Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

“How do you know my name?”

  “You husband will be coming home soon. I should leave, don’t you think? Or else we both will be in a good deal of trouble. It’s awfully soon for you to be caught in your nightgown with a young man.” He eyed the poker, decided I wouldn’t use it, and reached for the folded paper in my hand. “Your timing is unfortunate. If I could only have another moment with that letter, please-nothing more-then I shall happily return it to you and be on my way. And you can pretend you never saw me…”

  His fingers grazed the paper. He was an instant away from taking it; I made a decision.

  “Help!” I cried. “Thief! Thief!”

  His smile broadened to show white teeth, with a slight gap between the two front ones. He did not-as I expected him to-make another attempt to seize the letter; instead, his eyes were bright and approving of my tactic.

  I shouted again.

  “I will say good-bye, then,” he said, and dashed down the stairs, his step surprisingly light. I followed him as swiftly as my bulk allowed and watched him fling open the doors to the front entrance. He left them open behind him, and I stared after his dark form as he raced across the curving flagstone drive into the night.

  I was utterly perplexed and curious. And when Claudio and Agrippina called out to me, I refolded the paper and slipped it underneath my arm so that it was entirely hidden in the folds of my nightgown.

  When they arrived, breathless, frightened, I said, “I must have been dreaming. I thought someone was here… but it was no one.”

  They shook their heads as I sent them back to their rooms; Claudio muttered something about pregnant women.

  Once they were gone, I went back upstairs to Francesco’s study and held the paper to the lamplight. It was indeed a letter, folded into thirds, the black wax seal broken. The writing was slanted strongly to the right, and thick, as if someone had exerted a great deal of pressure on the quill. The paper itself was worn, as though it had traveled a long way.

  Your worries about retribution from Alexander are unfounded; the excommunication is mere rumor. When it becomes more than that, we shall use it to our advantage.

  In the meantime, continue to encourage him to preach against Rome and the Arrabbiati. And send me the names of all Bigi-

  The Bigi. The gray ones, generally older and established, who supported the Medici. I had heard the term before, on my husband’s lips, and my father’s.

  – but do nothing more; a strike now would be premature. I am investigating Piero’s plans for invasion. He has settled for now in Rome, and I have found agents there willing to deal with him as you did with Pico. If we accomplish that, the Bigi will pose little threat.

  As always, your help will be remembered and rewarded.

  I refolded the letter and set it back in the desk, in the place Francesco kept his correspondence, then locked the desk. I paused a moment to study the key. Isabella had given it to the intruder; was it the one belonging to my husband or a copy?

  I kept it in my hand. If Francesco missed its presence, Isabella would have to do the explaining, not I.

  Then I returned to my bedchamber. Half asleep, Zalumma murmured vague words about hearing a noise downstairs.

  “It was nothing. Go to sleep,” I said, and she gratefully complied.

  I avoided my own bed, and went out onto the balcony to think. The air was oppressively warm, weighty as water; I breathed it in and felt it settling heavy inside me, against my lungs, my heart.

  … continue to encourage him to preach against Rome and the Arrabbiati.

  I thought of Francesco faithfully attending Savonarola’s every sermon. Listening carefully to every word. Coming home to his lavish palace and spoiling me with jewels. Riding out each night to visit his harlots.

  … willing to deal with him as you did with Pico.

  I thought of Pico with the goblet in his hands, smiling at Lorenzo; of Pico, hollow-eyed and gaunt. Of Francesco saying softly, Pico…? He was an associate of Lorenzo’s, was he not? Alas… he is not expected to survive much longer.

  I had thought the greatest danger to myself, my father, was for Francesco simply to open his mouth, to reveal my connection to the Medici. To speak.

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

  I thought I had understood my husband. I understood nothing.

  The world was hot and heavy and stifling. I put my head upon my knees, but couldn’t catch my breath to cry.

  My body opened up; I heard the splash of liquid and realized that I was the source. My chair, my legs, my gown were all soaked, and when I stood, startled, a cramp seized me so violently I thought I was turning inside out.

  I cried out and seized the balcony’s edge, and when Zalumma, wide-eyed and gasping, appeared, I told her to bring the midwife.

  LVI

  Francesco named the boy Matteo Massimo: Massimo, after Francesco’s father, and Matteo, after his grandfather. I accepted the patriarchial naming dutifully; I had always known I could not name him Giuliano. And I was pleased to learn that Matteo meant “gift of God.” God could have given me none better.

  Matteo was amazing and beautiful, and gave me back my heart. Without him, I could not have borne what I had learned in my husband’s study; without him, I had no reason to be courageous. But for his sake, I kept my counsel, and told only Zalumma of the letter-a necessity, since she would notice the key I had kept, and which Francesco never mentioned.

  When I recited the line about Pico, she understood at once and crossed herself in fear.

  Matteo was baptized the day after his birth, at San Giovanni, where I had been married for the second time. The formal christening was held two weeks after, at Santissima Annunziata, some distance to the north in the neighboring district of San Giovanni. For many generations, Francesco’s family had maintained a private chapel there. The church stood on one side of the piazza with the orphanage, the Ospedale della Santa Maria degli Innocenti, opposite. The gracefully arching colonnades of the buildings-each bearing Michelozzo’s stamp-faced the street.

  I found the chapel comforting. Save for the bronze crucifix of an anguished Christ, whitewashed walls rose bare above an altar carved from dark wood, braced on either side by two iron candelabra as tall and twice as broad as I. The blond glow from twenty-four candles fought to ease the windowless gloom. The room smelled of dust, of wood and stone, of sweet incense and candlewax, and echoed silently with centuries of murmured prayers.

  Since my son’s birth, I had kept my distance from Francesco; my hatred, my disgust, my fear, were so great I could scarcely bring myself to look at him. His manner remained unchanged-solicitous and mild-but now, when I studied him, I saw a man capable of Pico’s murder and perhaps Lorenzo’s. I saw a man who had helped to oust Piero, and thus brought about my Giuliano’s death.

  I had tried to let my maternal devotion obliterate any consideration of my husband’s dark dealings with Savonarola, as if forgetfulness could magically protect Matteo from them. I had tried-but as I sat in the chapel and beamed at my child, the knowledge that Francesco sat beside me sickened me.

  Uncle Lauro and Giovanna Maria served as godparents. Matteo was an impossibly content child; he slept through most of the ceremony, and when he woke, he smiled. I sat, still weary after the long labor, and watched with joy as my father held the baby and Lauro answered for him.

  Afterward, as my father proudly bore his grandchild down the aisle and the others followed, I paused to take Matteo’s certificate from the priest. He was young and nervous; his voice had cracked several times during the ceremony. When I took hold of the certificate, he did not let go, but glanced surreptitiously at the others; when he reassured himself they were preoccupied with the baby, he hissed at me:

  “At night. Read this only at night-tonight, when you are alone.”

  I recoiled… then looked down at my hands. He had given me more than the single piece of parchment; beneath it he had t
ucked a piece of paper, neatly folded.

  Thinking he was mad, I walked swiftly away from him and hurried after the others.

  Outside, in the piazza, I had almost joined up with them when a young monk stepped into my path. He wore the black robes of the Servants of Mary, the monastic order whose convent was housed there, at Santissima Annunziata. His cowl had been raised, leaving his brow and eyes in shadow; over his arm was a large basket filled with eggs. As I swept by him, he said, in a low voice, “A beautiful child, Monna.”

  I turned back to smile. And found myself looking at the familiar smirk of the Devil himself.

  “You,” I whispered.

  The recognition pleased him. He leaned into the light, which revealed amusement in his eyes-tempered by anxiety that my husband might notice. “Tonight,” he said softly. “Alone.” Then he turned and walked briskly on.

  As I joined the others, who were talking and fawning over Matteo before Francesco returned to work at his bottega, my husband looked up from his presumed son, his gaze gentle, absent. “Who was that?” he asked.

  “No one,” I said, moving to join him. I held the certificate tightly in my hand, making sure it entirely covered the smuggled note. “No one at all.”

  I told no one about the note-not even Zalumma. But after she went downstairs at noon to eat with the other servants and left me alone with Matteo on my balcony, I unfolded the piece of paper. The sun was overhead in a cloudless sky, but I could not wait-nor did I see any reason to. Matteo lay, warm and soft, against me. Dared I become embroiled in more deceit?

  When I stared at the paper, I let go a sound of disgust. It was blank, utterly blank. The Devil had played a joke-and a poor one, at that. Had the hearth been lit, I would have thrown it into the fire. But I curbed my temper, smoothed out the creases, and put it in a drawer. I intended to use it for correspondence, since it was of fine quality, neatly cut and bleached white.

  Late that night, the sound of Matteo’s wailing in the distant nursery woke me; it stopped quickly once the wet nurse rose to feed him, but I could not return to sleep. The air was unseasonably warm; I lay sweating on my bed and fidgeted restlessly while Zalumma slept on her cot.

  The words of the priest returned to me: Read this only at night-tonight, when you are alone.

  I rose. In the darkness, I moved with deliberation and care, despite the fact that Zalumma was difficult to wake. I lit a candle, opened the drawer beside my bed very slowly, and retrieved the paper given me by the priest.

  Feeling both foolish and frightened, I held it up to the flame.

  I stared into the white blankness and frowned-until inspiration struck. I brought the paper closer to the heat, so close that the flame flared toward it and began to darkly smoke.

  Before my eyes, letters began to appear, transparent and watery brown. I drew in a silent, startled breath.

  Greetings.

  I regret I could not respond to your earlier letter.

  Tomorrow at sext, go unaccompanied to ask God for the answer.

  For centuries, the faithful had divided the day into hours of prayer: The most familiar were matins, at dawn, and vespers, in the evening. After dawn, there came the third hour of the morning, terce, and the sixth hour, sext, at midday.

  I stared at the writing, at the perfectly vertical letters, with the long, flourished f’s and l’s, the squat n’s, the careless spelling. I had seen it only twice before in my life, but I recognized it at once.

  Greetings, Madonna Lisa, from Milan…

  LVII

  For the remainder of the night I did not sleep, but lay in my bed pondering the letter. Go pray, it had said. Unaccompanied. Surely this meant I should leave the palazzo; but there were easily a hundred churches in Florence. Where had he meant for me to go?

  In the end, I decided only one place was logical: Santissima Annunziata, our family chapel, where I could easily go to pray at matins or sext without arousing suspicion, where I had last encountered the Devil.

  In the morning, I rose without saying anything to Zalumma, but she sensed my agitation and asked me what was troubling me. When I told her of my intention to pray-alone-she scowled. I rarely went anywhere without her.

  “This has to do with the letter,” she said. Her words gave me a start, until I realized she was referring to the letter the devilish young intruder had dropped, the one I had told her about. “I know you don’t mean to frighten me, Madonna, but I can’t help worrying. I would not like to think you are becoming involved in dangerous matters.”

  “I would never be so foolish,” I said, but even I heard the uncertainty in my tone.

  She shook her head. “Go alone, then,” she said darkly, pressing against the limits of what a slave might say to a mistress. “Just remember that you have a child.”

  My answer held a trace of heat. “I would never forget.”

  The driver took me to Santissima Annunziata. I directed him to wait in the open square in front of the church, across from the graceful colonnades of the Foundling Hospital. Just as the bells began to call the faithful, I stepped over the threshold of the narthex, passed the monks and worshipers moving into the sanctuary, and made my way to our little chapel.

  The room was empty, which both disappointed and relieved me. No priest awaited; the candles were unlit, the air unclouded by incense. I had made no arrangements, had told no one save Zalumma and the driver of my coming. Uncertain, I went to the altar and knelt. For the next few minutes, I calmed myself by reciting the rosary. When I at last heard light, quick footsteps behind me, I turned.

  The Devil stood smiling, in his guise as Servite monk. His cowl covered his head; his hands held folds of black fabric.

  “Monna Lisa,” he said. “Will you come with me?” He was trying to play the role, to be polite and circumspect, but he could not entirely mask the slyness in his voice, his eyes.

  In answer, I rose. As I approached him, he proffered the black fabric; the folds came loose, revealing a cloak.

  “This is silly,” I said, more to myself than to him.

  “Not at all,” he replied, and held the cloak open for me, his gaze darting all the while at the chapel door. “It will make sense shortly.”

  I let him drape the cloak over me, let him raise the cowl and pull it forward so that my cap and veil were covered, my face obscured. The black cotton hung low, trailing on the floor so that it hid my skirts.

  “Come,” he said.

  He led me back out onto the street, a safe distance from where my carriage waited; the plaza was busy, filled with men and children and vendors, so that no one noticed two friars. He steered me to a rickety wagon tied to a post and harnessed to an aging, swaybacked horse.

  “Let me help you up.” He gestured for me to climb into the seat.

  “No.” I realized suddenly that this young man had been capable of breaking into my house like a thief. How could I be certain that he did not mean to abduct and question me about my husband’s secret activities?

  He raised his hands in a show of disgusted innocence. “Then don’t come. Go back to your pretty palace. Close your eyes.”

  He meant what he said; he had taken a step away from me. If I wanted, I could leave him and go back into the chapel. I could walk across the piazza to my driver. “Help me up,” I said.

  He did so, then untied the reins and climbed up beside me. “A few precautions first.” He reached for a bit of cloth on the seat between us. Quickly, deftly, he shook out the folds and reached inside my raised hood. His fingers, so fast and nimble, teased the fabric around my eyes, around the back of my head, and tied it before I understood what he was doing.

  I was blindfolded. Panicked, I raised my hands.

  He clicked his tongue as if he were soothing an animal. “Hush. No harm will come. This is for your safety, not mine.” I shuddered at the feel of something soft brushing against my cheek and pulled back again at the sensation of it being stuffed into my ears. All sound was dulled-the noise of the crowd in the pl
aza became an unintelligible thrum-but I could hear the Devil speaking, no doubt loudly for my sake.

  “It’s all right. We’ll be there soon…”

  The cart jerked and began to move; I swayed and held the edge of the seat to keep my balance. We rode for several minutes. I did my best to listen to where we were going, but I understood why I had been summoned precisely at midday. All the church bells had already sounded; there were none singing-each in its own peculiar voice-to indicate what part of the city we were in.

  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.”