Da Vinci's Tiger (14 page)

“O
UCH!
”
I
YELPED THE NEXT DAY.
“O
H PLEASE,
S
ANCHA,
rest a moment.”

She had been plucking my hairline to give me the appearance of a high forehead, a mark of intelligence in Florence. Many a woman was tortured this way with tweezers when God had not thus endowed her—especially for important occasions and portraits.

Flopping onto the edge of my bed as I rubbed my head to sooth the sting, Sancha eyed the clothing she'd spread out for me to put on for my sitting. “I think you have gone mad, my lady. This is a dress my mother might wear!”

Her face puckered with disapproval at my brown dress.
“Why would you choose such a garment, when you have this?” She reached for the rich red dress punctuated with a delicately loomed pattern of white lilies. It rustled and shimmered as she lifted it, and the sunlight played along its different weft and weave. Indeed, the dress was its own work of art. And its detachable sleeves! They were even more beauteous, a midnight-blue velvet, embroidered from wrist to shoulder with one full-bloom lily in pearls and gold thread and tied to the dress with long silk ribbons of red, gold, and white.

Looking at the dress that morning, I wondered myself if I was insane. I had agreed to the simple brown frock, mesmerized by Leonardo's glowing enthusiasm. Away from him, it seemed a foolishly Spartan choice, perhaps even disrespectful of my station and my husband. I did look so pretty in that red dress. But I had said yes. I would not be some simpering, foolish woman and back away from a promise.

“It will be all right, Sancha. A magnificent dress would distract from what Leona—the maestro—wishes to accomplish. He wants to focus not on the details of luxurious clothes or jewels, but instead on what my face says about my soul, my inner thoughts.”

Sancha frowned. “I don't know about you, my lady, but I have plenty of thoughts I prefer no one know about. I would think twice about inviting people into my head.”

I laughed. “But Sancha, it is such a good head you have upon your shoulders. I am grateful for its wisdom.”

That brought back her protective smile. “Well, my lady, I do not agree with you, but I will defend you like a mare
would her colt if asked about it.” She lowered her voice to a fond teasing. “And I will respect what you decide with Leona—oh!” She held her hand to her mouth and fluttered her eyes like a courtesan. “I mean . . . the maestro.” She grinned at me.

“I—I—what do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing.” She was still amused with herself. But then she quieted. “The ambassador is another matter. There is something about him. It's clear he has his own plans about you. You know that?”

I, too, sobered. Bernardo was a disquieting, alluring mystery to me thus far. All I knew for certain was that this portrait would solidify his friendship with the Medici, just as a hunting party brought men fellowship. And that he was a gambling man, of what degree Sancha had not been able to determine from her sources of gossip.

“What will you tell your husband about your dress?” she asked.

That I did know. I had lain awake all night planning my reasoning. “I will say it is a perfect way to draw attention to the beauty of simple wool, the mainstay of Florence's trade and his shop.”

Sancha snorted. “Godspeed with that, my lady.”

But that conversation went better at breakfast than either Sancha or I had anticipated. Luigi seemed flattered by my concern for the state of his beloved wool trade. I actually felt a twinge of guilt as he nodded and thought over my justification for the plain brown dress. It was the first time I had
sought to convince him of something by using an argument I had fashioned and that suited needs of my own that I did not reveal. It felt disingenuous.

Luigi popped a fat sausage into his mouth and chewed loudly. “In truth, wife”—he splattered sausage as he talked—“there are sumptuary laws being passed that might make your choice of modest brown better politically for me. I sense a growing discomfort among magistrates with the grandeur of display by Florence's wealthiest. There is a law prescribing the number of buttons women may have on their dresses. Buttons!” He shook his head. “A woman is now allowed only twenty-two gilded silver buttons on her everyday gown. As if buttons were the sin that led to Satan. Plus, legislators just passed an edict prohibiting fur trim except on state occasions and special events like weddings. The
tamburi
boxes are stuffed to the brim with accusations of vice and sexual misconduct.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hopefully this mood is temporary. And certainly there are ways to get around all this if one knows how.” He paused and considered for a moment. “But perhaps it would be wise for me and my brothers to display a godly reserve in our cloth business and to emphasize how rich one can look even in the simplest gown—if it is made of the finest-quality material.”

And so later that day, I sat in the afternoon sun while Leonardo sketched me. For almost an hour there was no sound save the scratch of his drawing, the song of a chaffinch,
and the flirtatious laughter of Sancha and an apprentice in the front courtyard. And then Bernardo, the handsome master of grand entrances, stood in the archway of the studio's inner garden, his voice booming into the quietude like a cannon. “
Carissima!
”

Leonardo startled and looked toward the door with annoyance.

Bernardo's arms were filled with dog-rose blossoms. He swept in and knelt by my feet. “My Bencina,” he crooned. “How lovely you are. I have brought blooms for you, my own flower.”

He held the thatch of pink blooms toward me. As I gathered them up, a thorn stabbed me. “Oh, ouch,” I squeaked.

A little teardrop of blood glistened on my thumb. Before I could move, Bernardo clasped my injured hand to wipe away the blood, turning my thumb upward to make sure no more blood would form. Then he kissed it, holding his lips to my flesh for one, two, three, four, five spellbinding seconds before looking up into my face. “There now,” he said, his voice warm, his eyes caressing, “all better.”

I knew I should withdraw my hand from his. But I was frozen, enthralled by Bernardo's smile. When I finally made myself slide it out of his grasp, I lifted my hand to my heart and cradled the bouquet of roses close to my chest with my other arm.

“Oh my, look at that, Leonardo. What a picture.”

I glanced up and realized that Verrocchio had entered
behind Bernardo and now stood beside his former apprentice. He beamed.

“Forgive me, my lady, but if I may . . .” Verrocchio slowly circled me. Bernardo rose from his knees and stepped back to allow Verrocchio to study me from every angle. Verrocchio stopped, frowned, stuck out his lower lip in thought, and then circled me again in the opposite direction.

He looked to Bernardo. “Your Excellency, I have always believed that hands and gestures, the movement of a body, suggest a person's emotions. I have been able to do that with my narrative sculpture.” He pointed across the studio toward an enormous wax figure, still being formed for bronze casting. “I am creating a sculpture of Doubting Thomas. He will be stepping forward, his hand extended to touch the wounds of the risen Christ. I believe his gesture will convey Thomas seeking proof and help the viewer feel his crisis of faith.

“Portrait sculpture, on the other hand, has always stopped with the shoulders. It does not allow such expressiveness. With your permission, I would like to sculpt Donna Ginevra from the waist up, with flowers, so that we see her lovely hands and how she cradles the blossoms with such tenderness. If I can re-create the sense that she has just plucked the flowers from a field she is walking in . . . Well”—he nodded as he spoke, more to himself than to anyone in the
studio—“that motion would say so much about her
leggiadria
, her inner harmony and grace. And certainly it can hint at her
vaghezza
, that powerful attraction a woman has on a man's soul.”

“Magnificent!” Bernardo clapped his hands together. “I have not seen anything like that before.”

“No, indeed not, Your Excellency. I believe it will be the first portrait sculpture of its kind in our great city of Florence.” Verrocchio smiled with palpable pride. “Thanks to your beneficence. But”—he reined in his enthusiasm—“I will need a much larger piece of stone to carve such a statue, my lord. It might double the cost of the marble.”

“
Psssssh
.” Bernardo waved his hand impatiently. “No matter. Find the best and purest slab of marble in all of Tuscany. If I must, I will borrow the money!”

“R
EAD THAT TO ME AGAIN, SISTER.
”
G
IOVANNI
LEANED BACK
in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

For about the hundredth time, I unfolded Bernardo's letter. Inside was a poem he had commissioned from Lorenzo's old tutor and friend, Cristoforo Landino.

“And so I shall play with Bembo's chaste affections,

so that Bencia will rise up, made famous by my verses.

Beautiful Bencia, Bembo marvels at your loveliness,

which would overcome the heavenly goddesses',

which great Mars could prefer to Venus's love . . .”

I looked up at Giovanni and smiled with embarrassment.

“Well, well, sister. Mars could prefer you to Venus? Are you ready to make . . . war?”

“Shut up!” I laughed.

He grinned. “Keep going. It is a beautifully turned verse.”

“But he, awestruck, marvels more at your modest heart,

your old-fashioned virtue, and your Palladian hands.

He is inflamed with holy love, and the infections

of foul extravagance are not able to touch him.”

I sighed heavily, with rapture.

To have such a poem written to me and about me by one of Florence's most renowned poets was like being fed ambrosia. Poetry, after all, was my greatest passion.

“Wait. He is inflamed with a holy love?” Giovanni sat up abruptly. “Ginevra, my dear . . . you know Bernardo Bembo is rumored to have fathered at least one bastard child back in Venice?”

I felt my happiness falter. “No, brother, I did not know that.”

“He has been ambassador to many nations. He has traveled a great deal. He surely has known many women.” Seeing my disappointment, he softened that news. “But none as exquisite or fascinating as you, sweet sister. I do not doubt that he is besotted with your beauty and your soul. All of Florence should be.”

I brightened. “With the right inspiration, men can reform their ways.”

“Yes,” he said cautiously, “
some
men.”

“His Platonic love for me could better him. If the rumor you've heard is even true. It might be that some idiot has invented the tale to heighten Bernardo's reputation for virility and sport to impress a certain type of man. Besides, all the ambassador desires from me is inspiration, to be his muse. Here, listen to this as proof:

“And so, noble Bencia, having mastered such conduct,

you arrive as a role model for Tuscan maidens.

I admit Paris's love and madness for Helen is famous . . .

But now, Bencia, you are more beautiful than Helen, and

your rare modesty makes you famous the whole world over.”

I looked up from the paper with pride. “Think of how many times Uncle Bartolomeo berated me and derided the joy I find in books and learned conversation, my shunning of superficial flirtations. Here is a worldly man who lauds those qualities.” I smiled at my brother. “You of all people, Giovanni, must understand how this lifts my heart. Do not spoil my newfound happiness.”

There was a knock on the door of Giovanni's suite. He rose to answer it, kissing me on top of my head as he passed. “How can I argue with a lady who is famous the world over and lovelier than Helen of Troy, whose beauty was so stunning it sparked a war?”

I laughed, my good humor restored.

It was Leonardo. Verrocchio's
studio was crowded with work as he prepared to cast the Christ figure in his statue of St. Thomas's doubting. To get away from that fray, Leonardo had asked to paint my portrait at my home. But the light was poor in my narrow row house. Indebted to Leonardo for spotting the caltrop spikes at the
palio
, Giovanni offered a corner of his rooms in our childhood palazzo. I was to sit in the light of a second-story window facing into our center courtyard, where afternoon sun was gentle and rose-gold.

“Good day, signora,” Leonardo greeted me. “How is your Zephyrus, signor?” he asked Giovanni.

“Full of himself! Especially since winning St. John's
palio
. He seems to believe his own legend now. I hope to enter him in Siena's race.”

They continued to chat about horses as Leonardo set up to paint. He had brought with him a board of poplar, sanded smooth and prepared with gesso. He unrolled the sketch cartoon he had already pinpricked. He would pounce the outline onto the board and begin painting after he mixed his colors.

“Mind if I stay?” Giovanni asked. “I have never seen a painting being created before.”

“Of course, signor. Although it will not be interesting for a long while. Your sister's image will be revealed slowly, layer upon layer.”

“Well then, maestro, you will have need of my company. My sister is not a patient lady.”

“Giovanni!” If my eyes could throw daggers, my older brother would have been bleeding all over.

But Leonardo laughed. “I think impatience is the mother of stupidity. But I am often guilty of it myself. It is the bedevilment of an inquisitive mind.”

I smiled and nodded. “Indeed, maestro.”

Leonardo approached me, carrying a single dog rose. “Please hold this in your hand.” Taking my right hand, he lifted it and placed the sprig between my thumb and forefinger in front of my bodice, just as Verrocchio had me cradling flowers in his sculpture. He fussed for a few minutes to settle my hands the way he wanted them, his hand brushing against my breast several times. Leonardo seemed oblivious, his focus solely on getting the pose of my hands correct. I, however, cringed self-consciously, and my face flamed red.

God love my brother. He knew me well and saved me with joking, “Ah yes, we must not forget to feature those Palladian hands!”

Leonardo straightened up and turned to Giovanni. “Palladian hands?”

“One of her many lovely qualities eulogized in a poem written by Landino. The ambassador commissioned it. According to him, my sister is the model of modesty for all Tuscan maids!” Giovanni's voice was full of playful affection. I relaxed.

Leonardo studied us for a moment. “I would have liked to enjoy the company of a sister,” he said.

“Good Lord, you can take some of ours then, can't he, Ginevra? We have a plethora, signor. Four more sisters to find marriages for! Plus a household of cousins.”

But I heard the longing for family in Leonardo's voice. “Do you not have siblings, maestro?”

“Well, as you may know, my father did not marry my mother after siring me. I lived with his parents before coming here to Florence. My father is on his third wife now and has yet to produce a child other than me—although I hear she might be pregnant. Perhaps he should have married my mother after all! She has had five children by the man she wed after my father rejected her. She still lives in Vinci, but I was not allowed to really know my half siblings.”

“Then you must spend time with us,” Giovanni said. “I will call you Leonardo from now on, as you will be a friend and part of the family. We have children and joyful noise aplenty here! Rarely is there a quiet moment.”

As if on cue, a servant knocked on the door loudly. “You see?” Giovanni laughed and hurried to take what the man held.

It was another poem by Landino, sent from Bernardo.

“Oh, give it to me, brother,” I pleaded, exasperated to be frozen dutifully in the pose Leonardo had set.

“No, no, you must remain positioned. I will read it to you. Hearing it might inspire Leonardo's work as well.” He skimmed the page before beginning. “Oh my, sister, hark you this.

“But if you should behold Ginevra's neck and shoulders,

by right, you will despise the shining snow.

Purple flowers beam in springtime,

but they are nothing compared to your mistress's pretty lips.

What shall I say about Bencia's fair forehead and her ivory white teeth,

and her dark eyes above her rosy cheeks?”

He looked up at me, absolutely delighted. “There is more, something about your countenance being a mixture of lilies and roses. Shall I?”

“No!” I exclaimed. At that, I could no longer sit still. I stood and tried to snatch the paper from him. Laughing, Giovanni pulled it from my reach and held it high above his head. I jumped up and down trying to grab it until he hugged me and swung me around. “Peace, sister. It is a sweet poem for a sweet lady. Here.” He handed it to me and put his arm around my shoulders.

Looking to Leonardo, he kept the moment jovial. “It is a marvelous thing to be immortalized so, is it not?”

Leonardo answered in similar good nature. “Yet I will do it better in painting than this poem does!”

I laughed, enjoying the banter. “Nothing is better than poetry, signor.”

“Nothing? Are you sure? A poet cannot do with the pen what the painter can with his brush.” Leonardo went back to mixing his colors as he spoke. “The poet addresses the
ear, while the painter engages the eye. The eye is the nobler sense. It is as simple as comparing a puppet that has been torn apart and lies in pieces to a fully united body. A poet can only describe a human figure bit by bit, consecutively, and using a great many words. Neck, shoulders, lips, brow, teeth, eyes. That's how Master Landino's poem goes—only one thing at a time. While a painter”—his voice swelled deeper and louder as he spoke—“a painter can present all parts of a being simultaneously, as a whole. It is far less tedious than poetry.”

My mouth popped open in indignation. “Tedious? You know, signor, that I am a poet? Well . . . I write poetry.”

“You need not extend your modesty that way, sister. You are indeed a poet,” Giovanni said, “and a gifted one.”

Leonardo looked at me matter-of-factly, one hand holding a pot of resin, the other a pot of walnut oil. “Yes, I know you are a poet.”

“Did you mean to insult me?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Simply stating a truth.”

I stared at him.

“I think people should be honest with one another,” he said. “I do like word games and puns. But in conversation, you can trust me to never say anything false—neither honeyed to seduce you nor critical solely for the purpose of hurting or manipulating you. Unlike many, I find no thrill in deceiving someone or getting away with a secret. I do not believe in such sport. I simply say what I mean.”

I could see in his eyes that he was sincere. I started to quip that dealing with a completely honest man would be a
novelty. But the jest stuck in my throat—his pledge held such promise, such freedom and such safety at the same time, a glorious paradox.

He kept staring at me. And I did not turn away.

Giovanni laughed. “Watch out, Leonardo. She always beat me in staring contests when we were children. I swear the girl never blinked. She was like a house cat watching a bird.”

But neither I nor Leonardo responded to him. I couldn't. I was transfixed.

“Do you believe eyes are the window to the soul?” Leonardo asked in a hushed voice. “Yes, your physical features—those pretty lips, fair forehead, and ivory teeth, as the poet writes—are beautiful. But it is the eyes that let one into that sanctum, into a person's essence.”

Indeed, pulled in by those enormous, luminous eyes of his, I felt myself teetering at a threshold to something wondrous and disturbing. I did not break my gaze but still kept my foothold on safe terrain—books. “Cicero said something like that. And the Bible implies the same.”

A glimmer of irritated disappointment clouded his face. “I know it from my own observation. Have you ever risked witnessing something yourself?” he challenged. “Not just read about it in a book?”

Still we stared. Now I burned with defiance.

“Yes, I have observed it, not just been convinced by someone else's writing,” I snapped. And to prove it, guessing what Leonardo might hope from me, I answered before he asked to show my courage. “And yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“When I was at the Palazzo Medici, I observed a Flemish portrait Lorenzo had procured, in which a woman was not in profile but instead gazed out in a . . . mmm . . . three-quarter pose.” I turned my left shoulder back a bit so my torso shifted slightly but my gaze on him remained steady. “Like this.”

“I have seen that portrait as well,” he said. “But even then she is not looking directly at the viewer. She looks away to the side.” A smile spread slowly upon Leonardo's handsome face. “Verrocchio's sculpture will have you posed as if the viewer has interrupted as you gather blossoms, and you turn to look at him—in reaction, in a kind of conversation. If you direct your gaze forward for my painting, you will become a living presence, not just”—he paused, searching for the right word—“a symbol, or an object. Signora, are you suggesting that . . . ?”

I nodded.

If that Flemish woman could turn outward, I could certainly dare to. And I could go one step further. I, the poet. I, the pronounced model for Tuscan maidens. I, the Platonic muse of an ambassador from one of the most powerful city-states in Europe. I, the educated protégée of a woman who changed her name to Scolastica and liberated the minds of cloistered women. I, who had the chance to make men listen—and see—what women had in their hearts and minds.

As a bird in a gilded cage, singing? No, too limiting. A house cat watching a bird? No, too domesticated. I wanted a different, larger metaphor for myself. I searched my mind.
Ahhhh. Rather I would look out and demand a return gaze like the Caspian tiger Bernardo had described, brought to the Venetian court by a sultan. My eyes would gaze unblinking to allow people to look into them and wonder about me. I, a mountain tiger, like the one that showed no fear when hunted, whose fierce dignity prompted imaginings about her soul and her courage—a creature with her own past and own story.