I, Mona Lisa (23 page)

I slept fitfully, waking several times. It was not until the sky outside began to lighten that I woke again, my mind clear and focused on a singular image.

It was that of Giovanni Pico clad all in black, the physician’s draught nestled carefully in his hands.

T
he following morning, as Zalumma helped me dress for market, a knock came at my door.

“Lisa,” my father called. “Hurry and finish. The driver is ready to take us to Mass.”

So, he intended to make good on the previous evening’s threat. My heart began to pound. Curious, Zalumma frowned at me.

“He intends to take me to hear Savonarola,” I hissed at her. “Before God, I will not go!”

Zalumma, unshakably on my side, ceased lacing my sleeves and called out, “She was slow to wake and will be ready in a few moments, Ser Antonio. Can you return then?”

“I cannot,” my father answered, his tone unyielding, determined. “I will stand here until she comes out. Tell her to hurry; we must leave soon.”

Zalumma looked at me and lifted a finger to her lips—then she crept to a chair and gestured for me to help. Together, we lifted it quietly from the floor and took it to the door. She propped it so that it barred entry, then silently slid the bolt to lock us in.

Then, as if we had committed no crime, I stood while Zalumma returned to lacing my sleeves.

After a long pause, my father again pounded the wood. “Lisa? I can’t wait longer. Zalumma, send her out.”

Zalumma and I faced each other, our eyes wide and solemn. The long silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of the door being tried, then muttering, then renewed pounding.

“Do you dare defy me! How shall you face God, disobeying your father so when all he has at heart is your well-being?”

Angry words came to my lips. I pressed them tightly together and held my tongue.

“Lisa, answer me!” When none came, he called, “What shall I do? Bring an axe, then?”

Still I would not speak, though my temper vexed me. After a lull, I heard him weeping. “Do you not see?” he moaned. “Child, I’m not doing this to be cruel. I do this for love of you. For love of you! Is it so horrible going to listen to Fra Girolamo, knowing that it will please me?”

His tone was so pitiful that I was almost moved, but I held my silence.

“It is the End of Days, child,” my father said mournfully. “The End of Days, and God comes to pass judgment.” He paused, then let go a heartfelt sob. “I feel as though it is the end. . . . Lisa, please, I cannot lose you, too. . . .”

I bowed my head and held my breath. At last I heard him move away; there followed the sound of his tread upon the stairs. We waited some time, fearful of a trick. Finally, I motioned for Zalumma to unbar the entry. She did so, and after a quick glance outside to confirm my father’s absence, she gestured for me to come to the window.

Below us, my father was walking alone to the carriage, where the driver waited.

My sense of jubilation was temporary; I knew I could not elude him forever.

That evening, I did not go down for supper. Zalumma smuggled me a plate, but I had little appetite and ate sparingly.

The knock came later, as I expected; once again, my father tested
the door, which I had bolted. This time he did not call out, only stood quietly for a time, then let go a deep sigh of surrender and retreated.

This continued for more than two weeks. I began to take all my meals in my chamber and ventured out only when I knew my father was absent; often, I sent Zalumma alone to market in my place. After a time, he ceased coming to my door, but filled with mistrust, I continued to avoid him and kept myself locked in my room. When he was at Mass, I slipped away to Santo Spirito, arriving late and worshiping briefly, then leaving before the service had ended.

I had, like my mother, become a captive in my own home.

Three weeks passed. Lent came, and with it, my father’s zeal increased. He frequently stood outside my door and preached of the dangers of vanity, gluttony, and wealth, of the evils of Carnival and celebration while the poor starved. He begged me to attend Mass with him. So great were the crowds who came to listen to Florence’s fiery Savonarola—some journeying from the surrounding countryside as his fame spread—that he had moved from the smaller church at San Marco to the massive sanctuary at San Lorenzo, the church which housed the bones of the murdered Giuliano. Even then, my father said, the building could not house all the faithful; they swelled out onto the steps and into the street. The hearts of Florentines were turning to God.

I remained silent, protected by the thick wood that stood between us. At times I lifted my hands to my ears in an effort to blot out the sound of his earnest voice.

Life grew so unpleasant I began to despair. My only escape was marriage, yet I had given up hope on the artist from Vinci, and Giuliano, owing to his high position, was unattainable. In the meantime, Lorenzo—who alone was capable of uttering the name of an appropriate groom—was too ill to speak.

Yet my spirits were lifted when Zalumma, smiling, returned from market one day and slipped another letter, stamped with the Medici seal, into my hands.

My dearest Madonna Lisa,

 

I am truly disappointed that your father has yet to respond to our letter requesting that you be permitted to visit Castello with us. I can only assume that this is no oversight, but a tacit refusal.

Forgive me for not writing you sooner. Father has been so desperately ill that I am beginning to give up hope. The gemstones suspended in wine, administered by the doctors, have proven useless. Because of his poor health, I have not troubled him; however, I have spoken to my eldest brother, Piero, who has agreed to write a second letter on my behalf to Ser Antonio. He will suggest to your father whether, should he deem a visit to Castello inappropriate, he might entertain the possibility of my visiting you at your palazzo—with your father and my brother present, of course.

Should that be refused as well, I must ask: Is there perhaps a public place where we might accidentally encounter one another in the city?

I apologize for my brazenness. It is desperation to see you again that makes me so. I remain

 

Your humble servant,
Giuliano de’ Medici

The letter remained in my lap for some time as I sat, thinking.

The marketplace was the obvious choice. I went there often, so no one would think it odd. Yet it was likely that I would encounter a neighbor there, or a family friend, or the wife or servant of a man who knew my father. It was a crowded public place—but not crowded enough to elude our driver’s keen eye and too full of familiar faces. A tryst between a young girl and a Medici son would be noticed. There was no other place the driver regularly took me. If I went anywhere out of the ordinary, he would certainly report it to my father.

Zalumma stood beside me, consumed by curiosity. Courtesy, however, kept her silent, waiting for me to share what I wished of the missive’s contents.

“How long,” I finally asked her, “would it take for Ser Giuliano to receive a reply?”

“It would be in his hands by the morrow.” She favored me with a collusive smile. I had told her everything of the tour in the Medici palazzo: of Ser Lorenzo’s kindness and frailty, of young Giuliano’s boldness, of Leonardo’s graciousness and beauty. She knew, as I did, the impossibility of a match with Giuliano, yet I think a part of her reveled in flouting convention. Perhaps she, too, was possessed of a wild hope that the impossible might somehow occur.

“Bring me quill and paper,” I said, and when they came, I scratched out a reply. Once it was folded and sealed, I handed it to her.

Then I rose, unbolted my door, and went downstairs to seek my father.

M
y father embraced me when I told him I would attend Mass with him. “Two days,” I told him. “Give me but two days to pray and ready my heart; then I will go with you.” He granted it happily.

The next day, as Zalumma had promised, the letter was delivered into Giuliano’s hands; Giuliano made my unknown messenger wait, and penned a reply that very hour. By evening, shuttered in the safety of my bedchamber, I read and reread his answer until Zalumma finally insisted I blow out the candle.

Though it had rained steadily the day before, the evening of the second day was as beautiful as one could hope for in early April. As we rode up to the church of San Lorenzo, the sun hung low in the sky, its warmth offset by a cool breeze.

My father had not exaggerated concerning the size of the crowd that came to hear the friar preach. The throng covered the church steps and spilled out into the piazza; yet despite the size of the gathering, there was no sense of excitement, no liveliness or joy here. It was as hushed as a funeral, the quiet broken only by sighs and softly murmured
prayers. Every form was draped in somber colors. There were no women dressed brightly for display, no flash of jewels or gold. It was as though a great flock of chastened ravens had gathered.

There was no possible way for us to push through the crowd to hear. For a moment, I grew sick with fear: Did my father intend for us to stand outside in the piazza? If so, all was lost. . . .

Yet as my father helped me climb from the carriage, Giovanni Pico appeared; he had been awaiting us. The act of setting eyes upon him still made me flinch.

My father embraced Pico, but I knew him well enough to notice his enthusiasm was feigned. There was just a hint of coolness in his smile, which faded almost instantly when he drew away—a little too swiftly.

His arm upon my father’s shoulder, the Count turned and led us toward the church. The crowd parted for him; most recognized him and bowed, acknowledging his close tie to Fra Girolamo. He sidled easily into the sanctuary, guiding my father as he held my arm and pulled me along; Zalumma followed closely.

San Marco had been filled to capacity when I had last heard Savonarola preach, but here in San Lorenzo people eschewed all social niceties and sat pressed against one another, shoulder to shoulder, barely able to raise their arms to cross themselves. Though it was a cool night, the church was heated by the great number of bodies; the air was close, redolent of perspiration, filled with the sound of breathing, sighing, praying.

Pico led us to the front of the church, where the bulky monk Domenico held our place. I turned my face away lest he or the others see my hatred.

He lumbered past us, speaking briefly only to Pico, and disappeared into the throng. Only then did I look about me—and notice the distinctive and familiar face of a gangly, tactiturn youth. It took me a moment to recall where I had seen him: in the Palazzo Medici, sitting silently with Botticelli and Leonardo da Vinci. It was the sculptor Michelangelo.

Service began. The ritual of Mass was brief, pared to its bones in
acknowledgment that the people had not come to partake of the Eucharist; they had come to hear Savonarola speak.

And so he did. The sight of the homely little monk gripping the edges of the pulpit pierced me far more painfully than the presence of Pico, or even the murderer Domenico.

When the preacher opened his mouth and the sound of his rasping voice filled the cathedral, I could not prevent a tear from spilling onto my cheek. Zalumma saw and gripped my hand tightly. My father saw, too; perhaps he thought my sadness sprang from repentance. After all, many listeners—mostly women but some men, too—had begun to weep as soon as Savonarola uttered his first sentence.

I could focus little on his words; I caught only snatches of the sermon:

The Holy Mother Herself appeared unto me and spoke. . . .

The scourge of the Lord approaches. . . . Cling you unto sodomy, O Florence, to the filth of men loving men, and the Lord will strike you down. Cling you unto the love of riches, of jewels and vain treasures, while the poor cry out for want of bread, and the Lord will strike you down. Cling you unto art and adornment which celebrates the pagan and fails to glorify Christ, and the Lord will strike you down. Cling you unto earthly power, and the Lord will strike you down.

I thought of Leonardo, who by then had surely, wisely, returned to Milan. I thought of Lorenzo, who was bound to remain, though his own people’s hearts were being poisoned against him. I thought of Giuliano the elder, whose earthly remains rested here, and wondered if he listened with horror from Heaven.

Disaster shall befall you, Florence; retribution is at hand. The time is here. The time is here.

I turned and whispered to Zalumma. I put my hand to my forehead and swayed as if dizzied. My actions were not entirely feigned.

She reacted with concern. She leaned past me, toward my father,
and said, “Ser Antonio, she is ill; I fear she will faint. It is the crowd. With your leave, I will take her outside briefly for some air.”

My father nodded and made a quick, impatient gesture for us to go; his eyes were wide and shining, directed not at us, but at the man in the pulpit.

Pico, too, was so captivated by the words of Fra Girolamo that he paid us no mind. I turned—to find standing directly behind me a man, tall and thin, with a long, sharp chin, whose face provoked an elusive and unpleasant recognition. He nodded in acknowledgment; startled, I nodded in return, though I could not place him.

Zalumma and I forced our way through the barrier of contrite flesh—first to the great open doors, then down the stairs, then through the throng in the piazza, who pressed as closely as possible toward the church, hoping to catch a word, a glimpse, of the great prophet.

Once we were free, I craned my neck in search of the driver. He was nowhere to be found—a relief. I nodded to Zalumma and we hurried to the church garden, walled in and hidden behind a gate.