The Competition

by Donna Russo Morin

  He was a man now; she would always be his mother—their mother—but she could not, should not, forever be a parent. His response would tell her how well she had done her job through all the years that had come before.

  “But what of your family?” Marcello worried, with a crack splitting his voice. “Will your father deny his approval when he learns of it?”

  Rudolfo once more let his goblet drop to the table. “His approval? Approval of what?”

  Viviana reached out and gently poked Rudolfo’s ribs, silencing him. Marcello would look to Carina’s father for approval for one thing and one thing alone. Carina’s lovely blush confirmed it.

  “They love me, Marcello, as they love you,” Carina vowed, tenderly as the dove does coo.

  “Oh…che bello!” Rudolfo cried, finally understanding through the haze of the bottle of wine he had drunk all by himself, pouring himself yet another cupful from another bottle in celebration.

  Viviana tittered as she pushed back her chair. Walking around the table, she stood between Marcello and Carina, taking one of their hands in each of her own; the three became links in a chain.

  “Well, you have my approval, without question.” She leaned over, kissing both on their foreheads. Rising up, she looked at Carina, studied her long and hard. The young woman never blinked; her soft smile showed no signs of running away from her face. Viviana saw in it all her hopes, her legacy as an artist.

  “I must know your family approves,” Viviana affirmed, fiercely pivotal words soft with joy, “of Marcello and of such activity for you. And I must, of course, make sure the other women approve as well.” The drumbeat of legacy pounded in her heart, stole her breath. “But in my eyes, cara, you are already one of Da Vinci’s Disciples.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Once begun, the only path to take is forward.”

  More than one hand quivered as each woman signed her name to the contract. The words they pledged made their hearts beat faster, brought beads of sweat to their brows:

  Da Vinci’s Disciples, all its members, shall begin to paint the agreed to mentioned storied frescoes after first completing a detailed drawing of the said fresco which they must show to Antonio di Salvestro de’ Serristori; and Da Vinci’s Disciples may afterwards start this fresco, but painting and embellishing it with any addition and in whatever form and manner the said Antonio may have declared, as an act of piety and love of God, to the exaltation of his house and family and the enhancement of the said church and chapel.

  They worked as furiously as they talked.

  Under Leonardo’s quiet guidance, the women transformed the generalized sketches Mattea had rendered to convey the comprehensive composition of each portion of the fresco into the finalized sinopia, a stencil, with all its details as stipulated. They determined which techniques would be best to infuse dimension, an aspect lacking in the same work by Piero della Francesca. They knew that to prove themselves they must outshine that work in all aspects. They knew, as women, that it must be not only better, but brilliant; eyes would look upon their work differently than upon any other, and far more harshly than St. Peter’s at the gates of Heaven; they must work harder than any man.

  “I must say, I am still surprised we have Il Magnifico’s approval.” Fiammetta looked up now and again, quickly and analytically, to study the pose Natasia had struck for her. In using real-life models, a practice begun by Filippino Lippi, the grasp for more, and more natural, realism had found a great tool.

  Natasia stood with her back and side facing Fiammetta, her right arm outstretched, her hand resting on the back of a chair, a long cape draping down her back, a draping Fiammetta endeavored to recreate. Such was the pose of the Queen of Sheba’s lady as her mistress fell to her knees in worship.

  In this composition, the scene that would live upon the left wall of the chapel, would be rendered the legend of the lady. As mythology told it, a tree had grown on Adam's grave, a tree chopped down during King Solomon’s reign. Chopped down, yes, but prohibited from being put to any use. Paradoxically, it was then thrown across a stream to be used as a bridge. On her way to the king, the Queen of Sheba had made to step on the bridge when a miraculous vision came to her; she saw the Savior, saw that he would be crucified on a cross of this wood. Refusing to step upon it, the queen knelt, overcome by worshipful adoration.

  “There is little in this world that surprises me anymore,” Natasia mumbled.

  “Living will do that to you,” Isabetta, working on the other side of where Natasia stood, replied thoughtfully though she did not look up. “Accepting it as truth is the key.”

  Viviana came to stand behind Isabetta, drawn by her somber tone, anchored by the brilliance of the woman’s work. “We will use the same bright coloring that Francesca did,” Isabetta pointed out, studying her work and the notes she had made to the side of the sketches in the way of da Vinci. Isabetta finalized the Exaltation of the Cross, for it was here she would place Lorenzo. Filled with Oriental men wearing exotic headdresses, their garments were of lively color and contrast, bright violet beside pale blue, shimmering pearl white beside bursting bottle green, colors that testified to the health and strength of mankind at peace.

  “I agree,” Viviana said.

  “As do I.” Lapaccia had come upon the pair unnoticed. For the entirety of the morning, Lapaccia had fluttered from sketch to sketch, not contributing anything but suggestions and encouragement. She took up no silverpoint; she did not sit before any parchment or paper. She did not make art. And yet Viviana knew how deeply Lapaccia loved to. The question was, why didn’t she?

  “And I believe the men’s faces should have more varied tonality,” Lapaccia continued, head tilted down in the direction of Isabetta’s work. “They are, after all, men of different ethnicities. They should look it.”

  Isabetta crowed, “Brilliant, Lapaccia, truly. Francesca did not paint them so.”

  Lapaccia grinned. “Then it will make our rendering all the more distinctive.”

  Isabetta returned to her work, her hand moving faster, more surely.

  They worked for hours, the tips of their silverpoints scratching across the paper. They tutted over the cartoni they must create, transferring these detailed sketches to parchment the full size of each fresco square, the ultimate tool for such a manner of painting. They worked till their chatter became groans as they straightened sore backs, rubbed aching necks. “I believe we are in need of an outing,” Leonardo announced.

  “An outing? All of us together?” Fiammetta chirped.

  “Oh yes,” Leonardo confirmed brightly, but with a finger pointed upward. “Not a social outing, however, but one of learning.”

  With renewed vigor, the women packed up their tools and straightened their workspaces.

  “Before we go,” Viviana interrupted their preparations, “I have something to bring before the group.”

  Fiammetta flopped herself back down in her chair, dropped her chin in her palm. “More, Viviana, really?”

  “‘More’ is exactly the word.” Viviana lost her timidity. “There is a young woman, younger than you, Mattea, from a very prestigious family”—that was for Fiammetta alone—“who has asked permission to join our group.”

  “How extraordinary,” Lapaccia responded first, quickly, and with more than one note of happiness.

  “Even with what we face? Does she know what we are about to start, what we are about to endure?” Isabetta surprised Viviana with her wariness.

  “In truth, I believe our endeavor spurred her to ask.”

  Natasia asked the questions that should be asked. “Has she been painting long? Does she possess talent?”

  “She has and she does. She has brought many of her works to my home to show me.”

  “She came to your home?” Fiammetta badgered, as if the young woman in question had broken a sacred societal rule. “Who is this woman?”

  Viviana walked a slow circle, speaking to all who gathered round her. “Her name is Carina
di Tafani. And she has been to my home many times.”

  “I know the Tafani family,” Lapaccia said. “There is a vein of minor nobility there, is there not?”

  “Very minor,” Fiammetta was quick to inform her. “They are—”

  “Una momento,” Isabetta interrupted what would surely be a withering report on how low on the ladder of nobility the Tafani family stood. “Why?” she asked. “Why has she been to your home so often?”

  That stifled even Fiammetta’s voice.

  Viviana felt the flush of pleasure warm her face, felt the curve of it on her lips. “It would seem that Da Vinci’s Disciples is not the only family she hopes to join.”

  It took them but fleeting moments of narrow-eyed thought to decipher Viviana’s cryptic announcement. When they did, a meteor shower of stars fell upon them.

  “Oh Viviana, how wonderful for you!” Lapaccia jumped up, embracing her.

  “Which one? Which son?” Isabetta asked eagerly.

  “Marcello.”

  “Of course,” Isabetta laughed. “Rudolfo enjoys his freedom too much.”

  “What is she like, besides that she is an artist?” Natasia swooned a bit, still a lover of love.

  Viviana reveled in the telling of Carina’s loveliness, her grace and poise, her beauty.

  “Does she love him?” Mattea had been silent until then. Any talk of marriage when she did not even know where her love was in the world would be painful.

  “They love with all their hearts,” Viviana replied gently. “From the first moment you see them together, you know it is how they are meant to be.”

  “I understand the joy you must feel,” Natasia said. “Not only to see your son in love and on his way to marital bliss, but—”

  “It is the greatest joy of motherhood,” Fiammetta broke in thoughtfully. “Not only to have children, but to see them happy. There is no deeper contentment.”

  Viviana reached out to her. “Oh it truly is, Fiammetta. It is nearly the most supreme bliss I have ever experienced—save for when my boys were born, of course.”

  “But,” Natasia continued with a pointed look at Fiammetta, demanding that her words be heard, “is she ready for what may come, what may come from this?”

  She spun round, pointing to the piles of sketches that were the start of the task they were about to undertake.

  Viviana nodded. “She is,” she proclaimed assuredly, “as is her family. I insisted she discuss the entire commitment with them very thoroughly, and all its consequences. They support her to the fullest. They are progressive people, and Humanists.”

  “If that is the case, I see no reason why this dear girl cannot become one of us,” Lapaccia declared.

  “But are you sure, Viviana?” Again, Natasia pestered with her concerns. “Does the family truly realize how it may affect their standing in the community? How it may affect them for years to come?”

  Viviana frowned at the normally vivacious and accepting woman. In Natasia’s features, Viviana saw a face she did not recognize.

  “I know they do. I spoke to them myself. There is no hesitation at all, I assure you,” Viviana was pleased to report, once more a delightful memory—meeting the Tafani family—warmed her.

  “Then, by all means, let the young lady join us,” Fiammetta proclaimed, surprising them with her ready acceptance. She gave them all a petulant glare in response to their wide-eyed stares. “Why do you look at me so? I am not doing all this, taking these risks, putting my reputation at risk, to have this, as Viviana said, die off when we do. Young blood is just what we need.”

  “I agree, on both counts,” Lapaccia said. “In fact, I encourage it.”

  “And I,” answered both Mattea and Isabetta.

  Viviana turned to Leonardo. “Would you mind another disciple, maestro?”

  The tall man, silent thus far, shook his head, not at the notion but at Viviana’s choice of words.

  “I will always relish the opportunity to share my knowledge, such as it is, with a new artist. Learning acquired in youth arrests the evil of old age; and if you understand that old age has wisdom for its food, you will conduct yourself in youth in such a way that your old age will not lack for nourishment.”

  “Indeed, maestro, and your wisdom is far beyond your age,” Viviana replied. “I may take that as a yes then?”

  Leonardo tilted his head, raised one brow.

  “Very well, the maestro is in agreement.” Viviana winked at him as she informed the group.

  “I shall have a key made for her.” Natasia relented.

  The decision made, they took off their smocks, put on their veils, and made for the door.

  “Have two keys made, Natasia, if you would,” Fiammetta said to her as they bustled out.

  “Two?”

  Fiammetta beamed; it lit her face brightly, brought a twinkle to her eye.

  “Yes, one for Carina. And the other for my daughter, for Patrizia.”

  • • •

  They strode down the Via del Gelsumino with all the confidence of a swaggering group of bravi, the gangs of young men with little to do other than pester and bully others.

  Leonardo took the lead, the ladies behind and to the side of him in a V. He led them toward the Ponte Trinta, or so it seemed, for he refused to disclose their destination. They chatted and smiled, preened and giggled, at least until the shouting began.

  “Cover your faces, you deplorable wenches!”

  That first came from a window above. The women stumbled on the stones; their eyes darted about, but could not see from which window the denouncement came.

  “You shame us all! You shame the city!”

  There was no question from where this slander came; the man stood on his small stoop, his elaborate, expensive attire ruined by the fury burning upon his face.

  “Signore Alemagna,” Fiammetta and Natasia fretted at the same time.

  “You know him?” Viviana asked.

  “Oh yes.” Fiammetta glared at the man, undaunted. “He is never happy. Ignore him.”

  “Go back to your homes, back to your husbands.”

  The most hurtful catcall came from behind, hurtful not for its words, but for the one who said them, a woman. It would seem not all of their sex would be encouraging; it was a sharp-edged blow.

  “My husband is in heaven,” Isabetta called over her shoulder to the woman.

  “And mine is in hell,” Viviana quipped. “We have no desire to go to either place just now, thank you.”

  “Shush!” Lapaccia whispered harshly. “You will only encourage them if you respond.”

  “Puttane!”

  “Oh, this is too much,” Fiammetta crackled, red splotches of anger bursting on her face. “We paint therefore we are whores? We are artists not actors. No. No, I will not tolerate this.”

  She grabbed the arms of the two women closest to her—Natasia and Mattea—and turned them onto the Via Santo Spirito before they reached the bridge.

  “This way, maestro.”

  “But madonna, the—” da Vinci began.

  “You need not tell me where we are going.” Fiammetta plunged ever forward, waving a hand in the air behind her. She whirled on a heel, pointed a finger. “But I will tell you how we will get there. To your father’s house, Natasia.” She turned to her companion, finger still demanding. “I know he has a carriage big enough for us all.”

  He did. Though one could hardly call it a carriage.

  Within minutes, the group was back on the cobbles, once more headed toward a destination Leonardo shared only with the driver, only partially hidden by the frame of the large cart. Used for gathering goods and large items, it had no curtains to harbor them; creaking and rickety, it was but slats of wood, for the floor, the benches, and the sides, the latter to keep goods from spilling out. With their backs against the benches, only glimpses of their faces flickered out between the slats. It would have to suffice.

  They jostled along, some enjoying the bouncy ride, the advent
ure of it, some not. It had been her idea, yet Viviana could see how loathsome it was for Fiammetta to travel in such a lowly manner. She sat, arms tightly crossed upon her chest, lips puckered as they crossed the Ponte Trinta onto the Via Tornabuoni.

  Viviana turned, gaze caught by the familiar surroundings.

  “Do you mean to take me home, maestro?” she asked of the mysteriously silent Leonardo, daring another peek over her shoulder. It did not serve them well.

  “Disgustoso!”

  This was her neighborhood; Viviana should have known better, should have realized how quickly and easily those on the street would recognize her. Like the stones thrown at the condemned, the insults hurtled toward them once more.

  “Va Via! Va Via!”

  More than one voice heckled them to go away.

  Viviana hung her head. “Mi dispiaci,” she apologized to them all for having been seen and recognized, for bringing vile words to their ears once more.

  “Sì, va via, mesollelot!” one particularly loud and gruff man abused them.

  But his cry—this slur—brought every head up, even that of da Vinci, or perhaps especially his.

  “So, now we are each other’s lovers as well?” Isabetta asked, voice quaking with laughter. She looked around the group, “Well, some of you are rather lovely, but, hmmm.” She shook her head with exaggeration. “No, not for me. Not yet anyway.”

  Their laughter healed the wounds of the hurtful remarks as if some magic had dispelled the shame trying to infest them. She kept them laughing, telling them of some women she knew of who did enjoy carnal knowledge of other women, how they would secretly meet, how some of them were quite beautiful but disgusted by the male appendage.

  “You only know of them?” Fiammetta snorted through a wrinkled nose. “You do not know them yourself?”

  Isabetta could have been insulted. Instead, she slapped a hand to her bosom, batted her eyes, and said, “Me? Know such women myself? Bah!” She dramatically waved the notion away with her other hand. “I could n—”

  Before she could finish, the carriage came to a halt, buffeting the surprised group sharply forward and then back.