Oil and Marble

by Stephanie Storey

  “Of course,” the farmer said, clearly annoyed.

  “Otto.”

  “Oh, no. Wait.” Michelangelo’s ears burned. “We have to stop them.” He was still around the corner from David. He had no hope of seeing the unveiling from there. “That’s my statue. I’m the sculptor. I need to be up there.”

  “Sette.”

  The farmer smirked at Michelangelo’s rough appearance. “Yeah, you’re the artist, like I’m the pope’s footman.”

  “Sei.”

  If he scaled city hall, he could grab onto a flag and swing onto stage. Or maybe he could clamber across people’s shoulders all the way to the front. He could start by asking the farmer to lift him onto the back of that bald-headed priest, jump over to that curly-haired man, then onto the shoulders of that young woman with the pretty profile.

  “Cinque.”

  Wait. That wasn’t just any young woman. Her hands were dyed red. The color of her silk, the color of his brother’s love. That was Maria, the silk weaver’s daughter, Buonarroto’s beloved. She was closer to stage. If he could get her attention, she might be able to help him. “Maria! Maria!”

  “Quattro.”

  Several women looked back at him. Half of the women in this crowd were probably named Maria, and he didn’t know her family name. Maybe she was called Maria di Giovanni or Luigi or Francesco, after her father. The family made silk. Her last name could be Dyer or Weaver. He had no idea.

  “Tre.”

  “Maria Buonarroti,” Michelangelo bellowed. It was as close as he could get.

  She turned around. Then she saw him.

  “Michelangelo?” Panic rose in her green eyes. “You should be up there,” she said, pointing in the direction of the stage.

  “Due.”

  Michelangelo dropped his head. His shoulders sagged. He was standing only a few feet away, but he was still going to miss it.

  “Aiiiiiiii!” Maria’s high-pitched scream echoed through the piazza like a church bell pealing on a holiday morning. Michelangelo hadn’t known a human could make such a noise.

  The crowd stopped chanting and looked around for the source of the scream.

  “The artist has arrived,” she called. Maria fought her way back to Michelangelo, grabbed his hand, and dragged him through the crowd. “Sometimes it’s nice to have a set of pipes,” she whispered, and Michelangelo was transported back to the day of the pope’s death, when Maria’s voice had carried a funeral dirge across the entire Piazza del Duomo. No wonder his brother was in love with this woman.

  As people called to one another that the artist had arrived, the crowd parted like the Red Sea under Moses’s command. Over the heads of the spectators, Michelangelo saw that David’s wooden shed had been taken down, and the statue was now covered by nothing but a black curtain. As soon as that curtain dropped, David would stand revealed.

  At the platform, Granacci and Giuliano da Sangallo grabbed Michelangelo under his arms and hauled him up. “Cut that one close, didn’t you, mi amico,” Granacci said with a grin.

  Michelangelo faced the piazza. “Santa merda.”

  An ocean of Florentines flooded the piazza and spilled out into the surrounding streets. Monks, blacksmiths, nobility, housewives, prostitutes, gentlemen, beggars, all crammed in together. Young children sat on fathers’ shoulders, older ones climbed on top of statues in the loggia, and families hung from balconies. That was why the streets had been so empty, he realized. They were all here, the entire city, waiting for him.

  Michelangelo’s fears flooded back. His vision blurred. Those old familiar black dots filled his head again. But why did it feel like hands were squeezing his shoulders?

  “Breathe, figlio mio, just breathe, you don’t want to miss this.”

  Michelangelo took two deep breaths. As the black cleared, he turned to see his father rubbing his shoulders with concern. “You came,” Michelangelo whispered.

  “Everyone else was coming, we decided we should be here, too,” Lodovico said gruffly.

  Beyond his father stood Michelangelo’s entire family. Buonarroto gripped Maria’s hand. His grandmother, aunt, uncle. Even his older brother, Lionardo, whom Michelangelo hadn’t seen since he’d joined the Dominican order, and his youngest brother, Gismondo, who was supposed to be off fighting in the war against Pisa. Michelangelo wrapped both long-lost brothers into a hug. Then he spotted Giovansimone, standing off to one side. Michelangelo released his other siblings and advanced on him.

  They stood nose to nose, brother to brother.

  He hadn’t seen Giovansimone since before the house fire. He mentally catalogued a list of curses he would like to hurl at him.

  “I’m sorry,” Giovansimone said. “For everything.” His pleading eyes glistened with tears. “I won’t do it again.”

  “Of course you’ll do it again,” replied Michelangelo. “And I’ll forgive you again.”

  They embraced.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Piero Soderini called. Men bellowed Soderini’s words to the people behind them until the words carried to the back of the piazza. “The artist.”

  As Soderini gestured to him, Michelangelo felt a rush of pride. Wind rustled David’s black curtain, and he said a quick prayer of thanks that he had made it in time.

  “Would you like to say a few words before we continue?” Soderini said.

  Michelangelo shook his head. He couldn’t even utter the word, “no.”

  Soderini murmured in his ear, “These things always go better when there’s a good speech to rile the people up. Say something inspiring.”

  As he looked out over the sea of people, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his tunic, but there was not even pile of marble dust to help calm his nerves.

  “Go on, boy. They’re waiting,” Lodovico whispered.

  Michelangelo wished David were already uncovered, not still shrouded under that thick black curtain. If David were awake, they could march into battle together. But Michelangelo was alone, and God hadn’t filled his head with fancy words and grand speeches.

  He was a sculptor, not a performer.

  Just as David had been a shepherd, not a warrior.

  Yet, David had still marched into battle. But at least David had had a pebble, Michelangelo thought glumly.

  A chill tickled his spine.

  Just like David, every one of God’s children had a pebble of their own, even if they didn’t know it. A silk weaver might have nimble fingers that could weave fabric faster than his competitors. A farmer might have fertile land, a strong plow horse, or a love of working the earth. One man might have a hen that continued to lay eggs even though she was old and tired, or a sturdy wagon passed down generation to generation. Michelangelo’s brother Buonarroto had the love of a woman, and his father had the love of his sons. Maria had her voice. Machiavelli had a sharp mind, Soderini a politician’s smile, and Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo admitted grudgingly, seemed to have a whole pocketful of pebbles.

  Michelangelo had a pebble too. His pebble wasn’t inspiring audiences with great speeches or funny jokes or explosions of colored smoke, magic tricks, and music. His pebble was carving marble. If Soderini wanted him to say something inspiring, there was only one way for him to do that.

  He grabbed the rope attached to David’s curtain and pulled. “Behold, my pebble.”

  Leonardo

  “Do you know why I’m so interested in seeing that young fellow’s David?” Giocondo asked as he led Leonardo down the hallway, farther and farther away from Lisa. “It’s not because it’s some symbol of Florentine freedom or a great Christian icon or whatever nonsense people say. It’s not even that the sculptor is so committed that he nearly worked himself to death, although I do admit that’s part of it. It’s because everyone kept telling him it was impossible, but he went ahead and did it anyway.”

  Leonardo stopped walking.

  “Maestro Leonardo? Is everything all right?”

  Leonardo’s breathing slowed. Sound fell f
ar away. The bland walls vibrated with color.

  “Maestro?”

  Whirling on his heel, Leonardo marched back toward Giocondo’s office, his long green satin coattails flapping behind him like a sail.

  “Maestro Leonardo? Where are you going?”

  At the sound of her husband’s cry, Lisa turned to see Leonardo barreling down the hallway. Her mouth opened with a gasp.

  “My wife needs her rest,” Giocondo called.

  But Leonardo kept advancing.

  Lisa clumsily shook her head. Her cheeks flushed. Did she want him to kiss her? Did she want to fight him off? Did she want him to carry her away or leave her forever? By the looks of her face, she wanted all of that at the same time.

  “Signore,” Giocondo cried.

  Striding into the office, Leonardo yearned to pull Lisa into his arms. She belonged to him. He and Lisa, together. It was possible.

  But Leonardo didn’t stop and take her into his arms. He moved past her, stepped up to the mantel, and took his painting off its perch.

  “What are you doing?” Giocondo asked, arriving in the office. He, too, brushed past Lisa and went right for the portrait.

  Leonardo tucked the picture under his arm. “It is not finished.”

  “Seems finished to me,” Giocondo said.

  “I know when a work of mine is done and when it is not. And this one is not.” He glanced at Lisa. She was no longer staring away, but looking directly at him. “I must take it with me.”

  “You can’t take it. I’m the patron. It’s my painting,” Giocondo declared.

  “Until I deem it finished, it is mine.”

  Lisa nodded, so fast and so small it was almost imperceptible, but he caught it.

  “Well … well … when are you going to be done with it?” Giocondo asked.

  “I will know I am done when I am done.” He stepped toward the door.

  “I have paid good money for that painting, sir. All in advance.” A servant grabbed Leonardo’s elbow. “If you do not leave the picture with me, I will have no choice but to call the authorities.”

  “Salaì, my moneybag.”

  Salaì came over and faced away from the others. “Sir, we have spent all of the money he paid us.”

  “I don’t care which money we use, Salaì, just give me one hundred florins.”

  “There is none.”

  “What?”

  “We spent …” Salaì leaned in closer to whisper in Leonardo’s ear. “I spent it all.” He cringed. “Until the city pays us, I mean, pays you for your fresco, we don’t have enough to reimburse him. I think you had best leave the picture.”

  Leonardo sighed. It was his own fault.

  Giocondo extended his hand. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

  “Yes, I do,” Leonardo said. He couldn’t look at Salaì. Or at Lisa. He looked down at his left hand. “I believe this,” he said, slipping his ring off his finger, “will more than cover my debts.” Leonardo dropped the shimmering bird into Giocondo’s hands.

  “No,” Salaì whispered.

  The silk merchant started to protest, but then he saw the gold, rubies, and emeralds winking back at him. “Is this real?”

  “It was given to me by the King of France, Louis the Twelfth. He was much amused by my aspirations for human flight. I assure you, it is very real.”

  “You thought you could fly?” Giocondo asked.

  “Preposterous, I know.” He caught Lisa’s eye. “But I regaled His Majesty with stories about my flying experiments, so he gave me that as a gift. To encourage me to never give up.” Now, there was only one dream he wanted to retain when he walked out of that house. “You could hire a hundred artists to make a hundred new paintings for what that ring will bring you.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Giocondo said.

  “So, I am free to go? With the portrait?”

  “Yes, yes …” Giocondo muttered, still transfixed by the jewels.

  Leonardo held Lisa’s gaze for one final moment. She was trying to hide her smile, but she could not conceal her joy. He turned and walked toward the door.

  “But you’re going to finish the picture, right?” Giocondo called after him. “And when you’re done, you will bring it back and let me pay for it again?”

  “Of course,” Leonardo said, the portrait secure in his arms, “I am a man of my word. I always finish what I say I will.”

  Michelangelo

  Sunlight reflected off white marble skin. Muscles taut, ribs rippling, knee flexed like a spring, eyes fixed on an approaching enemy, David stood alive and exposed, facing his audience with courage.

  The reaction to the unveiling was so immediate and so enormous, it overwhelmed Michelangelo’s senses. One roar of approval started near the back of the piazza, another swelled in from the west, more erupted in the front, until the separate waves crashed over each other and together and rushed back out across the crowd in surges of cheers. In the front, a thin woman wearing a shawl collapsed to her knees and sang a prayer to God. A young boy, sitting atop shoulders, whistled with approval.

  Michelangelo had spent so many years living with David that he couldn’t judge the marble anymore, but by watching these people behold the statue for the first time, he could see David through their eyes. Through the enraptured look of Father Bichiellini, the Santo Spirito priest who had allowed Michelangelo to dissect corpses in his mortuary, Michelangelo saw David as a figure of faith. Through the soldier waving a Florentine flag, he saw a symbol of courage. Through the eyes of a young maiden, gazing dreamily up at the marble, David was apparently something to be desired. Through Buonarroto, talking to Maria and her family, David morphed into a clarion call for love. And in Michelangelo’s father’s eyes, David became a thing of pride.

  David no longer belonged to Michelangelo. He belonged to every person in that square, every Florentine, every pilgrim who would ever travel to the city to visit him. Everyone who stood before David would see him differently, speak to him in their own language, and share their own fears and hopes. And, just as people are changed with every human interaction, each time David saw and spoke to someone new, he would change, too. Not his physical makeup or the grains of his marble, but in his soul. Visitors would leave something with David, as he would leave something with them.

  Michelangelo took his leather satchel off his shoulder and handed it to his father. Lodovico looked inside, and his eyes widened with what appeared to be terror, but Michelangelo knew was joy. Inside was a mound of gold florins. That bag had been heavy; Michelangelo was relieved to finally hand it over.

  He turned to congratulate Gonfaloniere Soderini on a successful event, but the city leader had vanished. Instead, Michelangelo faced a black-haired beauty wearing a long gown of black velvet and a bejeweled crucifix clasped around her neck. She could not be over twenty years old, but she still glowered at him with eyes that knew their own power.

  He instinctively squared his shoulders and bowed.

  “Felice della Rovere,” the lady said. She didn’t have a provincial accent that marked the speech of so many illiterate Italians. This was an educated woman. “Emissary from the Vatican.”

  Michelangelo looked up. Felice della Rovere was the rumored illegitimate daughter of the new pope, Julius II.

  “The Holy Father has seen your Pietà in St. Peter’s. He feared you were only capable of creating one such miracle, so he sent me here to discern how talented a sculptor you truly are.” Her head tilted to one side. “Be prepared to serve your church very soon.” She curtseyed and then sauntered off before Michelangelo could offer a response.

  He watched as two armed guards helped Felice into a horse-drawn carriage and drove away. His Holiness the Pope, the Vicar of Christ, the bearer of St. Peter’s legacy, wanted to hire him, Michelangelo Buonarroti, a simple stonecutter from Florence. He let out a half-cry, half laugh, and sank down at David’s feet. He had won.

  He scanned each face in the crowd. Every man, woman, an
d child, every city official and member of every guild, every artist, merchant, and farmer was packed into that piazza.

  Every Florentine, except one.

  Leonardo da Vinci seemed to be the only one who had skipped the unveiling, and yet he was the one person Michelangelo wished had been there. Not because he wanted to boast that he had succeeded where Leonardo had predicted failure, but because Leonardo was still, in his estimation, the greatest artist of all time. He was the one person whose favor Michelangelo still craved. And once again, the Master had refused to give it.

  A clang echoed across the square.

  Michelangelo startled. What was that? He looked around for the source of the noise.

  Another clang, then another. It sounded like a low metal rumbling or a very large, very distressed animal. Was it the vandals returning to attack David? Or the Medici themselves firing cannon balls over the walls? What was it?

  “Guarda,” a man called and pointed up to the Palazzo della Signoria’s bell tower. There, standing in an opening of the tower, was Gonfaloniere Piero Soderini.

  He was ringing La Vacca.

  For the first time in years, the city’s bells were tolling. Not for some official ceremony or festival or even for the execution of a traitor. Everyone in that square understood what that ringing meant.

  It was a battle cry.

  “Viva Firenze!” Soderini called. The people repeated the line, the words rushing to the back of the piazza with the speed of a gale-force wind. A chant started low, in the belly of the crowd. “Viva Firenze. Viva Firenze.” It grew until every Florentine was chanting in unison. “Viva Firenze. Viva Firenze.” Florentine flags unfurled. Children raised their arms in victory. The chanting and chimes reverberated through the city, and Michelangelo had no doubt the sound would echo across the countryside, reaching the ears of the Pisans, the French, the Papal Armies, the Holy Roman Emperor, and especially the Medici. They would all shudder with fear at the sounds of those bells and the roar of a citizen’s army.

  “It seems I was wrong.” Machiavelli stood on the platform next to Michelangelo, observing the crowd. “Florence looks ready to defend herself after all.” He offered a short bow, then strode toward the palazzo. Michelangelo watched him go, figuring that was about as close to a compliment as he would ever receive from the inscrutable diplomat.