When Michelangelo had been carving David, he had thought he was bringing an unstoppable giant to life. Then he’d seen Leonardo’s portrait. With every passing day, her gaze haunted him even more. But with that same time and distance, David was already slipping from his memory. Doubt was creeping in. What if David were not so wonderful? What if he had been deluding himself? Ghiberti and Brunelleschi had both created masterpieces, but if only one side of a rivalry reached true greatness, was there ever a rivalry to begin with? A rivalry that came to nothing on one side wasn’t a rivalry at all. Was it?
A hundred years ago, the better man won, and the Baptistery doors were born. This time around, the better man lost. Leonardo should have had the Duccio Stone.
“Buongiorno, mi amico,” Granacci called, climbing onto the roof of the guard tower.
“What are you doing here?” Michelangelo asked, putting down his sketchpad. He’d been drawing his own hand over and over again for hours.
“I came to get you. Your David is about to be unveiled.”
“I know that. How did you know I was up here?”
Granacci sat down next to him and pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket. “Despite what everyone else said, I knew you’d never leave Florence. You would want to see the unveiling, I told myself, but probably wouldn’t want anyone to see you see it …”
Granacci took a drink, and then handed the flask to Michelangelo, who took a swallow. The wine was cooler and sweeter than he’d expected.
“And then I thought, ah-ha. He would go up high, of course,” Granacci said triumphantly.
Michelangelo drained the flask.
“I searched every apartment around the piazza, even climbed up the Duomo …” He pulled a piece of bread and some cheese out of his pocket and handed it over.
Michelangelo shoved a handful of bread into his mouth. He bit off a hunk of cheese, too. It was fresh, soft, and salty.
“But it was from the top of Giotto’s bell tower,” Granacci went on, “that I finally saw a little head bobbing along on this roof. And then I remembered you used to hide up here whenever Ghirlandaio screamed at you—usually for drawing better figures than him.” He slapped Michelangelo’s current sketch as proof. “So, two days ago, I came over, camped out up in those mountains for a couple of hours and, boffo, here you are.”
Michelangelo swallowed the mouthful of bread. “For two whole days you could’ve been bringing me wine and cheese?”
“If I’d come to get you, you would have run away again. And then I’d have to go find you again, and …” Granacci shook his head. “It seemed like a lot of work when I already knew where you were. Now, there’s no more time to run away. Andiamo, mi amico. They are waiting for you.” Granacci stood and offered his hand.
Michelangelo crossed his arms and hunkered down, burrowing into his spot like a stubborn gopher. “Let them wait. Or better yet, unveil it without me.”
“Come on, Michel, you can’t stay up here forever.”
“I can, too.” Granacci could bring him food. He could live a perfectly comfortable life up here, overlooking his city, surrounded by stone. He could carve this guard tower into something miraculous. Unless, of course, David was a failure, in which case he would never carve anything again. Ever.
“This is your moment. You made the David. He is yours.”
“I know he’s mine. You think I don’t know that? I think about it every day. I can’t deny that statue.” He buried his head in his hands. “It’s miserable.” When he’d finished the Pietà, he had broken into the Vatican to carve his name into the stone so no one could ever forget he carved it. Now, he wanted to run away from David and pretend he had never known him. What if his father cursed Michelangelo for embarrassing the family? What if the crowd booed? Or worse, what if David was met with silence? What if Florentines shrugged and went back about their business as though they had seen nothing? “I can’t go. David can handle this on his own.”
“Well, of course David can handle it,” Granacci said with a laugh. “David is a piece of rock. David doesn’t have feelings.” He walked toward the stairs, but before descending, he turned back. “You should know there’s a crowd of Florentines gathered in the piazza right now, and they are scared, just like you. Only they aren’t afraid of how an audience will receive their work. They are scared of the Medici. Of papal armies and French invaders. Do you know how it will look if the sculptor of the mighty David is too afraid to show up to his own unveiling? Do you think that will inspire anyone to stand up and fight their own Goliaths? Our countrymen don’t need a statue. They need someone to show them that they can face the unknown and survive. So don’t get up and go for you, Michelangelo Buonarroti. Or for me. Or your family. And certainly don’t go down there to protect the feelings of an inanimate mound of rock. But go. For the people of Florence. Go.”
Leonardo
The front door swung open. “Maestro Leonardo. Welcome, come in, come in,” Francesco del Giocondo said, waving him and Salaì into the house.
“I’ve brought your painting.” Leonardo held up the linen-wrapped panel, but didn’t hand it over just yet. When Giocondo closed the door behind them, Leonardo’s left eye twitched. He had brought the painting inside. It would never leave this house again. “Is the lady at home?”
“Yes, but she is up with the children.” Giocondo adjusted the high collar of his red and gold brocade velvet jacket. It had long tails and large gold buttons. He looked dressed to entertain a king. “She does not tend to my business transactions.”
Leonardo nodded. He hadn’t expected her to see her, but the answer was now definite.
“Would you like to see where I will hang her?”
“Very much.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Giocondo said as he led them down the hall, past the sitting area where the couple usually greeted guests, by the formal dining room, and even beyond the music salon. “Several friends saw the portrait at your viewing. They said I would not be disappointed. But I didn’t want to see it with the others. I wanted to wait and see it privately.” They kept walking until they reached the back of the home. Giocondo opened a small door. “My personal office,” he announced. “This is where the picture will go.”
Leonardo took in the small, dark, musty chamber. There was one small window to the left, rolls of fabric stacked in corners, and a massive, ugly, dark wooden desk piled with buttons and thread and lace. The strong scent of smoke from the fireplace did not obscure the stale air.
Giocondo moved a stack of books and a few sewing utensils from the mantel, and then extended his arms. “Here, give it to me.”
Leonardo gripped the portrait tighter. The bulky stone fireplace was crackling with fresh logs. If a single ember popped out and landed on that old, frayed rug, this cluttered room would quickly catch fire, and all of the contents would be turned to ash. “Do you receive visitors in this room, signore?” Leonardo had never been invited into this room before.
“A family member or two, a close associate every now and again, but, no, no, not really. It’s my private office. I keep it for my own musings.”
“So no one else will see the portrait?”
“I like to keep my wife to myself. Now, let me have her,” he insisted, beckoning with his fingers. When Leonardo did not move, he repeated, “Maestro Leonardo? The painting.”
Leonardo nodded, but kept the portrait under his arm.
“Master,” Salaì whispered.
It is impossible to keep her. Impossible. She belongs to him. “Of course.” Leonardo extended the portrait to its owner.
Giocondo took the package. Grabbing a knife off the mantel, he sliced through the linen wrapping as though cutting butcher paper from a hunk of meat.
“There she is,” Giocondo said, lifting the painting.
Leonardo turned away and looked out the tiny window so he wouldn’t have to see the portrait inside that dingy room. He had already said his goodbyes.
“Interesting, interesting �
�� but quite strange. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Giocondo said, as though searching for a compliment. “Where are the rolls of silk and my music box and her father’s family crest? Or those beautiful opal buttons on her dress—those were from Venice. And not even the picture of me. And where is that landscape behind her? I don’t recognize it. But my friends were right. She does look rather like herself. Very alive. It’s as if she is sitting before me, here and now, and she will always sit with me in this room …”
There was a scratch of wood against stone as Giocondo shoved the portrait onto the mantel. “Be careful,” Salaì urged. “A painting is a delicate thing.”
Lisa belonged to her husband, not to him. She was a wife and a mother and she cherished those things about herself.
“There. That is the right place for her. As though she were made for this very spot. Maestro, look. Doesn’t she look perfect?”
“Yes,” he responded without turning around.
“Now, I’ve heard rumors that you hide little puzzles in your paintings. Is that true?”
Leonardo looked down at the Arno glimmering in the sunlight. It was back in its old riverbed, flowing the way nature intended.
“If it is true, you must tell me what kind of riddle is in mine. You simply must. I won’t tell anyone else, of course, but it will be fun for me to know what the secret. I heard there was some sort of addition or other number problem hidden in your—St. Jerome was it? And something about the patterns of the stars in that rocky Madonna picture. And was it a musical score in the Signora de’ Benci portrait? Or no, it was a poem in the picture and the musical score was in …” Giocondo kept rambling.
Leonardo stared out the window and thought of all the secrets, big and small, he had dropped into his paintings over the years. Most viewers wouldn’t discover the mysteries, of course, and he would never admit to them, but now all the previous ones seemed trivial in comparison to one hidden in Lisa’s portrait. This mystery was more profound than any other, even though it had nothing to do with science or math or the stars. A viewer could not use knowledge of history or literature or mechanics to translate it. No matter how hard someone searched for this secret, they would never find it with their eyes or their brains. They could only feel it with their hearts.
This time, the secret was love.
Only people who had deeply felt love would be able to detect the secret hidden in Lisa’s face. If they hadn’t felt it, she would seem as lifeless and dull as a tin plate. They wouldn’t understand what drew others to her. They would dismiss the painting as small and unimpressive. However, those who had felt true love would be transfixed. Her image would inexplicably haunt them forever. They would never be able to articulate what drew them in. The moment someone tried to explain why they were attracted to the painting, words would evade them, and the feeling would dissipate, fast as a wisp of smoke from a votive candle. As with love itself, when a person pulled back to study it, the very thing they were trying to understand was destroyed. Because love doesn’t thrive under scrutiny from a distance, but flourishes from closeness and unquestioning faith. It blooms in the deep parts of the heart, in the silence where no thought is allowed. The only way to be truly in love is to be fully in it, just as the only way to feel the secret of the Mona Lisa was to give the heart absolutely to it.
Laughter drifted up from the streets and in through the window. “What is going on out there?” Giocondo asked. “There have been so many people out today. I’d like to think they are all out celebrating my new portrait, but even I know that is a foolish hope.” He came up behind Leonardo and looked over his shoulder at the people below. “This usually only happens on festival days.”
Leonardo didn’t feel like explaining, so he gave Salaì a look.
“It’s the unveiling of the new David at the palazzo, signore,” Salaì said.
“Oh, yes, of course. I can’t believe I forgot about that.” Giocondo waved Leonardo out of the way, so he could get a better look out the window. “I would have expected you to be at the ceremony, maestro. In one of those seats reserved for dignitaries.”
“I don’t like crowds.”
“Don’t like crowds!” The merchant laughed. “Come, we’ll go together. Nothing like an outing to celebrate a new addition to my tidy little office.”
As they prepared to leave, Leonardo was careful to face away from the fireplace so that he wouldn’t have to see the picture. He didn’t want to remember it hanging over a mantel in this dark, cramped office. He wanted to remember it displayed his own spacious studio, surrounded by his things and bathed in sunlight.
But when he turned, he found himself looking at Lisa, anyway. Not at the picture, but the lady herself.
She stood in the doorway and stared up at her portrait hanging over the mantle. Her eyes glistened. A flush rose up her chest and neck. Leonardo hoped she would smile. She did not.
“Isn’t it perfect?” Giocondo asked, as he crossed the room and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Now, I don’t have to share you with anyone,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.
Leonardo wanted to tell her about the parade of people who had streamed through his studio to study her, discuss her, see her. But he knew he couldn’t speak so intimately in front of her husband, and besides, he now realized the smallness of his gift. One night of admiration was no consolation for a lifetime of being trapped in this room.
“We are about to go see the unveiling of that young man’s new David. It’s exciting. The whole city is out in the streets. You should look.” Giocondo pointed her toward the window, but she didn’t take her eyes off the painting. Her brow furrowed.
Did she remember giving him that half-smile as she left his studio? Did she know how she appeared in that moment? When she looked at herself, did she see what he saw? Or something different?
“We had better go before we miss the entire thing.” Giocondo checked his appearance in a small mirror hanging on the wall and donned a red silk hat. “Come, Lisa,” he ordered, extending his hand.
“I beg you to go without me, sir. I have a headache.”
“Oh,” Giocondo said, sounding disappointed. “Well, you will miss out. I hope you feel better. Come, Maestro.”
Was it really time to go? So soon? He looked at Lisa, hoping for one last glance, one last smile, one last blush, but she just stared blankly at her portrait as if he were not in the room.
“Maestro Leonardo, per favore,” Giocondo insisted, waiting in the doorway.
His legs felt heavy as he followed the silk merchant out of the room. As Leonardo walked down the narrow hallway, he glanced over his shoulder back into the office where Lisa still stood. For the first time, he saw his painting hanging over the mantel. From there, it looked like nothing more than a domestic portrait, small and insignificant, hung in a tiny, private room.
As Giocondo led Leonardo further and further away from her, Leonardo reminded himself that Lisa was a wife and a mother, and she cherished those things about herself. It might not be fair, but this was where the lady belonged. She could not come with him. It was impossible.
Michelangelo
Michelangelo sprinted across the Ponte alle Grazie, the longest bridge in all of Florence. His lungs burned, but he refused to stop running. He did not want to be late.
After Granacci had left the guard tower, Michelangelo realized how badly he wanted to witness the unveiling. He had permanently damaged his hands and eyesight, worked so hard he almost died in the hospital, angered his father, and made his brother so distraught he burned down the family’s house, all to bring David to life. He had poured his blood into that marble and filled David’s lungs with his own breath. Michelangelo had put so much of himself into the sculpture that it was as though he were the one about to stand nude in front of Florence.
As he crossed to the north side of the Arno, he noticed he was dripping with sweat and his clothes stunk. He thought about stopping by the river to clean up, but if he paused, he might miss the cer
emony. Besides, he thought sheepishly, it wouldn’t be the first public event he had attended looking a little unkempt.
He turned down a normally crowded street that was strangely empty that afternoon. He didn’t have time to wonder where all the people had gone, because he soon reached the end of the road and turned into an alleyway. Up ahead, he spotted the high arches of the Loggia dei Lanzi, the gateway into the Piazza della Signoria. His David stood a few steps to the right of the loggia. He was almost there. As he approached, he saw a crowd gathered outside the square. His stomach lurched. The event was probably over, and they were heading home. “Permesso,” he muttered as he approached the edge of the group. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
As he waded through the people, Michelangelo realized this was no small gathering, but a thick mob. Everyone was pushing into the piazza. He stood on his toes to see over heads, but saw only more people. The city must have erected a barricade to search people before they entered the square. They must be worried about vandalism. “Permesso,” he said a little louder. He moved one way, then another, but couldn’t move forward a step. “Scusa!”
“Eh, coglione, back off,” a husky farmer growled.
“I need to get into the piazza.”
“We’re all trying to get in, but there’s not enough room, capito?”
“That’s impossible. The piazza can hold the entire population of Florence.”
“Yeah, well, it’s full, so you better get comfortable.” The farmer widened his stance to block Michelangelo’s path forward.
“Dieci,” the crowd roared in unison.
Why was the crowd yelling “ten”?
“Nove,” the crowd called.
The mob was counting down. “Counting down?” Michelangelo yelled. “Are they counting down to the unveiling already?”
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