Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (13 page)

“No need to tell me. You’re better off talking to your admirer about that.”

“What admirer?”

“Giuliano.”

“Why?”

“Well, I would bet money that our new friend’s debt is with the Medici bank. Has Zia not told you that they are the major bank of the city? You might even say the world. Even the Pope goes to the Medici for money.”

The dozens of burning wicks shining from Signora Rossi’s house illuminated the wedding wreath’s pastel blossoms. A duet of strings and whistles escaped from the cracks of the jubilant household.

“Will you be early again tomorrow?”

“Even earlier, so make sure to prepare extra breakfast,” he said, disappearing into the shadows.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Marriage

A fire flickered beneath the stove top. A few tallow candles burned low. In an attempt to mask their beefy odor, Zia boiled cinnamon sticks in one of the pots that steamed above the flames. She came out of the pantry carrying mushrooms and flour. After placing the basket of fish on the top of the table, I removed the shawl from my head, and moved closer to the fire. The corners of my mouth burned from the cold, but it felt good to let the warm air wash over me.

“Dear child!” lamented Zia. “You get home later and later each day. I am going to have a talk with Leonardo … Look at the state you are in!” Once she had safely placed the ingredients on the counter, she felt my forehead. The back of her hand felt hot against my skin. “Your hair is damp … a sure sign you will catch a cold.” Zia began to search through the brass canisters that lined the shelves surrounding the oven. “Tonight, before the fire goes out, you will slip these stones into the fire. When they are nice and hot, carefully put them under your sheets,” she instructed. “Go put on that warm green thing you have.”

My feet felt heavy as I scaled the steps. Once I removed the first two layers of clothing, I slipped on my warm wool sweater. When I squeezed my braid, I could feel the dampness hiding within. Unweaving the braid, I let my hair frizz around my shoulders.

“What in Mary’s name are all these
triglie
doing here?” Zia cried from the kitchen.

“Sorry?” I called, descending the stairs.

“Fish!”

“Oh yeah! I was so tired that I forgot to tell you,” I admitted. After sitting down, I told her what had happened at the market except for the bit about why we were there in the first place. I explained how between the four of us we bought all of Signore Maroni’s fish. “Since Leonardo is a vegetarian, that means more fish for us.” I smiled. While I was telling her the story, she seemed upset, but by the time I got to the end her expression had softened.

Without saying a word she picked out four of the
triglie
she liked best and placed them on a nearby plate. Then she unlocked the door, took up the basket, and left. From the open door, I could see her waiting on the footsteps of the Signora Rossi’s house. When the door opened, music burst onto the street. The master of the house, a squat, chubby man, was all smiles at seeing Zia and her offering.

It was not until she was mixing the flour and eggs that she said, “Well, now there is no need to get them a wedding present.” For a brief moment, I thought I was safe from being lectured. “You’re a sweet soul, Viola, and I am happy that you were able to help someone else, but you worked hard for that money, and make no mistake we could put that money to good use,” she said kneading the dough.

I was annoyed. Although I saw sense in her words, I hated that I was being chastised for doing something kind. She had not been there to see his despair. While I recounted the long list of reasons to hold my tongue, I took a step back and realized that the person I was really mad at was Giuliano.

It was impossible to think of anything else. Olive oil and mushrooms sizzled and their savory scent drifted through the kitchen. Zia rolled out the dough to push out the air until it was paper-thin. Next, she cut long but wide vertical rectangles and slid the fresh paste into the boiling cinnamon pot. Soon after, we sat down to eat our supper of pappardelle, mushrooms, and fish. Zia held my hand and said a long prayer. Only after taking a generous bite of the pasta did I break the peace.

“Leonardo thinks that it was the Medici who broke Signore Maroni’s table,” I blurted.

She raised her eyebrows at the mention of the Medici. Every part of me wanted the slander to be contradicted and Giuliano’s guilt to magically disappear.

“Young Leonardo is most probably right,” she said, slurping on the fish head. “He is most probably indebted to the Medici.”

How could I allow myself to like someone who would do such a thing? Then again, it was really his family that was responsible. It would not be right to hold that against him. That would be like Juliet hating Romeo because he was a Montague. His family’s deeds were not necessarily his fault, right?

“The fault lies with Signore Maroni,” she added. “He bit off more than he could chew. That said, what that poor man has suffered is cruel and humiliating.” She looked at me with sympathy. “I wasn’t going to say anything unless the subject was brought up. Mostly because I, better than anyone, know the disaster that can come of meddling with the affection two people have for each other. I was hoping it would cool but that is obviously not the case.” She finished the few bites left on her plate before adding, “I say this because Verrocchio came by the house today.” Resolved not to fall for the silent trap again, I stuffed another mouthful of the wide noodles into my mouth. “He told me you had a visitor at the workshop today.”

Crossing my arms, I bit hard on my oily lips. “He came to pick up something he had ordered from the workshop,” I justified. The white scar on her cheek disappeared in the folds of her grimace.

“Surely, you saw the garland down the street?”

“
Si
.”

“Well that is a tradition in Florence. The day of the wedding the groom hangs a garland of flowers across the street of his bride,” she explained. “Although that is a lovely custom, here the tradition of marriage is far from the rosebuds that hang on its ribbon.” She stood up to grab a knife and two overripe apples. “We do it to bear children and to fulfill the holy sacrament. But it is also a contract,” she said, peeling the fruit’s wrinkly skin. “As you know, my late husband was a tailor. We lived well in that we never lacked for anything. Coming from humble origins, neither of us had valuable connections. Fortunately, we were able to start a dowry fund for our two girls.”

She poured herself a shallow glass of white wine. “One night, the Devil came and stole my oldest, Giovanna, while she was in my arms. Ginerva, only five years old at the time, accumulated a generous dowry upon her sister’s death … You see, she was our only child who made it past her ninth birthday. It was most important for us that she be well taken care of and above all secure.” She took a sip of wine and waited for the wave of emotion to pass.

“The boy’s name was Antonio. He and his family moved from Pisa to a house at the corner of the river. What a fair boy he was,” she added as the wrinkles on her forehead searched for ways to describe him. “He was more handsome than our young Giuliano and with a heart that was … true. I cannot remember where I last put my smelling salts but I remember the day Ginerva and Antonio first met. She was thirteen years old and he only three years her senior. We were walking to mass at Santa Croce when we ran into our new neighbors. I felt the electricity that closed the space between the two young hearts. Antonio saw Ginerva through the starry eyes that the young Medici looks through when he sees you.”

She took another sip of wine before scraping all the fish bones onto one plate. I held my breath fearing how the story would end. “Two years passed. They exchanged notes that spoke of love and dreams of a country life. I turned a blind eye to this because I couldn’t take away her happiness,” Zia reflected sadly. “That is how I like to remember her now, every day … It was not much longer before her father noticed. My husband liked and felt for Antonio, but that did not curb his ambition. He was a good man but stubborn and determined that Ginerva would marry a young man from a wealthy Florentine family.” She took off the embroidered handkerchief that covered her grey hair, the strands wispy and fragile. “My husband revealed to Antonio his plan for Ginerva’s marriage to the Agolanti family.”

“Did Ginerva know?” I asked, hanging on Zia’s every syllable.

“No, Antonio told her.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing.” Zia sighed, passing her fingers over the embroidery of her handkerchief.

“Nothing?” 

“Needless to say I was very conflicted about my husband’s decision, so I delivered the notes that Antonio would slip into my basket before he headed to his wood shop. I watched her read the letter from Antonio about her father’s intentions. As she read, his words stole all the joy and zeal that once radiated from her. It was terrible to watch her disintegrate in front of me.” Zia’s chin shook. I wanted to tell her that she did not need to finish the story, but my anticipation would not let me.

“On the day we walked under her garland and up to the ceremony at San Giovanni, she looked like one of my nephew’s beautiful statues. Lovely to behold but cold as marble. It tore me apart. I pleaded with my husband, but he would not go back on his decision. Poor Antonio insisted on walking the whole procession despite my entreaties to go home and save himself the pain. I will never forget what he said to me that day. “The only soul I am meant to walk this life with is my fair Ginerva. But if it is not God’s will, it is my will to walk alone.”

Her chest heaved. “His words pierced straight through my flesh, bone, and heart. The marriage did not end well. It was an act of God.” It was when I got up to get her a glass of water that I realized the low light of the candles had hidden her tears. She took a long drink of water. “My dear, I don’t think I can finish telling you this story … at least not today,” she apologized. My curiosity would have to rely on imagination to piece the rest of the tale together. “Why was I telling you about Ginerva and Antonio?” she asked.

“I think you were trying to make a point about marriage.”

“Yes …” She took another gulp of water. “Ginerva will not speak to me, so I am alone … except for you, sweet Viola,” she said, weaving her fingers through mine. “Marriages are for advantageous reasons only … money or connections.”

“Zia, but I’m only fourteen! I’m too young to get married,” I protested. The conversation seemed so ridiculous. The pasta twisted in my gut at the thought of being married at such a young age.

“That is beside the point. Giuliano Medici will marry a wealthy noble like his brother Lorenzo, who is engaged to Clarice Orsini.” She stood up and began to clean the plates and pots.

Good for him
, I thought with a sneer as I stood up to throw the smooth stones into the low fire.
Who says I want to marry Giuliano... or anyone, for that matter?
The idea of marriage felt light years away from me. All I wanted was to spend time with him. Maybe stare at him and dance with him. It would be dreamy to kiss him for a few seconds, minutes, or hours. After piling the stones back into the metal canister, I walked towards the stairs.

“Before you sleep, I want you to think long and hard. Then ask yourself whether Giuliano’s intentions with you are honorable.” Her words must have not had the effect she was hoping for because before I could disappear up the last steps she added, “Think about poor Margherita too.” She had said it, the one phrase that would turn my dreams of romance into nightmares.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Surprise

Florence was reborn when the clouds darkened and rain poured onto its stone surfaces. The city’s filth drifted away, leaving a new beginning. The air smelled crisper but the cold bit harder. By my feet I could feel the polished surface of rocks. Fumbling under the stiff sheets for Idan, I found it by my waist. Its hard shell was warm from my body heat. The tips of my fingers grazed the bumpy imprint Idan’s cover had left on my skin. Still groggy, I pried open my companion. I held Idan close to my face in the darkness.

The arrow pointed to the rising sun but the numbers surrounding its opal center told me that today was December 22, 1479 and that I had eighteen days left. My spine straightened and I rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes before I looked and the numbers again. The words of the anonymous letter hung in my conscious.
“Idan has a mind of its own.”
Startled, I looked at its diamond case as if it were the first time I had seen it. Three days ago the remaining time had been thirty days and now there were only eighteen. Excitement that I had barely let myself feel bubbled up inside me. I would be home sooner than I thought.

The day before Zia had found some old boots that belonged to her husband. Embarrassingly enough, they fit my gargantuan feet. After I slipped on the black boots, I walked downstairs, past the pantry, and through the door to the back alley. The makeshift wooden roof of Georgina’s roost protected her rusty feathers from stray raindrops. It turned out that chickens were a smelly business but on this early morning, the air was fresh. It felt good to take in the grey break of day. The slope of the roof above created an opaque curtain of raindrops. Water splashed onto the boots’ pebbled leather. Outside, it was still and quiet. My eyes closed as I tried to imagine Ginerva and Antonio exchanging notes of longing in the alley.

“Lovely morning for a swim.” The sound of the unexpected voice almost made me jump out of my skin. “Just now, your face was priceless,” laughed Leonardo.

“What do you expect, creeping out of the shadows of a dark alley in the rain?”

“I wanted to see you if you were really keeping a cow back here.” He smiled. “Speaking of rain, let’s go inside, I’m frozen.”

Once inside, Leonardo hovered by the stove until a flame sparked while I rummaged through the pantry. We were silent while we prepared breakfast together.

“I have something for you,” he said as I stirred the milk.

“What is it?” I turned my head. He had taken off his hooded cloak, and I could see a rough leather-bound notebook wedged between his arm and brown tunic.

“My sketchbook.”

“Wow! Things are getting personal. Next thing you know you’ll be hanging a garland of flowers on my street,” I teased.

“Ha, ha,” he mocked. “Very clever. How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“Centuries.”

“Let’s get back to business,” he said, preparing his toast with more honey. “Yesterday, before we ran into Sandro, you said perhaps you have too many secrets … So here I am, bright and early, to lighten your load. I even brought a peace offering.” He held up the book and then let its weight fall onto the table. After finishing my improvised tea of orange rinds and lemon juice, I sat down at the table and reached for the sketchbook. Leonardo blocked my hand before I could open it.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said.

I thought about his proposal for a moment. Leonardo scratched at his chin. His beard was growing quickly. Here and there, red hairs clashed with the blonde and brown stubble.

“That is hardly fair. You have already seen mine,” I pointed out.

“Correction, I drew in your sketchbook. Which is not even close to what I am offering,” he defended, moving his sketchbook closer to his body. Looking into someone’s sketchbook was just as personal as looking into someone’s diary. Leonardo was offering me a glimpse into his soul.

“Fine.” I returned in moments with my sketchbook.

We both exchanged our most private possessions at the same time. After taking a sip of my citrus brew, I turned to a random page. The hot liquid that filled my mouth almost came rushing back out.

“Leo! What is this?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.” The page I had turned to had a series of different hand gestures. Everywhere in between was narrow but curvy scrawl. Bringing the notebook closer to my face, I tried to decipher the script but it was beyond my ability. The words flowed from right to left like Hebrew.

“Is this Latin?”

“Of course not! Latin is severely overrated and all those stuck up people who aim to make themselves seem better by speaking and writing it can't help themselves,” he said without looking up from the page he had flipped to. “If Tuscan was good enough for Dante, it is good enough for me.” His protective tone told me I had found a seriously soft spot.

“Well, I can’t understand a single sentence.”

“That makes the two of us.” The page Leonardo had turned to was a drawing of my boy-next-door crush, Louis Martin.

This looks so stalker
, I thought. It was one of several drawings I had done of him in A.P. English class. Any time he was in a one mile radius of me, my bones would go jelly-like and I became seriously stupid.

“Did you admire him?”

“What? Uh … no … I mean, why?”

“Well, you took great care with this sketch and with all the other drawings of his face.” It was a good thing he could not read English. All around the sketches, I had professed my undying love for his caramel skin and black curly hair.

“So what language is this?”

“It’s English.”

“So you’re from where exactly?” His face screwed up in confusion.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I answered. Leonardo drummed his fingers impatiently on the table.

“You have said that before,” he groaned. “Try me.”

“I have no way of knowing for sure, but I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you or anybody. It’s not about trust, I promise you.”

“Fine, what did you want to talk about, then?”

With no further delay, I told him about everything that had happened to me once I had fallen into the crowd in Piazza della Signoria. I told him how I had witnessed the execution and woken up in Giuliano’s arms. The story of what had happened in the study with Salai unraveled before I had a chance to stop myself. After I finished telling him about Idan being my key to getting back home, I sealed the explanation by sharing with him my feelings for Giuliano. Leonardo stared back at me blankly.

“Speechless … This must be a first for you.”

“I like that you’re smiling. I love those who can smile when they’re in trouble,” he said softly. “First thing I mean to do when we get to the workshop is punch Salai in his pretty face.”

“Oh, so what you are really saying is that you want to turn Zia’s house into a pile of fire wood?” I asked sarcastically.

“He’s all talk.”

“All the same, I can’t take those kind of chances,” I insisted, gulping the last of my cold tea. “These are all secrets by the way. Just to make sure we are on the same page.”

“
Scouz ono
.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It was what you said when you promised to trust me one day.”

“Oh! You mean scout’s honor?” I smiled, repressing a giggle.

“Yes … that. Are people always so obvious where you come from?” Rolling my eyes, I picked up the dirty dishes and placed them in the basin. “Now, about your sketchbook …” Leonardo cleared his throat.

Bracing myself for the worst, I sat back down. “Have you tried drawing people or animals in motion?”

After thinking about it, I realized I usually drew things that were steady. “If I have, I can’t remember right now. Why?”

“In order to truly master drawing, painting, or sculpting, you need to be aware of all the muscles and bones of the human body and animals alike. Only through the study of how they work together to create motion will you perfect your skills. To this you must further associate yourself with how the muscles and skin clothe bones on bodies, young or old.” He leaned over the table and turned to a page in his notebook.

“Look here.” The page he showed me was covered with micro studies of dogs fighting, walking, or running. On the opposite page was an anatomical drawing of a dog’s hind leg. “You are talented but you lack in naturalism.” He paused to see how I was taking his criticism, but I was too interested in what he was saying to care. “By rule, I like to work in solitude, but we could try some movement exercises together. It’s difficult but that is probably why it’s my favorite.” He moved to get a refill of milk. White drops hung from his budding mustache as he continued his lecture. “It is my belief that every great artist should carry a notebook around so as to draw what is happening around him.”

“Or her,” I corrected.

“Yes. For example, what do you think I was doing at the execution?”

“Hopefully not because you like that sort of thing,” I said.

“No, I was sketching.”

“You were what?”  

“I was drawing her fear, her body, the tension of the rope around her neck, the life escaping from her … Do not look at me like that! Honestly, the way I remember her is much more wholesome than many old women crushing her in between rosary beads.”

“I guess,” I consented, recalling Signora Rossi’s harsh words of judgment.

“Well you could hardly carry that beast with you all day,” I said, gesturing toward his thick sketchbook.

“That is what this is for,” he said as he withdrew a thin notebook the same size of his hand. “Sometimes when I am walking, I see an interesting face and before I know it I have a pencil in my hand and I’ve spent the whole day following that face.”

“That sounds kind of creepy,” I teased.

“Said the girl with pages covered with drawings of the same boy?”

“Well played,” I surrendered.

Suddenly, there was a light knock at the door. From the window I could see a flurry of red hair. Opening the door I could see Giulia’s flustered face with two babies in her arms. One was Luca and the other must have been her little girl.

“
Buongiorno
, Viola, is Zia up yet?”

“Not yet, should I wake her?”

“If you don’t mind watching Luca for an hour there is no need to wake her. I need to go to the market early and I need at least one free arm. My husband forgot to tell me he had found a good day’s work in the quarries.” Not waiting for me to answer she moved close to my chest and I made a nest with my arms. Little Luca was sleeping soundly. “I just fed him, so he should be no trouble. I will be back very soon!”

“Who was that?” asked Leonardo as I sat down at the table. It felt so nice to hold Luca close to my body. He smelled like soap and his little hand was so soft.

“A neighbor … Leonardo, you still haven’t explained your writing,” I added, giving him a pointed glance.

“Well, I write in my own kind of shorthand because I have ideas and inventions in there that I would rather keep to myself.” The soft tap of Zia’s footsteps descended the staircase. “Also, since I am left handed, it is less messy to write from right to left,” he explained, taking the last bite of his toast.

“Leonardo?” Zia squinted at the bottom of the stairs. “You are here before the sun! If you continue to walk Viola home at such a late hour, which I don’t approve of, I will start making up a bed for—”

A knock on the door interrupted Zia’s speech. It was still rather early and Zia’s expression told me she was just as surprised as I was at the unexpected sound.

“Who in the world?” Peering out the window, I tried to make out who it was but they were standing too close to the door. “What are you doing with Luca?” asked Zia amidst the confusion.

“Giulia had to run to the market. She will be back soon,” I assured her as I carefully passed her the baby.

“Don’t, Viola! You are not dressed!” she urged, but my hand was already on the door handle.

When it flew open I suddenly became aware of the old boots, tangled hair, oversized green sweater and semi-transparent gown I was wearing. There stood Giuliano in all his glory—his black cape lined with soft brown fur. The red tunic underneath blazed against the shadows of his cloak. I must have looked wild as we both stood speechless in the doorframe.

“Who is it, dear?” Zia’s voice cracked from within.

“
Buongiorno
,” I said, finding my voice.

“
Buongiorno
, Lady Viola.” He nodded.

“Again, you surprise me,” I said, signaling towards my dress.

“You look lovely,” he said before Zia tiptoed behind me to catch a glimpse of our visitor.

“Signorino Medici! Please, please, come in!”

“Pardon my intrusion, Zia Cioni. I hope I did not wake you.”

“Not at all, young sir.” She signaled to him with her full arms to come into the house.

“I came in the hopes of escorting Viola to your nephew’s workshop,” he explained, stepping across the threshold with his chest held high.

“What a wonderful notion. It’s just that my nephew’s pupil Leonardo arrived earlier with that exact same design,” said Zia.

Giuliano had just noticed Leonardo, who respectfully stood up. “I have been beaten to it. I don’t believe we have met before,” he said, extending his hand to Leonardo.

“We have not. Leonardo da Vinci.”

“Of course, I have heard of your exceptional talent.”

“Thank you,” said Leonardo, squeezing his hand.

“Shall we all walk together?” I suggested.

Neither looked excited about being a third wheel. Taking their silence as a yes, I flew upstairs and squeezed myself into a stiff gray dress and swapped the boots for my sneakers.

They were both waiting outside. Zia raised her eyebrows at my loose hair. Before we left, she passed me her embroidered shawl as a polite reminder. At first our walk was quiet. Even pigeons were scarce. Ice lodged itself under my nails and in the cracks of my lips. The air was sharp. Rearranging the stole around my neck, I tried to take short breaths.

“Are your hands cold?” asked Giuliano.

“Very,” I admitted.

“Here,” he offered, prying the fine leather gloves off his hands.

“I couldn’t! Really, then your hands would be cold and I would feel bad.”

“I have other pairs … I insist.”

“I do too,” I persisted.