I, Mona Lisa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  The old man stared in disbelief at the philosopher. “So you eat no meat?”

  My man said simply, with neither judgment nor apology, “I do not, sir. Have not, for the course of my adulthood.”

  The old man recoiled. “Outrageous notion! How is it, then, that you have survived?”

  “Through wit alone, and barely then, dear Marsilo. That, and soup, bread, cheese, fruits, and fine wine.” He raised his goblet and took a sip.

  “But surely this will shorten your life!” Marsilo persisted, truly alarmed. “Man must have meat to be strong!”

  My philosopher set his goblet upon the table and leaned forward engagingly. “Shall we wrestle to determine the truth of the matter? Perhaps not you, Marsilo, given your venerable condition, but our Sandro here will gladly take your place.” He glanced up at the quaileater’s ample belly. “He has clearly eaten the lion’s portion of Florence’s meat—indeed, he has taken a portion just now. Sandro! Off with your mantle! Let us set to it and decide this empirically!”

  The old man laughed at such foolishness; Sandro said, with mock boredom, “It would be an unfair contest. You have ridden all night from Milan to come see Lorenzo, and are tired. I have too much pity to take advantage of an old friend—who would lose the fight even were he well rested.”

  There came a pause; Lorenzo stepped into it, with me on his arm. “Gentlemen.”

  They turned. All but the beautiful philosopher seemed startled to find me, a mere girl, in their company.

  “Here is a young lady you must meet.” Lorenzo took a step back from me, breaking our link, and gestured at me as though I were a prize. “This is Madonna Lisa di Antonio Gherardini, daughter of the wool merchant.”

  The consumer of quail set down his plate, put a hand to his breast, and bowed grandly. “Sandro Botticelli, a humble painter. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madonna.”

  “And this is my dear friend Marsilo Ficino,” Lorenzo said, gesturing at the elderly gentleman, who by virtue of his age and infirmity did not rise; Ficino greeted me with a disinterested nod. “Our Marsilo is head of the Florentine Academy as well as the famed translator of the Corpus Hermeticum, and so is greatly respected by us all.”

  “An honor, sirs,” I said to both men, and curtsied, hoping that the great Botticelli would not detect the quaver in my voice. He had created his greatest masterpieces by then: Primavera, of course, and The Birth of Venus, both of which graced the walls of Lorenzo’s villa at Castello.

  “This young lad”—Lorenzo lowered his voice and smiled faintly at the dark-haired, scowling youth who could scarcely bring himself to look at us—“is the talented Michelangelo, who resides with us. Perhaps you have heard of him.”

  “I have,” I said, emboldened perhaps by the young man’s extreme shyness. “I attend the church of Santo Spirito, where his handsome wooden crucifix is displayed. I have always admired it.”

  Michelangelo lowered his face and blinked—perhaps a response, perhaps not, but I took it as one, and the others seemed to judge it normal.

  My philosopher rose. He was slender, straight, and tall—his body, like his face, was perfectly proportioned. At first sight of me, he had recoiled slightly, as if troubled; as his unease faded, it was replaced by an odd and tender melancholy. “I am called Leonardo,” he said softly, “from the little town of Vinci.”

  XXIII

  I stifled a surprised gasp. I remembered when my mother and I had stared together at the last portrait on the wall in the Piazza della Signoria, that of the murderer Bernardo Baroncelli—the painting done with a surer, more elegant hand. Here was its creator.

  “Sir,” I said, my voice catching, “I am honored to meet such a great artist.” In the corner of my eye, I saw Botticelli jab Leonardo with an elbow in a display of mock jealousy.

  He took my hand and studied me so intently that I flushed; there was more than an artist’s admiration in his gaze. I saw deep appreciation, mixed with an affection I had not earned. “And I am honored, Madonna, to meet a living work of art.” He bent down and brushed the back of my hand with his lips; his beard was as soft as child’s hair.

  Please, I repeated silently. Let him be the one.

  “I thought you were bound to Milan now,” I said, wondering why he was present.

  “It is true, the Duke of Milan is my patron,” he replied amiably as he let go my hand. “Though I owe my career entirely to the graciousness of il Magnifico.”

  “Quite the genius, our Leonardo,” Botticelli interjected dryly. “In Milan, he paints, he sculpts, he sketches plans for magnificent palazzi, he directs the construction of dams, he plays the lute and sings. . . .” He faced his old friend. “Tell me, is there anything you do not do for the Duke?”

  The tone of the question was markedly sly; old Ficino let go the beginnings of a snigger, then drew himself up short as if suddenly remembering Lorenzo’s and my presence. Lorenzo directed a veiled warning glance at the two men.

  “That is the extent of it,” Leonardo responded mildly. “Although I do have plans for altering the course of the sun.”

  Laughter followed—issuing from all save Michelangelo, who huddled more closely to his goblet, as though frightened by the noise.

  “If anyone could do it, you could,” Ficino quipped.

  “Good Leonardo,” Lorenzo said, with an abrupt switch to seriousness. “It is my wish to give Madonna Lisa a tour of the courtyard—but I require a moment of rest, and the time has come for me to partake of one of the noxious potions my physician has prescribed. Would you be so kind?”

  “I can think of nothing more delightful.” The artist proffered me his arm.

  I took it, unnerved but not about to show it. Was this a sign that il Magnifico considered him a likely candidate for my husband? The prospect of life with this charming, talented, famed stranger—even in faraway Milan, in the court of Duke Ludovico Sforza—seemed agreeable, even if I was too young.

  “I shall retire for a moment, then.” Lorenzo took his leave with a short, stiff bow.

  “It is most unfair,” Botticelli said, watching him go, “that only one of us should have the pleasure of accompanying you.”

  Leonardo and I took our leave. He directed me toward a pair of far doors; servants on either side opened them as we approached.

  As we passed over the threshold, Leonardo said, “You must not be nervous, Lisa. I perceive you are a woman of intelligence and sensitivity; you are among your peers, not your betters.”

  “You are kind to say so, sir, but I have no talent. I can only admire the beauty others create.”

  “An eye for beauty is itself a gift. Ser Lorenzo possesses such talent.”

  The air outside was chill, but there were several large torches and a small bonfire contained by a circle of heaped stones.

  “Madonna, may I offer you my mantle?” He turned his perfect face toward mine; the light from the setting sun imbued his skin with a coral hue.

  I looked at the proffered piece of cloth; it was of thin dark wool, worn and patched. I smiled. “I am quite warm, thank you.”

  “Let me give you a brief tour, then.” He steered me toward the bonfire. Beside it, on a high pedestal, was the bronze statue of a naked young man, his hair long and curling beneath a straw shepherd’s hat, his body soft and rounded as a woman’s. He stood with a fist braced coquettishly against one hip; the other hand grasped the hilt of a sword, its sharp tip resting on the ground. At his feet lay the grotesque, severed head of a giant.

  I walked up to it; the firelight gleamed on the dark metal. “Is this David?” I asked. “He looks like a girl!” I put my hand to my mouth, immediately embarrassed by my thoughtless remark. Who was I to so rudely judge a masterpiece?

  “Yes,” my guide murmured, a bit distracted. I glanced at him to find he had been scrutinizing me the entire while, as if he had never before set eyes upon a woman. “David, by the great Donatello.” After a long and unself-conscious pause, he came to himself and said, “He is
always here; in fact, he has guarded this courtyard since Lorenzo was a boy. But other things have been brought here for your enjoyment.”

  For my enjoyment? I pondered this, then decided Leonardo was indulging in flattery.

  We moved next to a pair of busts, each set upon its own pedestal, and each so worn that I could not determine the stone. “These look quite old.”

  “They are indeed, Madonna. These are the heads of Caesar Augustus and the general Agrippa, created in the times of ancient Rome.”

  I reached out a finger to touch the one called Augustus. It was commonplace to cross the Ponte Vecchio, created so long ago by Roman laborers—but to see a work of art, created from the face of a man more than a thousand years dead, filled me with awe. My guide let go of my arm and let me inspect the works.

  “Lorenzo is fond of antiquities,” he said. “This house contains the greatest collection of art, both modern and ancient, in the world.”

  I moved to another bust, this one also of white stone, of an older man with a round, bulbous nose and a full beard, though not so impressive as Leonardo’s. “And who is this?”

  “Plato.”

  This, too, I had to touch gently, to feel the cold stone beneath my fingertips and imagine the living, breathing man it represented. There was another statue, as well—a contemporary one—of Hercules, muscular and robust, the purported founder of Florence. At some point, I was so distracted I set down my goblet and forgot it altogether.

  Despite my excitement, I was growing chilled and on the verge of asking that we go back inside, when my gaze lit upon another bust—life-sized, of terra-cotta—in a corner of the courtyard. This was a modern man, handsome and strong-featured, in the prime of life. His eyes were large and open wide, and the hint of a smile played on his lips, as if he had just caught sight of a dear friend. I liked him immediately.

  “He looks familiar.” I frowned with the effort to recall precisely where I had seen him.

  “You have never met,” Leonardo countered; though he tried to keep his tone light, I detected a hint of dark emotion. “He died before you were born. This is Giuliano de’ Medici, Lorenzo’s murdered brother.”

  “He looks so alive.”

  “He was,” my guide answered, and at last I heard grief.

  “You knew him, then.”

  “I did. I came to know him well during the time I was a familiar of the Medici household. A more good-hearted soul was never born.”

  “I can see it, in the statue.” I turned to face Leonardo. “Who was the artist?”

  “My master Verrocchio began the piece when Giuliano was still alive. I completed it—after his death.” He paused to reflect on a distant sorrow, then forced it away. With practiced movements, he reached for a pad and quill, both attached to the belt hidden beneath his mantle; his tone became animated. “Madonna, will you do me a kindness? Will you permit me to do a quick sketch of you, here, looking at the bust?”

  I was taken aback, overwhelmed by the notion that the great artist from Vinci would deign to sketch me, the insignificant daughter of a wool merchant; I could find no words. Leonardo did not notice.

  “Stand there, Lisa. Could you move to your right? Just . . . there. Yes. Now, look up at me, and relax your face. Think of Augustus and Agrippa, and how you felt when you touched them. Here, close your eyes, take a breath, and let it go slowly. Now, don’t see me at all. See, instead, Giuliano, and remember how you felt when you first laid eyes on him.”

  I tried to do as instructed, though my nerves would not let me forget the face of Leonardo—his eyes passionate and intense as they glanced swiftly up and down, from me to the sketchpad. The quill scratched loudly against paper.

  At one moment, he hesitated, the pen poised in his hand: No longer the artist, but only the man, he looked on me with yearning tinged with sadness. Then he gathered himself firmly and grew businesslike once more; the scratching grew more rapid.

  The sun had finally set, leaving everything gray and fading swiftly to dark; the torches glowed brighter.

  “Breathe,” the artist urged, and I realized with a start that I had not been doing so.

  It was difficult, but I found within myself the strength to relax, to soften, to let go of the fear. I thought of Giuliano’s smile and how he had no doubt looked so kindly upon the artist who had asked him to sit.

  And when I had at last forgotten myself, my gaze wandered beyond Leonardo’s shoulder, to the window of the great chamber where the festivities awaited us. The heavy tapestry covering it had been pulled aside, and a man stood staring at us, backlit by the room’s brilliance.

  Though his face was in shadow, I recognized the watcher from his stooped posture and pained demeanor: It was Lorenzo de’ Medici.

  XXIV

  The artist and I returned shortly afterward to the party. Leonardo only had time to create what he called a cartoon—a quick rendering in ink of my basic features. I felt somewhat disappointed; in my naïveté, I had expected him to present me with a completed portrait in a matter of minutes. Yet it unquestionably resembled me, though it failed to capture the grandeur of my gown, or my fine cap.

  Il Magnifico now approached us from the opposite side of the room, accompanied by a boy perhaps a year or two my senior, and a young man of perhaps twenty. Despite his frailty and his cane, Lorenzo moved with sudden speed, and when he met me, he took my hand in his and squeezed it with a warmth that startled me.

  “Lisa, my dear,” he said. “I trust you enjoyed the few displays out on the courtyard?”

  “Very much, yes.”

  “They are nothing compared to what you shall now see.” He turned to the youths beside him. “But first, let me introduce you to my sons. This is my eldest, Piero.”

  With an insolent boredom that far outweighed Botticelli’s, Piero sighed slightly as he bowed. Tall and broad shouldered, he had inher ited his late mother’s arrogance and ill temper, and none of his father’s wit or charm. Everyone in Florence knew that he was Lorenzo’s chosen successor, and everyone rued it.

  “And this is my youngest, Giuliano.” His tone warmed subtly.

  The lad was well named. He favored his father little, for he had even features, a straight nose and teeth, and the same sort of wide, inquisitive eyes as his deceased uncle. Yet like his father, he had a gracious poise. “Madonna Lisa,” he said. “An uncommon pleasure.” Like Leonardo, he bowed low and kissed my hand. When he straightened, he held my gaze and my hand so long that I lowered my face and looked away, embarrassed.

  I fancied Lorenzo shot his youngest a warning glance before continuing. “My middle boy, Giovanni, was unable to attend the celebration.” He paused. “Boys, go and see that our dear Leonardo is well fed and cared for after his long journey. As for you, young Madonna . . .” He waited until the others had wandered away before continuing. “I should be most honored if you would consent to an examination of the art in my personal chambers.”

  There was no suggestion of lechery in his tone; it was a chivalrous offer. Yet I was thoroughly perplexed. I was not well-bred enough to be marriageable to his youngest son (Piero was already married to an Orsini, Madonna Alfonsina), and so did not understand the purpose of the introduction, other than satisfying a sense of courtesy. And if I were here to be sized up by potential grooms—especially, as I hoped, Leonardo—why was I to be led away from the group?

  Perhaps the shrewd il Magnifico wished to examine my faults and assets more closely. Despite my confusion, I was also ecstatic. I had never dreamt that I would live to see the famed Medici collection.

  “Sir, I should be thrilled,” I answered honestly. He clasped my hands firmly in his crippled ones, as though I were his own daughter; whatever had happened during his absence from the group had stirred his emotions, and he was trying mightily to hide them from me.

  I took his arm again and we walked from the chamber, back through the corridors lined with paintings and sculpture, then up a flight of stairs. This pained and winded him, but he se
t his jaw and kept a slow, measured pace; he tucked his cane beneath his arm and leaned heavily upon the railing while I clutched his opposite arm tightly, offering what support I could.

  At last we arrived at the top, and he let go a long sigh and stood a moment, gathering his strength. “You must indulge me.” His words came out as soft gasps. “I have had little opportunity of late to exercise my limbs. But with each effort, they become stronger.”

  “Of course,” I murmured, and so we waited until his breath came more easily. He led me then to a great wooden door—guarded, as always, by a servant who opened it when we approached.

  “This is my study,” he said as we entered.

  How shall I describe such a room? It was not remarkable in construction; it was of modest size, with four walls and a low ceiling—certainly not as impressive in scope as my own family’s great chamber. Yet no matter where my focus settled—on a wall, on the inlaid marble floor, on shelves and pedestals—it lit upon a gem, a glittering antiquity, an exquisite creation by one of the world’s great artists.

  I was dizzy at the sight of so much beauty gathered in a single place. We moved past a pair of earthenware vases the height of my shoulders, painted with beautiful Eastern designs. Lorenzo acknowledged them with a casual nod. “A gift,” he said, “from the Sultan Qa’it-Baj.” He pointed to the wall. “A portrait of my old friend Galeazzo Maria Sforza—Duke of Milan—before he died and Ludovico assumed his place. And there, a painting by Uccello, and del Pollaiuolo, one of my favorites.” These were names known to every educated Florentine, though few had the good fortune to set eyes upon their works. “And there is a nice one by Fra Angelico.”

  Fra Angelico: This was the famed Dominican monk who had painted glorious murals on the walls of San Marco’s convent—even in the brothers’ cells—at the behest of Cosimo de’ Medici. As I gazed upon the painting, I could not help but wonder whether Savonarola approved of such unnecessary adornment. Saint Sebastian, our protector from plague, was shown in his death agony; his placid eyes gazed heavenward even as he slumped, bound to a tree, his body and even his brow cruelly pierced by arrows.