What the Lord gives … Jesus’ hands. His blessed hands—
“I see it, Master! I see what you mean! The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away!”
“Well, Giacomo, stop hopping up and down and tell me!”
“Jesus’ arms are stretched out towards us. He is looking down, drawing our attention to His hands.”
“Correct, boy. Continue.”
“Our Lord’s left hand is shown with the palm facing upwards. He is offering something to us—the bread on the table. The bread is the Lord’s flesh. What the Lord gives—”
“Yes, Giacomo, yes, what the Lord gives—”
“—the Lord takes away! You have painted Jesus’ right hand with the palm down, fingers outspread, about to take the wine, His holy blood. His left hand gives, His right hand takes. What the Lord gives, the Lord takes away. We live, but we must die. That must be it! Am I right, Master? Am I right?”
“There is no right and wrong, boy. There is only interpretation. Your interpretation of Jesus’ gestures does you credit, however.”
“Thank you, Master.”
And now I think I understand why the Master painted Jesus like this: to remind himself that despite all the gifts he had been given by God, and despite all his past and future successes, the life of Leonardo da Vinci would one day be taken away.
“I am proud of you, Giacomo. You have been watching me, and you have learned much. I was right to think that one day you would show yourself capable of deeper thought.”
“Master, I do not know what to say.”
“Say nothing, then. You will be surprised how good it sounds. Even more so to others. There is yet something in the painting you have not seen. Study the Last Supper some more. Here is the key; lock up after you.”
“Yes, Master.”
I watch him leave the refectory. I have missed something—something important.
My master has given his figure of Jesus such quiet strength, such astonishing presence! It seems as if the Disciples are being pulled towards Him and pushed away at the same time. Look at how they are in motion as they argue, complain, deny, and plead! There is Judas, reeling backwards as if what he hears is a surprise, when all the time he knows he is the culprit! Has guilt ever been painted so truly? Oh, Father Vicenzo, now I feel pity for you, when I never did before.
See, my master has painted Judas’s left hand reaching out at the same moment as Jesus’ right hand—they are almost touching.
And now I grasp even more of the Master’s intention.
The highest and the lowest are opposites—and yet they cannot exist without each other. Judas needs the comfort of touching the hand of the one he will betray. Our Lord Jesus needs to forgive the betrayer even as He condemns him. They need each other.
That is what the Master wanted me to see. Everything must have its opposite. Life and death, good and evil, happiness and sadness. One cannot exist without the other. It is the truth of all existence.
Now, let me study the figures.
To the right of Jesus are our three old friends—
Peroni, in the role of Thomas the Doubter, pointing up to Heaven disbelievingly (here, I fancy, poor Peroni is alluding to the bats in that cave of the tainted gorgonzola).
Fazio is James the Greater, arms outstretched in dismay (the same gesture he used to make when the Master told him he had no money).
And Rossi plays the role of Philip, who is leaning forward to hear what Jesus has to say, just as Rossi does in real life (he’s a bit hard of hearing, you know).
On their right are the Disciples Matthew, Thaddeus, and, at the end, Simon.
The Master has given the role of Matthew, the tax collector who gave up his wealth and position to follow Jesus, to the goldsmith Delitto. Ingenious, Master, giving a man who works with gold the role of a taxman!
To his right is the gray-haired bookseller, Festa, in the role of Thaddeus, who was known for keeping his own counsel (just like an unopened book, I think, whose covers conceal the knowledge within).
And at the end of the table is Simon, the Disciple known as the Zealot, played by Veroli, the shoemaker. But why him? Let me think. Simon is known to have walked a thousand miles or more to preach the Gospel—he’d need many pairs of shoes to do that!
Now, at the other end of the table, to the farthest left of Jesus, is Bagliotti, the baker, playing Bartholomew, the Disciple who was called “without guile.” And surely there is no more honest a man in Milan than our good Bagliotti.
On his right is James the Lesser, who has been given the face of Maggio, our carpenter—and rightly so, because James’s symbol is the saw (I saw through you, Master!).
To the right of James is my good friend Benedetti, of course, as Andrew, who was Jesus’ first Disciple (just as Benedetti was the first to get a seat in this painting). And next to him is the armorer, Cabrera, in the role of Peter, the fisherman—but, why? Think, Giacomo! Yes, yes—a suit of armor has pieces that overlap to protect the wearer, just like a fish’s scales!
In front of Peter is Father Vicenzo—Judas—and behind him, sitting next to Jesus, is John. Why, he looks a bit like—
That’s me—that’s my face!!
The Master did give me a place in the Last Supper, after all—he has given my face to John, the favorite of Jesus.
Why didn’t I notice this before? How could I not have seen—? Because I was not looking properly. That was what my master was trying to tell me—I was so sure that he had given my face to Jesus that I did not think to look at who was seated right next to Him! Oh, Master, thank you—thank you for giving me this great honor. I will do everything in my power to prove myself worthy of it.
But—what will become of Martino? He also paid for a place in the Last Supper. In order to paint me in, the Master has been obliged to leave him out.
I continue to study the great work. This is my last chance to be alone with it before the rest of Milan comes to stare.
There is the wooden stool on which the Master was wont to sit and contemplate his work. And the old sheet he used to cover the floor against drips and spills is now a rainbow of colors. The brushes are still in the cleaning pot, the colors snug in their jars, and there the clamshells my master uses to hold the paint-and-oil mixture before applying it to the wall with the brush. Red shells, blue shells, green shells, yellow shells.
Is it possible that from these simple materials the Master has created the greatest painting in the world? Yes, it is. The artist is the link between man and God, sent to this Earth to show us the infinite possibilities of life. God grant me the courage and devotion to become a true artist, like my master, and I will endure any sacrifice for it.
I sit on the Master’s stool and continue to study the painting.
Another hour passes. The room grows colder. But I do not want to leave yet.
Folded up in the corner is a blanket. I wrap it around my shoulders. The light is fading.
I will stay until I can no longer see the outlines of the figures on the wall.
XXXVIII
As I hurry home, the moon is masked by shifting layers of black and gray. A few moments later a streak of lightning rends the sky, followed by a giant’s groan, as if the lightning had pierced his thigh. Then comes a bellow of furious thunder.
The rain begins to fall as I enter our street. Three small children are standing under the downpour and laughing, even as they are soaked.
I leap for the front door—it is barred and bolted.
“Master! Open up, Master, it’s me!” I pound on the wood with my fists.
Even if he is disposed to hear me, the storm must drown out my voice. I run down the alley and peer through the half-open shutters in the kitchen window. There he is, sitting at the kitchen table, and next to him is a woman with golden hair. Her head is bowed. The Master is holding her hands, talking to her. She raises her head. It is—it is Cecilia Gallerani.
“Master!” I shout through the window. “Master!” He looks up. Does he see me
? “Master!”
He rises, opens the shutters. Now Cecilia sees me. She smiles. She remembers me. Of course she does. She called me “our Giacomo.” I am her son. The Master points to the front door. He could as easily have opened the kitchen door for me. I run back down the alley and am there before him.
“Master, I-I—”
“You are out of breath and indisposed, Giacomo. Please go to your room and clean yourself, then come into the kitchen. I have someone here who wants to see you.”
“I know, Master. She’s come at last. It’s Cecilia—our Cecilia!”
“Do not be presumptuous, boy. She is Lady Cecilia to you.”
I pass Cecilia Gallerani’s maidservant, who has been waiting in our front room. A pretty thing, too. Before I can smile at her, I notice another servant standing in the shadows: a male, a big brute, who stares at me as if he would take a club to my head if I so much as twitch at him. So I twitch in the other direction.
I go to my room and change my shirt and hose. My jerkin is sodden. I hang it on a nail. Then I take out the portrait of Cecilia from under my bed and carry it to the kitchen, leaving it outside, standing against the wall.
When I enter, the fire is unlit. My master should have thought of his guest. I go towards the pile of logs, then turn to Cecilia. I do not know what to do next. I bow. I take her small white hand and place my lips to it.
“Giacomo!” my master says. “Remember your place!”
“Master—”
“Leonardo, do not be so hard on the boy. Do you remember me, Giacomo?”
“My lady, you are never far from my thoughts.”
“There, Leonardo. Such a gentleman has every right to kiss my hand. Now, let me look at you.” She holds both my hands. Scans me up and down. “You have grown into a handsome youth, Giacomo. And look, Leonardo, his hair is exactly the same color as mine—blond, as blond as the wheat fields in summer. But yours is curlier, Giacomo.”
“And you, my lady, are lovelier—you outshine the painting my master made, the pride of the Duke’s collection.”
“Ah, I was young then, Giacomo. Have I not grown old? Does my face not show signs of age?”
“My lady, your face can only improve with age.”
“Leonardo, Giacomo has become a poet since I last saw him. A very pretty poet.”
My master ignores this speech and addresses me thus: “Madonna Cecilia has come to Milan to see the Last Supper.”
“Yes, Master. Have you seen it yet, my lady? Is it not the most wonderful painting in the world?”
“It is, Giacomo. Your master has so greatly surpassed himself that I doubt he will ever catch up again. It is a painting that will be honored for all time.”
My master tries to smile. We are all silent for a moment.
“I am so pleased to be sitting here with you both,” Cecilia says.
The shutters fly open and the rain, still fierce, forces its way inside. I leap to the window, knocking over a chair in my zeal, and secure them once more.
“Giacomo, the fire,” my master says.
“Yes, Master.”
“Now, Leonardo,” she says, when the fire has caught, “tell me how you managed to persuade the Duke to give you my portrait. You did obtain it for me, did you not?”
“My lady—” he begins.
“We had to use some guile, Lady Cecilia, which we hope you will forgive us for.”
“Giacomo?” my master says.
“Master, I only wanted to tell Cecilia—”
“Lady Cecilia, boy—”
“Lady Cecilia, sir—that we had to obtain the painting with a measure of craft. In short, my lady, it was not given to us willingly.”
“How wonderful, you deceived the Duke! Tell me how you did that, my brave boy.”
I glance at my master. He is glowering at me, but holding his tongue, it seems, until he fully comprehends my intention.
“My lady, I have something here for you.”
I run out of the kitchen at the same time as my master shouts “Giacomo!” at me, but whether he is correcting me for leaving Cecilia so hastily, or trying to stop me from doing what he suspects I have already done, is no matter. It is done. I can’t be stopped.
In two breaths I am back in the kitchen with Cecilia’s portrait, which I place on the kitchen table, holding it up for her and the Master to see. Cecilia stands up; she is trembling. She looks at me, then at my master, then says, “Leonardo! My champion! I knew you would not disappoint me! My portrait—oh, if only you knew how much this means to me! Thank you! Thank you!”
“Giacomo, what have you done?”
Cecilia is taken aback by his sudden change of tone. “What is it, Leonardo? What is wrong?”
“He has stolen your painting from the Duke’s gallery.”
“Master, Cecilia, I did take the painting without the Duke’s permission, it is true, but he will never notice its absence. He no longer cares what is in his gallery and what is not!” I turn to my master. “You saw the disorder in that room, paintings everywhere, one on top of the other. I thought that he would not miss the portrait of the Lady Cecilia—and, look, Master, look how overjoyed our lady is to have it back!”
“Giacomo, you have done a terrible thing! You must take it back forthwith and explain yourself!”
“But, Master, I cannot—the Duke!”
“Leonardo,” Cecilia puts a hand on his arm, “this is not theft, is it? No, it is kindness, to return to me what is rightfully mine—my youth. Do not send him back with the painting, it is too dangerous.”
“But, Cecilia, if the Duke discovers his loss, we will all suffer for it!”
“I, for one, am ready to take my chance,” she says. “I know Duke Ludovico’s habits well. I lived with him for nearly ten years, remember. Once he has ownership of something, he soon loses interest in it. I would wager that he has barely looked at my portrait since you painted it for him. And now he has a new mistress, does he not? Why would he go looking for the old one?”
“If we permit Giacomo this liberty, Cecilia, what more will he be capable of, thinking that he will not have to pay for his actions?”
“But, Leonardo, he did it for me—to show us that he was courageous and faithful.”
“I will not support a thief in this house!” he says.
“My Leonardo, you are too harsh on the boy.”
“I am accustomed to it, Lady Cecilia,” I say. The fire is just beginning to blaze. “By always denying me my accomplishments, he seeks to bury the truth about me.”
Cecilia looks at my master. His face grows hot; and it is not the fire that is responsible, I vow, but his guilt.
“The truth about you?” the Master says. “What truth?”
I poke the fire with the irons. The flames leap up. This is it. The time has come. I am ready to say what I must. I turn around to face them.
“Come now, Master, we both—we all—know who I really am!”
My master rises as if I had thrown a burning log and told him to catch it.
“What are you saying, Giacomo?”
“I know what happened that night in 1482 when Madonna Cecilia gave birth.”
“Leonardo!” exclaims Cecilia. She puts a hand to her mouth. Her eyes are round with amazement. My lady, forgive me for causing you some pain—I cannot stop now!
“You know nothing, boy,” my master says, his face blazing.
“Nothing? I know you were there, Master. You were by the Madonna Cecilia’s side while she bore her child. Nothing? I know everything! Caterina told me all on her deathbed. She was there—you made her take a vow of silence afterwards, to safeguard your secret. But she told me, she had to, because the truth must out.”
“Giacomo, that night had nothing to do with you,” my master says.
“Nothing to do with me? How can that be, Master, when I was that child?”
Leonardo da Vinci and Cecilia Gallerani stare at me, slack-jawed. I have them—I have them at last! Before they can deny me
further, I say: “I was born in 1482. I have blond hair. I am no more a servant than you are. I am your son and the son of Cecilia Gallerani. I was never an abandoned orphan, was I! I grew up in secret with Leonardo da Vinci—and on that terrible day, when the fever took away my memory, I lost my way home and was forced to live on the street, fending for myself until I was reunited with my true father when I fell from the Cathedral roof.”
“Giacomo—!” Cecilia says.
“I forgive you Master, Cecilia. I understand why you could not tell me. It would have been too dangerous for all of us if the Duke had discovered who I really was. Oh, you cannot know how much joy it gives me to be able to let it all out at last!”
“You little fool!” the Master bellows. “What madness have you succumbed to now?”
I hear my master’s voice, but as if in a dream I have at last awoken from.
He looks at Cecilia, shakes his head. “Say something to the boy, Cecilia!”
And she does, “Oh, Giacomo!” she says. “We are not—we are not your parents.”
“Don’t lie to me, my lady, please,” I say, forgetting my place. “Not now, I beg of you. My whole life has been a lie.”
“Dear Giacomo.” She takes my hands. “The child I bore in 1482, my poor boy, was not you.”
“I will not believe it.”
“You must,” says my master. “She speaks the truth.”
“But, what about—my hair?”
“It is beautiful hair, Giacomo, the hair of a young Apollo,” Cecilia says. She strokes my head once. “Sadly, it does not signify that you are my son.”
“Master, you were there at the child’s birth!”
“Cecilia had no one else,” he says.
“And you are not the father?” I say to him.
He shakes his head no. Now I am lost.
“What does this mean, Master?”
He sighs and sits down. Looks at Cecilia. She nods.
“I will tell you my story, Giacomo,” she says. “It is not one I would have wished to repeat, it hurts me to do so, but you need to hear all. So shall you know the truth of the matter.” She pauses. The Master fills her cup from the water jug.
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