Oil and Marble

by Stephanie Storey

  Leonardo watched Salaì approach, his shirt sliding off of shoulder. “And what wish is that, my mischievous inamorato?”

  “I have destroyed the statue before the public has had to endure it.”

  The smile fell from Leonardo’s face. “What?”

  “I am a giant slayer,” Salaì said with a lopsided curl of his lips.

  Leonardo stood up. “What did you do?”

  “I recruited friends to help. Earlier in the day, an actual Medici supporter threw a bottle, so everyone will blame them. No one will ever suspect me.”

  “But what did you do?” he demanded, louder this time.

  “We threw rocks. The first time”—Salaì’s eyes were still bright with excitement—“we were chased away quickly, but when we came back for the second round, we were ready. We threw hundreds of rocks at that marble, Master. They rained down in a flood.” Almost immediately, his face fell. “Mi dispiace, I didn’t mean to call it a flood …” He dropped to his knees. “But it was a lot of rocks. The David is surely dead, and it is all because of you.”

  As Salaì stared up at him with large brown eyes, Leonardo was reminded of his mother’s funeral in the sanctuary of Santa Maria delle Grazie. At the time, he was painting his Last Supper just down the hall. A silver cross sat atop a plain wooden coffin, resting on a simple bier. In honor of his place at court, Il Moro stopped in for a prayer, and other Milanese friends—architect Donato Bramante, mathematician Fra Luca Pacioli, and psychic chemist Zoroastro—stayed and said nice things about Caterina. After the service, Leonardo returned to his studio, recorded the expenses in his notebook, and when he was done, found fifteen-year old Salaì, kneeling in front of him, eyes wide and brown, staring up at him. It was that moment when Leonardo first leaned down and kissed the lad.

  Now, nearly nine years later, Salaì looked up with those same eyes.

  “I didn’t want you to harm that statue,” Leonardo said, dropping heavily into his chair.

  The joy fell out of Salaì’s face. “Yes, you did. You told me so. After the committee meeting, when the city decided to raise it in front of city hall.”

  “I did? No. I didn’t.”

  “You said—” Salaì paused to reconstruct Leonardo’s exact words. “You said you wanted it destroyed before anyone else had to endure it.”

  Leonardo felt his brow wrinkle. “If I did say that, I didn’t mean it. I was angry.”

  “You did. You did mean it. I heard it in your voice.” Salaì suddenly sounded hoarse. “So I did it. I did it for you.”

  Leonardo grasped onto the sides of his chair. The room spun as if he had just been twirled in a hundred circles. “What has provided my livelihood, paid for our food, our studios, your clothes? What dropped a lifeboat down to me when everyone else was trying to kick me back into the surf? Art is my tormentor and my heart. My passion and my slave driver. I could no more destroy a piece of art than I could kill you, Giacomo. Destroying the David. Why? Why would you ever do such a terrible thing?”

  Salaì tilted his head and looked up at him. “For love, Leonardo. Why else?”

  Michelangelo

  After that first night, Soderini appointed a troop of soldiers to stand guard over the statue, and the vandals didn’t return. Michelangelo wouldn’t know whether they had inflicted a fatal wound until he removed the tarp, but he couldn’t waste his time obsessing about that; he had too much work to do. Despite the fleet of guards, he hardly slept, keeping constant vigil over David, moving log by log over the uneven, winding streets. Along the trek, they faced down squawking chickens, protruding balconies, garbage tossed from windows, braying mules, and even a runaway horse, but David survived them all and finally, on the fifth day, rolled into the Piazza della Signoria.

  After five days of crawling down narrow, dim streets, it was a relief to finally enter the wide, open square. Dozens of Florentines waited near David’s pedestal to witness the moment, and when the colossus, still hidden under its tarp, rolled into the square, the people cheered as if welcoming a hero home from war. Walking behind the transport, Michelangelo felt excitement sizzle up his spine like a lit fuse. This piazza was the heart of the Florentine Republic, where government officials went about the work of liberty and citizens held annual festivals to celebrate their independence. It was fitting that his David would stand guard.

  It took those forty men another week to roll the transport to the front of the palazzo, lower David from his rope swing, and then use a system of pulleys to hoist him up and set him gently on his marble pedestal. It took another three days to construct a wooden scaffolding and erect another privacy shed, so they could remove the tarp and inspect the marble for injury without anyone seeing the statue. Only if David had safely completed the move without any damage would the city prepare it for the official unveiling. Michelangelo prayed that whatever damage they found, he could fix.

  Finally, the day of the inspection arrived. On the steps of the palazzo, Michelangelo prepared to step into the shelter and cut off the protective tarp. Granacci, Soderini, Giuseppe Vitelli, Botticelli, Perugino, and Giuliano da Sangallo all waited with him. It was a small group. No one wanted word of a broken arm or split knee to spread through the city before they could decide how to repair it. Nausea churned in Michelangelo’s stomach. Black spots flickered in his vision. He shoved his hand into his pocket and kneaded a pile of marble dust to calm himself. This was no time to faint.

  Piero Soderini nudged Michelangelo toward the door. “Buona fortuna.” Granacci handed him a lit torch.

  Ears ringing, Michelangelo took the flame, stepped into the wooden shelter, and closed the door behind him.

  Once he had removed the tarp, once he had examined every inch, once he had come to terms with what he saw, Michelangelo stepped out of the shed.

  At first, he couldn’t speak. When Soderini saw his face, he groaned. “Oh no. It’s bad. Can you fix it?”

  He found his tongue. “God.”

  “Oh no. It’s completely ruined, isn’t it?” Sangallo said. “It is my fault. Instead of the ropes, we should have—”

  “God saved him,” Michelangelo said.

  “What?” Granacci asked.

  “God. God must have carried David here in the palm of his hand.” Michelangelo said, his voice growing louder. “God must have stood between him and those stones, because I swear there is no other explanation for what I have seen. That marble doesn’t have a scratch on it.”

  Soderini grabbed the torch and lunged into the shed. Giuseppe Vitelli followed.

  “Really?” Granacci said. “I thought for certain …”

  “It’s true,” Soderini called from inside the shed. “Not one blemish.”

  Michelangelo’s throat tickled. From deep in his gut, a chuckle erupted. One, then another and another. Soon, he was laughing like he hadn’t laughed since he was a child. Granacci, Sangallo, Perugino, and Botticelli all joined in. The men laughed until tears sprang from Michelangelo’s eyes and fell down his cheeks.

  One by one, each of the men ducked in and out of the shed.

  “It’s extraordinary,” Giuseppe Vitelli declared. “I can see my reflection in the stone.”

  “Look at that furrowed brow and those piercing eyes,” Perugino exclaimed. “He’s fearsome.”

  “I swear his veins are pumping real blood,” Botticelli said.

  Soderini examined the statue the longest, and then said, “His nose, in proportion to the rest of his face, is a little …” He waved his hand as he searched for the word. “Thick. Is it not?”

  “What?” Botticelli gave a look that seemed to say that men with power and money always fancied themselves just as ingenious as men who devoted their lives to the arts. Michelangelo blamed himself and the other artists; they made the work look too easy.

  “I think you should adjust it a little,” Soderini suggested.

  Granacci grimaced.

  David had survived a harrowing move and Medici rebels, but now he would be destroyed by th
e bad opinions of a politician? Michelangelo sucked in a breath to tell Soderini to go to hell, but he chewed up that impulse and swallowed. Gonfaloniere Soderini was his patron. He had the power to lock David away for all eternity. If Michelangelo wanted his statue approved for public display, he had to please the man, no matter how ignorant. “Why sir, I think you’re right.” Michelangelo did his best to mimic that infuriatingly charming lilt Leonardo always had in his tone.

  “Michel,” Granacci said. “The nose is fine.”

  “Let’s see what we can do about that.” Michelangelo pulled his hammer and chisel out of his satchel and approached the statue.

  “Wait, Michelangelo, don’t,” Botticelli said, and turned to Soderini. “I’m sorry to offend, sir, but I do not believe the young man should change anything. The statue is perfect as is …”

  “Nonsense, Maestro Botticelli,” Michelangelo said, climbing the scaffolding to reach David’s head. “Gonfaloniere Soderini has one of the finest aesthetic eyes in the country. If he says the nose is wrong, the nose must be wrong.”

  “Michel,” Granacci whispered, “no.”

  “Please. Allow me to work,” Michelangelo said and placed his chisel against the tip of David’s nose. He tapped his hammer against it.

  As marble dust drifted to the ground like snow, Botticelli buried his head in his hands. Granacci groaned.

  Soderini smiled triumphantly. “Your decisiveness is inspiring, young man.”

  Michelangelo blew a bit of marble dust off the nose and wiped it clean with a rag. He descended the scaffolding and slung his arm around Soderini’s shoulders. “Molto grazie, Gonfaloniere Soderini, you were right.”

  “So glad I could help,” Soderini responded with a self-satisfied grin, and then stepped closer to get a better look at the results of his suggestion.

  As the artists all huddled around Michelangelo, Granacci whispered, “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.” He opened his hand to reveal a pile of marble dust he had pulled from his pocket. As he’d pretended to chisel the nose, he had let the dust fall from his hand. It was easy to convince Soderini he was altering the statue, when in fact the only thing that changed was Soderini’s perception. “Always let the patron think they are smarter than you.”

  “I’m telling you, that one little cut made all the difference,” Soderini crowed. “David’s face is now ideal.”

  “You do have an impeccable eye,” Botticelli exclaimed, walking over to Soderini. “I hope you will order a painting from me soon, so I, too, can benefit from your brilliant artistic vision.”

  Soderini pulled a leather sack out of his pocket. “Here.” He dropped the pouch into Michelangelo’s hand. “You deserve it.”

  “What is this?” He untied the sack and looked in. He had never seen that much gold.

  “Consider it a bonus. For a job well done.”

  That was enough money to set his brother up in any kind of shop he wanted so he could win Maria’s hand before another suitor took his place, buy his father a fine suit, purchase new furniture for the rebuilt house, and still have plenty left over.

  As the other men began discussing plans for a festival to commemorate the unveiling, Michelangelo ducked out of the shed and looked out over the empty piazza.

  His family would be overjoyed with the money, no doubt, but a sack of florins was not important, nor was the approval of a handful of supporters and friends. To hear his fellow Florentines cheer his statue, that would be his moment to celebrate, not before. Because if the people didn’t embrace David, all of this—the money, the joy, the relief over the successful move—would mean nothing.

  Leonardo

  Summer

  As they strolled across the Piazza della Signoria, Lisa tucked her hand in the crook of Leonardo’s elbow. The heat of her skin, separated from his by only her thin lace gloves and his silk tunic, was thrilling. Her smell, a mixture of primrose and citrus, made him feel intoxicated, although he hadn’t had a sip of wine all morning.

  “But you have seen it,” she said, stepping over a pile of horse manure. The piazza was crowded with horse-drawn carriages, government workers, and pedestrians.

  Leonardo shook his head. “When I viewed it, he had barely begun roughing out the figure. It was nothing. Machiavelli described it to me—he saw it just before the polish—but he’s a politician, not an artist, so his description was obtuse. I don’t know what it looks like now. I will see the finished product with everyone else.”

  They were walking near the entrance of the palazzo, in front of Michelangelo’s statue, which was still hidden behind a protective shelter. Giving the lady a preview of the sculpture was the latest of Leonardo’s excuses to see her without her husband. They hadn’t yet been able to schedule another private meeting, like the one in the Baptistery, but had managed to arrange a few public outings like this one.

  “But if it is finished and standing here, why wait until September to unveil it?”

  “Soderini wants to make a statement about Florence’s independence, wealth, and power. He is making a production out of the thing, planning a parade and welcoming dignitaries from all over the peninsula. Even the pope is invited.”

  “Do you think he’ll come?”

  Leonardo shrugged. “If Soderini has any hope of Il Papa venturing up to Florence, he must give the man time to prepare. Besides, there’s nothing like making people wait to build up their anticipation.”

  “Is that why you refuse to show me my portrait? Are you trying to build my anticipation?” Her long gown rustled against his leg.

  “I would never tease you so, my lady. I’m simply not finished yet, and the subject of a portrait should never see the picture until it is complete.”

  “If you aren’t finished, why don’t you draw me anymore?” she asked, as they strolled through the covered loggia, among a forest of marble statues looming like great old oaks.

  “No need. I have drawn your features a thousand times and already captured them beautifully.”

  “So what do you still lack?”

  “I now need to capture your soul.”

  She paused in front of an ancient Roman statue of a seated woman whose head and arm had both been broken off and lost to time. “But you cannot see someone’s soul. So how can you represent it in a picture?”

  Ah, the question that leads to everything. He started to respond.

  “Signor Leonardo,” a voice interrupted.

  Lisa removed her hand from his arm and stepped back a pace.

  The intruder was a young man dressed in a conservative dark brown jacket and wide-brimmed hat. He had a jaw as strong as Leonardo’s and steely gray eyes. Leonardo recognized him immediately, but could not recall his name. He had blocked it from memory. Arturo? Antony? Antonio. Of course, Antonio, how could he forget? The young man bowed politely, but Leonardo did not return the gesture. “I have been searching for you. I have news,” the young man said.

  Leonardo’s eyebrow rose slightly, but other than that, he gave no response.

  “It’s about my father,” Antonio continued.

  “You know I don’t care about that damned notary. Andiamo, Madonna Giocondo, I have more art to show you.” He took the lady’s elbow and marched her back down the loggia.

  “Who is that?” she whispered.

  But before he could respond, Antonio called after them, “At the seventh hour this morning, my father entered the great sea.”

  Leonardo stopped walking, but did not turn to face the young man. Instead, he took in a deep breath. The loggia smelled of old urine and mold. Why had he brought a lady on a walk through such filth?

  “I thought you should know,” Antonio stated simply. Leonardo listened as the young man walked away, his footsteps marching into the distance until they faded altogether.

  “Who was that? Who has died?” Lisa asked.

  “No one.” He gazed off into the distance.

  “It is not no one. You’re clearly upset. Please, you must sit do
wn. You’re pale.”

  She took him by the arm, but Leonardo brushed off her hand. He did not want to be touched by anyone.

  He looked down at the bejeweled bird ring adorning his left hand, the one given to him by the King of France in support of his experiments in human flight. If that damned notary had heard about his plans to fly, he would have denounced Leonardo as a threat to humanity. “Beg your husband for my forgiveness, for sending you home without an escort.” He gave a curt nod, and then strode out of the piazza.

  Was it possible? Was that gray-eyed old devil truly dead? Leonardo approached the four-story beige town home. Above its purple door, black wool hung in the windows, announcing the family’s grief. He had never been invited inside that house, and he would not ask to enter on that day either. He was content to settle on a stoop across the Via dei Rustici and watch from afar.

  Hours passed. The sun crossed from east to west and dipped toward the horizon.

  As the sun lowered in the afternoon sky, mourners began gathering in the streets. The bereaved all wore brown. The men ripped their tunics while the women wailed to the heavens and pulled out their hair in handfuls. Why did human beings succumb to such overwhelming grief when death was an inevitable part of life? The greatest honors and ceremonies were always paid to men when it was too late. No amount of screaming would bring one back from the dead.

  That damned old notary wouldn’t want Leonardo’s tears anyway.

  At dusk, the grievers began lighting torches, hundreds of them, as though attempting to light the way for a man who had lost the power of sight forever. The purple door opened and a procession of mourners left the house. They wept and shrieked and tore their clothes even more violently than those in the streets had. Leonardo watched as five sons carried their father’s body on a board raised above their heads. Lying flat on his back, the deceased was dressed in a bright green tunic and covered in a blanket of white lilies. Leonardo scrutinized that aquiline nose, the pointed chin, the wide forehead, the long neck. No doubt, that was the notary. And no doubt, he was dead.