“Returning to your beginnings begins them again.”
Each time he walked the streets of Florence, paths oft tread in another life, he wondered if the change he saw and felt was in him or the city.
It was never easy for Leonardo to return to Florence, but to return for them, for the women who looked to him, he ignored the unease. Falling out of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s favor had cast a pall on Florence, through his eyes, no matter the depth of his love of the city. But one could not—should not—blame others when the blame rested so precisely on one’s own shoulders.
Lorenzo was correct; Leonardo admitted it, at least to himself. He had left far too many commissions unfinished, he had been unproductive, and he wrestled for control of his moods, losing far too often.
But why?
He asked himself the question often.
“Signore da Vinci,” the man Leonardo passed bowed his head.
“Salve,” he replied, a word of cheer not so very cheerfully spoken.
A group of men seated at a café called out to him, “Good to see you in town, maestro.”
Leonardo dipped his head to them. Their respect a needed tonic.
They called him a master. But of what? Was it so very wrong of him to long to master more than merely painting?
Do we ask the sun merely to shine? Do we not expect it to warm us, to grow our food?
More calls of greeting came his way; in his ears they were but echoes, muted in the shadow of his own thoughts.
Although nature commences with reason and ends in experience, it is necessary for us to do the opposite, that is to commence with experience and from this to proceed to investigate the reason. I must experience all I can. Should I be persecuted for it?
“No,” he said aloud, to himself, to all who would hear and all who could not. For it was the answer, it was the why of him. There was so much on this earth to know, to study, to recreate. He could not help it if his mind jumped from one thing to another and then another.
Leonardo wandered as his mind did, finding himself at the Canto de’ Tornaquinci, where the streets of the Vigna Nuova and the Spada ended in the Via Tornabuoni. A bustling intersection full of life and shops that fed that life. The sight of a large apothecary arrested his perusal, not only for its size and the varied goods on display in the windows but for the name on the placard in the shape of a mortar and pestle with a snake winding upward upon a chalice: Landucci.
“Could it be Luca?” he mused aloud, but did not wait for the answer to come to him; he went in search of it.
Winding his way through the dark wooden cabinets, Leonardo scrutinized the quality of the medicinal herbs and the pigments, some of the finest he had ever seen. Aromas wound around him, acidic and earthy, floral and spicy. Forgetting his quest to learn the proprietor’s name, he began to pick up vials, small and large, and basket them in the cradle of his arms. Once full, he made for the back of the long narrow shop.
“Signore da Vinci! It is you! You are here!”
The call found Leonardo before he found the man.
Leonardo found his smile. “’Tis I, Luca, and how good it is to see you.”
The tall man came round from behind his counter to embrace Leonardo.
“You have come home Leonardo, sì?” Luca Landucci relieved Leonardo of his bounty and stepped back behind his counter.
“For a visit only, my friend. But what a surprise to find you here, and with your own shop. What became of the other and your partner? I noticed no other name upon your placard.”
Landucci’s face, still nearly free of creases though he was nearing fifty, puckered, and he batted the air with a long and agitated hand. “Ack, what a mistake that was. All that money to expand the old shop in the mercato? It was all mine. That Spinelli had not a cent to his name. I quit him and that shop.” The slim man puffed up. “Took me far too long to recover, but recover I did, and splendidly I think.”
“It is wonderful, Luca. I am very pleased for you. So life is good?”
Luca bellowed a laugh that shook the tiny bottles upon their perch. “It is a happy life, my friend. My business is good, my children grown well, and the wife,” Luca shrugged his shoulders, crooking his peppery brows. “Eh, what can I say, cosi cosi. It is the way of wives, good days and bad days.”
Leonardo laughed with his friend, thinking it was more the way of husbands. If they kept their wives happy, then they in turn would be so as well.
“Marriage is like putting your hand into a bag of snakes in the hope of pulling out an eel, eh?” Leonardo appeased but did not agree. “But God has been good to you. I am glad to hear it.”
Da Vinci’s own religion was that of reason, but this man’s faith was all around him. Others might be unable to see it, but Leonardo could.
“Indeed he has,” Luca replied as he began to weigh Leonardo’s purchases, writing each down in the ledger before him. “In fact for some years I have been travelling to Ferrara, to hear Fra Girolamo preach. Have you heard of him, Leonardo? Girolamo Savonarola?”
Leonardo had heard of the fiery Dominican. He simply nodded.
Luca perceived none of Leonardo’s indifference. “I hear he is coming to us, to Florence.” The apothecary stopped his ministrations, and pegged Leonardo with a serious stare. “You should make it a point to hear him preach.” The man took on an ethereal expression. “He has a special message. It speaks to me.”
Leonardo began to wonder if he should hear this Savonarola for himself; any man that made such an impression was either a prophet or a menace.
“I will consider it, Luca,” he assured the man.
Their business complete, the two old friends embraced once more.
“Florence misses you,” Luca told him.
“And I Florence,” Leonardo lied, if only a bit.
“Be well, my friend. Come see me whenever you return,” Luca bid him.
With a one-handed wave, the other holding his box of purchases, Leonardo assured him, “I will, Luca. Indeed I will.”
Once more upon the streets, once more Leonardo’s amber eyes wandered the city. As the joy of seeing an old friend faded, he saw the opulence infesting Florence and knew it for what it was: the true motivating force of its inhabitants. They had no care for experiences, only for what they could attain. They were as unequipped to understand him as he was to conform. He was, and ever would be, more of nature.
Leonardo sniffed a laugh; the memory of the bird returned. He had been told it was no memory, but a dream, a fantasy. Whatever name it was called, it had made an everlasting impression.
It seems that I was always destined to be deeply concerned with vultures; for I recall as one of my earliest memories, that while I was in my cradle a vulture came down to me, and opened my mouth with its tail, and with it struck me many times with its tail against my lips.
The truth of the event, Leonardo did not question. Perhaps it was, however, an omen.
There would be many vultures who would come and slap their tails against him. It was for him to find one that would not slap so hard.
Chapter Five
“The stars of our own making shine the brightest.”
“Mama!”
The cry reached out to her as soon as she cracked opened the front door of her modest palazzo. Viviana burst with joy at the sound.
“Rudolfo! You have returned!”
They came together, arms entwining, kisses abounding, while all around them men at work continued without pause, save for one: Viviana’s eldest son, Marcello.
“Yes, he finally decided to return from his travels.” Marcello came to them, kissing his mother on both her cheeks. “Apparently the women in the Far East have grown sick of him.”
Still with one arm around his mother, the shorter of her sons poked the taller in the ribs.
The small, healed family laughed together, as they did so often ever since the poison infecting them had been extricated from their lives.
“Actually, Mama, I have found r
iches.” Rudolfo released her from his arms only to pull her further into the ground floor of her home, their childhood home, where their business had started, where it now thrived. She had heard them talk of moving, of setting up an independent location; it was a wave of change flowing through the city. Less and less were the ground floors of Florence’s great palazzos also the master’s place of business. More and more were building or occupying dedicated structures of their own. Time marched on, no matter that the feet that marched had changed.
Viviana followed readily. “Your hair, Rudolfo,” she cried, truly seeing him as the wave of utter joy at seeing him passed. “It is so long.”
Rudolfo shook his head, and the long strands of dark wavy hair fanned about his face, falling onto his shoulders and a bit beyond. He fussed at the long tresses, pulling them back from his face.
“It is. The style is quite popular in the Far East.” The last words he said sheepishly. Viviana looked to Marcello, who rolled his eyes yet again. They both knew what those words meant in Rudolfo’s mouth: women.
“Look, Mama.” He brought her to a wooden crate, the top already levered open, an earthy but still sweet scent wafting out, nipping the back of Viviana’s throat. Rudolfo plunged his hand in, brought it out filled with small brown pieces, each made of a short stem and a larger top.
“They look like nails,” she mused, picking one up, bringing it to her nose only to dash it away as her nose scrunched in response. “What are they?”
“These Mama, Marcello, these little ones are the key to our fortune.”
They looked at him skeptically. Rudolfo had always dreamed of this business, this spice business, and of sharing it with his brother. Once the wars ended, since both had served their time, they both received permission to withdraw with honor. Both returned wounded, but not seriously. Marcello’s right leg pained him now and again, especially in damp weather. Rudolfo wore a small scar on his left cheek, and wore it dashingly, embellishing its origin, especially to young and beautiful noblewomen. Free to be whatever they wanted to be, Marcello had at last given in to his brother’s pestering, claiming that even on the battlefield, his brother had pestered him, and the dream of the business became a reality.
“They are cloves,” Rudolfo told Viviana. When he told her their worth, both she and Marcello gasped.
“Are you sure, brother?” Marcello reached in, to touch one, smell one himself.
“Very sure, mio fratello,” Rudolfo said, pointing to more crates further back in the cavernous room. “And there, in those, is nutmeg.” He lowered his voice, leaned toward them. “They are as valuable as gold. It was quite the feat to get the grower to sell to me.”
“You acted honorably, Rudolfo, did you not?” Viviana cared little for riches; to her honor held far more value than gold, no matter how much of it there was.
“Of course, Mama,” Rudolfo assured her. “Finding it was the tricky part. But find it I did. Take a bite, Marcello. It cleans one’s breath,” he said to his brother, who still studied the peculiar plant in his palm.
“Truly?”
“Truly. Try it for yourself.”
They both did, mother and son. Viviana’s mouth felt as if something had burst in it, something fresh and vibrant but sharp.
“May I have a few?” she asked brightly, full of pride.
“Of course.” Rudolfo scooped out a handful for her with a dashing grin. “They are especially useful to chew just before kissing.” He laughed. “Though I’m sure that’s not why you want them.”
One side of Viviana’s mouth rose mischievously, her eyes slanting upward.
A dark brow rose on her youngest son’s face; she laughed with delight at his comical confusion.
“We must look to Milan and Rome, Marcello.” He glanced skeptically at his grinning mother. “Few have found their way to these spices. Even fewer have returned with them, yet they are desired by nobles everywhere.”
Marcello nodded thoughtfully. “I have just recently been making some headway with the spice sellers in Milan. I see no reason why we can’t reach out to Rome as well, especially with these.”
Viviana watched them, pride growing, though she knew it was a sin to feel it so strongly. It was the way of them. Rudolfo did the travelling, going places Viviana had never even heard of, finding more and new spices to sell. Marcello stayed in Florence, made the deals with those who sold spices in the marketplace. Both were perfectly suited to their tasks; Rudolfo loved adventure, and Marcello loved his city and his music. When business was slow, Viviana could hear him from her floor above, humming along to the music he composed.
They were happy, they were successful, and they were free—free of fear, free to be their true selves. It was all she had ever hoped for them. If only she could have the same.
“Well done,” she nodded, pleased, “both of you. Let nothing hold you back, not even yourselves.”
“Sì, Mama,” they answered in chorus. They were accustomed to her words of wisdom, had grown up with them, and still they did not take them lightly.
“I am for my cena. Would you care to join me?”
Flippant words hid her hope. There had been far too many dinners alone at the table, and she saw too many of them ahead. Granted, it was better company than that which she used to keep, but still, loneliness was a poor companion.
“Not tonight, Mama,” Marcello said, kissing the top of her head. “We are off to celebrate Rudolfo’s return with some of our fellows.”
Viviana put on a smile that stayed only on her lips and headed for the stairs to the private rooms of living above.
“But we will both be here for dinner Sunday,” Rudolfo called out to her.
“That will be wonderful,” she proclaimed, joyous once more. “You have been gone far too long.”
“Oh, Mama,” Marcello called, stopping her. She turned back. “Would it be…would you mind if I brought a guest with me, to Sunday dinner, that is?”
Viviana felt her mouth open, but her tongue seemed unable to form words. Her gaze flitted to Rudolfo, seeing her shock writ upon his face. Such a request could only mean one thing. A glimmer of the glories of the future burst into her mind, shattered the thoughts of the lonely meal she was about to take.
“Of course, Marcello. We will make a merry event of it.” She turned then, climbing the last of the stairs with more vigor than before, her mind whirling, trembling with promises and possibilities.
As Beatrice served her meal, the dear cook and housekeeper still with her though she moved much slower these days, Viviana’s mind strayed to the possibilities, wandered through the city, to the homes of her friends, to the promise of what they hoped to achieve that night.
• • •
In three homes—two palazzos and one modest house—in three different parts of the city, the same conversation took place, the same confession. In each home, the reactions varied; one quacked with outrage, one grew somber with concern, one became filled with fears and tears.
For all, it was a long night.
Not until the light of dawn did answers come.
Chapter Six
“The acceptance of a challenge is the first and hardest step of all.”
Viviana had no idea who had set the signal. She had walked to the shrine every day for the past four. Seeing it there yesterday, seeing its message to meet today, set her fingers tingling. She passed another sleepless night, watching the rise of the sun and the waking of the world from a perch by her window, soft linen sleeping gown wrapped cocoonlike about her legs, forehead against the leaded glass, feeling it warm as the sun rose.
Now she paced the quiet studio, once more the first to arrive. Viviana could have worked on her painting, a portrait of her mama, the woman who had taught her strength, but she knew her hands were shaking far too much to ply a brush skillfully. Viviana stood in front of it, the outlines of her mother set against the completed background of the wine vineyard that had been her childhood home.
“What would you
say if you knew, Mama?” she asked of the rendering, of her mother’s spirit that forever lingered by her side. “Would you think me mad?”
“Perhaps a little.”
Viviana spun; a real answer had come, from the man in the door.
Leonardo stood with an impish grin on his long face.
With a laugh, Viviana greeted him. “Buongiorno, maestro. So you think me a little mad, do you?”
His small smile dissolved. He studied her with serious intent. “Why do you do this, madonna? Why do you want it so much?”
Viviana breathed deeply, letting the air out slowly as her gaze looked beyond this room, this moment. “Do you know what it is like to be known only as someone’s daughter or someone’s wife?” she asked instead of answering him, gaze locking on his face. “Do you know what it is like to have no sense of self or purpose?”
Leonardo took a moment of similar introspection. “I have borne many burdens, cara madonna, it is true. But that is not one of them.”
Viviana did not flinch. “Then perhaps you cannot understand, but, in truth, I think you can.”
Da Vinci nodded slowly. “But have you not suffered enough already? Have you not faced enough challenges to appease?”
“What is the point of life if we do not continue to challenge ourselves? What we did was madness, but the way it made me feel…”
Leonardo’s lips curled benevolently. “When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes skyward, for there you have been, and there you long to return.”
“Exactly! Is it wrong of me to crave it once more?”
“Wanting more, wanting better, is never wrong, madonna.”
Viviana dipped her head at his dispensation, accepting it. “But it is more. I am not that wholly selfish. It is for my granddaughters.”
One pale brow jumped up Leonardo’s forehead as if commanded. “Is someone in the family way?”
She snickered. “No, but soon I hope, I think,” Viviana replied. Her whimsical mood faded, replaced by a furrowed frown. “But even if not, what of all the other women, the young girls standing before easels, dreaming. We have to make things better for them, no matter the cost. God gave us these gifts, these abilities, why wouldn’t God want us to use them? Why should there be shame and secrecy in our using such gifts?”
The Competition Page 3