The Smile (27 page)

But there are not many victories over Savonarola, and they are short-lived, indeed. The monk now turns his attention to paintings. His boys enter homes and bare the walls.

All of them—books and paintings—go up in flames, in a gigantic public bonfire in the piazza. Who knows what great pieces of art, what triumphs of the human spirit, turn to ashes and smoke under Savonarola's iron hand. The bonfire takes place during one of Caterina's visits. She stands beside me and emits a little shriek as the flame catches hold. She quickly claps her hand over her mouth and looks around in fear to see who has noticed. Francesco puts an arm around each of us and draws us close.

Inside my head I hear the keening wail of the writers and artists.

I watch it all. And I know Savonarola has lost his mind.

His only act of sanity is when he stops the people from burning the Medici library. I don't know why Savonarola saves that one library. Perhaps the hand of God rests on the monk's hand just long enough to keep it immobile at the crucial moment. Or maybe it is something prosaic—a lapse of evil due to a headache or gas.

All those things that go into animating a person, all those ineffables, they suffer under one assault after the other. The people of Florence suffer. Until they can no more. They rebel.

But it isn't as clean as that—it isn't as decent as that.

First, nature conspires; this, of course, is beyond the monk's doings. Plague returns. In 1497 it plucks a child here, a father there, all your brothers here, your niece there. Though it is brief, and the general memory, which is not memory at all but mere rumor, says it is not as virulent as it was in the last century, these deaths break our spirits.

And then Savonarola makes a mistake, the one mistake he has made from the beginning, but it finally catches up with him. He cannot contain his righteous indignation at human frailty. He points his finger at too many and makes enemies of the Franciscan monks and other holy men, including the Pope, who forbids him to preach.

But only God has the right to silence Savonarola.

Over and over, Savonarola offends a pope who has no real sense of shame, having brought his mistress into the Vatican to live and dispensing favors to his illegitimate offspring, even appointing them as cardinals. A competition between shameless men who consider themselves agents of the Lord is a terrible thing to behold. And when one of those men is Pope, the winner is predetermined. For the Pope can excommunicate.

Savonarola is accused of heresy and schism. At first his innocence and integrity are to be put to the ordeal by fire. But that is foiled in too many ways to recount. Then the monk is tortured, and confesses his crimes, then recants, and is tortured again, and confesses his crimes, and so it goes. It seems interminable.

Yet when the end actually comes, it feels swift: On 23 May 1498 Savonarola and two of his supporters are stripped of their monks' gowns and walk across the piazza in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, barefoot, in undertunics, with pinioned arms. People spit and shout vile words, but the clerics hold their chins high. Some say they look beatific, transported into a state of exaltation. One by one, they ascend the ladder of a scaffold erected just for them. One by one, they are garroted with a chain. Savonarola is last. He looks out over the crowd, then presents his neck to the hangman. Minutes later the wood under the scaffold is set aflame and the three bodies burn to ashes in front of the public.

Inexorably hell-bent.

Most of Florence's nobility witnesses the scene, Francesco among them, hence the details are known to all. I decline to attend, however. There have been too many burnings in the piazza. Instead, I close myself away with my wonderful Bartolomeo and Piero; I shut us off from the pervasive stench of rot that this city emits, and I cry. For everyone.

And I persuade dear Francesco to take us away from Florence.

PART Three

CHAPTER Twenty-three

SUMMER IN THE HILLS
of Chianti wine country is a luscious blur—blue mist in morning, gold haze in afternoon. The month is August; the year, 1503. I lie in the grass and let insects crawl on me. When I was a girl, ambling around these hills, I brushed off insects with disgust. But Bartolomeo taught me better. He captures insects and studies them before freeing them again. So now the feel of these creatures' multiple feet simply tickles me gently. I would laugh—another thing Bartolomeo has taught me to do, since somewhere along the way I lost that ability—only I mustn't make noise right now.

Silvia lies beside me in a sleep so sound, she appears totally vulnerable. The sight of her almost frightens me.

“Mamma, close your eyes.” Camilla, my precious daughter, skips over and showers us both with wildflower petals she has carefully plucked, one by one, from even the tiniest of flowers. Her four-year-old fingers are agile.

The petals fall on my face like poetry. I open my eyes and smile. Like me, Camilla was born on a Tuesday. Tuesday is the day of warriors. But not just infantry and cavalry. One can be a warrior in the name of science or humanities. Tuesday's child is generous and wise, self-reflecting, and susceptible, especially to passion. Tuesday's child has the capacity to love intensely, and to suffer from abandonment profoundly.

I believe Camilla will be a warrior for the highest of the humanities, the fine arts. She adores colors. In a literal sense. She makes piles of green things, piles of red things, piles of yellow things. She dances around them and sings her magic songs and waves her wispy arms. She is the definition of grace.

Her father thinks I named her after his previous wife, out of respect and deference, as a following wife will often do. But I am hardly a deferential sort. No, I named this daughter out of love for my stepmother Caterina—whose sister's name was Camilla. It just so happens that my husband's previous wife and my stepmother's sister are one and the same, so my husband need not be disabused of his belief. Besides, this misperception makes him happy, and he is a man who deserves happiness.

I think of how Caterina imbued Villa Vignamaggio with rainbow colors when she first came to live there. It's fitting that my Camilla should share this proclivity for colors.

Andrea, my eight-month-old, throws blades of grasses and mutilated flowers he wrests from the earth with his pudgy paws. He does everything Camilla does. Or he would, if he could. A most lovable and loving child. He is still a mystery to me, however. He hasn't yet begun to talk and reveal the inner workings of that brain. Neverthless, his eyes are already loquacious. He will never be a liar. Or not a successful one. In my more hopeful moments, I imagine him turning out thoughtful and steady, like his father.

My older boys—my stepson, Bartolomeo, and my firstborn, Piero—are with their father visiting relatives. I miss all three of them. It is not silly to miss my husband, for he is away on business often and too long. But to miss the boys is totally ridiculous. They have been gone but two days. And heaven knows, when they're here sometimes I close myself away from the noise for a moment's solitude. They are good-natured boys, but rough and tumble.

Four miracle children. And I will have more. These are things beyond the control of mere mortals, of course, but I know this family is not yet full size. I would love to have one more girl, for sisters are a beautiful thing. I never knew that until I had the fortune and privilege to love my father's young wife, Caterina. We are like sisters. She is at once aunt to my stepson and stepmother to me.

I love the complications of life. The weave.

It is sad that Caterina has never had children of her own. Since my mother also had difficulties becoming with child, I wonder if the problem might be Papà's, if such a thing is possible. But this is not an idea to voice. It helps no one.

And Caterina has found satisfaction in loving my brood.

Camilla skips away and Andrea crawls after her in a clumpity way. I am reminded of Uccio, the goat given to me by the love of my life. He skipped. And clumped. He died the day before Andrea was born—back in December. I suppose of old age. He was born the same year as Bartolomeo, after all. Eleven years ago.

Eleven years. Time is a gossamer filament, like a silk strand from a cocoon, flying just out of reach. No one can catch it and hold it firm.

Eleven years ago I met a man—a boy, then—who earned my heart. Nine years ago we promised to marry each other. More than eight years ago, I married another.

A woman's choices are limited. Particularly if she loves her father and her stepmother-sister. Particularly if she honors the memory of her mother.

I sit up and smell the world as deeply as I can. Then I brush the dirt and grass and flowers from Silvia's dress and arms. She gives a groan and goes on sleeping. She is spending a couple of weeks with me at our villa. She lost a baby. This is the third time. She carries them a few months, just long enough to be able to feel their kicks, to get a sense of their souls. A cruel amount of time. My heart breaks for her. After each loss she comes to stay with me. I care for her until she is strong again. Then she returns to Villa Vignamaggio, to her husband, Alberto.

Taking care of her like this gives me pleasure and makes me feel less guilty for living the life she so much wanted. Alberto is a peasant, like her father. The work is hard and the pay is low. They need children to help out. She is without luck.

In contrast, everything about my life is lucky, viewed from the right perspective.

Sometimes my determination flags and my perspective goes awry. In those times all I feel is searing loss.

A woman's choices are limited.

I suppose I could have joined a nunnery. But then I wouldn't be able to share my day with these children. And, I must admit, I wouldn't have the pleasures my constant husband offers.

Am I heartless? I wish I were.

“Aiii!” the scream comes.

I jump up and run. A fallen horse, a broken neck, a nightmare returned?

Camilla is tugging on Andrea, who has managed to fall, though he was only crawling, and smack his forehead on a stone. He rubs at the large red abrasion and refuses to sit up. He's a bit of a round fatty, and she's but a willow switch. His cry is primal, demanding that his pain be acknowledged by the world at large. I laugh in joy at such a reparable damage, kiss Camilla on the head, and sweep Andrea up into my arms. I carry him back to Silvia, who has woken and looks around groggily.

We talk as I nurse Andrea. He stopped crying the instant he took my breast. He's a simple boy. A mother's pearl.

“My milk came in this time,” says Silvia.

I know that, of course. I cleaned her sheets. I won't let servants tend to her at these times; I do it myself. We have remained best friends. A most precious achievement—a right we asserted and won, against all odds.

“All three times my milk has come in.” Her voice trails off. Then, “Oh! The next time it happens, I'll borrow a baby. I'll keep my milk flowing so I can be a wet nurse. That way I can hold babies all day whether God chooses to give me one or not.”

“That's not a bad plan, Silvia.” I believe in practical talk, though it tastes like vinegar splashed on cake. Lies between women are unforgivable. “But we are both only twenty-four. Too young to rule out possibilities.”

“Twenty-four is old, Elisabetta.”

“There are plenty of uncharted waters ahead. We must stay afloat.”

“You're the one in a boat. I'm in the water. Swimming. And swallowing salt.”

Andrea gulps as he swallows milk. He's a noisy, enthusiastic nurser. That's always been so gratifying to me. But for Silvia's sake, I wish this once he could be quiet.

“I was right,” comes a familiar voice, one I never expected to hear again. He walks across the grass and lowers himself to sit facing us. “You are a vision of the Madonna. I knew you would be. I was absolutely right: Madonna Elisabetta.”

“Ser Leonardo.” I look up into a face that is aging rapidly—bulbous nose, long straggly hair and beard—but the same bold, burning eyes. I can hardly find my voice. “What brings you here?”

“You, Mona Lisa.”

He's lived in Milan so long that he speaks now with a northern accent; he said “Mona” not “Monna,” shortening the
n
sound. But the part that transfixes me is the second half of that address; my ears hear it greedily—they hear what they have longed to hear. Only one other person in the world has ever called me by that name. But I cannot believe Leonardo is still his friend. From what I have heard, Leonardo is an enemy to the Medici family these days. How did he come up with his address of me?

I caress Andrea's tiny ear. “Ser Leonardo, this is my friend . . .”

“Ah, yes.” Leonardo reaches for Silvia's hand and kisses it. Sitting like that, I'm surprised at his flexibility, given his age. He's as flexible as my own sweet husband, who is only fourteen years my senior, while Leonardo must be older than me by close to double that amount. “Don't tell me your name. No, no. It will come to me.”

“Leonardo the artist?” asks Silvia. “The one who does animals without skin?”

“I plead guilty. But of many more things than that. I sketch inventions, too.”

“Flying boats,” I say.

“Flying machines of various types, in my youth. But I've moved to the water now. I designed a device for breathing underwater and a shoe for walking on the surface and a floating ring to throw to someone drowning.” He smiles at his own cleverness. “And a machine to calculate great sums. And this.” He takes out an inexplicable drawing.

“Shallow bowls?” asks Silvia.

“Concave mirrors. It will be a machine that harnesses sunlight to heat water. I have much work to do on it yet.” He tucks it back away. “For a future year. Ah!” He snaps his fingers. “Yes, there's your name. I knew it would come to me, Mona Silvia.”