The Second Mrs. Giaconda

by E. L. Konigsburg

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition 1981

  Revised format edition April 1998

  Copyright © 1975 by E. L. Konigsburg

  Aladdin Paperbacks

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  20 19 18 17 16 15

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Konigsburg, E.L.

  The second Mrs. Gioconda / by E.L. Konigsburg.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Relates, from the point of view of his servant Salai, how Leonardo da Vinci came to paint the Mona Lisa. ISBN 0-689-304803 (hc)

  1. Leonardo, da Vinci, 1452-1519—Juvenile fiction. [1. Leonardo, da Vinci, 1452-1519—Fiction. 2. Salai, Andrea, ca. 1480-ca. 1524—Fiction. 3. Beatrice, consort of Lodovico Sforza il Moro, Duke of Milan, 1475-1497—Fiction. 4. Milan (Italy)—History—to 1535—Fiction.] I. Title

  PZ7.K8352 Se3

  75-6946

  ISBN-13: 978-0-689-82121-9 (Aladdin pbk.)

  ISBN-10: 0-689-82121-2 (Aladdin pbk.)

  eISBN: 978-1-442-43972-6

  FRONTISPIECE: LA JOCONDE;

  COURTESY ALINARI—ART REFERENCE BUREAU

  THE SECOND MRS. GIOCONDA

  FIRST AND LAST

  for Paul, Laurie and Ross

  Content

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  THE SECOND MRS. GIOCONDA

  WHY, PEOPLE ASK, why did Leonardo da Vinci choose to paint the portrait of the second wife of an unimportant Florentine merchant when dukes and duchesses all over Italy and the King of France as well, were all begging for a portrait by his hand? Why, they ask, why?

  The answer to that lies with Salai.

  Lies with Salai is a fitting expression, for Salai was a liar. Gian Giacomo de’ Caprotti, called Salai, was also a thief. Leonardo himself says so. In his notebooks, written in that strange backward hand of his, he calls him, liar, thief, mule-head, glutton.

  Leonardo’s first mention of Salai is this:

  Giacomo came to live with me on St. Mary Magdalene’s Day, 1490, aged 10 years. The second day I had two shirts cut out for him, a pair of hose and a jerkin…

  Next we find this:

  ITEM: On the 26th of January following, I being in the house of Messer Galeazzo da San Severino, was arranging the festival, and certain footmen having undressed to try on some costumes for the said festival, Giacomo went to the purse of one of them which lay on the bed with other clothes, and took out such money as was in it.

  And then this:

  … this Giacomo stole the Turkish hide and sold it to a cobbler for 20 soldi with which money, by his own confession he bought anise comfits.

  Later references to Salai cease to mention his thievery, but he continues to be listed in Leonardo’s household accounts. And then there is this:

  I had 30 scudi; 13 I lent to Salai to make up his sister’s dowry, and 17 I have left.

  Finally, Salai is mentioned in Leonardo’s will:

  ITEM:I, Leonardo da Vinci, give and bequeath henceforth forever to Salai my servant one-half of my garden which is outside the walls of Milan; in the garden aforesaid Salai has built and constructed a house which shall be and remain henceforth in all perpetuity the property of the said Salai, his heirs and successors; and this is for the good and kind services which the said Salai, my servant, has done me in past time until now.

  Why, people ask, why did Leonardo da Vinci put up with this liar, this thief, this Salai? Why for so long? Why did he help pay for his sister’s dowry, and why did he remember him in his will?

  Why?

  Those answers lie in these pages.

  IT WAS HOT in Milan that day in July. Salai could think of nothing but the heat and his discomfort in it. He wandered over toward the castle. People coming from and going into a castle always looked cool to him. The rich seemed to walk in a private breeze. But today their looks did nothing for Salai except make him feel even hotter by comparison. He could not be rich, so he could not be cool. He would have to solve the problem of the heat the poor man’s way: by thinking of something else. He thought about sweet things to eat. As soon as he had some money, he would buy some anise comfits and eating those would make him feel cool.

  Not having money was not the same kind of problem as not being rich; not having money was only temporary.

  Salai walked closer and closer to the castle until he spotted two gentlemen leaving. He quickly walked in their direction and bumped into one of them, scurrying off, apologizing and continuing to walk rapidly as if he had somewhere to go. He did not get far. Someone grabbed him from behind, pulling his head back, back over his shoulders, causing Salai to look up, up and further up into the eyes, the fiercely bright eyes, of the man who had grabbed him. The man seemed as tall as Heaven itself, and the man had a beard that sparkled almost as much as his eyes. Only on the wall painting in his church had Salai ever seen eyes like that and a beard like that and a coat like that, as tall and as blue as the Milan summer skies. He shrugged. God at last had caught up with him.

  “Let go of that which you have taken,” the God-man commanded.

  Salai dropped the wallet.

  “Now, drop your knife,” the God-man said.

  “That would blunt it,” Salai answered.

  “Then give it to me,” the God-man said. He held out his hand, a large, immaculate left hand, and Salai placed his knife in it.

  The other fellow said, “I swear, Leonardo, I did not know that my wallet had been cut. Is there nothing too quick for you to see?”

  The God-man laughed. He spun the boy around and said, “Why did you steal this man’s purse?”

  “I stole nothing,” Salai replied. “My knife only accidentally rubbed the thong when I bumped into him. The purse fell into my hands. The thong must have a worn spot.”

  The man to whom the purse belonged tossed it up in the air. “Well, Leonardo,” he said, “a poor excuse has the same mother as a good one; both are born of desperation.” He then turned to Salai and asked, “Young man, do you have any idea who it is that caught you?”

  “Is he God, sir?” Salai asked.

  The man laughed. “No, he is not God; he is one of God’s finest inventions.”

  “Oh,” Salai said. “Does that mean that he is of the church?”

  “No.”

  “Is he part of the duke’s family?”

  “No, no, no,” the man said. He then addressed his friend in the long blue robe. “I would have him hanged, not for snatching my purse but for not knowing who you are.” He looked again at Salai and said, “The gentleman who had you by the back of your hair is Leonardo da Vinci, the greatest artist, the greatest mind, the greatest engineer at the court of Milan, and that makes him the greatest in the world.”

  Salai blinked. “If he is not God, and he is not part of the church nor is he part of the duke’s family, then I shall stick to my tal
e: your purse was cut by accident.”

  The man laughed. “Let’s let him go, Leonardo. He will not be out of trouble for long. Someone else can be bothered with having him hanged.”

  Leonardo rubbed his hand over Salai’s head and took one of the boy’s curb between his forefinger and thumb. “What a pity,” he said, “that the dirt keeps the sunshine out of these locks. Were they to be washed, Jason himself would mistake them for the Golden Fleece.”

  Salai had no idea who Jason was, but he knew that the man called Leonardo was saying something kind. He smiled at him.

  “What were you going to do with the purse you cut?”

  “I cut no purse, sir. My knife accidentally rubbed a worn place in the thong.”

  Leonardo reached into his own wallet and took from it a single silver coin. He handed it to the boy. “Now son,” he said, “this is for you. What will you do with it?”

  “Oh, sir,” Salai said, “You are most generous.” He made a little bow. “You are indeed one of God’s finest inventions. With this coin I can buy my sainted father enough leather for a pair of boots.”

  “Let us go and meet this sainted father of yours,” Leonardo said. He then turned to the other fellow and tossed him his wallet. “Go,” he said. “I will meet you later at the studio.”

  They walked through the streets of Milan, the tall, handsome man with the brightness of God in his eyes, and the small street urchin, the young thief, Salai. The boy skipped along, thinking only of the walk, having forgotten his narrow escape from the law and not thinking of the encounter he would soon have with his father.

  “That is my father’s place,” Salai said, pointing.

  Leonardo laughed, the sounds seeming to push down inside him instead of puffing out into the air. The boy looked at him, took a reading and joined in the laughter. “Oh!” Leonardo exclaimed. “Your tongue is even quicker than your hand. Your father is a bootmaker. I thought that my coin would be shodding a poor beggar, but I see now that buying enough leather for a pair of boots would only be helping your father to turn a profit.” He rubbed his forehead with his hand and said, “Come, boy, there is something I want to talk over with your father, your sainted father, as you call him.”

  When Leonardo emerged from his talk, he asked Salai, “How would you like to cease being the son of a bootmaker and start being the apprentice of Leonardo da Vinci?”

  “Will I have a blue shirt, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “Will I still be Salai, sir?”

  “You will always be Salai.”

  “Then it will be fine with me.”

  Salai’s father could not afford the apprentice fee, so Leonardo took him without. But Salai was not impressed. Having for a brief moment thought that God had him by the back of his hair, it was something of a disappointment to learn that it was only Leonardo da Vinci.

  SALAI was the youngest apprentice in Leonardo’s studio. He was expected to do all the small chores that no one else wanted to do. He had about him a cheerful willingness to do them, but he was awkward. Whatever was asked of him, he attempted to do, but the others often did Salai’s small jobs for themselves; it saved time in the end.

  When Salai first came to the studio, Leonardo was working on various engineering jobs for Duke Ludovico Sforza, the ruler of Milan. Duke Ludovico was also called Il Moro, because his dark skin made him look like a Moor. Il Moro, a man proud of his inheritance as well as his accomplishments, had set Leonardo to working on a monument to his father. The monument was to be a statue of his father, seated upon a horse. Leonardo loved horses, and between his other duties for the duke he worked on designs for the giant statue. He often went to Il Moro’s stables, where he sketched horses and studied them. He studied the similarities between their bones and their muscles and those of man. He had with him always paper and a piece of chalk or a pen. He sketched and took notes whenever he was thinking. And that was often.

  Leonardo took Salai with him to the stables where he studied and sketched, his left hand moving across the page, creating pictures of his thoughts.

  The first time Salai had seen Leonardo put his hand to paper, he had crossed himself. “What is the matter?” Leonardo had asked.

  “Nothing,” he had answered. But the boy had attempted to busy himself somewhere away from Leonardo. All the other young men in the workshop loved nothing more than to watch the master at work, and Salai, if he could, would leave the room.

  One day as the two of them were alone at the stables, Leonardo was sketching the finest of Il Moro’s Barbary horses and called Salai to him. Salai stood behind his master and stared at the ground. “Come here where I can see you, Salai,” Leonardo said.

  Salai moved to Leonardo’s side, and Leonardo held him in place with his right hand as he continued sketching with his left. “Duke Il Moro wants me to go to Pavia to consult with his architects about the dome for the cathedral.”

  “Yes, sir,” Salai answered, keeping his eyes to the ground.

  “Would you like to come with me to Pavia, Salai?”

  “What part of town is that, sir?”

  “Pavia is out of town. It is a day’s journey from here.”

  Salai, who had never been out of Milan before, looked up, pleased. The corner of his eye caught the picture that Leonardo was causing to appear on the page, and he immediately lowered his eyes and crossed himself.

  Leonardo smiled. “I asked you if you would like to come?”

  Salai slowly raised his eyes, staring, fascinated by Leonardo’s left hand, stroking the page. “Will we go on horseback, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you now making the horse we’ll take?”

  “No,” Leonardo said. “Il Moro does not allow his finest steeds to carry painters and their luggage.”

  “I mean the one on the page. Are you going to make it come alive after you’ve finished drawing it?”

  “What makes you think I can do that?”

  “Because you are drawing the horse with your left hand, sir,” Salai answered.

  “Yes,” Leonardo replied, “my left hand has been given the greater talent.”

  “If God had given you your talent, you would be right-handed. God-power is right-handed. The left hand does the work of the Devil. I have often heard my father say, ’that horse has the Devil in him’ or ’that horse bears the marks of the Devil.’”

  Leonardo laughed. He looked straight at the boy and said, “I notice that you cut purses with your right hand. Are you doing God’s work?”

  “I cut no purse,” Salai protested. “The thong was worn.”

  “Come, give me your hand, Salai,” Leonardo said. Salai extended his left hand. Leonardo would not take it. “You are not left-handed, Salai. Now, come, give me your right hand.”

  Salai looked at his master and pleaded, “Please take my left hand, sir.”

  “Give me your right hand,” Leonardo demanded.

  Salai shut his eyes and produced his right hand. Leonardo laid it over the back of his left one. “Now look, Salai,” he said. The boy’s eyes were squeezed shut. “Look,” Leonardo commanded. Salai opened his eyes. “I want you to feel the muscles and the movement of my hand. And I want you to notice that if I tell my hand to go left, it goes left.” Leonardo swung his whole arm off the page. “And if I tell it to go right, it goes right.” He swung his arm off the page on the opposite side. “It is I who guides that hand. My eye and my brain are joined to these muscles and tell them what to do.” He paused and looked at the boy. “The Devil takes no part in my work.” They moved their hands over the page, the young boy’s fingertips riding the back of Leonardo’s left hand, like lint on the wing of an eagle. Salai smiled; his hand was riding the back of creation. Leonardo stopped drawing, and Salai kept his hand on top of the master’s.

  “You may remove your hand now, Salai,” he said. “Go pack our things. We leave for Pavia at dawn.”

  So Salai went
off to pack, relieved, thinking, wondering why everyone was so in awe of master Leonardo da Vinci. He was not God; Salai had learned that the very first day, and now he just learned that he was not the Devil’s helper, either. Leonardo was something in between God and the Devil. Well, so was he. So was he, Gian Giacomo de’ Caprotti, called Salai.

  Leonardo studied the buildings of Pavia; he walked through the streets in his long, flowing robe, quiet and contained, and sketched facts and ideas. He could not look at things made by God without wondering how He had made them, and he could not look at things made by man without thinking of some way to make them better. He thought of plans for a city that would keep the traffic of animals separated from the traffic of people. Such a city would keep his long cloak free from the sewage that seeped into the streets.

  Leonardo met with other men, famous ones, who studied at the University of Pavia. They were expert mathematicians, architects and poets. All of them talked freely of the books they had read and the buildings they had seen and the plans they were making for the future. Leonardo did not talk very much at all. Salai noticed that the men would pause, look to Leonardo and wait for him to add his thoughts to theirs, but Leonardo never accepted their silent invitations.

  One night as they walked to their quarters after a long discussion about whether Greek or Latin was the more noble language, Salai asked Leonardo which language he would have voted for if he had voted at all.

  “If I were to cast a vote at all, it would be for Italian. Being the tongue of commerce, it has vigor.”

  “I’d vote Italian, too,” Salai said, very positively. “It’s hard enough reading words that sound like something you’ve heard. Imagine having to read words that don’t sound like anything you’ve ever heard and then having to translate them into ones that you have. It just puts off making sense by two steps.” Leonardo smiled at the boy’s logic, and Salai, encouraged by that smile, continued. “I wish you would have said something to them, Leonardo. You should have voted Italian. Your vote would have counted a whole lot. You’ve read as many books as those guys.”