Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (11 page)

“Your blush says otherwise,” she pointed out. “Keep your distance. Powerful men are always used to getting what they want.”

She placed the basket of bread on the pillar of plates. Once the table was set, I began cutting thin slices of mortadella while Margherita served the stew into shallow bowls. She mentioned something about cleaning chamber pots and I instantly lost my appetite.

“Viola.” I turned at the sound of my name. Master Verrocchio stood in the kitchen, his hands clasped behind the drapes of his black tunic. The expression in his voice and face was grim. “I need to speak with you.” My heart sank in my chest. Fear led me to suspect it had something to do with Salai’s theft. Trying not to appear as guilty as I felt, I wiped the cold cuts’ oily fat from my fingers. “Now would be a good time, if you please.”

“Sir, we are about to eat. It will get cold,” implored Margherita.

“This cannot wait,” he insisted.

Margherita and I exchanged worried glances before I left the kitchen. Arming myself as I ascended the steps, I whispered, “
Be the lioness.
”

PART III

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Massimo

A trail of muddy footprints led to a door of varnished wood. A fire within beckoned me to enter the cozy living area. Verrocchio sat at an ample chestnut desk in the corner of the room. This was the only space that had any sign a man lived there. The untidy desk and its contents stood out drastically against its delicate surroundings. Eclectic floral carpets concealed the floor’s brown tile. Two stiff sofas topped by mustard cushions were arranged around paneled windows. Faint light sifted through the salmon curtains. Discreet ceramic bowls of dried flowers gave the apartment an intense rose aroma.

“My nieces spend their time decorating. No doubt, it keeps them entertained.”

Verrocchio pointed to a chair facing his desk.

Before I sat down on the pale blue cushion, I moved the abandoned needlework from the chair. Exotic figurines of jade and ivory weighted down piles of parchment on the desk. Broken bits of charcoal and scraps of wax littered the surface. At the center of the chaos was a heavy book lying on its spine with hundreds of numbers scrawled in minute print. On the back of Verrocchio’s chair, I saw the familiar leather strap of my satchel.

“Oh no!” Verrocchio took the satchel from its hiding place. “Sir—”

“Is this your property?” he interrupted, laying my satchel on the book’s open face.

“It is,” I admitted. He grumbled something under his breath I couldn’t understand. “I had been keeping it in Margherita’s … space,” I added, unsure where the conversation was going and shocked at the workshop’s lack of privacy.

“It saddens me to say that yesterday someone took a generous sum of money from me.” Unmoved, he let the information hang in the fragrant air.

“Sir, I know who took the money.” Verrocchio’s serious eyes tried to penetrate my armor, but his silence told me to continue. “I didn’t say anything before because the person I saw take the money threatened to hurt someone I care about.” Still, he said nothing. His eyes now fixed absently on my satchel. “I am sorry for not saying anything earlier … but I was scared.” Nervous, I started compulsively rubbing my hands and arms.

“It’s interesting,” he said, withdrawing a bottle of ruby liquid from underneath the flawlessly carved desk. Pouring the liquor into a shallow blue glass, he continued. “Someone in the exact same chair told me an almost identical tale.” The liquid smelled strongly of licorice. A numb sensation that had started in my legs began to spread to my other limbs. “I’m sorry I had to search your belongings, but such was the nature of the accusation. Trust me when I say this class of … happenings is my least favorite fire to put out.” He took a sip from the glass.

“There might have been something I was unclear regarding our relationship. In fact, now that I sit here, I do not recall having that conversation with you at all. Most likely because I have little time to spare for words.” With his fingertips, he briefly soothed his temples. “When I welcome someone into my work, I am also inviting them into my home and consequently my life. This is a leap of faith. Although not mentioned directly, it is implied that I expect this trust to be reciprocated.” Verrocchio took off his black cap. For a man in his thirties, his face looked excessively tired. His receding hairline added years to his appearance.

“Viola, can you assure me that you have been completely honest with me?”

“No, sir,” I answered, feeling wretched. His guilt trip was worse than the one of my mom’s. From my satchel, Verrocchio withdrew a heavy pouch that made a definite clinking sound when it hit the desk’s cluttered surface. Suddenly, my eyes felt like they would pop out of their sockets. The anger that surged through me brought my extremities back to their full power. Before I knew it, I was standing. Everything that I had witnessed behind the cracks of the divider poured out of me. My Italian had never been so good.

“Viola,” he interjected as he pointed back to the chair, “do you have anything else you would like to share with me?” He maintained his calm but serious composure. My mind was so clouded by rage I could not think clearly.

“What about this curious item?” he asked, holding up my sketchbook. Immediately, it reminded me of a conversation I had shared with Zia, during which she advised me not to share my sketchbook with anyone including Verrocchio.

“Well, is it yours?” he pressed.

“Yes, it is.” 

“Are you responsible for the contents in this book?”

“Sketchbook,” I corrected.

“We will get to that.” Taking up his glass, he drained the few drops of remaining liquor. Still I said nothing.

It took all my energy to regain control over my feelings. That monster Salai had framed me and my privacy had never been so violated. He had no right to look through my stuff—or did he? The off-white bows on my sleeves reminded me where I was. Lost in a place where women were commodities meant to fulfill the needs of men. Misplaced in a time when women had to marry against their will and literate girls were dangerous or an oddity at best. There would not be rights for women for hundreds of years to come. Maybe at this time, I did not have the right to privacy? A liberty,= that I had taken for granted in the twenty-first century.

Verrocchio, who had been sitting patiently, cleared his throat. He was still waiting for me to claim the sketchbook. “Yes… it belongs to me,” I confessed. He began to sift through its pages.

“Are you telling me, that you, Viola Orofino, are responsible for the entire contents within this book?”

“Yes sir. Oh! Except for a drawing of Zia’s hen. Leonardo helped me with that.”

“Leonardo knows about this?” He held the book up as if I could not see it clearly. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me about this,” he muttered more to himself than to me. Verrocchio’s poker face disintegrated bit by bit. His eyebrows knitted together, creating deep creases around his eyelids and forehead.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Zia,” I answered. A gurgling growl from Verrocchio’s stomach interrupted our confession. Ignoring its yelp, he continued. “So you can read and write?”

“Yes,” I admitted. All the while I wondered where these questions were leading.

Was I still being accused of stealing? Although my stomach was not making noises, my emotional anguish had worked up an appetite. At this point in the inquiry, Verrocchio looked down at me as if I was a hallucination conjured by his licorice treat.

“Do you come from England?” Assuming he was talking about my writings, I answered, “Sort of, I mean … English is my first language.” The fire that had allured me into the cozy examination room was quickly fading.

“Why do you speak Tuscan?”

“My mother is Ital— I mean Tuscan.”

“And your father?”

“His family is French.”

“So what is your other surname? Orofino must be your mother’s last name?” The blue cushion felt increasingly uncomfortable underneath me. Why was he so curious about me, and why was I telling him so much? Not accustomed to keeping secrets, I was a terrible liar. Truth slipped from my lips before I had a chance to stop it.

“I’d rather not say, Maestro,” I said. A knock at the door disturbed Verrocchio’s interrogation.

“Who is it?”

“Margherita, sir.” She came in bearing gifts. Cold cuts, focaccia, olives, sharp cheese, and crimson wine weighed down the tray.

“Thank you, Marga,” Verrocchio said as he made a clearing on his desk for the meal. She turned to me before she left the room, but I could not reveal enough information in just a glance. When the door closed behind her, I reached for a slice of cheese.

Moving the tray slightly out of my reach, Verrocchio protested, “As you heard, I am hungry as well, but I think it would be best if we finished our conversation first.”

Looking down at my lap, I retracted my hand. In an attempt to allow more light in, he peeled back the curtains of the closest window. When he sat back down his expression and posture had softened.

“I will not pretend that Salai is an honorable young man. I knew he was lying to me this morning, and I knew that pouch belonged to him. But I confess, I wanted to see how honest your testimony would be. When I found you in possession of this … sketchbook, it was so hard to believe it belonged to you. May I ask one more question?”

Although relieved I was no longer being accused of stealing, my hunger had mounted to the point where I was almost incoherent. “Then can we eat?”

“Most gladly … How did you come here and why?

“I’m still trying to figure that out … All I know is that I was running through a dark hall of stone. The next thing I remember was the execution and being trampled on by hundreds of people in the Piazza della Signoria.”

“That is when Zia and the young Medici found you,” he added. There was a brief pause. My mouth filled with saliva. “Well, what would you have me do, Viola?”

“Excuse me?”

“You are hardly fit to be a housemaid,” Verrocchio explained, cutting the bread.

“Are you letting me go, sir?” I panicked.

“Go where? Home?” He turned to look out the window he had just cleared. “There is still work to be done. We have not even savored our food yet.” Passing me a generous serving, he clarified, “What I meant to say is it seems a terrible waste to have you sweep floors when I have so much work on my hands.”

Not believing my luck, I seized the opportunity. “Master Verrocchio … I am a most willing student. I would love to be an apprentice.”

“It would be most singular to have a female apprentice,” he pondered aloud. Shoving two black olives into his mouth, he mulled over the possibility. “It would be unprecedented and not entirely legal.” The thought of doing something for the first time emboldened me.

“I don’t think it is fair that I too want to learn but can’t just because I’m a girl.” The master looked at me sympathetically.

“You have been quite a handful, I must say, but I do not think there is a better place for you than here. Your talents are most unusual for a girl, and they are absolutely impossible given your class standing.”

“You mean because I’m minuto?” I took a bite of bread.

“Something like that … To get to the point, we cannot make use of your talents as a girl, so you will have to continue your work with Margherita in the kitchens and cleaning.” The gloom of the winter day mirrored my reaction to his jail sentence.

My thoughts readied for a rebuttal when he said with a smile, “At least in the morning. After briefly considering your situation and all the work I need to get done, I have decided to give you a choice. Apart from your early morning tasks, you may also be my apprentice in the afternoon.”

“Yes!”

“Wait, I am not finished. If you agree, I will give you some money and Leonardo will accompany you to pick out some boys' clothes that suit you.”

“So I have to work in the workshop dressed as a boy?”

“Unfortunately, those are the times we live in. I want to make clear that this is quite a risk, for the both of us. I am not sure what the Signoria would do if they found out I had a young girl as an apprentice dressed up as a boy … but I am certain they would not be pleased. There could be penalties.”

“What kind of penalties?”

“Prison, fines, maybe even a trial if we are particularly unlucky.”

The scarred scene of the crying woman, knotted rope, and people cheering stirred from my memory. Never had I been so close to death. Even though it hadn't been my own life in the balance, an overwhelming sensation of dread had consumed me. Despite the risks, becoming an apprentice felt like it was the only way to move forward, to become a better artist, and make my time here worth something.

Verrocchio had polished off the rest of the food while I reflected on the dangers of my decision. “You must understand why it is so important to be secretive. It would be best not to tell Zia, as the less she knows the better her nerves will be.” He poked the fire back to life.

The idea of lying to Zia was bothersome, but I didn’t want her to worry either. To conquer Florence, I needed to become part of the city. Being the mouse was no longer an option. I needed to be the lioness.

“Master Verrocchio, I still want to do it.”

“You agree then? Understanding the circumstances and perils?” I nodded. Verrocchio stretched out his hand, and I squeezed back to seal the pact. “You realize our pitfall might be your eyes. It makes this charade most difficult. They are so singular you are almost impossible to disguise. Save those who have not met you already,” he said with the grin of a mischievous boy. “We will do our best. We must trust our family down there creating away,” he concluded as he stared at the blue-green vignettes painted on the opposite wall.

“What about Salai?” I asked. Verrocchio took a deep sigh and put his feet up on the desk. The tender black leather of his boots hung over the corner of the desk.

“Salai is bound to me … he came to me fatherless and I cannot bring myself to throw him out. He is also what some may call the black sheep of my boys, and I do have a soft spot for those.” Meeting my eyes, he continued seriously, “Be cautious, Viola. If I were a girl I would not look him in the eye. Margherita had to learn that lesson the hard way.” He stood up and walked around the desk. “As I said at the beginning of our conversation, it is a leap of faith. I believe I can manage him, mostly because he has nowhere else to go.”

“I will not let you down.” I stood up. With a fatherly motion, he placed his palms on my shoulders.

“You are strong beneath all that fear. It would do my nieces good to be more like you. Instead, all they do every day is keep to their rooms, sleep, and demand potions to make their hair smoother and skin fairer.”

He walked to the door. “Leonardo!” he boomed. While we waited for Leonardo to appear, Verrocchio told me we needed to figure out another name for me.

“How about Massimo?” He suggested.

Before I was able to protest, Leonardo entered the room. The sleeves of his grey undershirt were rolled up past his elbows. The short navy tunic he wore was spotless and his lion-like hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail emphasizing the stubble protruding from his jaw.

“You called?”

“What do you think of the name Massimo?”

“For who or what?”

“For Viola,” said Verrocchio. Leonardo looked confused at first, but understood his meaning when he saw my open sketchbook on the desk.

“Massimo … sounds perfect.”

“You are joking,” I blurted. Both men laughed. “That is the worst name you could have chosen for me.”