“No, Caterina. We must save what we have, not lose it.”
“Then what?”
“If I managed to survive on the streets, I am sure I can think of a way for us to survive in a house.”
Fine words. My mouth is full of them. But they won’t fill our stomachs.
The day passes. I stare out of our front window, and when that fails to bring forth the Master, I leave the house and walk up and down our street, expecting at every moment to see him turn the corner. No sign of him by midday.
I’ll wait some more.
The last thing I want to do is visit the shopkeepers and plead with them to let us eat for free, when we already owe them so much. Caterina is right—they have all had enough of Leonardo da Vinci and his excuses. My welcome at the market has recently become as frosty as the weather.
We busy ourselves with our chores: washing, polishing, sweeping. Today is laundry day, and in the afternoon I help carry our dirty linen to the canal, where Caterina will spend the next hour gossiping and laughing with other old women. (Sometimes they even do the washing.) If I ask her kindly, Caterina will also darn the holes in my shirts. I have only two shirts, and they are both full of darned holes. Yes, those holes are a nuisance.
I leave her there with her friends and walk back to the house.
Almost as soon as I have returned, there is a hammering at our door.
I’ll go and—but, wait! Supposing this is an armed guard from the Duke, come to take me away for not bringing him news of the Master’s invention? A week has now gone by and who knows what, if anything, the Master said to the Duke in my defense?
More hammering. That door wants to deafen me, I swear.
I open it, and before me stands a short, bald, aged gentleman with a sparse beard, dressed in white hose and a tunic of burgundy velvet. And shoes with high heels. Even so, he does not reach the top of my head.
Not an armed guard from the Duke, I think.
“Am I to be kept waiting until Christmas? Where is the famous Leonardo da Vinci?”
“Will you come in, sir?” I say. Perhaps this is a new patron for my master, someone who’ll hand over money for the promise of a painting.
“I’ve come this far,” he says. “I expect another few paces won’t kill me.”
But as he crosses the threshold, he stumbles. I catch him before he lands on his head.
“Damn these new shoes!” I restore him to an upright position. “Double-damn them! Who are you? Where’s my son?”
His son? I take another, closer look at him. This birdlike creature with the bony knees and eggshell head is the father of the great Leonardo? Not possible! Not possible!
He lets me peer at him a while longer, my mouth half open, and then he says: “What, have you swallowed your tongue, boy? I asked you—”
“I am Giacomo, sir, and your son, if he be your son, indeed—is not here.”
“Typical! I come all this way to Milan—ten days by horse, I’ll never sit down again in comfort—and he is nowhere to be found. You two, stay out there and wait.” This last order directed at two servants standing outside our door, shivering.
I escort him (unsteady in his high heels) to the fire and he sits down on one of our chairs, holding his hands out to the flames to warm them.
“He writes to his brothers, pleading for money,” the old man says, “but not a word to me. Wouldn’t ask his father for a florin, too proud for that. What a fool he is! Thus I decided to come to Milan. We have not seen each other these many years, you know. And as soon as I arrive, he’s gone! If that is not my son Leonardo, I don’t know who is. How long have you been in the house, then?” he says.
“I have been your son’s servant for seven years.”
“Seven years, eh? You were just a little boy, then, when you came here?”
“I was, sir. The Master rescued me from certain death.”
“He never told me about you. I wonder why. No, I don’t. He never tells me anything.” The old man runs his finger across the table and inspects it for dust.
“Damn these shoes, they pinch like the Devil’s tongs.” He gets up again. “I won’t stay. Tell your master—tell my son—that if he wants my money, to come and see me at the Inn of Forty Steps. I’ll wait three days for him. No more.”
“If you leave the money with me, sir, I give you my word that he will get it.”
“Leave the money with you! Ha ha! What kind of fool do you think I am?”
The worst kind.
“I don’t like that look, boy. You remind me of him. Stubborn as a farm gate, he is. His letter said he was desperate. If that is truly so, then let him come to me for help. No one else will give him any. He has no friends. Let him come and beg for the money he hates me for.”
Now I am too hot to stop myself—“What has he done to you, that you wish to humble him so?”
This won’t help the Master. I should have kept my mouth shut. Too late. Again.
“What? A servant asking questions outside of the kitchen? I won’t answer an insolent ragamuffin boy!”
He looks at me through eyes that betray no emotion except, perhaps, indifference; they just sit in their sockets, as wet and gray and unfeeling as oysters in their shells. Then he says: “But here’s a question for you, young man, from an old man who has seen his fill of war, plague, and rebellion: Why do you think you’re his servant? Eh? The answer may unsettle you, if you discover it.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?”
“Did he tell you that before he left Florence he barely avoided an appearance before the magistrate?”
What?
“No, of course he didn’t, why would he? It’s nothing to be proud of. An anonymous complaint—in writing—was made against him. In ‘76. When he was twenty-four.”
Why has this news set my heart to jumping inside its box?
“Nothing was proved. That’s in his defense. But that someone should have accused him, that is quite enough!”
“But what—what was the complaint?”
“Indecency.”
“… Indecency?”
“With another man.”
“Another…”
“Do you understand what that means, boy?”
“I… don’t know.”
“No, you don’t, do you. Not yet. But you might,” he says, looking me up and down, “and maybe sooner than you expect. Now open the front door.”
What does this mean? What does this mean?
His two servants are still outside, shivering in the cold.
I close the door on them all.
In the kitchen, a few coals glow orange and red in the hearth, but the room is growing cold. I’ll put another log on the fire. Caterina will be home soon, and she needs to be kept warm; her blood is thin.
Why has the Master kept me here as his servant all these years?
And then I remember the Master’s sketchbook, the one with the drawings of the youth, Fioravante, who looks like me. That was dated 1476, too, the year of the accusation! And underneath the drawing my master had written my most beloved friend.
The same year he draws his friend, he is accused of indecency.
What really happened between this Fioravante and my master?
And then a horrible thought inches its way up my spine like a black and poisonous spider—
Oh no, dear God, no,
He brought me to his house because I reminded him of that youth.
And he has been waiting, waiting, until I reach a certain age—
No, I will not believe it. I must not. Such thoughts will make me mad. The Master has always been good to me. There is no proof of anything sinister.
Yet.
XXI
By the next day the Master has still not returned, and whatever uneasiness his old father has awoken in me is overtaken by other concerns, far more pressing.
How do we live without money or food?
“I went to see Bagliotti, the baker,” Caterina says, coming in throug
h the kitchen door. “He would not give me any more bread without being paid. But I did not come home empty-handed. I saw he was throwing out an old loaf and asked him for it.”
It’s there on the table. Covered in greenish mold.
“Poisoning ourselves won’t help,” I say to her. “I’ll go and see the moneylenders.”
“Giacomo, you know the Master hates moneylenders.”
“Because he can’t run away from them, like the shopkeepers. They’d send hired men over here and burn the house down.”
“The moneylenders won’t give you a hello,” she says. “You’re just a lad.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say.
I have something they might be interested in.
I go to my box and take out the ring. It’s a thick, heavy circle, and the jewel in its center, though dull, has depth. It might be worth something, after all. I am loath to part with it, but we must eat, and I have nothing else of value, except my medallion. And I would never offer that for a loan.
I don my cloak and forthwith set off. There is frost underfoot, which gives a pleasing crunch and soothes my drumming heart. Oh, I’d be in a delightful mood on this fine winter morning, if only the Master was here and we had a full pot of money and the Duke had forgiven me for my failings and the students did not hate me and, and—and all was well with the Last Supper.
I follow the back streets until I come to the Sforza Way, turn right, and continue past the Broletto and then the Cathedral (where a procession of brown-robed priests—Franciscans, probably—is just ascending the steps), finally arriving at the Exchange, which sits in a tree-lined square called Duke’s Court. This is where the moneylenders conduct their business.
The Exchange is a many-windowed building three floors high. Two thick marble columns flank the front doors. On the first floor are the grain dealers, on the second the silk and cloth dealers—I need the third. I enter and run up the wide marble staircase, open the shining bronze doors—and find myself in the midst of such shouting and waving of hands that I begin to wonder if I took a wrong turn and have entered a madhouse.
There must be a hundred tables in here, stacked high with silver, gold, and copper coins, some with five or more moneylenders working behind them. The wooden rings on the abacuses fly back and forth, filling the room with a constant whirring sound as the lenders make their calculations. Many customers are wandering between the tables, bargaining for the best rate of interest on loans. Now, where—
“Over here, young man, over here! That’s it, I’m the one you’re looking for, you’ll get the best deal from me, you ask anyone, Valentino’s the name, been here in the Exchange thirty years. Now then, sit on this chair, what can I do for you?”
Do I have a choice? He looks determined enough to grapple me by the legs and pull me down if I try to escape.
“I need to borrow some money, sir.”
“That’s why we’re here, lad: you on that side of the table, me on this. How much?”
I think ten florins would be enough for our food, wood, and candles until the end of the month. When I name this figure, he says: “And what have you got for security?”
I must be looking at him like a fool, because he adds: “I can’t lend you money unless you give me something to hold until you can pay me back with the interest, see? Otherwise, how would I know whether you were going to pay me back at all? You could run off to Venice with my money—it’s happened to me before.”
“I do have this.”
And from my leather pouch I pull out the ring and hold it up for Valentino to inspect.
He takes it from the air faster than a rook snatches a flying beetle.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “You do have security, after all. A nice little round fat jeweled piece of security. Now then.”
From the drawer in the table he produces a thick, smooth circle of glass which he holds up to his eye, and through this he inspects the ring, turning it left and right. It is a big ring, after all—much bigger than it looked in my small room—and it is attracting some attention from Valentino’s neighbors.
“Good God!” he exclaims, so loudly that I jump up from my seat.
“Wha-what is it, sir?” I say.
Valentino is holding up the ring and waving it back and forth as if it was the prize for winning the annual Christmas horse race.
“Do you know what this is?” he cries.
I won’t bother to say no. I’ll just think it.
“This ring has the Duke’s mark engraved on the inside. This ring belongs to the Duke of Milan!”
Now I can’t help myself. “The Duke of Milan?” I cry. Oh, not the Duke again, not him—please!
And now the room, which before was filled with chatter and cry, empties itself of all sound. A silence like the inside of a coffin.
Valentino is still holding up the ring—
“Look at this, all of you!” he shouts. “The Duke’s ring! This boy has a ring belonging to the Duke!”
“But, I didn’t—”
“He’s a thief!” Valentino screams. “A thief!”
And on every side, accusing faces and fingers are pointing towards me.
“Thief!”
“Take him, someone!”
“The Duke’s ring! An outrage!”
It’s clear that I will not be given a chance to explain myself. How do you, after all, explain being in possession of the Duke’s ring? I should stay and try to prove my innocence—but they are not concerned with my innocence, I see. They want my blood!
Valentino is still waving the ring in the air.
“It’s mine!” I say to Valentino.
And before he can shield himself, I pluck the ring from between his thumb and finger—
And run straight for the window.
“Stop him! He has the Duke’s ring!”
As you may remember my telling you, I had ascended to the third floor of the Exchange. Thus, you would not be remiss in thinking that I have lost some of the stuffing in my head, preparing to jump out of the window—undoubtedly I’ll break my neck when I land headfirst on the stones.
But, look you, I am gambling on the branch of the tree just outside the window being strong enough not to crack and break when I throw myself on it.
It’s a risk. But if I am caught now, there is no one to look after Caterina, and who knows when the Master will return. Or if he ever will.
A greasy-cheeked lender rises sluggishly from his table and throws out his arms to take hold of me as I pass. I duck under them. I don’t stop running.
The shouts and cries behind me lend fuel to my legs and I do not hesitate as I draw near to my only chance of escape—
“The young fool is going to jump out of the window!”
Hardly are those words in the air when I, too, join them and plunge through the opening in the wall.
Thanks be to Saint Peter—the branch is just outside the window, and I can easily catch it with both arms—got it! It’s bending, it might break, it will break—Mother Mary, save me! Should I let go and take my chance with the fall? No, I’ll hang on, I’ll hang on—
The branch holds! It holds my weight!
From the open window, oaths and curses follow my exit, but words cannot harm me now. I drag myself along the branch to the trunk and then, using the creases in the bark as a ladder, clamber down to the ground.
I hold up the ring—let them all see it one last time!
Then I bow low, as any gentleman would, and race across Duke’s Court and down an alleyway to safety. They can call the Guard, but the Guard is slow. My legs, when I am fearful, can almost fly.
Down one street, up another; across a square, a garden, over a crumbling wall; through one arch, two, and I am in the marketplace behind the Cathedral. I hide at the rear of a stall selling clothes, peering out from between a row of dusty shirts and shriveled hose. No one about. I lost them, I think.
Work has already begun on the Christmas market. Soon traders will come from al
l over Lombardy to sell their wares: bracelets, purses, necklaces, needle cases, ribbons, rings, gloves, mirrors, candlesticks, holy relics, mulled wines, pies, lemons, and quinces. The sounds of hammering and the merry calls of the carpenters mingle with the smell of newly sawn wood.
I must hide myself and rest. My legs are shaking, and I am covered with sweat. Where? The Cathedral.
So in I go, there to find a quiet corner until I can recover.
The few worshippers at this time of day have only come in to escape the cold, to judge from the noises. Instead of hushed prayer, there is a constant recitation of coughs and sighs. And the Cathedral, being almost empty, is like a huge cavern, magnifying every sound. I might as well be in Milan Hospital.
I pull my jerkin tight around me and settle into the shadows.
The Duke’s ring? I stole a ring from the Duke? But how?
I must tell the Master about this ring, as soon as—but can I do that? If he knows I have the ring, he will surely force me to surrender it to the Duke. And the last thing I want is to see him again.
No, no, I must keep this ring to myself. When I leave Milan—if I leave Milan—I will be able to sell it for a good price in another city, where the Duke’s mark will not be recognized.
But now I must return home. Caterina will wonder where I am. And I have yet to find a way to feed us.
When I give Caterina my report on everything that has happened to me today, she listens in silence, sometimes shaking her head, sometimes nodding. Often doing the one when you would expect the other.
“What do we have left to eat?” I ask, when I have finished my sorry story.
“Dust and mice droppings, boy. And the mouse, if you can catch it.”
“I couldn’t eat the mouse, Caterina, it’s lived here longer than we have.”
“You won’t be saying that if there’s a famine. Why, I remember one winter, what, thirty years ago now, it must be, we were so hungry we were boiling the—”
“Nothing? Nothing at all in the house?”
“Just a corner of cheese. And Bagliotti’s bread.”
Well, I said I wouldn’t touch it, but I will. We scrape off the mold and share it out between us.
Leonardo’s Shadow Page 14