The Creation Of Eve (3 page)

"Maestro," Tiberio said after a moment, "this scene of the creation of Adam--out of the dozens of other magnificent scenes to look at, the viewer's eye always goes back to this one. How did you do it?"

"It
is
in the center," the Maestro said sardonically.

Tiberio frowned at the ceiling.

"What have I taught you?" said the Maestro.

"Is it the white background? There is no greater Use of white space on the entire ceiling."

The Maestro looked down to scowl at Tiberio. "What have I told you about contrasts?"

Tiberio seemed Unaware of the Maestro's gaze Upon him as he recited, " ' In every painting, the painter must choose what he wishes the viewer to see first. Then he must put the greatest contrast between dark and light in that spot.' "

I peered at
The Creation of Adam.
Not only was there much white background in the scene, as Tiberio had said, but the white of God's robe was the brightest white on the entire ceiling. It stood out starkly against the dark band of angels swirling around Him. Once captured by this contrast, one's gaze naturally trailed from His luminescent robe to His outstretched arm, then down to the handsome, languidly awaiting Adam. From there, one could hardly move one's eyes. Never has a human been so lovingly rendered, with such sympathy and truth. How perfectly the Maestro revealed the humble spirit of the man waiting within this earthly shell.

"So," Tiberio murmured to himself, "in each of these scenes we should look for the greatest contrast if we are to know what you thought the viewer should see first."

Testing this theory, I looked from scene to scene. Starting in the direction of the door through which we'd entered, I let contrast lead my eye, from the cloak being laid over the drunken Noah by his sons, to the black cape of a fleeing mother against the lightning-lit sky in
The Flood
, to the bright yellow scales of the serpent against the dark Tree of Knowledge in
The Temptation of Eve
. In each case the drama of the scene was heightened by the eye's being sent immediately to the most important element--Noah degrading himself, the hopelessness in the fleeing mother's face, the alluring yet repulsive beauty of the serpent tempting Eve.

I stopped at
The Creation of Eve
. There, the darkest dark met the brightest light where Eve's plump pale thigh contrasted against the dark shrub below which Adam slept. My gaze slipped directly to the sweetly sleeping Adam, where it lingered on his innocent smile, his tousled reddish hair, his muscular body sprawled on the grass. Only begrudgingly did my eye move to reconsider Eve's crouching form being raised out of Adam by God. Painted against a light blue background, her pale figure was lumpen and static, the expression on her face Unreadable. The scene felt disturbingly empty.

I bumped into Tiberio. He brought down his gaze.

"Mi scusi,"
I whispered. My elbow tingled where it had touched the hard muscles of his belly. I could feel his gaze remain Upon me as I looked back Up at the ceiling. All thoughts of art fled from my mind.

We left soon after. Tiberio and I did not address each other on the walk home through the crowded neighborhoods, nor throughout an early dinner at a tavern on the Macel de' Corvi, near maestro Michelangelo's house. I picked at my stewed eel, trying my best to keep my gaze from lingering on Tiberio's lively gray-green eyes, on his hair curling over his ears in wiry wisps of gold, on his thick, veined wrists. And Sweetest Holy Mary! Was he trying not to look at me?

Too soon,
cena
was finished. We strolled back with Michelangelo to his house to pick Up the drawing supplies I had left there earlier, as I was to leave for Cremona in the morning, ending my visit to Rome. At his door, the Maestro bade Us good-bye, stating that he wished to continue on through the streets, as he usually does of an evening.

He had hardly stumped away, a furious bow-legged figure in dog-skin boots, when Tiberio said, "Signorina Sofonisba, before you go, would you do me the favor of looking at some drawings? They are studies for a statue I'm finishing for the Maestro."

"He gave you such a project?" I plucked at the gauzy silk of my veil, which a heated evening breeze had blown across my face. "What a compliment."

"It is a great responsibility. I have been working on it for two years now."

"Mi scusi, signorina,"
Francesca said. "We go now."

"I would like to see these drawings. Just for a few minutes, as you gather my supplies." Then, before Francesca could respond--and shocking myself--I pushed in the heavy carved door.

Tiberio followed with a surprised grin. "How do you like my house?" Pretending to be the host, he spread his arm toward the fresco over the main stairway. "Nothing proclaims 'Welcome' like a corpse."

I pursed my lips so as not to laugh at the fresco of a coffin with a leering skeleton rising from it. "Truly inviting,
signore
," I said.

"The old man's humor. Typical. It is getting dark. Let me get some light."

Francesca placed herself between me and the stairs as he strode Up, two at a time. "
Signorina
, it no good for a maiden to be alone."

My light tone betrayed my happiness. "I am not alone. Maestro Michelangelo will be back soon, and I've got you, signore Tiberio, and who knows what other servants are around. Hello?" I called into the growing dimness. No one answered. "In any case, at my age I am hardly a dewy-eyed maiden."

"What I say about the dew eyes? I say it no good to be alone with a man."

Tiberio jogged back down the stairs with rolled-Up drawings tucked Under one arm. He held Up a smoking lamp. "Let there be light."

"Just like in the Maestro's scene of the creation of the sun and the stars in the chapel," I said.

He laughed. "Am I convincing in the role of God?"

"Oh, yes."

He bowed. "
Grazie, signorina
. But I do not believe you."

Francesca cleared her throat.

He glanced at her, then put the drawings on the table before Us, his expression growing serious. "I keep thinking about the Maestro's painting of the creation of Adam. How did he ever think to portray God bringing Adam to life through a touch of fingers? You can feel the very life force being passed from Creator to creation."

Something that had bothered me came back to mind. "It must be my failing and not the Maestro's, but I did not get that feeling in the scene of Eve's creation. It seems, almost, that the Maestro took little care in her depiction."

"Of course. That is by design. Eve is not as important as Adam."

I looked at him, wondering why this should be so.

"Trust me, the Maestro knows what he is about. That is why he is famous and we are not."

"At least not yet," I said.

His eyes warmed. "I like the way you think, Sofonisba Anguissola."

Francesca started coughing. When she did not stop, Tiberio pulled his smile from me. "Old woman, are you well?"

"Si, si."
Francesca waved him off, still coughing.

"Francesca, are you choking?"

She shook her head, whipping her shoulders with her veil. Her coughs tightened into a breathless bark.

"Go to the piazza and get yourself a drink," Tiberio ordered. "The water in that fountain comes straight from the aqueduct--good mountain water. Signorina Sofonisba won't be alone," he added when she would not budge in spite of not being able to draw breath. "I'll watch over her."

"That," she squeaked, "what give me fear."

I frowned in apology as she bent into her coughing. I had heard Tiberio's people, the Calcagnis, were a rich and powerful Florentine family. Tiberio was the one in danger of being tainted, not I. The Anguissolas may have had riches once, but our branch has been withering for generations. Papa's title as count has little land and no power behind it.

"Signorina,"
choked Francesca, "go . . . with me."

I could stand her discomfort no longer. "Come!" I started for the door.

"You insult me, Francesca," Tiberio said quickly, "by not trusting me with your lady."

I stopped. Tiberio wished me to stay. Sweetest Holy Mary! But Francesca's cough would not stop. "For the love of God, Francesca, please! Go get yourself some water!"

Francesca, doubled over, threw me a last, desperate look, then fled.

Tiberio set the lamp on a table. "She should be fine," he said when he saw my worried expression. "The water is very soothing."

"She may need a dram of coltsfoot tea."

"You have a knowledge of herbs?"

A woman can know too much. I lowered my eyes. "Just a little."

"I should not be surprised." He rolled out the papers.

I drew in a breath. "So this is the statue?"

"Yes. The Maestro's preliminary drawings of it, at least. Once you get into removing stone from the block, plans can change."

"As in a painting."

"Similar, yes, though sculpture is the harder art to master. This is why the Maestro calls himself a sculptor, not a painter--why I chose this same path, too."

"So you think painting is not difficult to master?"

"I didn't mean to offend you--of course it is. I like to paint. The Maestro does, too, sometimes. But the Maestro says it takes a real man to endure the punishment of working in stone. You have to be brave--one mistake and you're done. Painting is much more forgiving and simple, better suited for the temperament of a woman. There is no pressure to perform."

"I see. I shall try to remember that the next time I must paint a man as a good and benevolent family man when all of Italy knows he has just poisoned his brother." I held my breath. Must I always speak my mind?

But Tiberio only grimaced and said, "Point taken." He pushed back the curling edges of the red chalk drawing. "Anyway, these are the plans. The Maestro was trying to do something here that no one else has done with success--sculpting four freestanding figures from a single block. Do you know how hard that is to do? Coaxing one body from stone is difficult enough. Four bodies--it's nearly impossible. All those arms and legs."

"I see the dying Christ." I pointed to the dominant figure, holding the sinking body. "Who is this? Joseph of Arimathea, taking him from the cross?"

"There is no cross here. This scene is later, when Christ was being prepared for the tomb. The hooded man is Nicodemus, the rich old man who wished to know Our Lord. As you remember, Nicodemus helped with the burial." He gestured to the other figures. "Here 's the Virgin Mary, supporting her son, and Mary Magdalene to His other side, readying His winding cloth. If the Maestro seems preoccupied with death in this piece, it is because it is meant for his own tomb."

I gazed at the drawing, my every pore taut with arousal, but not from the rendering: Tiberio's arm was nearly touching mine.

"All had been going well with the work on the piece," he said. "Over the course of eight years, the Maestro had roughed in the Nicodemus and much of the Virgin and Mary Magdalene. Then one day, while shaping the Christ, he hit a fault in the marble."

"A fault?"

"One of the worst kinds, a vein of emery. It's so hard that sparks fly when your chisel hits it. Very difficult to shape, if you can do it at all." Tiberio shook his head. "I was in the studio at the time, though I didn't see the sparks. All I knew was, suddenly the Maestro was shouting and smashing the statue with his hammer. The three of Us who were there, I, Antonio the servant, and the painter Daniele da Volterra, dropped everything and tried to hold him back."

"Did he do much damage?"

"Broke off two arms and the Christ 's leg. We had to hold the old man Until he cooled down and dropped the hammer. 'If you like it so much,' he shouted at me, along with a few choice Florentine curses, 'you finish it!' It turned out he was serious--he didn't care if I worked on it, as long as it was kept out of his sight." He patted the edge of the drawing. "Well, I was not letting this go. It's too beautiful, even with the missing limbs. And all that work--eight years of his hammer to the chisel, dust flying Up his nose and in his eyes, chips raining down his back--for nothing. No. It took ten men to inch the Unfinished block out of his studio and down the arcade to the little room the Maestro said I could Use as a studio, but I was keeping it." He looked at me over his shoulder. "Would you like to see it?"

I glanced at the door.

"I will have you back downstairs before Francesca returns. No one will be the wiser."

As the Angelus bells began to clang, our eyes met.

He picked Up a lamp. I do not know what possessed me: grinning like two naughty children, we ran Up the stairs.

Even as he showed me into a small, dim room, its air thick with stone dust, I began to regret my actions. It was wrong for a lady, even of lowest nobility, to be alone with a gentleman. But it was for Art, I argued with myself. To learn about Art.

My thudding heart deafened me as I followed him to a hulk in the shadows. He raised his lamp, revealing the rock towering above Us. From it emerged four figures, the top one, the Nicodemus, a pale hooded monster raked with the mark of chisels.

"Can you tell who the model is?" Tiberio brought the lamp closer, illuminating the full beard of the Nicodemus and its heavy scowling brow.

"The Maestro."

"Good eye. It was his idea." In the flickering yellow light, I could see Tiberio's dimples when he smiled. Sweetest Holy Mary
.

"It 's beautiful," I breathed.

He lowered the lamp, casting a glow Upon the face of the dying Christ. "I started my work on it on my birthday two years ago. I hope to finish it by next year, when I am twenty-eight, though I am already behind schedUle if I am to make as great a mark on the world as the Maestro with a piece that is completely my own. The old man was twenty-nine when he finished his
David.
I have only two years to create my own work of genius if I'm to keep Up with him."

I reached for a paper on a nearby table to hide my agitation. I held it Up to the dim light.