“Where is her other half?” asked Leonardo.
“Not here, and it’s a good thing too. The lion usually upsets her,” grumbled Jacopo as he took a swig from his water skin. Scarlet drops dripped down his double chin and onto his long brown tunic.
“The lion is the symbol of Florence. When she has cubs, it is considered a sign of good luck for the city,” said Leonardo, staring at the tranquil lioness. “Personally, I hate this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t stand or justify the idea of causing unnecessary suffering of animals. People can judge me all they wish, but I won’t partake in the beastly ritual of eating animals … It’s just wrong to me.”
“Why did you bring me here, then?”
“It’s a metaphor, Viola,” he replied as if it was obvious. “Assuming you had to be one of the two, the mouse or the lioness, which would you choose?”
“The lioness, of course,” I said, understanding what he was getting at.
“If that’s the case … be her.” He turned to walk in the direction of the workshop.
Following behind, I mulled over his words. Honestly, I wanted to be the lioness, but at the moment I was most definitely one of the many field mice. Salai, Mrs. Reed, and Idan were the sticks poking at my sides and causing me to scurry around in anxiety.
“Are you happy with your work in the workshop?” His questions broke my train of thought.
“Everyone is very nice and Margherita is sweet.”
“That she is. Did you know that you would make a magnificent politician?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you have an uncanny way of not answering my questions,” he jeered. “Let me put it another way. Would you be content with cleaning and cooking for the rest of your days?” There was a brief pause. It was difficult to have a serious conversation as we weaved through food carts. “You are hesitating.”
“No, I’m not!” I protested.
“Just say it.”
“No, I wouldn’t be happy.”
“There it is,” he said with a gratified grin.
“No, the truth is I don’t want to be doing this job at all. I want to be an apprentice.”
“Why don’t you tell Verrocchio, then?”
“There are no other girls working as apprentices.”
“Even better. You would be carving the path … I think you would be surprised to find how open-minded he can be.”
“I don’t really think this is fair.”
“What?” he asked.
“You could take a lesson from the lioness as well,” I said, meeting his sideways glance. “Why haven’t you asked Verrocchio about finishing the angel in the Baptism of Christ painting? You told me you wanted to paint the angel in oil.”
Leonardo opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. We turned the corner on the industrious street of the workshop, but Leonardo stopped in front of the canopy.
“He has yet to allow me to paint figures,” he admitted with crossed arms.
“But he chose your drawing of me in the library only a few days ago.”
“Exactly! Drawing …” He strode under the workshop’s canopy.
“You would be surprised how open-minded he is,” I mimicked before we separated at the foot of the stairs.
Once I left my satchel under Margherita’s mattress, I rushed downstairs to meet her in the kitchen. The steam that rose from the boiling cannellini beans converted the stone room into a warm sanctuary. While I peeled a tower of ripe tomatoes, the sound of Margherita’s heavy breathing thickened the air.
“Are you all right, Margherita?” I asked.
When I turned around her eyes were squinting in pain. One of her small hands slowly turned the stew with a wooden spoon while the other rubbed the underside of her belly.
“Yes … I have just been getting these pains. I think—” She was interrupted by the quick skip of little Renzo.
“Viola, there is someone waiting for you in the courtyard,” he said in a quiet voice.
Margherita and I both turned around to see who it was. Although the windows were foggy, we could both make out the tall but lean figure of a finely dressed man. His hands twisted behind him as he impatiently paced the humble courtyard.
“Is that...?”
“Yes, it is,” I said, suddenly hyper aware of my coarse brown dress and the red pulp under my fingernails.
I tried to rub off the smell of the tomatoes and garlic with some of the lavender soap in the basin. After untying the handkerchief from around my head, I attempted to tuck the loose pieces back into the braid.
“But why would he want to see you?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.”
My cheeks felt hot. In an attempt to cool their color, I splashed some of the chilly water on my face. Margherita helped me undo the knot in my apron that my fumbling fingers failed to do.
“There you are,” said Giuliano as I walked through the courtyard. The deep purple of his velvet tunic and the dark fur lining of his cape gave him a regal appearance.
“What a nice surprise,” I admitted.
“Why are you surprised?”
“I wasn’t expecting you,” I explained.
“Don’t you remember what I told you when we parted?”
Even though I did, I shook my head. His handsome hands reached for my own, but they were wrapped in an attempt to keep me from fidgeting. When he untied them, he held my hands as if they were ice sculptures that would melt against his warm palms.
“I said we would see each other quite soon.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
I looked up at him. His almond eyes had hazel flecks. The faint lines that surrounded them spoke tales of laughter. Although I was nervous, I could meet his gaze, which was something I had been unable to do.
“Here we are.” I broke the silence.
“Well … I … just wanted to see you and hear your strange accent.”
“I thought it was getting better.”
“It is, but don’t work on it too much. I like it just the way it is … I also came to give you this,” he said as he withdrew a bulky envelope.
“What is it?”
“Something from my brother,” he said
“Thank you.”
It was strange how different they were. Giuliano was so charming and easy to talk to, whereas Lorenzo was intimidating at best. Although I knew these papers meant to help me, I felt uncomfortably indebted.
“You can thank me by coming to the tournament on Sunday.”
“Some of the apprentices have been telling me about it. From all they’ve said, I would like to see it.”
“I can arrange it for you … if you’d like. I do know where you live, after all.” He grinned.
“No, that’s all right. I’m sure I can manage it,” I replied.
“Brilliant,” he said, moving closer. Little Renzo ran into the courtyard with a package for Giuliano. Embarrassed, I slipped my hands away from his.
In a soft voice he said, “Thank you, little one.” Renzo did not appear to like the nickname “little one,” even if it was coming from the unofficial prince of Florence.
“Well then, I will see you at the tournament?”
“You will,” I agreed.
“Until Sunday then,” he said with a slight bow and turned on the heels of his tall boots.
As I walked back into the kitchen, I slipped the envelope into the apron pocket. When I stepped through the doorframe, the whole workshop had been crowded around the foggy window.
“Hey! Whatever happened to a thing called privacy?”
“Never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed Perugino. “We tried to stop Renzo,
but he couldn’t take it anymore and burst out onto the courtyard.” All the boys erupted in laughter. One by one they left the room with mocking jokes and reenactments.
Margherita offered me a pleasant smile. “Viola, please set the table.” Once the plates and silverware were stacked and my arms loaded, Margherita stopped me. “Be careful there.”
“I have only broken one thing in two days!” I protested.
“No, I mean with the young Medici.”
“Oh yes … well, I’m not sure why he keeps talking to me. I think he’s just curious.”
“Well, I didn’t know why either, but now I do. Giuliano Medici and you are not in the same class,” she explained as she sliced the rye bread. “Where you come from that might not mean anything, but here it means the world. I don’t want you to end up like me.” My arms were sinking from the weight of the dishes, but my feelings for Giuliano were struggling against Margherita’s wisdom.
“I know you are concerned, Margherita, but you needn’t be … honestly.”
“Your blush says otherwise,” she pointed out. “Keep your distance. Powerful men are always used to getting what they want.”
She placed the basket of bread on the pillar of plates. Once the table was set, I began cutting thin slices of mortadella while Margherita served the stew into shallow bowls. She mentioned something about cleaning chamber pots and I instantly lost my appetite.
“Viola.” I turned at the sound of my name. Master Verrocchio stood in the kitchen, his hands clasped behind the drapes of his black tunic. The expression in his voice and face was grim. “I need to speak with you.” My heart sank in my chest. Fear led me to suspect it had something to do with Salai’s theft. Trying not to appear as guilty as I felt, I wiped the cold cuts’ oily fat from my fingers. “Now would be a good time, if you please.”
“Sir, we are about to eat. It will get cold,” implored Margherita.
“This cannot wait,” he insisted.
Margherita and I exchanged worried glances before I left the kitchen. Arming myself as I ascended the steps, I whispered, “Be the lioness.”
PART III
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Massimo
A trail of muddy footprints led to a door of varnished wood. A fire within beckoned me to enter the cozy living area. Verrocchio sat at an ample chestnut desk in the corner of the room. This was the only space that had any sign a man lived there. The untidy desk and its contents stood out drastically against its delicate surroundings. Eclectic floral carpets concealed the floor’s brown tile. Two stiff sofas topped by mustard cushions were arranged around paneled windows. Faint light sifted through the salmon curtains. Discreet ceramic bowls of dried flowers gave the apartment an intense rose aroma.
“My nieces spend their time decorating. No doubt, it keeps them entertained.”
Verrocchio pointed to a chair facing his desk.
Before I sat down on the pale blue cushion, I moved the abandoned needlework from the chair. Exotic figurines of jade and ivory weighted down piles of parchment on the desk. Broken bits of charcoal and scraps of wax littered the surface. At the center of the chaos was a heavy book lying on its spine with hundreds of numbers scrawled in minute print. On the back of Verrocchio’s chair, I saw the familiar leather strap of my satchel.
“Oh no!” Verrocchio took the satchel from its hiding place. “Sir—”
“Is this your property?” he interrupted, laying my satchel on the book’s open face.
“It is,” I admitted. He grumbled something under his breath I couldn’t understand. “I had been keeping it in Margherita’s … space,” I added, unsure where the conversation was going and shocked at the workshop’s lack of privacy.
“It saddens me to say that yesterday someone took a generous sum of money from me.” Unmoved, he let the information hang in the fragrant air.
“Sir, I know who took the money.” Verrocchio’s serious eyes tried to penetrate my armor, but his silence told me to continue. “I didn’t say anything before because the person I saw take the money threatened to hurt someone I care about.” Still, he said nothing. His eyes now fixed absently on my satchel. “I am sorry for not saying anything earlier … but I was scared.” Nervous, I started compulsively rubbing my hands and arms.
“It’s interesting,” he said, withdrawing a bottle of ruby liquid from underneath the flawlessly carved desk. Pouring the liquor into a shallow blue glass, he continued. “Someone in the exact same chair told me an almost identical tale.” The liquid smelled strongly of licorice. A numb sensation that had started in my legs began to spread to my other limbs. “I’m sorry I had to search your belongings, but such was the nature of the accusation. Trust me when I say this class of … happenings is my least favorite fire to put out.” He took a sip from the glass.
“There might have been something I was unclear regarding our relationship. In fact, now that I sit here, I do not recall having that conversation with you at all. Most likely because I have little time to spare for words.” With his fingertips, he briefly soothed his temples. “When I welcome someone into my work, I am also inviting them into my home and consequently my life. This is a leap of faith. Although not mentioned directly, it is implied that I expect this trust to be reciprocated.” Verrocchio took off his black cap. For a man in his thirties, his face looked excessively tired. His receding hairline added years to his appearance.
“Viola, can you assure me that you have been completely honest with me?”
“No, sir,” I answered, feeling wretched. His guilt trip was worse than the one of my mom’s. From my satchel, Verrocchio withdrew a heavy pouch that made a definite clinking sound when it hit the desk’s cluttered surface. Suddenly, my eyes felt like they would pop out of their sockets. The anger that surged through me brought my extremities back to their full power. Before I knew it, I was standing. Everything that I had witnessed behind the cracks of the divider poured out of me. My Italian had never been so good.
“Viola,” he interjected as he pointed back to the chair, “do you have anything else you would like to share with me?” He maintained his calm but serious composure. My mind was so clouded by rage I could not think clearly.
“What about this curious item?” he asked, holding up my sketchbook. Immediately, it reminded me of a conversation I had shared with Zia, during which she advised me not to share my sketchbook with anyone including Verrocchio.
“Well, is it yours?” he pressed.
“Yes, it is.”
“Are you responsible for the contents in this book?”
“Sketchbook,” I corrected.
“We will get to that.” Taking up his glass, he drained the few drops of remaining liquor. Still I said nothing.
It took all my energy to regain control over my feelings. That monster Salai had framed me and my privacy had never been so violated. He had no right to look through my stuff—or did he? The off-white bows on my sleeves reminded me where I was. Lost in a place where women were commodities meant to fulfill the needs of men. Misplaced in a time when women had to marry against their will and literate girls were dangerous or an oddity at best. There would not be rights for women for hundreds of years to come. Maybe at this time, I did not have the right to privacy? A liberty,= that I had taken for granted in the twenty-first century.
Verrocchio, who had been sitting patiently, cleared his throat. He was still waiting for me to claim the sketchbook. “Yes… it belongs to me,” I confessed. He began to sift through its pages.
“Are you telling me, that you, Viola Orofino, are responsible for the entire contents within this book?”
“Yes sir. Oh! Except for a drawing of Zia’s hen. Leonardo helped me with that.”
“Leonardo knows about this?” He held the book up as if I could not see it clearly. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me about this,�
� he muttered more to himself than to me. Verrocchio’s poker face disintegrated bit by bit. His eyebrows knitted together, creating deep creases around his eyelids and forehead.
“Who else knows about this?”
“Zia,” I answered. A gurgling growl from Verrocchio’s stomach interrupted our confession. Ignoring its yelp, he continued. “So you can read and write?”
“Yes,” I admitted. All the while I wondered where these questions were leading.
Was I still being accused of stealing? Although my stomach was not making noises, my emotional anguish had worked up an appetite. At this point in the inquiry, Verrocchio looked down at me as if I was a hallucination conjured by his licorice treat.
“Do you come from England?” Assuming he was talking about my writings, I answered, “Sort of, I mean … English is my first language.” The fire that had allured me into the cozy examination room was quickly fading.
“Why do you speak Tuscan?”
“My mother is Ital— I mean Tuscan.”
“And your father?”
“His family is French.”
“So what is your other surname? Orofino must be your mother’s last name?” The blue cushion felt increasingly uncomfortable underneath me. Why was he so curious about me, and why was I telling him so much? Not accustomed to keeping secrets, I was a terrible liar. Truth slipped from my lips before I had a chance to stop it.
“I’d rather not say, Maestro,” I said. A knock at the door disturbed Verrocchio’s interrogation.
“Who is it?”
“Margherita, sir.” She came in bearing gifts. Cold cuts, focaccia, olives, sharp cheese, and crimson wine weighed down the tray.
“Thank you, Marga,” Verrocchio said as he made a clearing on his desk for the meal. She turned to me before she left the room, but I could not reveal enough information in just a glance. When the door closed behind her, I reached for a slice of cheese.
Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) Page 12