vain to lift my hands to my ears.

  Fra Girolamo heard. The congregation near us heard. They looked to my mother and me, expectant. My father and Pico regarded us with pure horror.

  Zalumma put her arms about my mother’s shoulders and tried to bring her down, but she was planted firm as rock. Her voice deepened and changed timbre until I no longer knew it.

  “Hear me!” Her words rang with such authority that it silenced the whimpering. “Flames shall consume him until his limbs drop, one by one, into Hell! Five headless men shall cast him down!”

  XVII

  My mother fell heavily against me. I crumpled beneath her, colliding with my father as I did. I snatched a fleeting impression of Pico pulling him back before I reached the cold, unforgiving marble. I landed on my side, simultaneously striking my head, my shoulder, and my hip.

  There came flashes of green velvet and white ermine, the hems of women’s skirts and the boots of men. I heard whispers, exclamations, and Zalumma’s shouts.

  My mother lay atop me, her side pressed to mine. Her limbs thrashed; her elbow spasmed and dug into my ribs. At the same time, my mother’s teeth champed; the air released each time she opened her mouth whistled in my ear. The sound terrified me. I should have been holding her head, making sure she did not bite her tongue or otherwise harm herself.

  Zalumma’s loud commands suddenly became intelligible. “Grab her arms! Pull her out!”

  Strong hands seized my wrists, lifted my arms above my head. I was rolled onto my back. My mother’s head fell onto my breast; her teeth whistled through the air, then snapped fiercely together. All the while, her arms and legs pummeled me; her hand swiped beneath my chin, and drew away a piece of flesh beneath her fingernail.

  Near my feet, invisible, Zalumma bellowed: “Pull her out!”

  My father at once came to himself. With uncanny force, he clasped my upraised arms and dragged me out from under my mother’s writhing body. The movement caused an excruciating surge of pain in my ribs.

  But the instant I was free, it was forgotten. I did not acknowledge my father’s aid; instead, I clambered to my knees and turned toward my struggling mother. Zalumma had already crawled forward and used her body to weigh down her mistress’s kicking legs.

  I found the furred edge of my mother’s cape and jammed it between her gnashing teeth. My intervention came late: She had bitten through her tongue, with frightening result. Blood stained her lips and teeth, cheek and chin; the white ermine round her face was spattered with crimson. Though I held her head fast, it jerked so violently in my hands that her cap fell back beneath her. My fingers soon were interlaced in her soft dark hair; the careful coils arranged earlier that morning by Zalumma frayed into tangles.

  “It is the Devil!” A man stepped forward-young, red-haired, with pockmarked skin; I recognized him as the priest from Santa Maria del Fiore. “I saw her do this before, in the Duomo. She is possessed; the evil inside her cannot bear to stand upright in the house of God.”

  Murmurs surrounded us and increased to a rumble until, above us, Savonarola cried out, “Silence!”

  All looked to him. His eyebrows were knit in a thunderous scowl of indignation at such an offensive display. The red-haired priest stepped back and disappeared into the crowd; the others, silent and docile, went rustling back to their places.

  “The Evil One desires nothing more than to interrupt the word of the Lord,” Fra Girolamo intoned. “We must not let ourselves be distracted. God will prevail.”

  He would have said more, but my father moved toward the pulpit. His gaze fastened on the monk, he gestured with his arm toward his afflicted wife and called desperately, plaintively, “Fra Girolamo, help her! Heal her now!”

  I still held my mother’s head, but like the others, I watched San Marco’s prior closely, breathlessly.

  His frown eased; his eyes flickered briefly with uncertainty before his sense of complete authority returned. “God will help her, not I. The sermon will continue; Mass will be celebrated.” As my father bowed his head, downcast, Fra Girolamo signaled to Count Pico and two Dominican monks in the congregation. “Attend to her,” he told them softly. “Take her to the sacristy to await me.”

  Then in a loud voice, he began again to preach. “Children of God! Such evil portents will only increase, until all in our city repent and turn their hearts to the Lord; otherwise, a scourge will come, such as the Earth has never seen…”

  From that moment, I heard the cadence and pitch of his sermon, but not the sense of it, for two brown-robed monks had appeared at my mother’s side. Pico took charge.

  “Fra Domenico,” he said, to the larger one, who possessed a great square head and a dullard’s eyes. “I will have the women move away. Then you lift Madonna Lucrezia”-he gestured at my mother, still in the throes of her fit-“and carry her off. Fra Marciano, help him if he needs it.”

  Neither Zalumma nor I budged. “My mother cannot be moved-it might injure her,” I insisted, indignant.

  Fra Domenico listened silently; then, with movements calm and deliberate, he parted Zalumma’s protective arms and grasped my mother’s waist.

  He lifted her with ease, forcing Zalumma to fall back. I reached vainly for my mother as her head, with its chaotic tangles of h
air swinging, rose from my lap. Flinching only slightly at her flailing limbs, Domenico slung her over one shoulder, as a baker might a sack of flour. My mother’s legs beat against his chest and torso, her arms against his back, yet he seemed not to feel it.

  “Stop!” Zalumma cried out at the monk. She was almost as terrifying a sight as her mistress: The scarf beneath her cap was askew, permitting some of her billowing curls to escape; worse, she had been struck in the eye, which was already swollen half shut; the cheekbone beneath was dull red and shiny, promising to become a magnificent bruise.

  “Leave her be!” I shouted at Fra Domenico. I struggled to stand, but bystanders stood on my skirts, and I fell again.

  “Let her rise!” a male voice commanded above me. People made room where there was none. A strong arm reached down to grasp mine and pulled me to my feet; I rose, gasping, to stare up into the eyes of a stranger-a tall, thin man wearing the distinguished dress of a Buonomi, a Goodman, one of the twelve elected every two months to counsel the eight Lord Priors. He met my gaze with an odd, intense recognition, though we had never met before.

  I pulled away from him immediately and followed the implacable Domenico, who was already making his way through the crowd. Forgetting he was in God’s house, my father hurried after Domenico, demanding he be gentler with my mother.

  Domenico’s companion, Fra Marciano, offered Zalumma and me an arm for support. Furious, silent, Zalumma refused it, though she limped noticeably. I, too, waved his arm away. But Fra Marciano’s demeanor remained concerned and kindly. He was frail and older, with thinning hair; his eyes revealed a gentle goodness.

  “Be reassured,” he told me. “The lady is in God’s own hands; He will let no harm come to her.”

  I did not answer. Instead I walked, wordless as the others, behind Fra Domenico and his burden until we arrived at the sacristry.

  It was a small room, far colder than the sanctuary, which was warmed by hundreds of bodies; I could see my own breath. Fra Domenico carried my mother to the only place possible: a narrow wooden table, which my father first covered with her soft fur cape. Once the monk set her down, my father pushed him away with a vehemence that startled me. The two men, breathing hard, shared a look of pure loathing; I thought they would come to blows.