Kill when it is necessary. Don’t question what you are told to do. That was the lesson Nonna offered her granddaughter.
And for Nonna, that was the way it was supposed to be. It wasn’t a horror story of bloodshed, it was the way of life. You were loyal to your family above all. To your village and your neighbors, perhaps, because they were a kind of family, but higher loyalties took precedence. And sometimes neighbors must be killed if the family demanded it.
At times, in her rambling, it seemed as if Nonna was telling her own story, how she and her beloved husband, Salvatore, had been forced to flee their village, carried to this hateful America on a wave of blood.
And sometimes Lucia thought, This is my story. My parents sent me here to protect me, to save me. But from what?
Her questions were never answered. And in the end, Nonna’s stubborn silence of omertà was replaced by the implacable silence of the grave.
And so silence was all Lucia was left with, where she should have had family. Silence and a fog that filled the place where her memories should have been—a fog that became deeper the harder she tried to see. A fog that shifted from gray to black. The blackness of the dreams that still wakened her from time to time, dreams of being helpless, of being dragged, jolting through the dark, the sound of breath rasping in someone’s throat. Someone else’s ragged breath, not hers.
Just that.
And why would any of that be something for Lucia to talk about to her friends?
After her nonna’s eventual welcome death, Lucia had moved on to life in New York, jobs and boyfriends, more school.
And—at last—no family at all. No secrets to tell.
The train lurched. Moto, who had fallen asleep, slumped against her and sighed without waking. His mouth was open and he was drooling. Just a little.
She smiled. He was so handsome. She thought of the neighbors’ dog on Long Island. A magnificent boxer, strong, almost heroically handsome, who constantly had long strands of drool hanging from his noble mouth. He was a dog, what did he care?
She wondered if that was the secret of Moto’s family: he was part boxer.
She pictured the father he apparently couldn’t speak of, sitting at the dinner table, burying his snout in a bowl of Kibbles ’n Bits, and she almost laughed out loud.
Moto sat bolt upright, yanked out of an uneasy sleep by a vicious slap across the face.
His hand clutching his cheek, he looked around wildly for his attacker, but he already knew better. He knew that slap. So he wasn’t surprised to find himself sitting alone in the train while everyone else in the car was doing what people do on trains—minding their own business.
He knew who had hit him. It was years ago, and the dream, more real than simple memory, was one he knew too well. And even now, awake, he was still haunted by the dream, and he could see his father’s face, washed with fury and shame, blurred for an instant by his hand, lashing out, obliterating the room with that savage slap. And over his father’s shoulder, through the pain, he could still see, always see, the slender figure of the man who had been sharing Moto’s bed, grabbing his clothes and disappearing.
“You bring this trash into our house. Your mother’s house.”
“He isn’t tr—” Where he had found the courage to even try to contradict his father was beyond Moto’s comprehension. But he had loved that man who was now gone from his life forever.
Another slap, perhaps more savage than the first.
“Trash! I say trash. That’s what he is.”
His father’s face had been red with rage, but now the color had faded to a harsh white. And Moto couldn’t tell whether the emotion that tinged the anger was shame or sorrow. His father spoke, teeth clenched. His voice soft, pausing, not from emotion but as if to confirm to himself that this was what he was saying.
“I thought . . . I had . . . a son.”
Asleep or awake, those words still echoed in Moto’s mind every day.
Now, sitting alone in the train, he managed not to cry. He had learned long ago that tears didn’t help. Nothing helped.
And as he stared at that bleak landscape, Lucia, filled with good cheer, collapsed dramatically into the seat next to him.
“If someone doesn’t clean that toilet, I’m going to pull the emergency brake and—” She stopped when she saw his face. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head slightly. “Nothing.” A shrug. “Just a bad dream.”
Then, before she could ask anything else, Moto’s phone rang.
“Cosa?” What?
He listened, his free hand gesturing to keep the conversation going.
“Sì . . . sì . . . sì . . . ma . . . Madonna! . . . Terrore!” Then he ended the call.
He thought for a moment, then turned to Lucia. His face was somber, but his first words didn’t match the expression.
“We went to see the wrong Caravaggio.”
“What?”
“My friend—il poliziotto—couldn’t get us past the barricades to see that warehouse, but he just told me a few new details about what happened there.”
“And . . . ?”
“We should have gone to see The Crucifixion of St. Peter in Santa Maria del Popolo.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“When the police broke into the warehouse, they shot two armed men dressed as monks—”
“With a red cross on their robes?”
“He didn’t mention that. He was busy telling me the rest of it.”
“Which was . . . ?”
“The men they shot weren’t the kidnappers. The ones who kidnapped you were already dead.”
“From what we heard through the door, I figured that.”
“One of them was crucified—”
“God!”
“—upside down.”
“Like Peter.”
“Exactly. And the other one . . .” He paused.
“Go on.”
“Was beheaded.”
“Shit.”
Chapter 10
Roma
1602
Amor vincit omnia, a painting of Cecco as a joyous, beguiling cupid, was one of the prizes of Vincenzo Giustiniani’s art collection. Giustiniani, a close friend of Cardinal del Monte and a patron of the arts, adored Caravaggio’s work.
The naked prepubescent Cecco, flaunting brown-tinged wings and a playful smile, enchanted everyone who saw the painting.
Vincenzo Giustiniani’s brother, Cardinal Benedetto Giustiniani, envied the magnificent work. He contracted Giovanni Baglione, one of Roma’s most successful artists, to paint something similar.
For Caravaggio, this was a gross insult. He and Baglione were fierce rivals. No two artists hated each other more. But to the nobility, artists’ spats were merely amusing anecdotes, not to be taken seriously.
“I will gladly take this commission,” said Baglione, bowing to the cardinal. That bow concealed the sly smile on his face.
“I have a perfect image in mind,” said the artist. “I’m sure Your Excellency will be most pleased.”
When the canvas—titled Love Conquers All—was finished, Benedetto Giustiniani reacted with unbridled enthusiasm. He awarded Giovanni Baglione a solid gold chain as well as a generous commission.
The artists’ world of Campo Marzio held its breath, waiting for Caravaggio’s reaction.
Orazio Gentileschi stormed into Caravaggio’s house without knocking. Caravaggio looked up from his makeshift table, where he was sucking on a chicken bone.
“Giovanni Baglione!” said Gentileschi. “Cazzo! The prick! First he copies my style, my angel Saint Michael . . . and now you! Have you seen his latest?”
“Don’t speak to me about that cocksucker,” said Caravaggio, wiping his greasy fingers on his tunic. “Half the painters in Roma imitate my work . . . you included.”
“I do so in homage, amico mio. You are a genius,” said Orazio. “Baglione is no friend. He steals every idea, every technique, makes a mess of it,
gains commissions, and laughs behind his hand. The cardinals—even the pope!—love him.”
“The pope doesn’t know art from a wart on his ass,” said Caravaggio. “As to copying my art . . . I forgive you, Orazio. I’d rather see you emulate me and improve your paintings than to propagate bad art.”
Gentileschi grimaced. “Bad art. Like Baglione?”
“Like Baglione. Certo.”
Gentileschi chose to ignore the insult.
“You haven’t seen his latest—Cardinal Benedetto commissioned a canvas to compete with your Love Conquers All.”
“The cardinale has always coveted that piece,” said Caravaggio. “I think he fell in love with Cecco’s naked body. I know about the commission. I saw—”
“He has stuck his finger in your eye,” said Orazio, gesticulating wildly. “You will be outraged!”
“I’ve seen it,” said Caravaggio, shrugging. “It’s a complete hash. With the devil turned away, only his badly painted back visible.”
Orazio stopped and shook his head adamantly. “No, Michele. Not that one. He has painted a new version for Cardinal Giustiniani. Only this time the devil shows his damned face . . . and it is you, Caravaggio.”
“Me?”
“He has painted you, Michele, as the devil. You lying with a young boy.”
“The bastard!” roared Caravaggio. “Take me to see it at once.”
“It is at Cardinal Benedetto’s home already. We’d have to be invited.”
“I will visit his brother immediately and demand a viewing. There will be a price to pay for this!”
Vincenzo Giustiniani and his brother, Cardinal Benedetto, stared at Caravaggio as Caravaggio stared at the painting, his body trembling, his hands clenching and unclenching.
It was bad enough that the painting copied Gentileschi’s angel Saint Michael in both technique and composition, as the angel rescued a young boy from Satan’s lustful grasp. But worse—as Gentileschi had reported—Satan’s red, leering face was a portrait of Caravaggio.
Ropy sinews tented Caravaggio’s neck, and a blue vein throbbed in the center of his brow.
“You do not like it,” said the cardinal. “Ho capito. I understand. But you must admire—”
“It is shit!” said Caravaggio. “Complete and utter merda!”
“Come, come, Maestro.” The cardinal chuckled. “You and Baglione have your artistic differences, all Roma knows—”
“You call that bastardo an artist?” demanded Caravaggio. “Do you?”
The cardinal was taken aback, staring in amazement at the artist’s fury. He was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a fashion—and certainly not by a man of such a low class.
“Come, Michele!” admonished Vincenzo Giustiniani, Caravaggio’s patron. “Some tact, per favore. Tu non hai peli sulla lingua.” You have a sharp tongue.
“Baglione has no talent!” said Caravaggio. “You, Cardinal Giustiniani. You truly think he is admirable?”
“Sì, Maestro Caravaggio. And he is of a noble family. I’m quite pleased with this painting. I think I have quite a prize . . . plus a portrait of you in the bargain.”
“And they say you gave this fraud—this imposter of an artist!—a gold chain,” spat Caravaggio in reply. “You bought his abortion of a painting, depicting me as Satan? And rewarded him?”
The cardinal straightened his back in indignation.
“Michele, amico mio,” said Vincenzo Giustiniani, taking the artist gently by the elbow. “May I remind you that my brother, the good cardinale—”
“To hell with him, Vincenzo!” said Caravaggio, shaking off Giustiniani’s hand. “Look at that disaster! Are both of you blind?”
“I think you had better go now, Maestro Caravaggio,” said the cardinal. “You are no longer welcomed as my guest until you can observe civility.”
“Giovanni Baglione! This cunt of a—”
“Rafaello!” said Cardinal Giustiniani to his attendant. “Please see Maestro Caravaggio out. Subito!”
At once!
“What are we going to do?” ranted Orazio Gentileschi, talking above the roar of Osteria del Turchetto. “All Roma is talking about Baglione’s painting. He as good as spat in your face. And that gold chain cost over two hundred scudi—”
“Don’t remind me!” said Caravaggio, tossing down his wine. He thumped the earthen jug on the table for the waiter to bring more.
“Look how he flaunts his commissions. One after another,” said Mario Minniti. “Aside from that flunkey Tommaso Salini, every artist in Roma loathes him.”
“Shut up, all of you!” snapped Onorio Longhi, looking up from the rim of his wine cup. “I didn’t come out tonight to listen to artists gripe. If you don’t like what he’s done—get even.”
Caravaggio looked up, focusing his drunken eyes on his architect friend. “What do you mean?”
“Challenge him to a duel. You wear that sword on your side, Caravaggio. Use it!”
Mario snapped to attention, cuffing Onorio on the arm. “Onorio! Don’t encourage him! You’ll get him killed.”
Caravaggio looked from Mario to Onorio. “By God, I will!” He tried to fill his cup. But the pitcher was empty. “Waiter, you cuckold,” he said. “Bring more wine! Subito!”
The next day, an hour before sunset, Caravaggio waited on the Via del Corso, where he knew Giovanni Baglione would pass on his way home from his studio. Caravaggio stood for more than an hour in the fading light, his sword by his side.
“Go down the via, Cecco,” he said. “He has to come soon.”
“But Maestro,” said the boy, “maybe he’s stopped to take a drink in a tavern somewhere. Or he needs to discuss a commission—”
Caravaggio’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Go! Va’ via!”
Cecco scrambled away—this was not a moment to stay too close to his master. Or his sword. Along the Via del Corso, he wove around donkey carts piled high with casks of wine, the carriages of the Farnese and the Orsini, the waves of contadini, the farmers, making their way out of the city.
Finally, Cecco spied Giovanni Baglione striding along the street. He seemed in a sanguine mood, nodding to the noble passersby. His gold chain glittered in the fading sun.
The bastardo wears his chain for all Roma to see. It would serve him right for some thief to snatch it from his neck. And strangle him in the process!
The gleam of Baglione’s sword winked from the edge of its sheath.
The apprentice turned and ran to inform his master.
“He’s approaching, Maestro,” gasped Cecco, out of breath.
“Is he wearing his sword?” asked Caravaggio, standing his ground.
“Sì,” Cecco panted.
“Molto bene!” Caravaggio stepped forward. “Stay out of the way, but bear witness.”
Baglione came into view. He bowed to a cardinal and his entourage.
“Giovanni Baglione!” shouted Caravaggio, drawing his sword. “I challenge you!”
“Michele Merisi,” said Baglione, stopping abruptly. The color drained from his face. “Cosa?” What?
“Are you hard of hearing or merely a coward? Draw your sword, man!”
Baglione looked from Caravaggio’s sword to the crowd of onlookers forming. The Farnese carriage, emblazoned with a yellow shield and blue fleur-de-lis, stopped to allow its noble passengers to watch the encounter.
“You know that dueling is expressly forbidden in the city of Roma,” said Baglione, his voice loud but shaky. He looked beseechingly at the Farnese carriage. No one came to his defense.
“I know Roma’s laws. Now draw your sword,” said Caravaggio.
“The penalty is bando capitale. Death, Merisi. Death!”
“I do not care,” shouted Caravaggio. “Draw your sword, damn you. I have seen the painting in the salon of Cardinal Giustiniani . . . I have seen my face painted on your pathetic Satan. Now you shall pay for your insult.”
Baglione felt the press of bystanders close in. He
knew he could disappear into the crowd if Caravaggio approached. He caught a glimpse of the poet Giambattista Marino jostling to get a good vantage point.
If Marino sees me lose face, he will write verse and praise Caravaggio throughout Roma, thought Baglione. I shall be the laughingstock of the city!
Baglione swallowed. He gathered his wits and confidence, bolstered by the crowd in the Via del Corso. The color returned to his face.
“Quite the likeness, isn’t it,” said Baglione, raising his voice in a taunt. “You look the part with Satan’s horns. Everyone knows you are a pederast!”
“Draw!” shouted Caravaggio.
“No,” said Baglione. “Sbirri!”
“Make way for the papal guard!” shouted a voice down the corso.
The crowd hissed, disappointed that they’d be deprived of a duel.
“Codardo!” shouted voices. Coward!
“Where are your balls, man?”
“Defend your honor! Draw your sword!”
Baglione blew out a deep breath, his eyes seeking out Giambattista Marino.
I can’t let that poet see me in this light! Mala fama . . .
Baglione swallowed hard. He fingered the gold chain around his neck, facing Caravaggio. “No! I shan’t draw my sword, Merisi. I am a gentleman from a noble family. Nobili, do you hear me? I will not stoop to engage my sword with a petty commoner. And certainly not in the streets of Roma.”
“Draw, you coward!” screamed Caravaggio, shaking with rage.
Caravaggio saw one of the papal guards running toward him.
“Drop your sword, Merisi!” shouted the guard.
Caravaggio shook his head adamantly.
“You might as well do as he says. I refuse to raise my sword against the likes of you,” said Baglione. His fingers toyed furiously with his gold chain. “A pauper from the north, from peasant stock. You do not even have the right to carry a sword, you swine.”
“Sheathe your sword this minute!” shouted another sbirro, approaching fast. “Before we drag you back to Sant’Angelo prison.”
“You dirty bastard coward,” shouted Caravaggio. “Baglione! You hear—”
Light in the Shadows Page 8