Papa, Leonardo, and I would sit together for hours over a story from the Odyssey, Leonardo on his feet the whole time, acting out all the parts himself. He liked the monsters best, and using an imagination that was preternatural added and embellished Homer’s descriptions of places and creatures and fantastical phenomena so that I could never, thereafter, feel satisfied with the great Greek’s much paler and more restrained version of the tales.
Leonardo was a marvel in Papa’s apothecary garden. He never tired of tending the plants and watching how the changing of the seasons changed what grew there. His favorite thing was planting a seed and watching it spring to life. He would run inside to make glowing reports on the progress of growth. “Mama, Grandfather, come see!” he would cry. “The foxglove seedlings grew an inch overnight! If only I could stay here tonight I could take a candle and lay on my belly and watch it grow!”
But of course we all knew he would never be allowed to stay the night. Disinterested as his da Vinci grandparents were, they would certainly be furious to learn how great was our influence on Leonardo.
It was a magical day when my father opened to his grandson his clandestine third-story alchemical laboratory. Leonardo was fascinated that when I was hardly older than he, I had tended the furnace every day. The idea of secrecy appealed to his nature, and thus he acquired the habit in his own affairs. He found secret hiding places on every floor of my father’s house and, I suspected, one in the apothecary garden. He took great pleasure in them, squirreling away little treasures he had found on our outdoor adventures—a rodent skull or the skin of a snake—or odd gifts from the laboratory—nuggets of cinnabar or silver.
For all his extraordinary brilliance my son was also a silly prankster. The more he could terrify Papa and me the better. Once when the three of us were together in the laboratory Leonardo called out sharply so that we turned in time to see him standing over an open beaker of boiling oil with a cup of red wine in his hand. Before we could shout “No!” he’d heaved the wine into the beaker. Spectacular multicolored flames shot up to the ceiling, nearly setting the house on fire.
For that he was punished, being barred from Papa’s laboratory for a month. It had been worth it, he’d told me, repressing a grin, just to see the looks of horror on our faces.
Another time as I readied myself for sleep I pulled down the covers on my bed and shrieked, finding on my pillow a hideous moving monster with flashing red eyes. I jumped back so violently I crashed to the floor. Once I’d caught my breath I crawled on my hands and knees back to the bed with sure knowledge this “thing” had been created by my darling and utterly perverse child. On closer examination I saw he had fabricated most of it out of dissected and recombined bats, lizards, snakes, and geckos. These parts of the miniature “dragon” were stationary, but its midsection was very much alive—a clear glass jar containing a variety of crickets, beetles, and locusts—all jumping about with abandon. The beast’s two large “eyes” held similarly enclosed squirming centipedes, chosen, I deduced, for their bright scarlet color.
Papa came rushing in in his nightshirt, alarmed by my screeching. Despite my initial terror I found myself laughing, and he with me. Part devil, part angel—surely there was no one in the world like our Leonardo.
No punishment was levied for the monster in my bed, though this time we did elicit a promise that there would be no further pranks that could kill either his mother or grandfather by heart-stopping fright.
Meanwhile, Leonardo’s drawing, which had begun simply enough, became expert and even awe-inspiring. He was better able, and more likely, to draw things that were alive than inanimate objects, like houses or bridges. He drew insects with great precision, compelled by the strangeness and symmetry of their anatomy. The dogs and cats and horses he rendered were stunningly alive, and projected the love he had of all living things.
It was when Leonardo began studies of the human face, though, using his grandfather and me and his uncle Francesco as his subjects, that we fully realized the boy’s unlimited talent. The question, of course, was what should be done about it.
Francesco told us that whenever his brother deigned to come back to Vinci for a visit, he bragged about his new friends in Florence, some in the Notaries Guild, many merchants, and one artisan with a bottega that was getting more and more commissions from the new head of the Medici clan—a maestro called Andrea Verrocchio.
I had had little or nothing to do with Piero in the past ten years, and all that I knew of his paternal efforts with Leonardo made me despise him. It was true and customary that an illegitimate son was prohibited from attending university or taking up an apprenticeship in any legal field. Our son was therefore ineligible to become a Notary of the Republic. But in addition to ignoring the child almost entirely, Piero was making no effort whatsoever to find a trade of any kind for Leonardo. He was far too busy with his social climbing in Florence and in trying, still unsuccessfully, to impregnate—after Albiera had died—his new young bride.
This infuriated me. I knew the da Vincis would never allow Leonardo to train as an apothecary with his grandfather. It was barely acceptable that Leonardo spent time at the shop. I had dreams of running Piero through with a sword, that still-handsome face spurting blood from mouth and nostrils. I woke with my cheeks wet with tears, and my jaw sore from grinding.
One afternoon when Leonardo had taken his leave, my father came to sit with me.
“Caterina. I see how troubled you are, and I know the cause.”
“Then you know the solution is impossible,” I said, growing emotional.
“There is a solution. But it will mean going and speaking to Piero.”
I burst into tears of frustration. But Papa did not move to hold or comfort me. He just waited for me to calm.
“In order to face him you must harden yourself. This is a formidable task. You know very clearly the suggestion you will make on Leonardo’s behalf. Prepare a good case for it. But restrain every impulse you have to argue with the man—it will only anger him. Yet you cannot allow him to make you feel small. And you must succeed, Caterina. Your son’s future depends upon it.”
It was nearly six months later when Francesco alerted me to Piero’s upcoming visit to his family. By then I was prepared, but I had endured too much humiliation in the da Vinci villa to have such a confrontation there.
I showed up instead in front of the Vinci church the first Sunday Piero was home from Florence. As they filed out, the villagers stared at me as though being forced to clean scum from the bottom of a cattle trough. I stood tall, though, and I must say I drew pleasure from the shock on Piero’s face when he exited the double doors with his pretty new wife on his arm and found me blocking his way.
Before he had time to bluster I said very loudly, so the priest and all the nosy parishioners could hear, “I must speak to you about our son.” His wife went pale, but in order to prevent a scene he whispered something to her, and she grimly scurried down the steps.
Piero took my elbow and guided me away from the church and into an alley, looking every which way to be sure no one could overhear us.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, his voice arching in anger.
I wasted no time and drew out from under my arm a folio of Leonardo’s drawings. I opened it in front of Piero and silently showed him one splendid example after another of our child’s brilliant artwork.
To his credit, Piero’s indignation at my audacity faded quickly. It would have been impossible, even for this ass of a man, to be unmoved by his own son’s talent. Still, he was determined to make things as difficult for me as possible.
“It’s very good,” he said. “But what do you expect me to do about it?”
I held my temper admirably and spoke in a soft, friendly tone.
“Francesco mentioned that you have been befriended by a well-known artisan in Florence.” Really, Francesco had told me that Piero was licking the heels of this man, whose fame was growing with every n
ew Medici commission. “I think he called him Verrocchio.”
Piero straightened. “That is true, Maestro Verrocchio thinks very highly of me.”
I managed a smile. “Do you think it is possible to have him consider Leonardo for an apprenticeship?”
There was silence from Piero as he considered this. I could see that lawyerly mind clicking away, tallying up the benefits to himself, and any possible unpleasant consequences. My patience was running thin.
“I cannot see the harm in showing him the drawings,” I said. “You yourself thought they were good.”
Finally Piero looked me squarely in the eye.
“You’re ready to send your son away? You’ve fought like a baited bear since his birth to keep him close to you.”
This was the hardest part. With these words Piero had skewered me as if on a sword, as I had done to him in my dream.
“Yes. I think he should go.” The words sounded so hard to my ears. “If he doesn’t learn a trade, he’ll be nothing but a worthless vagabond, and it will reflect badly on you and your family’s good name.”
He considered this in another lengthy silence. Then without a word, he took the folio from my hands.
“I’ll see what my friend can do.”
Now it was I quaking with emotion.
“Thank you, Piero,” I said, and turning, walked quickly away so he would not see me weeping.
It took more than a year for arrangements to be made, but in the end the apprenticeship was set and Leonardo’s excitement at the thought of beginning his career grew to a fevered pitch.
The only agony, I feared, would be in our parting.
Cato
CHAPTER 7
I had refused to shed tears that day when my boy of thirteen, fresh-faced and gangly limbed, had climbed on the back of Piero’s horse and disappeared from my sight. I believed that my other separations from Leonardo would prepare me for this one. I had initiated it. It was clearly in my son’s best interests. He would be surrounded by a community of artists and be taught by one of Italy’s greatest masters. It would put an end to his lowly status as the village bastard, and provide a chance for him to grow into manhood and rise to a well-deserved glory. We had both promised, of course, to write to each other. These were all indisputable blessings.
Yet it felt as though my heart had been wrenched forcibly from my chest. In the days and weeks after he left my breath came in short gasps. I slept poorly, and when I did sleep my dreams were somber at best, nightmares at worst. I lost my appetite for food, and nothing Magdalena prepared had the slightest flavor in my mouth. I lost weight and developed an alarming pallor.
My work for Papa in the apothecary was lifeless and slipshod. He was forced to remind me several times of potions I was meant to prepare, and the keeping of the alchemical fire, once a mystical ritual, became nothing more than a tiresome chore.
Oh Mama!
I hardly have words to tell you about my new life. Except for missing you and Grandfather and Uncle Francesco and the countryside, I
feel that, like some sailor from the Odyssey, I have washed up on the shores of Paradise. Not Florence itself. I hardly have time to go outside the bottega’s front door. We work all the time. But I have made friends with all my fellow pupils, and I love Maestro Verrocchio. He is, I think you would agree if you met him, a very fine man and a teacher of much excellence and well-deserved respect.
The workshop is as busy as a beehive in spring, all of us apprentices and journeymen rushing around, or heads bent over in deep concentration. There is always something that needs doing. Until recently I was still a “dogsbody” who swept floors and made paintbrushes or ground colors. But I am a full apprentice now, and the maestro gives me great responsibilities, even though I am very young. He says I learn quickly (and he whispers that he sees greatness in me). Already I understand the principle of how to put figures on a plane, how to represent a man’s head and the technique of perspective. And I have graduated into figure drawing—of the naked body!
At first, so I did not waste expensive paper, I was made to work in metalpoint on a coated wood panel. But now my draughtsman’s studies are on paper and soon I hope to be allowed to use colors. Of course I am learning to sculpt in clay, and my favorite subject is horses. I have made dozens of little figures of them, which the maestro says are quite impressive.
Today I helped with my first cartoon. That is where the maestro’s outline for a painting is drawn on paper. Then a student—me!—pricks holes with a pin all along the lines. The pricked paper is laid up against a prepared wood panel and dusted with charcoal. The dark dust filters through the pinholes and when the paper is removed, there is the outline of the drawing on the wood panel.
We apprentices are expected to give total obedience to our master, but this is no problem for me, as I adore my maestro. He has such a big, warm heart, and he is so hardworking himself. He is never, ever idle. He always has something in his hands and expects us all to do the same.
He still supports his family, so I suppose he must be industrious, but I think work gives him great joy, and therefore the bottega is a joyful place to be. It is no secret, even among the youngest boys, that the maestro was a bastard son and that he had the misfortune in his youth to kill a boy by accident. He was tried and imprisoned for a while and finally let go, but then the next year his father died. So he has had a hard beginning. Perhaps that is why he is so kind to me.
Father never comes to see me. He is very busy with the many convents he works for. But no matter. I am happy here with my new family, though of course I will always love you best.
Your son, Leonardo
I’m ashamed to say I wept reading this letter and the others he wrote about his wonderful new life. I wasted many precious sheets of paper rewriting letters back to him, as I did not wish him to see my tearstains giving lie to the cheerful words I had written. I believed time would heal the gaping wound his departure had left in my soul, but I was wrong. Months growing into years only caused the chasm to fill with bitterness and, worse, self-pity.
On a spring day in the third year of Leonardo’s absence, I mistakenly ground the poisonous leaves of belladonna, and not the healing leaves of marigold, into a salve for Signora Carlotti’s skin rash. Had it not been for Papa’s keen eye as he pushed it across the counter to her, then retracted it, saying the salve must be remade with fresher ingredients, the poor woman would have died a horrible death.
When he later confronted me with my mistake I began to tremble violently, as though I’d been caught naked in an Alpine snowstorm. The strength left my legs and I dropped to the floor in a heap. But I was dry-eyed, my tears all spent.
Papa helped me stand, but I refused his arm as I climbed the stairs to my room. There I lay, still as a corpse for the rest of the day and night, wide-eyed and awake, though paralyzed with loathing for myself and the life I was leading.
The idea came with the first rays of dawn. It was an image of the Egyptian goddess Isis, whose beloved husband, Osiris, had been killed in battle, his body broken into pieces by his evil brother and scattered all over the world. In her great love for Osiris, and with the greatest courage, Isis found every piece and, putting them back together, breathed life into his resurrected body. What had become of my courage? I wondered. I had once possessed a great measure of it. Could I not resurrect it myself?
I dressed and walked up into the hills along the river path. At the waterfall I removed every stitch of clothing and stepped beneath the torrent of icy meltwater come recently from the snow-covered mountains. The freezing shock on my skin forced a shout from my lungs, but the sound, when it came, was a passing from the deepest part of me of all of my pain and my fury. I stood there bellowing my rage, daring Isis to come to this sad, wasted woman and infuse her with strength to do what must be done.
She came to me that day—Queen of the World, bringer of life and love. She came and brought me all I asked for, and more than I ever in my wildest imaginings coul
d have dreamed.
I went to Papa in his laboratory that night and told him my plan.
Leonardo was in Florence, a young apprentice at Maestro Verrocchio’s bottega, but his only family in the city was his father, an ice-hearted man who loved his son not at all. I believed, in fact, that Piero despised the boy, regarded him as an advertisement for his greatest failure. He had been unable to sire a single legitimate male heir on either of his young wives. His only son was a bastard, birthed by a girl not fit for marriage into his proud and ambitious family. Leonardo might as well be an orphan in the city, as much attention as his father was paying him. He needed family there.
He needed me.
I would move to Florence and set up shop as an apothecary. If I sold Mama’s rings I would surely have enough to rent a small place until I began earning a living.
Papa sat himself down on the stool near his athenor and closed his eyes. He rested his chin on his chest, remaining silent for a space of time that felt endless to me, for I was waiting word from my most honored advisor, tutor, and sage. His hands, fingertips stained with the essence of herbs and burnt minerals, lightly clutched his knees. Finally he spoke.
“Surely you have the skills for an apothecary, but I do not like to think of you alone in that city. I have always believed that Florence is the worst of all places to be born a woman.”
“I’ll just have to manage,” I snapped, unhappy at Papa’s response. But I could see him wearing a certain expression of intense concentration he used when pondering the deepest mysteries or the most difficult of mathematical calculations.
Signora Da Vinci Page 8