The Smile (28 page)

“Finally,” says Silvia, turning to me.

Leonardo looks from Silvia to me quizzically; he cannot guess what she means. I know, though.

I try not to stare, but I must be sure. He has real hair, skin, nails, eyes, breath. Indeed, his breath is sour. He is not some vision. So he cannot know what he hasn't been told; he cannot pluck Silvia's name from thin air. And it was no coincidence that he shortened my name to Lisa. He's been talking with Giuliano.

I am ajangle. Unprepared. The girl I was at fifteen flames up inside me without warning.

CHAPTER Twenty-four

WE SIT
at the dining table, though we finished our meal an hour ago. The children are in bed. Silvia has gone upstairs to rest. When I protested, she simply said, “You need to talk to each other.” Leonardo and I need to talk to each other.

“I visited Milan,” I say and listen to my voice with detached amusement. I sound rational. Ordinary. The matron everyone takes me for. I do not sound like a woman trying to smother an inner voice, a woman about to fly to pieces.

“When?”

“In spring of 1499. I saw your mural in the refectory of the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie. The last supper of Christ.”

“The painting you were a perfect model for,” says Leonardo, “a mistake, nevertheless.”

“In what way?” I ask, truly surprised. “My husband called it a masterpiece.”

“And you? What did you think of it?”

“I stood in front of it and cried. Everyone said it was because I was with child. With my Camilla. That wasn't why, though.” I remember the painting clearly; it hurt that much. An ache comes to me even at this distance in time. “Christ is located beyond anger—calm as flat water. Not at all shining in wrath like you said he would be, but oh so much more heartrending for lack of it. And you can see the agitation in everyone else. You know they sense the torment ahead. It's nearly unbearable.”

“Thank you, Mona Lisa. But it is also a mistake. My experiment with oil on dry plaster failed. By the time the Duke was driven out by the French, pieces were already flaking away from it, and I'd finished it only two years before. It will be completely gone by the time I die.”

What really remains of any of us here on earth after we die? But I don't say that. Leonardo wants to live on forever through his work. He can't recognize how transient we are, how trivial. Were I to broach the topic, I might even harm his art. I wouldn't do that. Besides, I don't believe it: Leonardo has never belonged to just one time. My dear Francesco is right; Leonardo da Vinci is a master, even if perfidious.

“I looked for you,” I say mildly. “But you happened to be out of the city, just when I was visiting.”

“A pity.”

“Then I was told you came back to Florence.”

“You didn't come to find me in Florence, though?”

I had already decided never to enter the city again. Not after the reign and ruin of Savonarola. But I don't want to talk about that. “I heard that you divided your time between Florence and Rome, and that you were working for Cesare Borgia.”

“I didn't work for Borgia until last year.”

“He's a horrible man,” I say, working to keep my tone level.

“I'm the first to agree. He has his enemies strangled or burned or cut to pieces. Whatever you have heard is wrong—he's far worse. He has an utter want of scruples. And on top of it, he's a morose bore.”

“Yet you worked for him.”

“As chief architect and engineer, on the fortresses in the central papal states. It wasn't a friendship. And I didn't do anything underhanded for him.”

I won't back down. “He's an enemy to the Orsini family. Alfonsina's family.”

“I don't work for him anymore. I am here in Florence.”

He cannot placate me so easily. “An enemy of the Orsini family is an enemy of the Medici family. Have you no sense of loyalty?”

“Loyalty? I value nothing more highly. But not loyalty to man or God. I am loyal to truth. To science.”

“You can rationalize all you want. But what you did was indefensible—for it hurt people you were supposed to be friends with. Alfonsina and Piero and their children have taken refuge with their Orsini relatives in Rome.”

“As has Giuliano,” says Leonardo.

A small cry bursts from my chest. I didn't mean it to. It's been so long. How can feelings last this long? All those years of never speaking, never hearing his name—they acted to seal me off, a kind of magic banishing. I was here, but I was gone. Now Leonardo has just spoken his name. The spell is broken. I do not want to talk of anything else now. Nothing else matters. Where do I begin?

And, no. No, no. The desire to ask, to know every detail of Giuliano's life, descriptions of his person, of how he spends his day, what his room looks like, what he talks about—that desire has no place in my present life. I am the third wife of Francesco di Bartolomeo di Zanobi del Giocondo. I am stepmother to Bartolomeo and mother to Piero, Camilla, and Andrea. The love that binds me to all of them, while so different from the passion of my youth, is essential. I will not be drawn off the true path. I will not even stumble. Loyalty. Not in the airy sense of Leonardo, but in the solid sense of Giuliano. It's his banner, after all. Loyalty.

I blow out the candles and stand. The very end of daylight comes weakly through the window. “What is your work now?” I ask.

“That's why I'm here. Come with me to Florence tomorrow. I'll show you.”

“I'm busy.”

“Out here in the country? What could keep you busy?”

I give a small laugh. Only city folk could say such a thing. And only a childless man. I could quote Plato to him; I could speak about how a strong family is the foundation of society, about the essential job of mothers. But I don't want to lean on others' words. All I say is, “I have children and a friend to care for here in this villa.”

“And money enough to hire help to take your place for just two days.”

My fingers run along the warm gold of the candelabra. Florence. The city has become like a creature to me. A living, breathing beast. Could I face the beast again? Over the twenty-four years of my lifetime, I saw the streets of Florence change drastically. When Lorenzo Il Magnifico was in charge, business flourished. Why, there must have been over a thousand shops in central Florence alone. Festivals lasted days, and people were sincerely happy, dancing and feasting and marveling at the tournaments. Then, in the brief two years that Piero was in charge, the finances of the city crumbled. Gangs terrorized passersby. Resentment at Piero's profligate ways turned into fury. So it was easy for Savonarola to take over. And inevitable that people who had known such extravagance would chafe under his rule and eventually destroy him. That's what has stayed with me these last few years—the deplorable end of that deplorable monk.

But now another image comes to mind: the east doors of the baptistery, and that head that protrudes from one of the smaller panels that frames the door, the head of the sculptor Ghiberti himself. His pate is shinier than the rest of the door, because everyone rubs their hand on it. My very earliest memory of the city is being in Papà's arms and rubbing that head. The other figures in the frame are from the Old Testament. It dawns on me now—the sculptor counted himself as equal to such heroes. That very act, that is Florence; that is the heartbeat of the city—art glorified to the point of being sacred, the artist as close to God. And I understand it now—Savonarola made us all understand it: without art the spirit withers.

Every corner of that city holds art. It is, even after everything that has happened, a glorious city. My eyes grow heavy. I'm fighting tears.

“Please.” Leonardo's voice intrudes in its solidity. And it surprises me, for it holds a promise, though I cannot fathom what it might be.

“A woman traveling with a man, even a mother of four, is not above rumors.”

He smiles. “A woman traveling with me would be cause for confusion among the rumor mongers.” I blink in incomprehension. “Dearest Mona Lisa,” he says gently, “I'm not known for fancying women.”

“Oh.” I flush. “Forgive my embarrassment. It is not for your behavior, but for my own isolation, which has necessitated your words.”

“Will you accompany me then?”

There is a trustworthy woman I have called upon before. She could come to help Silvia and care for Camilla. And we still have a home in Florence, though only Francesco uses it. If Leonardo were in any way disagreeable, I could retreat immediately and then return the next day to this villa. “I'd have to bring baby Andrea.”

“Agreed.”

 
 
 
Late afternoon of the next day we arrive in Florence. I have been battling my misgivings the whole trip. What a fool I am. But now we are finally here; it is too late to turn back.

Andrea sits on my lap and looks out the coach window. Both my hands circle his middle. I hold on to him as desperately as a drowning wretch to one of Leonardo's floating rings. Yet the streets are oddly normal. Ordinary. People walk and talk. Commerce moves continually. Children kick balls. Cats skitter out of the way. I can almost believe Florence is a home of reason again. Perhaps coming here is not a mistake.

The coach stops. Leonardo gets out. He stands with his hand to me. I alight, Andrea on my hip. Near the corner of a building a young man talks with a young woman. He touches above his upper lip hesitantly. And memories flood.

The story of Savonarola exposes the corruption in everyone's heart. But it is not that aspect of it that has kept me out of Florence. Giuliano had called Savonarola self-righteous. He had talked of the tyranny of piety. His words were prophetic. Oh, yes, what has kept me out of Florence is the anguish of knowing how right Giuliano was about it all. How deeply decent he is. How much I lost when he left.

But I am different now. I can do this. It is important that I be able to do this. I accompany Leonardo into the quiet stone halls of the Santissima Annunziata.

CHAPTER Twenty-five

THE MONASTERY
is a perfect place for me,” says Leonardo. “It's close to the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova. I go there to dissect cadavers for my anatomy studies.”

“Yes,” I say vaguely.

“And the library has a collection of over five thousand codices.”

“I know. I used to visit it often. My husband's family owns a chapel here.”

“Yes, of course. I knew that. My father and your husband's father were friends for many years. Our city homes were practically around the corner from each other.”

We go along a corridor to a staircase. I've never been in this section of the monastery, so I've never seen this particular staircase before. It's beautifully carved.

“The work of Michelozzo di Bartolomeo,” says Leonardo, following my eyes. “A fine sculptor and architect in his day.”

We ascend and my nose is assailed. I hold my hand in front of Andrea's face like a mask, but he pushes it away.

“Oil paints,” says Leonardo. “The smell takes some getting used to.”

He is attentive to me in an almost alarming way. Do I dare give him any more clues as to what is going on in my head?

“The monastic order of the Servants of Maria has set aside rooms for rent,” says Leonardo as we reach the top of the stairs. “These are all mine.”

Three rooms burst with artwork in various stages of completion. One table holds drawings of birds in flight. There's that attention to the inner workings of the body. It's so obvious to me after Giuliano's words years ago. But what fascinates me most is that some of the drawings have words down the side, across the bottom, everywhere, in the strangest writing. I look closely. “You pen backward—from right to left.”

“Shall I lend you a mirror to read it?”

I give a small laugh. “Why do you do that?”

He holds up his left hand and writes in the air. “The ink doesn't smudge that way. Unfortunately, most people have trouble deciphering. So for others, I write left to right.”

I turn back to the drawings. “And you spell funny.”

“Abbreviations. I know what they all mean.”

“Some of these aren't abbreviations. They're just peculiar spellings.”

“All right, you've caught me. I have a little trouble with orthography.”

Remarkable. “I have some drawings by you, you know. A dragonfly, a dog, a goat, and a flying boat.”

“So you kept them? Good.”

“Not all. There was a horse, too. I gave it to Silvia.” I don't tell him the drawings are still in my wedding chest, along with the secret presents Mamma put in. I will pass it all to my daughter, Camilla, when she marries. And I will have it painted for her with whatever scene she wants. Maybe I'll even ask Leonardo to do it, since that's what Giuliano had wanted once upon a time. But what a stupid thought. Leonardo will be dead by then. Or, if not, he'll be feeble.

Leonardo nods. “I've designed a much better flying machine now.”

I go from easel to easel. “That's the Virgin. And little Jesus, around my Andrea's age.” The baby is playing with a lamb. Andrea reaches out to touch it and I step back just in time to keep his hand from disturbing anything. A woman leans across Maria's lap, and the faces of all four—Maria, the unknown woman, Jesus, and the lamb—line up in a diagonal, two faces looking down, two looking up. The composition is perfect. The love in the faces massages my heart. I could be that mother; Caterina could be that unknown woman; Andrea could be that baby. “Who is the other woman?”

“Sant'Anna.”