“They wanted to see it.”
“Did they?”
“Of course not! Although, I guess it doesn’t really matter. Lorenzo already had a pretty good drawing of it.”
“How did you get out of it?”
“I told them I had to go to the chamber pot room.” I grinned.
Leonardo burst out laughing. He had a wonderful laugh. Its low and hearty rumble was infectious. Zia and Signore Soldo opened the door to two teenagers bent over and barely able to breathe from laughter.
“What do you two think you are doing? You will wake up the whole neighborhood with that racket,” chastised Zia. She bid Leonardo a good night and ushered me inside. Too exhausted to talk anymore, I ascended the stairs dragging my feet one by one.
“Well! How was it?” asked Francesco as Zia helped him with his cloak.
I thought about it for a second and then settled for the standard. “It was fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yeah.” I yawned.
“How can a Medici banquet be just fine?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“The food must have been exceptional.” Signore Soldo’s eyes widened as he imagined the spread.
“Zia’s is much better,” I said.
“That is truth itself, Caterina. You have set the bar unreasonably high.” She smiled at his praise.
“Buonanotte, Signore Soldo, thank you for everything,” I said before disappearing upstairs.
I let my body slump onto the thin mattress. Without changing, I curled my knees towards my body. The giddy feeling the laughter had brought helped me fall asleep.
As usual, I awoke with a start. All the anxiety that Leonardo had quieted overwhelmed me.
“I just ran away from the most powerful family in Florence,” I told the darkness.
I looked out the window half expecting a battalion of guards waiting to take me away. But there was not a soul on the sleepy street.
Knowing very well that I would not be able to sleep anymore, I traded the elaborate dress for my simple wool one. Today I wanted to be me, not Massimo or a fine lady. I thought about cinching the brown fabric at my waist with the neon belt. Swinging my green sweater over my dress, I snuck past Zia’s door, down the steps, and out the door. My eyes took a while to adjust to the light of the empty street. I trod carefully down the cobblestones with my arms wrapped tightly around me.
Despite my bad mood, it was refreshing to walk through the streets alone. Quickly, I chanced a glance at Idan. I had concluded that if Idan were a person, it would be a guy. Only a boy could cause so much mischief and be even more indecisive than me. One hand was pointing to the rising sun and the countdown’s number was sixteen.
The digits hung heavily on my conscience. I closed his cover and kept straight on my path. I walked through a flock of pigeons that were picking at discarded trash from the joust. While they flew away, one was kind enough to leave me a white wet gift that dribbled down my shoulder.
“The cherry on top of my cake,” I complained to the houses that flickered to life.
As I turned the corner of the workshop, I almost knocked Leonardo over. He did not seem surprised to see me.
“Is that pigeon feces?” he pointed at my shoulder.
“Good morning to you, too,” I said, “and yes it is.”
“Well that was almost good luck.” He shivered as we approached the workshop.
“Almost?”
“Yeah, if one defecates on your head it’s supposed to be good luck.”
“The shoulder doesn’t count?”
“I’m afraid not.” He shrugged, walking under the frozen canopy.
The workshop was still waiting for the apprentices to wake up. Leonardo went back upstairs to his dormitory. All was quiet. Not even the constant crackle-pop of the fire could be heard. The kitchen was also still. I lit a fire and tried my best to clean the pigeon poop off my shoulder. After I thoroughly washed my hands, I began to knead the dough that was rising on the countertop the way Margherita had taught me. After forming the dough into loaves, I dressed them with some egg wash. Using the long wooden spatula, I set the bread to bake. Slowly, the smell of bread filled the snug kitchen.
Margherita came into the kitchen as I was boiling water for tea. She placed her cloak on one of the hooks by the archway. Each one of her moves was slow and forced.
“Thank you for making the bread, Viola … I was not expecting you so early,” she said, wiping her face with a handkerchief. The black circles around her eyes told me she had not slept for days.
“Why did you think that?” I asked, breaking off rosemary and lavender from over hanging bundles.
“With your banquet and all, I figured you would sleep in a bit.”
“Oh, you heard about that.” I poured the boiling water into a ceramic cup.
“The boys told me everything when they got back,” she said, sitting down on the castle of crates at the back of the kitchen. “Did you have—”
“Margherita, are you feeling all right? Where did you go out at such an early hour?” I interjected.
“I went to call on the midwife,” she said, resting her free hand on her enormous belly. “I was feeling awful and I have been getting these terrible pains all over.”
“What did she say?”
“That the baby will come soon.”
“What is soon?”
“Tonight or tomorrow.”
“Wow, on Christmas! That’s a good sign, isn’t it?” I said trying to cast a positive light on the situation.
“I don’t know … it seems more like a nuisance to drag people from their feasts and mass to have a baby I cannot afford to keep.” She wiped her eyes with a moist handkerchief.
“What will you do?”
“The idea of giving the baby away to a complete stranger or worse, watching her grow up unloved in the orphanage like I did … it makes my heart ache.”
“Don’t worry about that right now. We’ll figure out something. I’ll ask Zia what she thinks.” Poor Margherita looked like she was hurting in every which way. “What can I do to help you?”
“For a start, take out the bread.” She smiled weakly. I did as she said, but it was a few minutes too late. The top was blackened. “That is fine. They will eat it. Besides that, there is nothing you can do. Unless you know someone who wants to keep my baby,” she scoffed.
Moving the hot bread into a basket warmed my icy hands. After choosing the least burnt bun from the dozen, I offered the soft knot to Margherita but she shook her head miserably from side to side. With all my heart, I wished that I knew more than six people in the whole Florence Renaissance. I longed to know a happy couple that would jump at the opportunity to care for Margherita’s baby. Not one of my acquaintances would be able to take on such a responsibility. Perhaps Zia? I thought as I slathered the piping bun of dough with butter. It was one thing to take on a girl of fourteen but another thing entirely to take on a day-old baby. The salty cream melted in my mouth when my teeth sunk past the crust. Suddenly, an idea struck me.
“What about …” I said aloud through a mouthful of flakes.
“What about what?” asked Margherita.
It was clear I did not know a soul who could take care of her baby, but I had heard of a couple that might. Not wanting to get Margherita’s hopes up just yet, I kept my discovery to myself.
Shaking my head, I said, “What about lunch?” She tried hard to mask her disappointment, but it hid itself in the deep creases of her mouth.
“I knew something was off. So while everyone was out yesterday evening, I cooked this evening’s Christmas Eve feast.”
“I should have been here helping you,” I said, feeling lousy.
“Nonsense.” She waved my
apology aside. “If I was not so giant, I would have been out there cheering with the rest of them.”
“You should go rest. I’ll set up the table for breakfast.”
“I think I will,” she said. I held out my hand to help her stand. “We are fasting because it is Christmas Eve. So there is no lunch to prepare,” informed Margherita before she left the kitchen.
Leonardo and Renzo were the only ones working when I followed Margherita into the workroom. Renzo helped me set the table, and soon after the boys filed in. They barely resembled humans until they had at least two thick slices of bread in their guts. When I realized that I had not eaten either, I squeezed between Salai and Perugino. Salai did not seem as threatening anymore now that I was on the Medicis’ bad side. After Salai made a few rude comments about the singed bread, I told him to shut up and eat it or he could cook all his meals. My boldness amused Perugino and granted me a few thumbs up at the table.
“That’s not very ladylike … I’m not sure your boyfriend would approve of that,” retorted Salai.
“I’m not sure he would appreciate anything that comes out of your mouth. Especially what you say to me,” I snapped, my patience depleted.
Salai’s olive skin turned pasty white but he continued to eat the bread. Wanting to be alone, I shoved half the buttery toast in my mouth and collected some dirty plates for washing. While I warmed some of the ice cold water for washing, there was a soft knock at the archway.
“Sandro!”
“Buongiorno, Viola,” he replied, looking away.
“Are you all right?”
“That is what I came to ask you,” he said, his eyes relieved to see me in one piece. “I also came to apologize for last night.”
“What for?”
“For being the worst chaperone in history.” I smiled at the sincerity of his apology. “I realized you were in trouble when you and Leonardo bolted down the hallway.”
“What happened when we left?”
“Lorenzo looked furious and shouted something at Giuliano. Then the young prince got up and ran after you with two other young men,” said Sandro, fidgeting with his round cap. “It took a while before Signore Sforza was able to pacify Lorenzo’s temper. I don’t think anyone has ever turned their back on him before.”
“When did Giuliano get back?”
“He didn’t catch up with you?” asked Sandro. I shook my head. “I don’t know then. I left shortly after you ran off.”
Sandro’s concern made my heart drop a few inches. I put my hands behind my back to hide their trembling.
“Don’t feel bad! It was nothing you could have prevented … Did you enjoy yourself?” I asked, trying to mask my anxiety.
“I got a commission to paint a portrait of Simonetta.”
“Congratulations!” I hugged my clammy arms around his square shoulders. Sandro’s auburn hair felt soft against my ear. When I pulled away from him, I could tell he was still feeling guilty. “Seriously, I don’t want you to feel bad about anything. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had had a hundred chaperones. The evening’s escapade would have been the same.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Viola!” called Verrocchio.
“Yes?”
He stepped into the kitchen abruptly. His dusty tunic was more messy than usual and his hands were caked with clay. “Fetch Massimo! There is too much work to be done … Did you hear all that?” Verrocchio shouted to the apprentices. “There will be no feast until I see you have all put your backbones into it.”
“Who is Massimo?” asked Sandro.
“Are you busy or would you like to help out a bit?” asked Verrocchio, who was looking at Sandro like he was a mirage. “I am quite overwhelmed.”
“I suppose I have a bit of time to spare.”
“That’s a good man!” exclaimed Verrocchio.
“Viola, I still need Massimo.”
“Well, you will have to make do with Viola today. Margherita is sleeping and I don’t want to disturb her.”
“You mean you are going to work in the shop?” asked Sandro, his eyebrows disappearing behind the fringe of his hair.
“Exactly,” I said, hiking up my sleeves and walking into the shop before either of them could stop me.
Verrocchio soon directed me on preparing a wooden panel with gesso. While I waited for the layers to dry, Renzo asked me to help him make more brushes.
After Renzo’s nimble fingers formed neat clumps of white hog hairs, he instructed me to wind the coarse hair into bundles with waxed thread. He lodged a tapered stick of maple in the middle of the bunch and told me to keep wrapping it until the thread concealed the ends of the hair. We repeated this until we had twenty new brushes. Apprentices were waiting by our table grabbing them as we finished securing the wrapping.
“We have to do the same thing but with miniver hair,” said Renzo smudging the soot all over his face.
“What does it come from?” I asked, feeling the soft brown hair.
“They are much higher quality and are made from squirrel hair. They are used to paint the finer details,” explained Renzo, trimming the supple hair with tiny scissors.
“Viola, I need you to work on tracing this drawing,” ordered Verrocchio.
I left Renzo and walked over to the table where Verrocchio hovered. A large square of fabric about five feet wide had an elaborate angel conversing with a man sketched on it.
“You are to trace the lines by making pin pricks along them like so.” He demonstrated. “I know you may find this tedious, but it is extremely helpful to me,” he said before stalking off to check Salai’s gilding technique.
Once left alone with the intricate drawing, I decided to start on the angel’s feathered wings. I was only halfway done with the top portion when I felt someone peering over my shoulder.
“Do you like it?” asked Leonardo.
“I do.”
“Good, I helped out with that one.”
“How is what I am doing helpful?”
“Well it helps us lay down the sketch on the panel. We spread cinnabar or another kind of pigment over the drawing leaving a soft outline that we can then model and hatch in. It is especially useful with proportions.”
“That’s smart.”
“We try.” Leonardo shrugged. “Leave this and grab a board and some parchment. Then meet me in the courtyard.”
I cast a wary glance at Verrocchio, who was fully absorbed in a plaster mold. I found both items quickly before walking out of the shop, through the kitchen, and into the drafty courtyard. When I stepped outside, Leonardo was cradling a snowy dove between his hands.
“How did you...”
“Her wings are clipped,” he said, frowning. “Once they grow back out she will fly freely out of the courtyard,” he explained more to the dove than to me. Leonardo let her down in the center of the courtyard and then tiptoed towards me. The dove examined her plumage to make sure she was not missing any. “Remember what I said about drawing things in motion?”
“Yes.”
“Well this is the best exercise I could come up with that did not involve anything illegal.” He smiled and handed me a piece of charcoal. “I’ll move around the bird while you sketch. Ready?”
After settling on the floor, I nodded and off she flew. The charcoal, my eyes, and the dove’s wings were one. Waves of frustration came and went as I tried to capture the dove’s struggling flight. While Leonardo shuffled the dove about, I tried a combination of thick contour lines balanced by quick hatching, but it felt like an impossible task. My mentor walked towards me to see how I was getting along with the assignment.
“It’s really difficult,” I said.
“More difficult than time traveling?”
“Somewhere in between flying or swimming underwater without coming up for air,” I teased.
“All in all, it is a pretty good try. Let us get back inside before Verrocchio notices we have gone.”
Upon entering the workshop, I was surprised to see so many apprentices crowded in one corner. It was the same nook Leonardo had been working at all day.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Not sure.”
“Is that the baptism painting?”
“Yes.”
“They all look starstruck,” I said, noticing their open mouths and glassy eyes. Verrocchio was at the center of the huddle and clearly moved.
“Alas, my painting days have come to an end,” declared Verrocchio.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
David
During the aftermath of Verrocchio’s outburst and quick retreat, I went to see if it was the angel I saw for the first time in Mrs. Reed’s gallery. The boys’ mixture of jealousy and awe rendered them easy opponents as I elbowed my way to the front of the pack. The angel was not the same as I had remembered. This angel’s face was far more radiant than my memory had led me to believe. For now, I knew better the genius that wielded the brush. The softness of Leonardo’s ethereal angel was inspiring. The wisps of hair that fell around the head and the eyes that stared up at Jesus really set it apart from its angel counterpart. There was nothing awkward or wanting from the blue textile that draped naturally against the kneeling figure. By the time I had contented my eyes’ appetite, no one remained in that corner of the workshop. Leonardo was standing next to me, his body stiff with apprehension.
“Should we get going?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He crossed his arms.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he grumbled. “Just thought you would have something to say is all.”
Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) Page 21