Da Vinci's Tiger (13 page)

I laughed nervously, startled, even though flattered, by
how he glorified childbearing. I stuck to the theological point. “But doesn't the Church say God created all that we see in seven days? You don't believe that?” I wasn't so sure I did either but certainly would not admit it out loud.

Leonardo made a face. “No.” He snorted before continuing, “I do believe God, or some eternal force, set our world in motion. But I think nature continues that motion, changing the earth constantly.”

I stared at him. What Leonardo suggested was so unorthodox. And what he was saying about women so ennobled us. How I wished I could tell Abbess Scolastica that the man who was to paint me saw women in this way.

Sing of us, Ginevra. Make them listen. Sing of what treasure lies inside women's hearts and minds.

Leonardo seemed to hear our song already.

So I nodded. “Yes, let us do that then.” I agreed just as Verrocchio and Bernardo stepped back into the room, having negotiated the scope and price of the commission. Outwardly, Leonardo and I slipped back into our prescribed roles—he the hired craftsman and I the docile subject matter. Inwardly was another matter altogether. We, together, were creating something entirely new.

A
BBESS
S
COLASTICA
R
ONDINELLI DIED THAT
WEEK.
H
ER
funeral was as well attended as that of a state official. Le Murate's main chapel was packed with dignitaries: Lorenzo and Giuliano de' Medici with all their kin, ambassadors from every foreign land, including Bernardo, and the richest of Florence's merchants. As I waited for the service to begin, I overheard murmurings of worry about whether the convent would continue its thread production, its embroidery, its sewing of delicate linens for rich family's trousseaus, and its illuminated manuscript copying now that Scolastica was gone. Nothing about her the person. I wanted to swat them all on the head.

I looked up to the chapel's second-floor choir loft, where the nuns watched services. Behind an ornately carved grating, the sisters of Le Murate were as densely packed as the laypeople below. Scolastica had governed them for thirty-six years, allowing such freedom of scholarship even while strictly directing their religious piety. Their worries that morning, unlike those of the city officials below, were real ones, coming from the fear of not knowing who would next control their lives. I was afraid myself. Le Murate was my second home, but mostly because Scolastica had been the mother who had awaited me there.

Turning back to face the high altar, I gazed at a painted Annunciation—a depiction of the angel Gabriel announcing to a virginal Mary that she was to give birth to the son of God. I let my eyes wander over it, remembering how oft I had prayed in front of it, kneeling on the stones of my father's tomb. The Benci crest of two lions was included in the elaborate frame of the large painting to mark who was its patron.

My grandfather had commissioned the deeply spiritual work from Fra Filippo Lippi and paid dearly for the expensive gold leaf and aquamarine paint that made it so vibrant. What I liked most about it, though, was the scene's drama. Most Annunciation paintings depicted Mary passively kneeling in prayer, head bowed, accepting the angel Gabriel's announcement that she would mother a child without first knowing a man. Lippi's Annunciation showed the Blessed Virgin rising, reaching out for the lily the angel held toward her. Lippi's Mary was making a choice. I always wondered if Scolastica
had insisted upon that presentation of a decisive Mary.

I smiled, thinking on Scolastica, relieved I had been able to honor her last request to me. Inside her casket, underneath her robes, was her exquisite embroidery. I had managed to tuck it there for her. Knowing I might need to charm my way in, I had worn the simple brown dress Scolastica had mentioned during my visit—the one embroidered with Le Murate gold thread along its neckline—and the long, scarf-like scapular she had given me. Both items of clothing clearly marked my devotion to the convent.

Thus clad, I arrived early for the service. Sister Margaret had tried to block me. But I had already thought of something clever to argue my way in. “Why, good Sister Margaret,” I said, “I would be so grateful for a moment to say my prayers for the soul of our beloved abbess. I would also like to kneel at my father's crypt to ask for the continued well-being of my family—and that I might convince my uncle to keep up the Benci's annual gift of one hundred forty-four bushels of grain and sixty barrels of wine to you and the sisters of Le Murate.” That had done it.

As the service began, Bernardo turned toward me. He was so tall I could see his face over the heads of the dozens of people in between us. I nodded toward him in reply but did not return his gaze for more than a moment. I could sense his staying on me. God help me, there in that sacred place, my mind wandered to things other than church, to romance beyond Platonic admiration. Luigi had always been so disinterested in me, and here was this influential, eloquent, and
exceedingly handsome man who celebrated my mind and my beauty. It was beyond flattering. It was totally disarming. I feared that under the right—or the wrong—circumstances, I might allow the boundary walls of Platonic inspiration to crumble. Oh, how I would miss Scolastica's good counsel.

I shook my head to squelch such thoughts and focused on the service.

The priest droned on, we recited prayers, and still I felt Bernardo's gaze. My heart began to thud heavily in my chest and pound in my head. I decided to answer it by going from my mentor's funeral to see Verrocchio and Leonardo, knowing that Scolastica had wanted me to stand up and accept the possibilities offered me. When her funeral ended, I slipped away down the streets with Sancha while Bernardo lingered to talk with the Medici in the customary discourse about the beauty of a church service after it was concluded.

The
studio was in its usual flurry of activity. The great furnace was roaring as it baked Giuliano's bust. Verrocchio stood in front of the flames, timing the cooking of his masterpiece.

“Good afternoon, maestro,” I called out as I approached.

Verrocchio turned, and I had to stifle my laugh upon seeing his face. It was as red as the baking terra-cotta, awash in sweat and grime. Sancha, however, did not curb her amusement.

“My lady!” Verrocchio wiped his face with his billowing sleeve, leaving a smear of black soot on the white linen. “Forgive my appearance.” He waved at the furnace. “Today
we complete the Medici bust.” His gaze darted from me to the fire and back again. “I am sorry, I . . .”

“It's all right, maestro. I can see you need to watch your kiln. I just thought I might speak with you about scheduling sittings for the portraits. I can return another day.”

“No, no, my lady,” he hastened to say. “Leonardo is inside, working on his Madonna and child. You two could discuss the painting he plans.” He grinned. “Leonardo must plan a great deal to be able to create something as lovely as the sculpture I envision of you.”

His jovial competitiveness was such an antidote to my sorrow. I felt myself revive. Verrocchio clapped his hands to get one of the apprentices' attention. “Paolo, take the signora to Leonardo.”

Inside, Leonardo leaned over a large sketch attached to a gessoed wooden board. He had stabbed pinpricks all along the outline of the drawing and held a small cloth bag of charcoal dust, poised to pat it along the pinpricks. It would leave a powdery trail, the skeleton of his painting-to-be. On the paper, I could see a beautiful Mary with great twists of braids and curls like the joust banner's nymph. She held a carnation to a wiggly, fat Christ child, who reached out for the blossom.

It was such a lively, endearing image, aglow with Mary's obvious enjoyment of showing a blossom to a delighted baby, I spoke without waiting for Leonardo to notice me standing there. “Ah, maestro, what a sweet portrait of Mary's love for her child!”

Leonardo dropped the bag, making a splat of black dust on his drawing.

“I am so sorry!” I cried as he grimaced and blew on the dust to scatter it away. Would I ever manage to encounter him without doing something to make our meeting awkward?

After a few moments of blowing and wiping, Leonardo straightened up. I could tell he was planning a formal greeting, but when he looked at me, he blurted out instead, “Is that what you plan to wear for your portrait?” His eyes traveled from my feet, up my dress, lingering at my waist and my bodice before rising to my face.

“Oh, no,” I said.

Leonardo stepped toward me and bowed to catch the end of my scapular, which reached to my knee. Lifting the cloth, his face was quizzical.

“My abbess gave it me to signify my being a
laysister of the order. It allows me access to the convent when I desire its serenity. It was a great gift and honor she did me,” I said, choking on the last sentence. “She was a magnificent lady. Most of what I am I owe to her.”

He fingered the edge of the scapular. “I have never seen this before. It is very . . . somber.”

“Yes, it is. Do not worry. I will not be wearing this for my portrait.”

He let it go, and the velvety black scarf dropped back down to rest along my dress. “Why not, my lady,” Leonardo asked, “if it is a marker of something that is important to you?”

I paused, taking in that concept:
important to me
. “Well,” I said slowly, “it would cover the lily pattern of the scarlet brocade gown my husband wishes me to wear and certainly would distract from my trousseau necklace of gold and pearl.” The outfit would be a beautiful combination of riches, fit for a duchess.

Humph
. Leonardo snorted, still assessing my face, considering something. He was careful when he spoke again. “It is not for me to say, signora, but as I look at you in this attire, I think the finery you describe would overtake your portrait and distract from your”—he paused—“your lovely face. It is quite open and uninhibited.”

“Hah, you are one of the first to think my inability to mask my emotions a good thing,” I said. But I blushed at the compliment.

“And that, there.” He pointed at my cheek and spoke with a hushed voice. “That is a lovely quality, so natural. As I said before, I want to capture that coloring. But I would also like to convey that intense reaction of yours to the world, your steadfast curiosity and openness.” His eyes met mine. “The two together would be proof of painting's superiority.”

I laughed self-consciously. “I am glad my annoying tendency to turn red will be useful to you, maestro!” Surely he would take my cue and keep to more general dialogue.

But Leonardo could not stop being an artist. His eyes drifted down from my face to linger on the cut and color of the dress's bodice. “Yes,” he murmured, talking more to himself than to me. “The blue ribbon threading the bodice
together is just the hue of the afternoon sky. Mmmmm. That and the deep brown of the dress will be a wonderful echoing of the natural hues of the landscape backdrop I am planning.” He seemed pleased with himself.

He stared at my bosom. Although mortified, I also found myself proud of my new womanly figure as he did so. I was more aghast at the idea of not being bejeweled for the portrait. Not to present the riches of my trousseau—the clothing that still marked me as a Benci and tied my identity to my father and his success, financially and intellectually. Not to represent the social status, or the trade, of my husband. This dress was the simplest of wool, dyed the dullest of brown
monachino
, the color of monks' robes. “But—but—signor, even your Madonna there seems to wear a sumptuous dress and a large brooch at her breast.”

“Yes, she must wear such,” he said, “because she is a Medici Madonna.”

I looked at the sketch and realized the gemstone and its setting resembled jewelry Simonetta had worn at the joust. Leonardo including that brooch would identify whom this particular Virgin Mary was inspired by and who commissioned it.

Leonardo still gazed at me, now focusing on my neckline. “The stitching on your dress is also splendid, so fine. Its gold thread matches the lighter strands in your hair. It is perfect. Simplicity provides the highest sophistication, the greatest elegance, after all. Your attire will be the perfect framing of you, so that the viewer focuses on what your face can tell us
about your inner being rather than tallying the costs of your finery or speculating as to your family's wealth.”

I was relieved that he finally had said something I could respond to rather than continuing to sit, annoyed with myself for being atremble with a disquiet that his incessant gaze produced in me.

“Do you realize, Maestro Leonardo, that what you just described is the perfect representation of me as the Platonic love of the painting's commissioner? If indeed my outward self represents inner virtues that are to inspire others to a more godly life? The ambassador must have described the philosophy to you?”

“No,” Leonardo said. “Besides, I find it foolishness, this idea that a rose is merely a momentary expression of the absolute truth of beauty that we can only recognize through contemplation. I believe reality is rooted right here on earth, in nature. I also believe we come to understand our universe through active observation brought through our senses, not praying or meditating. It's our senses that allow us to watch and hear and feel and then comprehend the processes behind the phenomenon of light, water, a body's movement, a bird's flight, or”—he paused and gestured toward me—“the blush of a woman's face.”

I stared at him. “You express Aristotle's philosophies, maestro. Have you read his translated works?”

“I cannot really read Latin, my lady. I was never taught and am trying to learn it a little at a time now. However, Master Verrocchio can and has told me some of these
philosophies. Even so, I find experience to be a truer guide than the words of others.”

His intellect was extraordinary given his lack of formal book learning. I mulled over his suggestion. Leonardo already planned an unprecedented setting for this portrait—a woman sitting outside her home, encased in the uncontrollable power of nature. His suggestion for my clothes would push my portrait even further beyond tradition. In such a dress I would be stripped down to my basics, the bare-boned facts of my face and thereby, as he called it, the motions of my mind, my heart, my soul. That certainly would be new to Florence's high society.

I weighed the consequences of such a portrait. Wearing the black scapular and a dress whose only adornment was the embroidery I had done with gold thread spun at Le Murate would allow me to pay homage to my beloved abbess and the world of learning and creativity she had fostered for women within the convent's walls.

Sing of us. Sing of yourself.

“All right,” I said. “So be it.”