The Botticelli Secret
Page 13
“What?”
“Pisa. The other Graces are looking at each other, but she’s looking directly at Botticelli, in the ocher cloak, as we said before.”
“And,” I said, noticing for the first time, “she’s let her gown slip from her shoulder, an old trick.”
“To entice his interest?”
“If that means to get him to screw her, then yes.”
“But look,” Brother Guido said, ignoring me, “he has a bare left shoulder too, as he wears his cloak flung across him in the classical fashion. In his persona as Mercury might she not be mimicking him, to show their connection?”
“Or maybe her gawking at the artist is just to make it really clear that she is the starting point of the puzzle?”
Brother Guido rubbed the back of his neck, where the Capitano had slugged him. “Well, let’s leave that to one side for now. We are getting ahead of ourselves, for I think that Botticelli—Mercury—is one of the last figures in the quest.”
“Why?” I challenged belligerently.
“As we discussed in Fiesole, he stirs his caduceus—cloud stick—clockwise to the right. And the landscape, seen in thin slices through the trees, moves from cold blue on the left to golden yellow on the right, with the coming of Flora.”
“Hmm,” I said doubtfully. “Well, the other thing I was going to say is, they’re all wearing pearls, which are the fruits of the sea!” I said triumphantly, feeling my own pearl where it rode in my navel.
Brother Guido looked closer. “I can see that the right-hand and left-hand Graces are wearing a rich brooch and fine pendant on a chain.”
“On her hair,” I put in triumphantly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“On her hair. Look closer.” I was beginning to enjoy myself. “The left-hand Grace is wearing a brooch pinned to her bodice. But the right-hand Grace wears her pendant on a plaited lock of her own hair.”
“You are absolutely right!” He flashed me his rare and dazzling smile, all the reward I wanted ever. “Both pieces are adorned with rubies too. But where are the pearls on ‘Pisa,’ the middle Grace?”
I pointed smugly. Clearly, in matters of fashion I could be of use. “Look, they’re woven into the collar of her gown. Seed pearls, much less valuable, but still pearls.”
He nodded. “Perhaps the richness of the jewels denotes the relative wealth of the three states? Perhaps Naples and Genoa are richer than Pisa.”
“Really? The south?” I shook my head. “I heard that when the goat’s udders are empty they drink her piss, they are so poor.”
“I cannot concur with those particulars,” he said dryly, “but in essentials you are right. The northern states are richer. That cannot be the reason.”
“For all we know, Pisa may be wearing a brooch but we can’t see it, because she has her back to us.”
Brother Guido looked at me blankly, clearly unable to appreciate my logic. Then he shook his head as if my statement were a bothersome fly. “Well, we cannot get into the question of what may be present but unseen in what is, in fact, a fictional representation of an imaginary tableau. Philosophical though your question is.”
Now it was my turn to look stunned. I had never been accused of being philosophical in my life. “I’ll tell you something though. The jewels look real.”
“Real?”
“Yes. Real. Everything else looks, well, made-up. Fantastical. But the jewels on the two Graces, they look real.” I pointed. “Look at Naples’s pendant—the dark gold setting, the ruby in the center; three pearls hanging with the right weight and shadow, topped and tailed with white gold.” I’d picked up plenty of jargon from Bembo.
Comprehension dawned. “You mean that everything else is a trope, sorry, a type drawn from Botticelli’s imagination, but that the jewels are actual jewels, that actually exist, taken from life?”
“Yep.” I hadn’t really meant all this exactly, but I am never one to shy away from taking credit.
“So . . .” You could almost see Brother Guido’s mind leaping ahead of his more sluggish tongue. “You think the Graces are real people.”
All right. “Yes,” I said. “Why not? I am real and I sat for Flora. May not these three maids be real people too? Maybe not Pisa. I think she is a type—’trope,’ did you call it?—and she is looking at Botticelli to show that she leads the way. But the other two, on the right and left, are real ladies. Look, they even look like ‘people’—their features are quite distinct from each other.”
“You’re right. I know that at first we thought they were almost interchangeable in their similarity. But I think at first glance one is supposed to garner that impression, so that the discerning viewer sees that the ‘cities’ are similar in nature, that is to say, maritime. But when one looks closer, one sees that the places are quite different. The devil is in the details. Clues, Luciana, we’re being given clues.”
I warmed at the use of my Christian name. “So who are they?”
“At one of them I can guess,” he said. “For here on the left is a face once seen and never forgotten. I saw her, long ago, when my cousin and I went to Florence with my uncle, God rest his soul. We were to attend a tournament given in honor of Giuliano de’ Medici, Lorenzo the Magnificent’s unfortunate brother.”
(You remember, he was the one carved up by the Pazzi family in the cathedral.)
“She was there, watching from the loge, looking like Guinevere.”
“Like who?”
“Never mind.” He was lost in his reverie. “She was as beautiful as the day. She was Giuliano’s mistress, Simonetta Cattaneo.”
I jolted. “The ‘pearl of Genoa’?”
Now he started in turn. “You have heard her called so?”
I laughed. “All the time. It was Bembo’s sales pitch when he was hawking his pearls. ‘There you are, my lady,’ I mimicked my dead client, ‘there’s only one pearl more beautiful, and that is Simonetta Cattaneo, the pearl of Genoa.’ I remember it well, for when she died of the consumption he was quite put out, for he had to think of a new slogan.”
I smiled at the oddities of my old lover’s ways, but then looked up, fearing Brother Guido would disapprove of such callousness. But he was too excited to note it, if indeed he had even heard.
“It all makes sense! I thought at first that they were wearing white because they were—virgins . . .” He choked on the word. “I mean that in the vestal sense”—I shrugged—“but now I think they are deceased. You were right about the angel wing. The right-hand Grace and the left-hand Grace were real women, who are now dead.”
“All right,” I said. “So we know that the left-hand Grace is Genoa, as she is a portrait, we think, of Simonetta Cattaneo.”
“I’m sure of it, now I have studied the face.”
“And look! She wears a pearl above her forehead! There could be no clearer sign!”
“Indeed. I have never seen a larger. ‘Tis settled.”
I thought of flashing him my midriff, but did not think I should upset our current amity.
“Well,” I went on, “if she is Genoa, and we are definitely heading for Naples, then she’s the last figure of all, not the next.”
“Precisely. So we know where the hunt ends, at least.”
I could not bear to think, for the moment, of the journey that stretched ahead, all the way to alien Genoa, at the other end of our great peninsula. “We know a little of the figure of Genoa, then,” I continued, “but absolutely bugger all about Naples, which is where we’re about to wash ashore.”
“You’re right,” Brother Guido agreed, visibly descending from our recent triumph. “Let us concentrate on ‘Naples.’ To recapitulate: she is dead; she wears a pendant on her rope of hair. She is very fair.”
I shrugged. “She’s all right”
He smiled. “You might even say the fairest of them all.”
Now I was getting annoyed. “That miserable milk-skinned moppet? Are you blind?” Any fool could see I was much better l
ooking.
“You misunderstand me. I merely meant, she is very fair-skinned.” Brother Guido ceased his teasing. “More so than the other maids.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” I cursed my lack of poise. “And much blonder too.”
“So, in summary, our clue would be a blond, white-skinned maiden, dead, who is connected to Naples. Hmm.”
For once, Brother Guido looked flummoxed and began to rub his neck again. He looked so crestfallen that I attempted to cheer him. “Isn’t this where you gallop in with your book learning?”
But even this fail-safe did not seem to lift his spirits. He gave half a smile. “I’m not sure it would be of much benefit in this case. Your own observations, taken from the Primavera itself, are worth far more.”
‘Twas a great compliment, one that should be repaid. “But I’d like to hear.”
He settled to his elbow, stretched out like a Roman senator, and I did likewise. The sun was lowering, and I settled down as if I were a child hearing a tale at bedtime. “The three Graces are a well-known classical theme of antique texts, identified by Horace, Hesiod, and Seneca as Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Thalia. They were three sisters who signify mutual benefit, for one sister gives, the second receives, and the third returns the favor.”
“Then,” I interrupted, “it seems that the idea of an alliance is not such a stupid one. Otherwise why is this fleet of ships—the Muda, as I suppose we must call it—heading to Naples?”
He brightened a little. “It’s possible.”
“There you go! And what more do you know?”
“Actually, more relevant to us than these august writers is the fact that Marsilio Ficino wrote a letter about the three Graces to Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici.”
“Hang on. Who, wrote to who?”
“To whom.”
I flapped my hands impatiently and he took the hint and carried on.
“Marsilio Ficino is a fine poet at the Medici court.”
“I thought that was Polly something. The one you and your uncle went on about?”
“Poliziano, who wrote the Stanze, on which I believe the Primavera to be based. Yes, he is the poet laureate, but there are many poets at Florence’s court. It is a seat of great learning.”
“So, this Ficino fellow wrote to Lorenzo de’ Medici about the Graces?”
“Not Lorenzo the Magnificent. Lorenzo di Pierfranceso de’ Medici, il Magnifico’s ward and favorite young cousin. The one that lives at Castello. Men say Lorenzo the Magnificent is closer to Lorenzo di Pierfranceso than to his own sons.” He looked suddenly desolate, and I knew then how much the loss of his beloved uncle grieved him. I tried to place his mind back on course.
“All right. So?”
“Lorenzo di Pierfranceso is Botticelli’s patron. He has commissioned many paintings by him; I’d be very surprised if this Primavera was not one of them.”
Light dawned. “And what did the letter say? Wait, tell first—how do you know about this letter?”
“I am an amanuensis.”
“An ama-what-sis?”
“An amanuensis. A monastic copyist. Because these poetic letters contain beautiful prose and verse of great merit, Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco lends them to the monastery of Santa Croce.”
Once again I was impressed by his accomplishments, more so because I myself couldn’t write “bum” on a privy door.
“We copy them in the scriptorium and bind them into volumes to be kept in the library and appreciated by the ages yet to come.”
“So what did it say?” My voice was slurred and drowsy.
I was prone by this time, and the light had faded. We had talked the hours around, and my eyes fought sleep. My last consciousness was his soft voice in the dying day.
“Sol autem inuentionem uobis omnem sua luce quaerentibus patefacit. Venus deniqe uenustate gratissima quicquid muentum est, semper exornat. ‘The Sun makes clear all your inventions by its light. Finally Venus, with her very pleasing beauty, always adorns whatever has been found.’ ”
At the last, I could swear he gently touched my cheek.
I slept.
17
I woke to the sound of retching and the sickly sweet smell of vomit. Brother Guido was hunched in the corner, doubled up as he expelled his insides. In the pewter light of dawn I could see his matching gray pallor. Concern overrode my disgust and I jumped to my feet.
“Shit. Are you all right?”
“Fine.” He waved me away, clearly shamed of his state. “ ‘Tis the seasickness.” He spat neatly once more, then as is often the case after a bout of vomiting, he clearly felt instantly better. “My cousin Niccolò used to tease me about it mercilessly when we were children.” He gave a weak smile. “It was a great joke to him that the heir of a maritime state could not countenance a rough sea.”
“But you were fine yesterday.”
“Did you not hear me?” he said. “A rough sea. The waters are different today, the wind is up, the ship pitches and rolls.”
He was right. I could not have approached him even if I had wanted to, for when I tried to walk, the floor lurched and I lurched with it, as if jugbitten. I smiled, enjoying the game. And presently got the hang of it. “Look!” I cried, dancing about the tipsy hold. “I have my sea legs!”
Brother Guido regarded me balefully as he crept along the wall and sank to his haunches far from his leavings. “You’re very cheerful. Let us hope it does not get worse.”
“Worse?” I was happy and confident as I knew this was our last day on board. “It’s only a squall, surely.”
He rolled his eyes in sockets hollow from his travail. He had almost a full dark beard, and his pallor and weight loss made him look much more like a religious ascetic than an angel. “I suppose so. In fact, the waters around the straits of Naples are notoriously rough, as the currents of the seven seas converge as you round the sheltered edge of the peninsula. I did not mention it, thinking it would fright you, but you are finding out for yourself.” He sighed. “At least we will get there faster, as we are being blown into port like an acorn on a millpond. It’s a following wind.”
“There you are then!” I crowed. “We must ride it out as best we can, and then the time will come to leave this accursed ship and the bastard rats that sail it. Depend upon it—tomorrow night we’ll be in silken sheets in the palace of Don Ferrente.” I skipped across the planks and patted his shoulder. “Take heart.” I used a phrase of his own. “Perhaps I am showing you my true Venetian colors, for they say each Venetian is born in a storm, and therefore we must have the best seafaring stomachs of all.” I was cock-a-hoop, the dangers of the crew above and the city before me forgotten. I just wanted off this fucking boat.
An hour later I desired it even more. Brother Guido and I were rolling about like peas on a drum as the ship pitched alarmingly. Each time we rolled under the grille we were doused with a briny splash of seawater which stung the eyes and stole the breath. We were both vomiting copiously, I even more than he; I made no more boasts about being a sea-hardy Venetian. We could no longer puke neatly in the corner, but threw up everywhere, over each other and ourselves, with only the sea-water to cleanse our misery and shame. We were bruised and aching, thrown from fore to aft, from larboard to starboard. Presently, horrifyingly, the hold began to fill with water to our ankles, then our waists. I knew not what would happen if the merciless brine soaked the painting, but could no longer care. With the storm bellowing outside, we could neither speak nor hear. Soaked and shivering, Brother Guido and I clung together like souls in hell. All shame disregarded, all differences forgot, ‘twas as if we were one person. I knew I would die that same hour, but that I would not die alone. Born in a storm, I kept thinking. Venetians are born in a storm. Born in a storm, died in a storm, the circle complete. The water rose more and Brother Guido began to pray—but as the cold sea seeped up to my bodice, his eyes flew open. He gave a cry; the screeching winds and falling torrent made him mute, but I could see by the shape his lips ma
de that he had said the name of the Primavera! I no longer cared for the painting that had brought us to this pass, but I cared for him. For his sake, with chilled fingers I fumbled with my bodice and took out the waxed roll, held it high above the roaring torrent. He looked desperately around for a way to salvage the parchment, and the answer floated up past his chest—the goatskin gourd. Dextrously he rerolled the parchment, small enough to push through the neck of the gourd, and shoved in the wax cap tight. Then, being the taller, he wound the gourd’s leather strap around his neck and hung the goatskin around the back in his cowl. I knew as well as he did that if the water reached there we were dead anyway.
But soon our relative heights ceased to matter as we began to float then, our feet leaving the floor, higher and higher. Or did the ship sink lower and lower? I could no longer tell. I had no rudder, no compass, no longer knew starboard from lar-board or up from down. I feared for my friend as his brown fustian habit accepted the weight of the water, turning black and heavy, all but dragging him down. But soon our heads were pressed against the grille, the waters rising still as we gasped for air. The painting would be saved, but we would not; we were rats in a trap. Our faces were crushed by the cold iron of the grille and the warm flesh of each other. In my last act, I pressed my chilled lips to Brother Guido’s because I did not want to die without showing him I loved him.
At that moment three things happened at once.
Cosa Uno: the freezing iron lifted away from our faces as the grille was raised.
Cosa Due: unseen hands hauled us to the storm-battered deck.
Cosa Tre: Brother Guido della Torre kissed me back. Hard.
Before I had time to countenance this triple miracle, I was being dragged forward, downward, I knew not where. I held on to Brother Guido, unable to open my eyes against the lashing sea spray. I felt myself being lowered over the side of the ship—surely we were not to swim for our lives! But no, my numbed feet felt the bottom of a craft. The sinking ship, doomed on its maiden voyage, protected us from the bite of the wind and spray, and I could see that I was now in a curracle with Brother Guido and the Capitano. All other souls, it seemed, were doomed, and so were we if we set forth bounded in this nutshell of a boat. But the menfolk took two oars and pulled away from the wreck, myself crouching like a figurehead in the prow of the curracle. As we pushed forth, we left the lee of the ship and I looked the storm in the eye. Madonna. My hair whipped around my frozen face like Medusa’s snakes, whispering saltily with the brine that rimed my locks. I could see with brief sharp pride that Brother Guido pulled the oar strongly and competently to match the Capitano’s stroke, and reflected that even the worst Pisan sailor must be better than the best of other men. I held on to the boat’s sides till my muscles cracked, as we rose to the top of waves high as dark mountains, then sank down again, lurching into the inky depths like damned souls falling into the chasm. Lightning ripped the sky, as if a black arras were being rent to reveal a heaven of silver; paradise was glimpsed in an instant and then snatched away from us. The wind stung my face so I turned back, just in time to see the flagship of the Muda being swallowed by the sea, the masts sinking at the last till the Pisan pennant fluttered for the final time and was gone.