Light in the Shadows

by Linda Lafferty

  “Tell us more, Longhi!” said Minniti.

  Longhi wiped the wine from his mouth. “Prudenza’s mother made a complaint to the authorities, but Fillide kept it up. ‘I’ll get you proper next time, you dirty whore! Stay out of Ranuccio’s bed, puttana!’”

  Minniti sputtered wine across the table. “She’s got spirit, that whore!”

  Caravaggio stared fixedly across the smoky room. His vision blurred, and from the corners of his eyes, he saw blackness descend like a curtain.

  He knew it far too well. He closed his eyes, shaking his head.

  Longhi stopped laughing, noticing the change in his friend.

  “What’s the matter, amico?” said Longhi, wiping his mouth. “Come on. Fillide is just a whore like all the rest. But Tomassoni has his hooks in her heart. And his pene in her—”

  “Shut up!” said Caravaggio savagely. “Don’t you know when to shut your mouth, you dirty pig?”

  “Who are you calling a pig?” snarled Longhi. “Just because I call a whore a whore?”

  “It’s true, Michele,” said Minniti. “You know none of them are Madonnas, no matter how well you paint them. Any more than I am Bacchus! Let it go.”

  The waiter returned with two servings of artichokes, four in each clay bowl.

  The artist stared down at the food. His mouth hardened. The corner of his left cheek twitched. “Which are the ones in butter?” demanded Caravaggio.

  The waiter shrugged. A couple of customers called for wine. Another called to pay for his meal, banging his cup on the table.

  He shook his head in exasperation. “Smell them, Milanese!” snapped the waiter. He turned to clear the plates of the men next to them.

  “What do you mean, smell them!” roared Caravaggio.

  “Michelangelo, tranquillo!” said Minniti. “Settle down, he—”

  Caravaggio seized one of the bowls and dumped the artichokes on the table. “Insolent bastard!” he shouted at the waiter, leaping to his feet. “You think you are serving some damned bum! I’ll show you who I am, you cuckold!”

  The men next to them jumped from the bench, their plates and cups clattering.

  “What in the name of God is wrong with you, Michele?” said Longhi. “I’m hungry. Let’s look for a fight after we eat!”

  The artist hurled the wine pitcher at the waiter, hitting him squarely on the cheek.

  “Merda!” said Minniti. “There goes lunch.”

  The waiter pressed a hand to his face, his fingertips coming away bloody.

  Caravaggio reached for his sword.

  “You are crazy!” said Longhi, grabbing him by his elbow.

  The waiter ran from the restaurant, lumbering down Via della Maddalena toward the police station, his food-stained apron flapping.

  With one hand on his sword, Minniti grabbed an oily artichoke from the broken crockery, tore away the leaves to the heart, and stuffed it in his mouth. “Let’s go,” he said through a mouthful. “That waiter will be back with the sbirri, you fucking idiot!”

  “Come on!” said Longhi, grasping his friend by the back of his tunic and yanking him away. “They’ll throw you in prison for this one.”

  Chapter 22

  Roma

  1606

  Fillide shifted her weight on her knees. She smiled, reflecting.

  A whore knows this position too well! But with Caravaggio, I am dressed in silks, with gold and silver threads—and I am a saint on a red damask cushion.

  Her right shoulder leaned against a broken wheel. She glanced nervously at the spike level with her neck.

  “Don’t shift your gaze,” said Caravaggio from behind his easel.

  Fillide slid her right finger along the flat of the dagger blade.

  “I like that,” said the artist. “Keep that pose.”

  Fillide toyed with the dagger in minute movements.

  Of course he’d like that. He lives his life on a sharp blade.

  She listened to his brushstrokes.

  He used to talk more, didn’t he?

  “Do you think God’s thunderbolt really broke the wheel for Saint Catherine?”

  “Don’t talk. I’m painting your face.”

  Fillide fell silent. There was a change in Caravaggio. He used to be more at ease with her, if not while he was painting, then afterward. He would tell her about the lives of the saints, something she knew little about. It excited her to know that she represented such brilliant, brave lives: Judith, who killed the horrible Holofernes, or the holy Madonna, or now Saint Catherine. These women—so remarkable.

  She recognized herself from the cuticles of her nails to the damaged finger of her left hand to the oily sheen on her eyelids. She had counted the lines in her forehead in the painting of Judith and Holofernes.

  So powerful the way he portrayed them in paint—and how he could betray them in flesh and blood.

  After the foreplay of bloody slaughter, he’d pulled her toward him, cupping the small of her back, sliding his hands down to her buttocks. Taking her.

  Of course she had lain with him. Any man who could know a woman’s body and portray even its imperfections with such beauty—what woman would not want to make love to such an artist? Their lovemaking was secret, of course—Ranuccio was a dangerous man. He despised Michelangelo Merisi.

  No good would come of that.

  But for the last two sittings, Michelangelo had not pulled her to his bed. He painted silently as always but did not speak after their sessions. He seemed to want her to leave when the work was done.

  “Fillide. Do you remember the reception and banquet for Gran Duca Ferdinando de’ Medici at Palazzo Madama?”

  “Sì. Of course. Why?”

  “There was a Knight of Malta there that night, an acquaintance of Ranuccio’s.”

  “Fra Giovanni Roero?”

  “An ugly sot. He was whispering in your ear.”

  A smile crossed Fillide’s mouth. “Don’t tell me you are jealous, Michele!”

  “Did you lie with him?”

  “Of course,” she said, toying with her earring. “He pays well. Whenever he is in the city, he asks for me.”

  “I thought he was confined to Malta.”

  “Pff!” said Fillide. “The knights head for the mainland every chance they can. Malta is a rock surrounded by sea.”

  Caravaggio frowned. “When that bastard was buzzing in your ear, he looked over at me. Did he say something about me?”

  Fillide cocked her head, thinking.

  “Oh, sì!” She laughed. “He said you looked like a dirty Turk. That your head would look better stuck on a pike in front of St. Peter’s Basilica.”

  “A Turk?” Caravaggio said.

  “The Maltese knights hate the Turks,” she said, shrugging, “especially their religion. He wants to put all the heathens’ heads on pikes. Don’t be cross, Michele.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” said Caravaggio, shaking with rage.

  Fillide moved toward him, combing her fingers through his thick mat of dark hair. “All swarthy and hairy, my love,” she cooed. “You do look like a Turk!”

  Caravaggio pulled away from her. “I’m finished for today . . . that may be all,” he said, stepping back from his canvas to regard it. He picked up a towel and wiped his brush.

  “May I see it?” asked Fillide.

  The artist chewed at the corner of his mustache. “Sì. Why not?”

  Fillide gathered up her skirts and walked to his side.

  “Oh!” she gasped.

  Fillide stared at the richness of the fabric, the red highlights in the midnight-purple brocade.

  But it was her own image that made her gasp in delight.

  “It is astonishing. How did you—oh, Michelangelo! Look at my face, my hands. What a gift you have—”

  “Not your face or your hands, Fillide,” he said, inspecting the bristles of his brush. “They are Saint Catherine’s.”

  Fillide straightened her back. “Certo. Of course I know that.
But it is my likeness,” she said. She put her hand over Caravaggio’s.

  This hand has made me a saint.

  She caressed the rough skin and kissed the cuticles that smelled of paint and walnut oil.

  And turpentine.

  Caravaggio pulled his hand away. He continued cleaning his brushes.

  “I suppose I should go,” said Fillide, coloring with anger.

  The artist shrugged. “Before you leave . . . I saw a woman in your company last night,” said Caravaggio. He put down his rag and looked at her. “A most beautiful woman. Dark hair, luminous eyes. She was kissing a young child in an older woman’s arms.”

  “Maddalena—Lena. Lena Antognetti.”

  “Lena. She is the most exquisite creature. Her eyes are so innocent. Luminous with purity—”

  “For a whore.” Fillide’s face hardened.

  “A puttana?”

  “She stands in the Piazza Navona. That is her territory.”

  “And the child she kissed?”

  “The child is hers. A bastard. Lena should give him up to the milk nurse, but she won’t. The little boy is bad for business.”

  “Does she—have a steady patron?” asked Caravaggio.

  “Why this sudden interest in another whore?”

  “Don’t be ugly, Fillide. Business is business. Tell me about her.”

  “She lives off and on with Gaspare Albertini, but their relationship is unsteady. She used to have highborn patrons, but now she stands in Piazza Navona. Since the baby’s birth, the cardinals don’t want her.”

  “Because of a child?”

  “Pff! Of course! The holy servants of Christ want to forget that sex begets children. A baby is too sharp a reminder for a cardinale.”

  A smile broke over the artist’s face. She saw his white teeth gleam under the shaggy ends of his mustache.

  Enough about Lena Antognetti! Speak to me of more saints.

  Fillide gazed at her likeness still wet with oil. Saint Catherine.

  I am astonishing. All Roma shall admire me.

  A slow smile of pride bloomed on her face. Her place was secure. “Would you like to meet her, Michelangelo? Lena?”

  Caravaggio nodded. He put his brush down and caressed Fillide’s cheek. She dipped her chin into the palm of his hand like a house cat.

  “Very much,” he said. “Do you think she would pose for me?”

  Fillide sighed, her breasts rising and falling above her cream-colored bodice.

  What a strange man. He has no idea what he means to me.

  Ah, but what matter?

  She looked back at the painting and lifted her chin with pride.

  “Ah, Michelangelo, you fool! What woman wouldn’t?”

  Chapter 23

  Roma

  1606

  The wind blew a gust through the side street leading to Piazza Navona. Fillide covered her face, waiting for the whirlwind to subside before introducing her friend to Caravaggio. “I’d like to present Maestro Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio,” said Fillide to the raven-haired woman holding a toddler. “This is Maddalena Antognetti and her son, Antonio.”

  Caravaggio swept off his cap, bowing low to the fair-skinned beauty and her squirming son.

  Fillide made a face, her hand on her hip. This is the way he greets a whore!

  “Piacere, Maestro,” said Lena, extending her hand awkwardly from underneath the plump baby’s leg.

  “Lena, he would like you to model for a painting,” said Fillide.

  The baby grasped his mother’s chin.

  Lena swiveled her head away from the baby’s sticky fingers. “Me, signore?”

  Fillide lifted her chin imperiously. “Just as I have posed for him.”

  “Would you come to my studio, signorina?” said Caravaggio. “I live off the piazza, on Vicolo dei Santi Cecilia e Biagio. Number 19.”

  “Mamma!” cried the little boy. “Giú, giú! Down!”

  “It would be my pleasure,” said Lena, setting the boy on the ground to walk.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, but . . . I care for my baby.”

  “Sì, sì. Bring the child. He, too, can model,” said Caravaggio, tousling the baby boy’s hair.

  “Ow!” said the toddler. He looked at the artist solemnly.

  Fillide arched her brow. “Two for one. You are a sly dog.”

  “Look downward at the spot I’ve marked on the floor. Pretend you see someone—no, two people—kneeling at your feet. Poor, supplicating pilgrims, weary from their long journey. Drinking in your blessing.”

  Lena inclined her left shoulder, her chin dipping toward her shoulder blade.

  “Like this?”

  “Look a little more to your left. I want to see your right profile. Your long neck,” said Caravaggio, tilting Lena’s chin toward her left shoulder. “Do you feel the light on your throat?”

  His fingers lingered on her skin.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “The warmth.”

  “That’s perfect,” he said, stepping back. “Don’t move.” He began painting with feverish strokes.

  The baby, Antonio, began to whimper. He stretched his arms up toward his mother, who was gazing down at the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Maestro Merisi,” she said. “The baby—”

  “Pick him up,” said Caravaggio, his brush still moving.

  “But—”

  “Pick the child up. Go back to your spot. Hold him as you would naturally.”

  Lena smiled quickly at the child and took him in her arms. She hitched him up on her right hip, her right hand spread around his back, her left hand stretched over his knee and cradling his bottom for support.

  “Cecco!” said Caravaggio. “Bring the white cloth. Place it under the signorina’s arms so its folds drape over her right wrist.”

  Cecco picked up the prop reluctantly. Caravaggio noticed his sullen look and hunched shoulders.

  “Hurry! The light is fading,” said Caravaggio.

  The boy tucked the linen into Lena’s hand, fanning the fold. He gave one loose twist and threaded the end of the cloth across her right hand, leaving the end draped toward the floor.

  “Damnation, see how her eye wanders?” said Caravaggio. “Her boredom shows! It’s all wrong. Kneel, Cecco. Give the signorina a focal point.”

  “Me? Kneel?”

  “Now, damn it! What’s wrong with you?”

  Cecco’s face seized in despair. He fell to his knees, and a splinter pierced his skin. He winced.

  “What are you doing with your face? Stop it!” said Caravaggio. He stepped back behind the easel.

  “Pray to her,” said Caravaggio, his face obscured by the canvas.

  “Come?” What?

  “Damn you, do as you are told! Fold your hands in prayer. Look up to her, beseeching. Beg for her blessing.”

  Cecco bit the inside of his mouth. He felt the bits of sand from the dirty floor bite into the skin of his knees, the splinter stinging.

  Pray to her? How dare you ask me this! Your new lover, this whore!

  “Soften your face, your eyes, Cecco! You are adoring her, not haggling for fish at the market. Let her see your eyes so that she will feel your need and bless you.”

  Need? I need nothing but your love, Maestro. Why can you not understand this? You torture me with your whores—

  Cecco lifted his eyes, flashing with anger at the prostitute who would usurp his place in his master’s bed.

  I hate you! I—

  He blinked. He looked again at Lena. Instead of a rival, he saw a mother’s kindness in her eyes, a loving look of compassion.

  Cecco thought of his home in Caravaggio, the little village in the north where he and his widowed mother had lived in a wooden hut, destitute. He remembered the tender hands of his young mother, hands that smelled of warm bread.

  “Go with Signor Merisi,” she said. “Learn everything he teaches you. Someday perhaps you will become a great artist. Make me proud, figlio mio.”
r />   My son.

  He blinked again, surprised as a tear rolled down his cheek.

  “Lena,” whispered Caravaggio, his breath filling her nostrils. His fingers were entwined in her black hair, caressing her throat. He extended her long white neck, moving his lips over her skin. “My Madonna.”

  She smiled, her lashes flickering. He moved his lips to her breast, lingering there, his tongue caressing her nipple. She arched her back in ecstasy. The moonlight glanced off her white bosom and throat, casting her face in half light, half shadow.

  “Sì,” said Caravaggio, watching her mouth open into a perfect O. He drew up on his elbows, staring at his lover’s body. “I shall remember you exactly so. Forever.”

  Baby Antonio murmured in his sleep from the pallet next to the bed.

  Cecco, unable to sleep, watched the two lovers from the corner of the room. He knew his master had stopped his lovemaking because he saw a painting. A very good painting. Caravaggio was composing the outline and brushstrokes as he hovered over the rapturous Lena.

  He is a thief. He steals the very likeness of a human being, from the dirty cracks in their heels to the spittle on their lips. But he is not content with that now. Not with her. His greed is godlike. He must possess her soul, thief that he is.

  Cecco knew he would see her again in paint. Again and again.

  The boy bit his lip to keep from crying. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and he thought of metal coins.

  Mariano Pasqualone, the same heartless papal attorney of the Cenci executions, walked along the Tiber River bordering the Ortaccio di Ripetta—the “evil garden” where the prostitutes of Roma made their homes. It had rained hard the day before, through the night, and into this morning. The river was swollen and had seeped over the banks, as it often did in this poor neighborhood. The water trickled down the stones of the road, meandering capriciously.

  Pasqualone sat on a grassy knoll at Emperor Augustine’s mausoleum. The loamy soil had reclaimed the ancient stone tomb, and the poorer prostitutes plied their trade in the verdant hideaways. He heard the satisfied grunts and moan of a mercenary soldier as the client bent a young girl over a moss-covered rock, sliding himself between her buttocks.