I, Mona Lisa (16 page)

His latter words were meant to dismiss the priest, who now stood blocking the entry to the sacristy, as if unwilling to let the friar pass until he granted a boon. But instead of leaving, the young man looked into the sacristy. “Ah! This is the woman possessed of many devils!”

Fra Girolamo gave him a sharp look. “We will let God be the judge of her affliction.” He glanced pointedly at Fra Domenico, who had been sympathetically inclined to the priest; the towering monk took a reluctant step toward the door.

The priest sidled gracefully past the larger monk and stepped inside
the chamber before he could be barred. “But Fra Girolamo, you said it yourself: The Evil One tried to stop the people from hearing the message God has given you. No one would ever have uttered such words as she did if the Devil himself had not authored them.” His pale eyes brightened with unsettling conviction. “She did the very same thing in the Duomo—cried out words which the Devil forced from her.”

Fra Domenico listened, spellbound; even the gentle Fra Marciano stepped forward from our group to hear the charismatic young priest.

“It’s true, Babbo,” Domenico said to his master. “Your presence would provoke devils. How angry you must make them! How frightened! Here is a chance to show the true power of the Lord.”

Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, yet unable to ignore it, Savonarola moved past Domenico and the priest until he stood at my mother’s side, directly across from my father and Pico.

“Is this true?” Fra Girolamo quietly asked my father. “Did she utter strange words in the Duomo before a fit?”

Silent, cautious, my father looked to me and Zalumma. She was brazen, challenging, her cap now removed, her wild blue-black hair as intimidating as Medusa’s serpentine crown.

“No,” she lied. “She has suffered from fits after an injury to her head, but there is naught of the Devil in it.”

Savonarola moved to my mother’s head and gently laid his hands upon her shoulders; his timidity evaporated, and he said with confidence, “Let us pray silently.”

We all obeyed, bowing our heads; I dared to peer from beneath half-closed lids. The priest and Domenico entered, the latter closing the large brass door behind him. Both hurried over to stand by Fra Girolamo. They pushed their way to stand on my mother’s right side, as close to the object of their adoration as possible; the act displaced Zalumma and me, forcing us down toward my mother’s legs.

My father—his eyes red-rimmed—lowered his head, but his eyes were open, his gaze vigilant and fierce. He stood on my mother’s left, with Pico beside him.

After a long pause, Savonarola’s eyebrows knit together. “God has
spoken to me. Unexpiated sin has led to this woman’s malady—a sin too long secret and buried; it has tainted her soul. I shall pray for God to open her heart and remove her burden, that she may be freed from any influence of the Evil One.” He lifted his face and, in a lower tone, asked my father, “Do you know, sir, of a grievous sin she may have been unwilling to confess?”

My father glanced up at him with unalloyed surprise; sudden emotion so overwhelmed him that he could not speak, could only let go an anguished sob.

Pico faced him. “Antonio, my friend, you must trust in Fra Girolamo. God has brought us all here for a purpose. This is all for Madonna Lucrezia’s good.”

“Does anyone lack faith? Does anyone wish to leave?” Fra Girolamo stared at us each in turn.

“I shall pray with you!” said the priest, excited.

Savonarola gave him a look of warning. “Those who wish may lay hands upon her with me and follow silently with my prayer.”

“Only pray no harm comes to her,” my father said urgently. “Only pray that God heals her!”

Savonarola answered with a stare that quieted him at once. The priest and Fra Domenico quickly laid their palms upon my mother’s upper arms and waist; my father put a hand upon her right arm, along with Pico. Zalumma and I could do no more than rest our hands upon my mother’s ankles.

The little monk lifted his hands, pressed them more firmly against my mother’s shoulders, then squeezed his eyes shut. “O Lord!” he exclaimed, in the thunderous tone he had used when preaching. “You see before you a woman, a miserable sinner. . . .”

Beneath his hands, my mother stirred. Her eyelids fluttered. Hoarsely, she whispered, “Antonio?”

He took her hand and spoke softly. “Lucrezia, I am here. All will be well. Fra Girolamo is praying for your healing. Rest, and have faith.”

During their gentle exchange, the friar continued his prayer.
“There is darkness buried here, an opening for Satan. Lord! It has left her body stolen, wrenched from her. . . .”

My mother’s eyes widened from fright. Though drowsy, she sensed Savonarola’s grip tightening on her shoulders; she moved weakly as if to shake off all the hands holding her down. “Antonio! What is he saying? What has happened?”

At that very moment, the priest—who had begun to tremble with righteous fervor—cried out: “Devils possess her, O Lord!”

“Yes!” Domenico rumbled, in a great, deep voice. “Devils, Lord!”

“Stop,” my mother whispered.

Zalumma interrupted, her words swift and sharp, directed mostly at the priest, but also at Savonarola. She pressed against Domenico’s great, broad back, trying to reach her mistress. “Stop! You are frightening her! She must stay calm!”

“All will be well, Lucrezia,” my father said. “All will be well. . . .”

Savonarola paid no one heed; his earnest conversation was between himself and God. “O Lord! None can save her but You. I am not worthy to face You myself, but I beg most humbly: Save her from her sins. Heal her. . . .”

The pockmarked priest, lost in his own frenzy, continued the prayer as if it were his own. “Free her from Satan’s grip! Hear me, Devil! It is not I but God Who commands you—leave this woman! In the name of Christ Jesus, leave her body and set her free!”

Fra Domenico, prompted to righteous zeal by the priest’s words, leaned down and seized both my mother’s arms with undue force. Spraying spittle, he shouted directly into her face: “Go, Devil, in the name of Christ!”

“Help me,” my mother called out weakly. “Antonio, in the name of God . . .”

At the same time, my father gripped Fra Domenico’s thick wrists, shouting, “Unhand her! Let her go!”

Savonarola’s tone rose sharply, a rebuke to the priest, to Domenico, to my father. “We ask for healing here, for forgiveness of sin. Only then, Lord, will the Evil One loosen his hold upon her—”

“Stop this!” Zalumma commanded, at the cacophony of prayer. “Can’t you see what you are doing to her?”

My mother’s body went rigid. Her jaw began to work, her limbs to pound against the wooden table. Her head jerked from side to side; blood from her injured tongue sprayed the men.

Zalumma and I tried to move to our positions of emergency, but the monks and priests would not let me near my mother’s head. With Zalumma, I lay down across my mother’s legs—but Fra Domenico pushed us away with one great backward sweep of his arm, without looking at us. My father bent over my mother and put an arm beneath her shoulder.

“You see, Babbo, the Devil shows himself!” Domenico crowed in triumph, and laughed. “Begone! You have no power here!”

“Let us pray to God,” Fra Girolamo thundered. “O Lord, we beg you for this woman’s freedom from sin, from the influence of the Evil One; we ask for her healing. If there be any obstacle, reveal it now, Lord!”

“Satan begone,” the priest countered, with equal volume and fervor. “Leave, in the name of the Father!”

Fra Domenico, his dull features alight with frightening conviction, was caught between the prayers of prior and priest. Echoing his master’s words, he cried out, “Reveal it now, O Lord! Leave, Satan, in the name of the Son!”

As he uttered the words, my mother’s body heaved upward in spasm, so violently that the men lost their hold upon her. An odd silence ensued; the priest and Savonarola, startled, ceased praying. In response, Domenico brought the heels of his massive hands downward, with full force, upon my mother’s heart.

“Leave, in the name of the Spirit!”

In the unexpected quiet, I heard a soft but horrible noise: a snap dulled by the cover of flesh, the sound of my mother’s breastbone breaking. I screamed, scarcely aware of Zalumma’s own shrieks, of my father’s furious roar.

My mother’s eyes bulged. Blood welled up from deep within her and spilled from the corners of her mouth down the sides of her
cheeks, into her ears. She tried to cough and instead inhaled blood; there followed the wrenching sound of gurgling, of one desperately seeking air and finding only liquid. She was drowning.

My father wrested Domenico away from my mother, then returned to her side. Without thought, I threw myself against the stolid monk and pummeled him with my fists, vaguely aware that Zalumma, too, was striking him.

Coming to myself, I moved to my mother’s side. There I bent low, my elbows resting on the table, my face close to my mother’s, near my father’s. Zalumma was beside me, her shoulder pressed against mine.

The monks had altogether abandoned her. Fra Girolamo had removed his hands and was staring down at her with an expression of frank confusion and dismay; the priest had withdrawn in fear and was crossing himself repeatedly. Pico, too, stood at a distance, trying to make sense of the dreadful turn of events.

Only my father remained at my mother’s side. “Lucrezia!” he cried. “Oh God, Lucrezia, speak!”

But my mother could not. The movement of her limbs grew weaker and weaker until at last they stilled. Her face had taken on the color of a dove’s breast; blood bubbled from her lips as she fought to draw air. I tried to help in the only way I knew: I pressed my face close to hers and said that I loved her, and all would be well.

I watched as the light of terror faded from her eyes along with life itself, and I saw the instant her stare grew dull and fixed.

U
nmindful of the blood, I laid my head upon my mother’s breast. Zalumma took her hand and pressed it to her lips; my father pressed his cheek against hers. We three mourned over her a time; and then rage swept over me. I raised my damp face and turned to face Domenico. But before I could open my mouth to accuse him, my father screamed, his voice wrenching and raw.

“You have murdered her!” He flung himself at Domenico; his hands were claws, reaching for the big man’s throat. “You have murdered her, and I will see you hang for it!”

The monk’s face darkened; he lifted an arm to protect himself. Pico and the red-haired priest both threw themselves on my father and barely managed to hold him back.

I screamed along with Zalumma, as we gave vent to our outrage.

“Murderer!”

“Assassin!”

Savonarola stayed well clear of the fray. Once Pico and the priest had subdued my father, Fra Girolamo stepped in front of Domenico, who cringed. “God forgive me,” he whimpered. “I am incapable of intentional harm; this was an accident, a dreadful accident. . . . Oh, please believe me, Babbo!”

There came my father’s voice behind me, soft and deadly. “This was no accident. You meant to kill her. . . .”

“Here now,” Pico stated firmly. “This
was
an accident, and no more. Fra Girolamo and Fra Domenico both came here with the godly intent of healing her.”

Savonarola stepped forward, once again the confident man who had ascended the pulpit. “These are the words the Lord has given me: Madonna Lucrezia is free of her affliction. In the hour of her death, she repented of her sin, and dwells now in Purgatory. Be joyful in the knowledge that her soul will soon be with God.”

His words tore my father’s heart in two. “That is true,” he whispered. “But it is no less true that Domenico murdered her.”

Fra Girolamo was unrelenting. “What happened here was an act of God. Fra Domenico was merely an instrument. Women!” He turned to exhort the two of us. “Dry your tears! Rejoice that your mistress shall soon be in Heaven.”

With a baleful glance, Zalumma spat in his direction, then turned back to her grieving.

“God sees the guilty,” I said to him. “God knows the crime that was committed here, and none of your pretty words can ever hide it from His view. He will see justice done to you and to Fra Domenico in His own time.” Then, with an abrupt practicality that amazed me, I added, “If you wish to make any effort toward recompense, you can see her brought to our carriage.”

“That can be done,” Savonarola said. “Afterward, I will pray that God might forgive your hateful words. In time, you will come to accept what has happened. But first, we shall pray for Madonna Lucrezia, that her time in Purgatory might be short. And then I will fetch a priest”—this I took as a deliberate snub to the one in our midst—“to give her Holy Unction.” He spoke to all of us, but his gaze was directed at my father, who still stood, defiant, resisting all of Pico’s attempts to comfort him. “Let us kneel,” Savonarola said. Pico, the priest, and the two monks all obeyed. Zalumma and I remained with my mother.

My father stood, heavy, solid, raw. “He killed her.”

“He was the Hand of God,” Savonarola countered fiercely. “God responded to our prayers by taking your Lucrezia; soon she will be with Him, free of all suffering. This is a blessing compared to the life she led . . . an outcome to be desired even more than that of a healing here on Earth. You should be thankful.” He paused, then again demanded, “Kneel. Kneel, and pray with us for your wife’s soul to enter Paradise.”

My father let go a sob that was also a roar. He stayed on his feet and stared at Domenico with hell in his eyes.

Domenico knelt behind his master, then opened his eyes and met my father’s gaze. His features radiated unmistakable victory. It was a gloating expression, with nothing of God or righteousness in it; in his eyes came a flash of calculating intelligence—so infinitely wicked and cold I could not find my breath.

Then Fra Domenico, looking fast at my father, inclined his head ever so slightly at the table, where my mother lay; and then he slowly, deliberately, inclined his head at me.