The Creation Of Eve (4 page)

"An emblem?"

I think he might have blushed, though it was too dark to be certain. "I was working out a way to sign my work. A
T
and
C
combined with an
A
for
artista--
or
architetto
, as I become famous for my buildings. I do those, too." He grinned in his self-effacing way. "Do you think it's too much?"

Could he hear my heart beating? Grasping at a diversion, I picked Up a chalk on the table. "Not Unless you go so far as to call yourself a king and add the letter
R
for
re.
" I did just so with the chalk.

I could hear him breathing next to me. What a fool he must think me, playing a child's game. But the closeness of his person, with his warm scent of earth, leather, and flesh, Undid me. "Should there be any doubt," I heard myself say, "we might add an arm and a leg to your
T
, to form a
K
, for the English word 'King.' "

"You are an extraordinary girl, knowing English. Is there nothing you do not know? I am almost afraid of you." He took the chalk, sending a bolt of heat through my fingers. "What if that
R
is not for
re
but is truly for
ritrattista,
in honor of my friend, the brilliant lady portraitist?"

I took back the chalk just to feel his touch again--madness. "Then you must add a little leg to the
R
for the letter
L
, as in 'Lady,' as the English call their noblewomen."

He put his hand over mine before I could finish. "
Lady
, do not the two letters wish to be as one? Here is an arm, joining them." A current flowed between Us as we moved the chalk in Unison.

"They look good together," he said, his breath on my ear, "see?"

I could bear his closeness no longer. I turned to the statue and, trembling, touched the chill marble of the Christ's arm, draped lifelessly in the foreground. "How do you do this? How do you turn a drawing into something with three dimensions?"

"I don't. Not exactly." I felt the warmth of his body as he leaned over me to touch the statue. "Even if I have a drawing, I still must be willing to listen to the stone and change my plans if need be. The being hidden inside the block reveals itself only by degrees, like a wax figure being lifted from water. I will show you."

He put my hand to the Christ's face. My skin felt on fire as he traced my fingers over the cool polished stone. "I am removing stone, chip by chip. Something emerges: a nose. Do you feel it?"

I nodded, the back of my veil brushing against his chest.

"Yes," he said, "good. Good. And here. Here another rounding comes forth: an eye. It demands to be carved just so--the being in the stone insists. Can you feel it, Sofonisba?"

I was deafened by the roaring of my blood. "Yes," I whispered.

He slid our fingers down the ridge of the nose to the curve below, his breath caressing my ear. "And now. What is this?"

My mouth formed the word.
Lips
.

"They speak," he whispered, "if you listen. Can you hear them?"

My skirt raked the floor as he turned me toward him, my fingers still on the statue. We faced each other, the flame of the lamp licking at the silence.

"Sofonisba, you cannot deny the being within."

Slowly, he touched his lips to my exposed wrist.

I dropped my hand. "Francesca."

He went over and, softly, closed the door. "Only Michelangelo has the key."

He came back, set the lamp on the floor, then stood before me. In the golden shimmering light, he laid back my trembling veil.

"I am afraid."

"Don't be." He bent toward my mouth.

I closed my eyes as flesh met flesh, searing me wherever he kissed--lips, neck, shoulder. Our lips reunited, grateful pilgrims at journey's end, and then our kisses became Urgent, desperate, Until my body raged against my clothing and moans issued from the pleading creature within me.

Tiberio stopped, causing me to gasp. Gently he set me on the edge of the table and, with shaking hands, lifted my skirt.

I don't know how long the Maestro had been standing in the doorway, four thin flames wavering above his head from the pressboard cap of candles he wears when he works into the night. I don't know how I became aware of his presence. How did he get in so quietly? Or was he not so very quiet, I was just so very loud? All I know is, he was in the doorway, the candles flickering in his pressboard crown.

Tiberio straightened from the table against which we leaned, holding me loosely as my skirts slid down. He kept his back to the Maestro, shielding me from exposure as he snatched at the laces to his codpiece.

"Maestro," he said, "it is not as it seems."

The Maestro paused, his crown of candles dripping. "Signorina Sofonisba's woman is downstairs looking for her."

The shuffle of dog-skin boots receded down the hallway.

Tiberio covered his eyes with the crook of his arm, then ran it over his head before reaching out and hooking me toward him. He kissed my forehead. "Don't worry."

A wave of nausea had washed over me. Coupled with the throbbing in my nether parts, I felt faint. I sagged against him. "I am so ashamed."

"Don't be."

"But the Maestro--"

"The Maestro has a few secrets of his own."

ITEM: Do not be swayed by those who would hurry you in preparing to paint. Before he would lift a brush, Leonardo da Vinci planned a work from its frame to its final varnish. Not even the Pope had been able to hasten him, chiding, "This man will do nothing, for he is thinking of the end before the beginning of the work."

ITEM: Hungary water is made of distilled rosemary and thyme infused with spirits of lavender, mint, sage, marjoram, orange blossom, and lemon. It relieves lethargy, loss of memory, dizziness, derangement, and mood-induced headaches. Drink with wine, bathe temples, or inhale from a cup.

ITEM: It is the law that a man who deflowers a virgin must marry her or provide funds so she may marry another or take the veil. If the maiden did not resist her seducer, his blame is less and there is no penalty.

28 MAY 1559

Palazzo Anguissola, Cremona

I have seen firsthand the price some are willing to pay to keep honor in the family.

When I was a girl of six, Elena and I had slipped away from Francesca, who was distracted by our younger sisters, to pick gillyflowers from the bank inside the moat surrounding the city wall, though Francesca had strongly forbidden it. "People go little way down the bank," she would warn ominously, "and--
ohime!
--they cannot climb back Up. They fall in the water and drown, just like that."

But a sweet-smelling pink carpet of the flowers grew in the stony ground in the summer, and that day we were drawn to it like bees to nectar. We had inched our way down the slope and were plucking fat handfuls when a man bolted through the city gates, pumping his arms and legs as if his tail were on fire.

Elena and I laughed and imitated his comic appearance--Until three more men came bellowing out of the gate. Now Elena and I dropped our flowers to run, but before we could scramble Up the bank, the three caught Up and knocked the first man to the ground. We clung to each other as they kicked him, boots thudding against bone, Until he no longer begged for mercy or even moved.

The men--young men, I now realized, hardly older than boys--were standing over the body, panting from their work, when a man in hooded robes propelled a sobbing girl through the stone city gates. I knew the pair instantly. It was the apothecary from our neighborhood, a red-faced hot-head given to shouting when you counted out the
scudi
too slowly, and his daughter, Camilla. I knew them by Camilla's hair--a wavy yellow curtain I often admired during Mass.

Camilla's sobs became hysterical as they neared the body. "Who killed him?" shouted the apothecary. The men looked away, except for one I now recognized as the apothecary's son, Giovanni, a big-mouth who threw stones at the cats on our street.

"You fool!" the apothecary shouted. "You took away this scum's chance to make it right! He was going to pay Us. Because he raped you, didn't he, Camilla?" Camilla's yellow river of hair rippled as he shook her. "He stole your virginity after you resisted him, didn't you? Didn't you?"

"Si,"
Giovanni muttered. "Just not hard enough."

"Shut Up!" The apothecary barked. Breathing hard, he turned back to Camilla, his expression becoming tender. "Yesterday I had a sweet virgin as a daughter."

"Papa--"

"Today I'm a man with a whore on his hands."

"Papa, I'm sorry."

"And you--"

Giovanni hung his head, a hank of black hair flopping in his eyes.

"You. Big shot. Brother of a whore. Where 's your chance for honor now? Gone. Poof! You killed it. We're the scum now."

"You said he deserved to die!" Giovanni shouted hoarsely.