Oil and Marble

by Stephanie Storey

  Now that they were finally face to face, he started to thank her for meeting him, but she spoke first.

  “I only came to offer you my sincerest apologies about the”—her eyes drooped with sadness—“accident. I feel your involvement in the project was at least in part due to your regard for me, so some of the blame must fall at my feet. I will spend eternity saying Hail Marys as retribution for the lives lost.” She curtsied stiffly and then turned to leave.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself. I took the job out of pride.”

  She paused, hand on the door.

  “I’m the one who has offended God because I believed myself capable of more than I am. Please. Do not leave.” He dropped his voice as though they could still be overheard. “You could have told me that at your house.”

  “I ordered my servants never to leave us alone again, so I knew we would not have another private moment, even if you did return to sketch me again. I thought I would never have the chance to … but then I got your letter … I shouldn’t have come.” She cracked the door open.

  “Am I ridiculous?” His voice echoed through the round, empty, marble room. “From an outsider’s perspective?”

  She turned her head slightly back toward him.

  “Please. I have no one else to ask. No one else who might be honest with me.”

  She paused a moment. “Where is your mother? You should ask such questions of her.”

  “Dead.”

  Lisa let the door fall closed again. She looked back at him. Concern clouded her features.

  “And even if she were alive,” he went on, “she would not have told me the truth. When I was young, she was married to a horrible, drunken man. Not my father. She lied all the time to keep us both safe. At fourteen, I was sent away to apprentice. In those years, we hardly spoke, honest or not.” He looked up into the domed ceiling, adorned with a magnificent golden mosaic. “For the last two years of her life, she came to live with me, up in the Milanese court, but she didn’t tell me the truth then. She was too deferential because she needed my support. My money. My fame.” He returned his gaze to Lisa. “No one else will tell me. Will you? Do I appear utterly ridiculous to the outside world?”

  She cocked her head and studied him.

  He felt self-conscious under her gaze. His mass of curling gray hair felt like a wig he wanted to scratch off. He was overdressed: heeled leather boots, stockings, and a short maroon tunic were too much for a clandestine meeting. He was too tall. His legs were too skinny. He shifted his weight awkwardly.

  “No. Not to me,” she finally said.

  He itched his beard. “Do I make you feel like you are”—Michelangelo’s voice rang in his ears—“some sort of specimen that I inspect through scopes and lenses and spectacles?”

  Again, she paused, as if giving his question proper consideration. “Not exactly, but early on, I did feel a bit like you saw me as an ancient Roman artifact: rare, beautiful, and something to be unearthed and studied.”

  He remembered sitting in Isabella d’Este’s studiolo, golden trinkets cascading around him as though he were just another collectible. He hated feeling that way. “Early on? But not later?” He took a step closer. “Later, I was more open?”

  Her hands fluttered in front of her chest. “I am a wife and a mother and I cherish those things about myself. I must go. My driver thinks I’m only here to pay tribute to my baby girl.” She crossed herself and murmured a quick prayer. “He will wonder what is taking so long.”

  “I have done something to offend you.” He wanted to reach out and take her arm, but he didn’t dare. “Please tell me. I do not know. Truly.”

  She took a deep breath. The sound floated up into the dome like a prayer. “You told me that in order to properly paint someone, you needed to maintain scientific objectivity. You needed to keep your distance.”

  He frowned. It seemed he really did tell that to everyone.

  “But you were already so forward with me. You talked to me, touched me, flirted with me. At first I dismissed it as part of your way as a portrait painter, but when you said … well, then I had to assume you did not really want to paint my portrait. You were too close for that, by your own admission. No, you were trying to tempt me into some godless sin.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but found no words.

  She pulled the hood of her cape over her head again, dropping her eyes into shadow. “My husband is ridiculous. But I am a wife and a mother and I cherish those things about myself.”

  “Signora Giocondo, I apologize. I was wrong.” About so many things, he added silently. “I wish understanding human beings was as simple as counting the number of trees in a forest or observing how a bird glides through the air. I wish people were as clear and predictable as science. If they were, I could, indeed, keep my distance.”

  She peered out from under her hood.

  “Do you know how many pictures I have not finished because I knew they would never live up to my own expectations? If I were capable of imperfection, I might have delivered more paintings and have more satisfied patrons. I might have been more content, too.”

  “So you did not invite me here to …?”

  “No. I have done enough of that. I asked you here because I thought you could help me begin again. You said you had a daughter baptized here?”

  She shook her head. “She didn’t live that long. But three sons, yes.” She smiled, soft and knowing, the way only a mother can.

  “When I was twenty-four, my father finally had his first legitimate son. It had taken him two wives and countless attempts. The boy was baptized here.” He ran his fingers along the smooth marble of the ancient baptismal font in the middle of the room. “I ducked in late, watched from the back of the crowd. When I was born,” his tone shifted, as though telling a wonderful story with a happy ending, “my grandfather recorded my birth and invited ten godparents to attend to me. Now, that is an auspicious beginning.”

  They shared a smile as she joined him by the font.

  “I lived this strange life, half-accepted by my grandfather and uncle, half rejected for being the son of a house slave. Half loved by my mother, entirely hated by her husband. Half man, half bastard. My father looked pained every time he saw me. And then a new life began for me in this very room because when the legitimate son was baptized, I was no longer half-accepted by anyone. Do you know why this building is an octagon?”

  She raised her chin with confidence, and her hood slipped back off her face. “After six days of work and a seventh day of rest, the symbolic eighth day is reserved for new beginnings. Many baptisteries have eight sides, not just ours.” She always knew more than expected.

  “For centuries,” he said, “Florentines have come here in search of new beginnings. I’m no different.”

  “You said you went to apprentice at age fourteen?”

  He nodded.

  “So, you and I were both sent off to work at the same age. I was fourteen when I was betrothed. Francesco was thirty-four, widowed twice, with a son in tow. He likes silk and fine velvet brocades and buttons. I’ve never known a man to be so enthusiastic about buttons.” She opened her cape and showed him the ornate silver buttons running down the front of her dress. “But my family had the old, aristocratic name, while Francesco had the money. The ingredients for a happy marriage.” She pulled her cape closed again. “I, too, would love a renewal, to fly away to Naples or Milan or Paris. I would love to see the world and have the world see me, but we both know it is not possible. We have lived our lives. And no flood, no matter how deep, can ever wash them away.”

  They heard boys, screaming and laughing, in the distance. Whatever was going on, those boys were up to no good. No one was ever up to any good at night.

  “I really must go,” she said.

  “Before you do, would you care to see a picture of my mother?”

  She smiled, even with her eyes. “Very much.”

  He took out his notebook and flipped to the
back, where he always carried the same sketches. There was Maria, a brunette ten-year-old girl, his first crush. And Carlotta, Verrocchio’s voluptuous maid who took him to bed when he was only fourteen—the first person to do so. Then, the beautiful seventeen-year-old boy Jacopo Saltarelli, for whom Leonardo had been willing to risk jail and exile. He flipped past a sketch of the sleepy-eyed Ginevra de’ Benci and drawings of Il Moro’s mistresses, Cecilia Gallerani and Lucrezia Crivelli. Leonardo had wrapped all of those women in his arms before immortalizing them in paint. Then came the flowing-haired Juan, a poetic courtier in the Sforza court; Edouard, a pretty French lad who barely spoke Italian but captured Leonardo with his fine eyes; and several drawings of the Marchesa of Mantua, Isabella d’Este. Interspersed throughout were dozens of drawings of Salaì.

  Finally, Leonardo pulled out one page. It was a lightly sketched image of a long-nosed, almond-eyed beauty with pursed lips and smooth skin. Hair tied back in a bun, she had a sad look of longing on her face. He handed the drawing to Lisa. He had never shown it to anyone before. “Her name was Caterina. She was brought in from Constantinople as a house slave when she, too, was fourteen years old.”

  Lisa leaned in to get a better look. She touched the picture, her fingers sliding across Caterina’s face.

  “I have no wife,” he said. “No children. No father. No mother. I have half-brothers who do not acknowledge me. Sisters who do not know me. All I have are my paintings. Which are never finished. Only abandoned.” Lisa handed the sketch back to him. He filed it away and closed his notebook. “The older I get, the more I realize how young I still am, but everyone else sees me as this old, wise man, an untouchable, unknowable genius, like some sort of divinity.”

  “I don’t see divinity. For God wouldn’t need to build a set of wings in order to fly.” She moved toward the door.

  “You must tell me. How do you know about that?”

  She shrugged. “My family attends church at Santissima Annunziata. We, of course, went up to your studio one evening to see the design for the altarpiece.”

  Leonardo shuffled through his memories, hoping to recall her face among the crowds of visitors, but he did not find her there.

  “Hanging all over your studio were drawings of wings and bats and birds,” she said. “It was there for anyone to see.”

  “But no one else ever noticed.”

  “I did.” She bowed her head. “I am a wife and a mother. And I cherish those things about myself.” This time, Leonardo heard those words for what they were: a prayer and a promise to herself and to God. She opened the door.

  “Will you meet me again?” he whispered, suddenly afraid that his voice might carry out of the security of the Baptistery.

  She paused only a moment before nodding. He caught a glimmer of a smile under her hood. Then, her midnight blue cape flapping in the moonlight, she disappeared out the door.

  Michelangelo

  Granacci stood in the darkness of the Buonarroti doorway. “It’s David,” he said, his voice shaking. “He’s been attacked.”

  As Michelangelo got dressed, he tried to calm his father, who had been certain the banging at the door was an official coming to tell the family that they had found Giovansimone’s dead body. Once his father was breathing normally again, Michelangelo followed Granacci into the streets. As they ran, Granacci recounted the story. He’d fallen asleep and woken to rocks crashing against the platform. He’d called for help and Giuseppe Vitelli, who lived in a room overlooking the workshop, came running with a torch. Giuseppe’s booming voice and ability to throw a rock of his own chased the vandals away.

  “Is he hurt?” Michelangelo asked as he mounted the transport and circled the rope swing.

  “No. But they might come back.” Giuseppe swiped his torch at the shadows.

  “I’m afraid we won’t know for sure about damage until we remove the tarp after the move,” said Piero Soderini.

  “What are you doing here?” Michelangelo asked the gonfaloniere.

  “Giuseppe sent an assistant to alert the city guards of the attack. When I heard the news, I of course crawled out of bed and dashed here immediately. You must know you have the full backing of the city against this attack.”

  “I can’t believe you fell asleep,” Michelangelo growled at Granacci. “You were supposed to be standing guard.” He reached into the rope swing and tried to feel through the protective covering for any breaks. He touched David’s arms, hands, and legs. He didn’t feel any cracks, but Soderini was right. It was impossible to tell through the tarp. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Medici supporters,” Soderini said grimly. “I told you, they don’t want David to make it to the piazza.”

  Michelangelo picked up a rock lying at David’s feet. Heavy and jagged, it had the potential to do real damage. “I won’t let anyone destroy you,” he whispered to the marble. “I’m not leaving,” he said loudly, so the others could hear. “If anyone comes back, they’ll have to contend with me. And I,” he said, pacing the platform like a dog protecting his master’s home, “will not fall asleep.”

  Granacci laid his jacket on the platform. “In case you get cold.” He walked away, head down.

  Giuseppe left a tinderbox, candle, and small carafe of wine. “Shout if they come back,” he said, and marched back to his house.

  Soderini stood next to the platform as though planning to stay there all night.

  “Go,” Michelangelo ordered.

  “Buona fortuna, figlio mio,” Soderini said and quietly shuffled away.

  Michelangelo paced for a few moments. Then he yelled into the night, “If you want to hurt him, you will have to do it over my dead body!” His cry echoed down the streets. He hoped it was loud enough to ring across the countryside. “You hear me? You’ll have to kill me first.”

  The echo from his voice quieted. The city dropped into stillness. A sliver of a moon cast blue light across the city. Michelangelo squinted down one street, then another, and another. Shadows obscured corners and crevices. He settled down at David’s feet. “It’s just you and me again,” he said, although he didn’t expect it to stay that way for long. David’s enemies would not be chased away by a torch and a few screams. They would be back, and when they were, Michelangelo would be waiting.

  He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He shook off the fog that had settled in his head. Where was he? And what had woken him? A rock landed next to him. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. Yes, he was standing guard in front of David. He must have fallen asleep. Accidenti, he cursed himself. Another rock hit Michelangelo’s shoulder. Laughter echoed down one street, then another. Where were the voices coming from? Thwack! That one struck the wooden framework near David’s head. This was no dream. They were being attacked.

  Michelangelo stumbled groggily to his feet. “Che cavolo,” he yelled, his heart rolling like a drum at an execution. “Come out and face me, voi vigliacchi!”

  Another rock hit. More echoing laughter swirled around him. He stood in front of David and tried to bat away the missiles—the tarp would not protect the marble from a direct hit—but they were coming too fast. One rock hit Michelangelo’s thigh. Another his shoulder. He ducked before one struck his face.

  The next rock struck David’s arm. Michelangelo thought he heard something crack. His muscles tensed with rage. Did the attackers expect to take David down with rocks? No. Rocks would never take David down, because David could always take down his enemies with stones of his own.

  Michelangelo picked up the rocks and hurled them, one after another, into the darkness. He couldn’t see his attackers in the darkness, but he kept flinging stones hard and fast. Months and years and decades of frustration and anger poured out of him. All of the hours carving and sanding and drawing, his father’s beatings, Giovansimone’s betrayals, Leonardo’s sneering face. “Get out of here!” he screamed. “Get out, get out, Satan, get out!” With every word, he hurtled another rock into the murky blackness, each thrown harder than the last.
He and David had fought too hard to survive, and damned if some Medici rebels would ruin it all now. “Out, out, out!” He kept throwing stones, bombarding his invisible attackers, until they stopped throwing rocks of their own and fled.

  The streets fell silent again.

  Panting, Michelangelo gathered up the remaining rocks and stacked them in a pile under the rope swing. If the enemy returned, he would be ready. There was no way to check David’s wounds for blood and declare the statue alive or dead, but for now, he had won.

  Leonardo

  When he returned to his studio, he was surprised to find it empty. Salaì must be out for the evening. He sat down in front of Lisa’s portrait and stared at her expression, but still could not feel her there. Over the next two hours, he added three more tiny brushstrokes to the dark silk of her gown.

  Finally, Salaì came home, his shoes dirty with fresh mud. “You won’t believe what I have done.” His eyes shone with passion. His face was flushed. His chest glimmered with sweat.

  “You look as though you have been lingering down on the Via del Bell’uomo,” Leonardo said, setting down his brush. If Salaì—Giacomo—wanted to indulge his desires with men his own age, Leonardo should not only allow it, but encourage it. He couldn’t always expect such a young, virile man to tend to the needs of his aging boss, and he didn’t want Salaì to become like his mother, spouting lies in order to keep a roof over his head. “I hope you know, Giacomo, that I will continue to support you, even when you surrender to your passions elsewhere.”

  The young man laughed. “Master …” He took off his jacket and dropped it to the floor. “It’s nothing like that. I made your wish come true tonight.”