Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  I drew comfort from the fact that the crowds no longer roared outside. The quiet had to mean that the killing had stopped.

  Rising unsteadily to my feet, I sucked in my breath at the pain in my stiff shoulder. The slightest movement stabbed. My limbs were numb from cold; the stone walls and floor were like ice. But I was far more distraught by the fact that I had lost my wedding ring and the remaining gold medallion.

  I passed the Tornabuoni woman to stand at the rusting iron door. She had ceased crying and now stood swaying on her feet, having been upright most of the night; her eyes were two bruises in the whiteness of her face, stark against her deep purple gown. I glanced at her and in return got a look full of hopelessness and rage; I turned quickly away.

  I listened for the guard. While Laura had been with me, I had not wanted to utter Giuliano’s name lest I incriminate her, but now it was on the tip of my tongue. When the jailer finally appeared, I called out softly.

  “What news? What news of Giuliano de’ Medici?”

  He did not answer at once, but came and stood in front of the door. He fingered through the jangling keys, muttering to himself, until he decided on one, then tried it. It didn’t work, and so he fished out a similar one, dark and dull from disuse; it clanged and grated in the lock, but at last the door swung open with a lingering screech.

  “Giuliano de’ Medici.” He sneered. “If you have any news of that scoundrel, best sing out when your time comes.”

  He took no notice at all. “Madonna Carlotta,” he said, not unkindly. “Will you accompany me? It’s a simple matter. The Lord Priors want to ask you a few questions. They mean you no harm.”

  Her gaze, her tone, was pure viciousness. “No harm… they have already caused me the greatest possible harm!”

  “I can summon other men to help me,” he offered simply.

  They stared at each other a moment; then the old woman walked out and stood beside him. The door was slammed behind them and locked.

  I did not care. I did not care. If you have any news of that scoundrel, best sing out…

  I hugged myself, not even feeling my injured shoulder. Such things were said only of the living. Giuliano was gone, and they did not know where.

  …

  I returned to my corner and settled into it as comfortably as I could, propping myself so that the cold wall numbed the pain in my shoulder. I heard church bells, but I dozed a bit and could not remember how many chimes had sounded.

  When I woke, I made a decision: I would admit to having married Giuliano. Such a crime would not necessarily mean my death-even Lorenzo, in his vengefulness, had spared the Pazzi women-but more likely my exile, which would free me to find my husband.

  I thought of how I should phrase my confession to the priors. I would speak eloquently of Giuliano’s concern for Florence; I would point out how he had married me, a merchant’s daughter-proof of his sense of commonality with less wealthy citizens.

  Finally I heard the jailer’s step, and the jangle of keys, and forced myself awkwardly to my feet. Despite my sense of determination and my fine plan, my hands shook, and my tongue adhered to the dry inside of my cheek.

  Beside the nearing jailer walked Zalumma, her eyes wild and wide. When her gaze found me, her mouth opened with a gasp of relief, of joy-of horror. I suppose I looked a sight.

  The jailer led her up to the bars of my cell, then took a step back. I reached for her, but the space between the bars was wide enough to admit only my fingers.

  “No touching!” the jailer growled.

  I dropped my hand. The sight of her made me let go a sob so loud and wrenching it startled even me. Once I began, I felt I could not stop.

  “Ah, no.” She reached tenderly toward me; the jailer’s scowl made her pull away. “No, no. This can’t help matters…” Even as she said it, tears slid down one side of her perfect, straight nose.

  I struggled to compose myself. “I’m all right. They’ll just want to ask a few questions. And since I know nothing, it’ll go quickly.”

  She glanced away, her eyes unreadable, then looked back at me. “You must be brave.”

  I stiffened.

  “He’s in the jail here, with the men. They set fire to the house last night, but the servants managed to put it out, finally-a lot was saved. But…” She ducked her head; I saw her swallow tears.

  “My God! Giuliano-only tell me-is he unhurt? Tell me he is unhurt!”

  She looked up at me, her expression odd. “I know nothing of Giuliano. The gonfaloniere came last night and arrested your father.”

  XLIX

  No.” I took a step backward.

  “The gonfaloniere and his men searched the palazzo. Tore the rooms apart. They found your letters from Giuliano-”

  “No.”

  “-and with the fact that Lorenzo was your father’s best customer for so many years-they have charged him with being a spy for the Medici.” She dropped her gaze. Her voice shook. “They have tortured him.”

  In my selfishness, I had thought only of myself and Giuliano. I had known my marriage would break my father’s heart, but I had deemed it worth the price. Now my stubbornness had cost him far more.

  “Oh God,” I groaned. “Tell them-tell them to question me. Tell them he knows nothing of the Medici, and I know everything. The crowd-” I struggled to my feet, suddenly inspired, and lurched at the bars in an effort to catch the jailer’s jaded gaze. “The crowd in the Via Larga, on Saturday after I was married! They saw my father shout at me, in the middle of the street. I called to him from the Palazzo Medici, from the window. He begged me to come home; he disapproved of my marriage, of the Medici- Ask Giovanni Pico! My father is loyal to Savonarola. Ask-ask the servant, Laura! She can tell them!”

  “I will tell them,” Zalumma promised, but her tone was sorrowful; the jailer had moved between us and nodded for her to leave. “I will tell them!” she called, as she made her way down the corridor.

  I spent the next few hours alone in my cell, without even the jailer’s presence to distract me from the fact that I was the most monstrous of daughters. How could I have behaved differently? How could I have protected my father? I waited, miserable, straining for the sound of footfall, of men’s voices, of the metallic ring of keys.

  At last they came, and I rushed to the door of my cell and worried the iron bars with my fingers.

  The jailer accompanied a man dressed in rich, somber blue to mark his importance; a Lord Prior or perhaps a Buonomo, one of twelve elected to advise the Signoria. He was tall and thin, very serious in his manner, perhaps forty; his hair showed quite a bit of gray, but his brows were thick, very black, and drawn tightly together. His nose was long and narrow, and his chin sharp.

  As I stared at him, he soberly regarded me. I realized I had seen him before, in church, when Savonarola was preaching; when my mother’s fit had knocked me to the floor, he had lifted me to my feet, and cleared the way for us.

  “Madonna Lisa?” he inquired politely. “Di Antonio Gherardini?”

  I nodded, cautious.

  “I am Francesco del Giocondo.” He gave a small bow. “We have not been introduced, but perhaps you will remember me.”

  I had heard the name. He and his family were silk merchants and, like my father, quite wealthy. “I remember you,” I said. “You were there in San Lorenzo when my mother died.”

  “I was very sorry to hear of that,” he said, as if we were making conversation at a dinner party.

  “Why have you come?”

  His eyes were pale blue-the color of ice reflecting sky-each with a dark circle at the outer edge, and they narrowed slightly as they focused on me. The neck of his tunic was edged in white ermine, which brought out the sallowness of his complexion. “To speak to you about Ser Antonio,” he said.

  “He is innocent of all charges,” I said swiftly. “He did not know I was planning to go to Giuliano; he only delivered wool to the Medici; everyone knows how devoted he is to Fra Girolamo’s teachings… H
ave you seen their servant, Laura?”

  He raised a hand for silence. “Madonna Lisa. You need not convince me. I am quite certain of Ser Antonio’s innocence.”

  I sagged against the bars. “Then has he been freed?”

  “Not yet.” He let go a contrived sigh. “His situation is quite serious: Certain Lord Priors believe he is overly connected to the Medici. A sort of madness has seized everyone, unfortunately even those highest in our government. Last night, the priors-quite against my advice-hung Ser Lorenzo’s accountant out a window of this very building. It seems that the gentleman had assisted Lorenzo in swindling the city out of the major portion of its dowry fund. And I understand you have discovered for yourself how the people are determined to destroy anything, anyone, that reminds them of the name Medici. The gonfaloniere’s men are doing their best to control them, but…” He gave another sigh. “Many palazzi were vandalized, even set afire. All along the Via Larga, and other places, as well.”

  “My father is close to Giovanni Pico,” I said, angry that my voice shook. “He can verify that my father is no friend of the Medici.”

  “Pico?” he murmured. His gaze flickered before returning to me. “He was an associate of Lorenzo’s, was he not? Alas, he suffers desperately from a wasting ailment. Too sick, I am told, to leave his bed, even to speak; he is not expected to survive much longer.”

  “Laura, then, the servant who shared my cell. She saw-”

  “You cannot ask the Lord Priors to take the word of a Medici servant.”

  “What must I do? What can I do? My father is entirely innocent.”

  “I have some influence,” he said, with maddening calm. “Over Corsini and Cerpellone, those who are most hostile to Piero. I could speak to them on your father’s behalf.”

  “Will you?” I grasped the bars, eager, even as a distant, quiet thought puzzled me: Why has he not done so already?

  He cleared his throat delicately. “That depends entirely on you.”

  I let go of the iron bars and took a step back. I stared at him until the long silence obliged him to speak.

  He was a cold man. Only a cold man could have said what he did without blushing.

  “I am a widower,” he said. “I have been too long without a wife. I have been waiting for God to direct me to the right woman, one of fine character, from a good family. A young, strong woman who can bear me sons.”

  Aghast, I stared at him. He gave no sign of discomfort.

  “I have watched you for some time. All those times you went to listen to Fra Girolamo. You are very beautiful, you know. Sometimes you would glance over your shoulder at the crowd, and I thought you might be looking in my direction, at me, because you knew I was there. Because you had noticed me.

  “I know you are a woman capable of great passion, Madonna. I have your letters to your prospective husband. No one connected to the Signoria has any knowledge of them, yet. And I saw to it that the young lady who shared the cell with you will remain silent. No one need know that you had anything to do with the Medici. I can destroy the letters; I can protect you and your father from any reprisals.”

  He paused, apparently waiting for a sign from me to continue, but I was struck dumb. He showed the first signs of genuine emotion then: His cheeks colored slightly as he stared down at his slippers. His feet moved nervously, scuffing softly against the stone.

  Then he regained his absolute composure and looked levelly at me. “I want to marry you. I have feelings for you, and I had hoped-”

  “I can’t,” I interrupted; surely he understood why.

  His expression hardened. “It would be a terrible thing for your father to undergo any more suffering. A terrible thing, if he were to die.”

  Had the bars not separated us, I would have leapt on him like a man, put my hands upon his throat. “I would do anything to save my father! But I cannot marry you. I am already married, to Giuliano de’ Medici.”

  He gave a soft, indignant snort; his eyes were pitiless. “Giuliano de’ Medici,” he said, his tone absurdly flat, “is dead. Thrown off his horse while crossing the Ponte Santa Trinità, and drowned in the Arno.”

  L

  He must have been searching for me. He must have broken free of the hostile crowd in the Piazza della Signoria and made his way back to the Palazzo Medici. Perhaps Piero had already left, perhaps not-but Giuliano must have somehow gotten the notion that I had returned to my father’s house.

  Ser Francesco said that a patrolling guard had fished his body from the river. It had been taken immediately to the Lord Priors, who identified it and buried it outside the city walls before anyone had a chance to desecrate the corpse. The grave’s location was secret. Even the Lord Priors did not discuss it among themselves, lest a search for the remains provoke fresh riots.

  I cannot tell you what I did then. I cannot tell you because I cannot remember. They say that God, in His wisdom, causes mothers to forget the pain of childbirth so that they will not fear bearing more young. Perhaps that is what He did for me, so that I would not fear loving again.

  The one thing I do remember of that night is greeting my father. It was dusk, and a haze of smoke further darkened the sky. The Piazza della Signoria was empty save for a solitary coach and soldiers hired by the Signoria, patrolling on foot and horseback.

  Someone had splattered dark paint across the morbid portraits of the conspirators Francesco de’ Pazzi, Salviati, and Baroncelli. As their marred, life-sized images looked on, I clutched Ser Francesco’s forearm and staggered down the steps of the palazzo into a horrific new world.

  At the end of those steps, the coach-ordered by Ser Francesco and occupied by my father-yawned open. As Ser Francesco steadied me on the step-his hand on my elbow, his gaze suddenly as timid as a youth’s at the outset of courtship-he said, “There is food and drink waiting for you. I have seen to it.”

  I stared at him, still too numbed to react. I had not eaten in a day, but the notion of doing so now was offensive. I turned away and climbed into the coach.

  My father sat, one shoulder pressed hard against the inner wall, his body slumped diagonally; he gingerly held one hand out to his side. The skin over his cheekbone was tight, violet, so puffed up that I could not see his eye. And his hand…

  They had used the screws on him. His right thumb, protruding from the hand at a full right angle, had swelled to the size of a sausage; the nail was gone, and in its place was an open red-black sore. The same had been done to the forefinger, which was also grotesquely bloated and extended straight ahead, perpendicular to the thumb.

  When I saw him, I began to cry.

  “Daughter,” he whispered. “Thank God. My darling, my child.” I sat beside him and wrapped my arms about him, careful not to brush against the injured hand. “I am sorry.” His voice broke. “Forgive me. Oh, I am sorry…”

  When he uttered those words, all of my resistance toward him, all of my anger, melted.

  “I am sorry, I am sorry…”

  I understood. He did not just regret our current situation or the promise I had been forced to make Ser Francesco in order to win his freedom. He was sorry for everything: for striking my mother, for taking her to San Lorenzo, sorry that Fra Domenico had murdered her, sorry that he had not taken up her cause. He was sorry for my sorrowful wedding day, and for the fear I had felt for him the previous night, and for the pity I was feeling for him now.

  Most of all, he was sorry about Giuliano.

  The next morning, when I woke safe in my own bed, I found Zalumma standing over me. She wore a look of such guardedness and complicity that I repressed the urge to speak, even before she lifted a finger to her lips.

  The sunlight streamed through the windows behind her, causing a glare that made it difficult to see what she held in her hand.

  I frowned and pushed myself up to a sitting position-grimacing at the soreness of my body. She thrust the folded papers at me. “I came upstairs,” she whispered, so softly I had to strain to hear her over
the soft rustling as I unfolded my gifts. “As soon as the gonfaloniere came with his men, I rushed in here to try to hide your letters. But there wasn’t enough time. I only managed to save these.”

  I smoothed them out-one a larger piece of paper, folded many times, the other small, creased in half. And I stared for a long time at my lap, at the image of myself, beautifully rendered in silverpoint, and of a brown ink drawing of Bernardo Baroncelli, swinging from his noose.

  Order was restored fairly quickly throughout the city, though by then, every statue of Lorenzo de’ Medici had been toppled, every stone crest of the Medici palle adorning any building chiseled away. Four days after Piero’s flight, the Signoria overturned the law exiling the Pazzi, and encouraged all the offspring of Giuliano’s assassins to return. A bill was passed stating that Francesco and Iacopo de’ Pazzi had acted on behalf of “the people’s freedom.”

  The day after the Medici left Florence, Savonarola met with King Charles to negotiate terms of his entry into Florence. A week after my wedding, King Charles marched triumphantly into the city, where he was welcomed as a hero. Ser Francesco wanted badly for me to go with him, for the Lord Priors ordered that all in Florence who were able to should attend, and wear their best finery.

  I did not go. All my fine clothes had been burned the night of the riots, and my wedding dress was ruined. More important, I was needed at home. My father’s hand was red and putrid, and he shook from fevers. I sat at his bedside day and night, pressed damp cloths to his head, and applied poultices to the festering sores. Zalumma stayed to help me, but my father’s new chambermaid, Loretta, went to the spectacle on our behalf.

  I liked Loretta. She had a keen eye and wit, and told the truth even when it was impolitic.

  “Charles is an idiot,” she reported. “He does not have enough sense to keep his mouth closed. He stands with it gaping open, breathing in air through great crooked teeth. He is ugly-so ugly! A hooked nose so bumpy and large as to make Fra Girolamo shudder.”