The Secret Supper (13 page)

“Tell me, Father Agostino, with that intelligence with which you so impressed Brother Alessandro, have you noticed nothing unusual about this work?”

“I—I don’t know what you mean, Father Prior.”

“Come, Father. Don’t disappoint us. You’ve agreed to help us solve our riddle. If we succeed in associating the anomalies in this painting with the contents of one of the forbidden books, we’d be able to seize Leonardo and accuse him of seeking inspiration in apocryphal sources. It would mean his end.”

The Father Prior paused before continuing.

“I’ll give you a clue. Have you not noticed that none of the apostles, not even Christ Himself, has a halo? You can’t say that’s normal in a Christian work of art!”

My dear God! The Father Prior was right! My stupidity knew no limits. I had been so taken aback by the extraordinary realism of the characters that I had not noticed this all-important absence.

“And what of the Eucharist?” intervened the scribe. “If this is, as he claims, the Last Supper, why does Christ not have before him the bread and the wine to consecrate? Where is the cup of the Holy Grail that will receive His precious blood of redemption? And why is His dish empty? A heretic, that’s what Leonardo is! A heretic!”

“What are you suggesting? That Master Leonardo wasn’t following the biblical text when he painted this scene?”

I thought I could still hear Father Alessandro’s explanations regarding the Virgin’s portrait that Leonardo had painted for the monks of San Francesco il Grande. On that occasion as well, Leonardo had disregarded not only the scriptural indications but also the instructions of his patrons. My question, therefore, must have seemed to them puerile:

“Did you ask him why he’s done this?”

“Of course!” the Father Prior answered. “And he laughed in our faces, calling us fools once again. He said it wasn’t up to him to help us interpret his Last Supper. Can you believe it? The cunning fox comes here every other afternoon, gives one of the apostles a brushstroke, sits for hours contemplating his work and then he barely deigns to speak with the brethren to explain the oddities of his composition—”

“At least he’s bound to justify himself by quoting a passage from the Scriptures—,” I ventured, knowing full well the answer.

“From one of the Gospels?” The scribe’s question sounded full of sarcasm. “You know the texts as well as I do, so tell me, which one describes Peter holding a dagger at the table, or Judas and Christ dipping their hands into the same dish? No, you won’t find those scenes anywhere. Nowhere at all.”

“You must demand that he explain himself!”

“He slips away. He says he’s only accountable to the duke, who’s the one who pays his wages.”

“You mean to say he comes and goes here as he pleases?”

“And accompanied by whomever he chooses. Sometimes, even by court ladies whom he wishes to impress.”

“Forgive me the boldness, Brother Benedetto, but even with the unpleasantness of being treated in such a manner, these are not arguments that would allow you to accuse him of heresy.”

“Why not? Isn’t all this enough? Is it not sufficient to have a Christ without his attributes, a Last Supper with no Eucharist, a Saint Peter hiding a dagger to attack God-knows-whom?”

Brother Benedetto wrinkled his red nose in anger, muttering under his breath. The Father Prior tried to soothe him by saying to me:

“You don’t understand, do you?”

“No,” I answered.

“What Brother Benedetto has tried to explain is that, even though to you this is only a marvelous representation of the Last Supper scene, it might not be that entirely. I’ve seen many painters work on similar commissions, no doubt less ambitious, but I’m at a loss to understand what it is that Leonardo wishes to display in my house,” said the Father Prior, emphasizing the possessive to show how troubled he was by the matter. He then caught me by the sleeve of my habit and continued in a gloomy tone of voice:

“We are very much afraid that the duke’s painter is trying to ridicule our faith and our religion, and that if we don’t find the key to read his work, his affront will remain here forever, in eternal mockery of our stupidity. That is why we need your help, Father Agostino.”

The Father Prior’s last words echoed through the vast refectory.

Then the one-eyed scribe pushed me toward another spot beneath the scaffolding, from which several of the guests at the Cenacolo could be clearly seen.

“You want more proofs? I’ll give you yet another to help you burn that impostor!”

I followed him.

“You see?” he shouted. “Look well!”

“What am I supposed to see, Brother Benedetto?”

“Leonardo, that’s whom! Don’t you recognize him? The bastard has portrayed himself among the apostles. He’s the second figure from the right. No doubt about it: his same eyes, his big and powerful hands, even his blond mane. He says it’s Judas Thaddeus, but the figure has all his own features!”

“But truly, Brother Benedetto, I see nothing wrong with that either,” I answered. “Ghiberti too portrayed himself on the bronze doors of the Baptistery in Florence, and nothing happened. It’s very much a Tuscan custom.”

“Is it, indeed? And why is Leonardo the only character at the table, together with Saint Matthew the Apostle, who appears with his back to Our Lord? Do you really believe he means nothing by it? Not even Judas Iscariot has such an insolent attitude! You must know this,” he added in a threatening tone. “Everything that devil Leonardo does follows a secret plan, a purpose.”

“But Brother, if Leonardo is Judas Thaddeus, then who is the real Matthew, who also turns his back on the Lord?”

“That is what we are hoping you will tell us! That you’ll identify the disciples, that you’ll reveal to us the truth about this cursed Last Supper!”

I tried to calm the enraged old man.

“Father Prior, Brother Benedetto,” I said, addressing them both. “In order to put my brain at the service of your riddle, I need to know on what do you base your accusation against Master Leonardo. If you’re seeking to make a case against him, if you wish to put a stop to his work with solid arguments, we must have irrefutable proofs, not mere suspicions. I don’t need to remind you that Leonardo is under the protection of the Duke of Milan.”

“We’ll tell you what you want to know. But first answer one more thing…”

I was thankful to hear once again the calm voice of the Father Prior, who now stepped back a few paces in order to examine The Last Supper in its entirety.

“Can you tell, simply by looking at it, what exactly is depicted by this scene?”

His emphasis made me hesitate.

“You tell me please, Father Prior.”

“I will. To all appearances, it seems to be the moment described in the Gospel according to John, when Jesus announces to His disciples that one among them will betray Him. Ludovico il Moro and Leonardo chose the passage very carefully.”

“Amen dico vobis quia unus ex vobis tradet me,” I recited from memory.

“ ‘Verily, verily, I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.’ Exactly.”

“And what do you think is strange in the choice?”

“Two things,” he answered. “First, that unlike the traditional Last Suppers, they did not choose for this one the institution of the Eucharist, the consecration of the bread and the wine. And second—” he paused as if in doubt, “here the traitor doesn’t seem to be Judas.”

“No?”

“Look at the mural, for Heaven’s sake!” Brother Benedetto insisted. “I only have one eye left, but I can see quite clearly that the one who’s going to betray Jesus, to kill him even, is Saint Peter.”

“Saint Peter? Are you certain?”

“Yes, Simon Peter, the very one there,” Brother Benedetto insisted, pointing him out among the dozen faces. “Can’t you see how he’s hiding his dagger behind his back and prepares to strike Christ Himself? Can’t you see how he’s threatening John with a hand on his neck?”

The old man muttered his accusations vehemently, as if he had been examining the disposition of the figures for a long time, working secretly, and had reached conclusions hidden from the rest of us common mortals. The Father Prior assented somewhat hesitatingly.

“And precisely, what do you think of that John the Apostle?” His emphasis alerted me. “Have you seen how he’s been painted? No beard, with delicate, manicured hands, with a face like that of a Madonna. In fact, he looks like a woman!”

I shook my head in disbelief. John’s face wasn’t finished. One could only discern the sketch of soft, rounded, almost adolescent features.

“A woman? Are you sure? No woman sat at the Supper described in the Gospels—”

“I see you’re beginning to see the light,” the Father Prior answered more calmly. “That is why it’s so urgent that we solve this riddle. Leonardo’s work holds far too many misunderstandings. Too many veiled allusions. God knows how much I enjoy puzzles, the art of concealing information in real or painted places, but the solution to this one escapes me.”

I noticed that the Father Prior was making an effort to restrain himself.

“Of course,” he continued without waiting for a response, “it’s still early for you to appreciate all the aspects of this problem. Come back whenever you like. Take advantage of Leonardo’s absences. Sit down and admire his work, and try to decipher it in sections, just as we have been trying to do. In a few days’ time you’ll feel the same discouragement that we feel now. This mural will become your obsession.”

After saying this, the Father Prior proceeded to hunt through his bundle of keys. He produced a large heavy one, made of iron, with three wards in the shape of a Latin cross.

“Keep it. There are only three copies in existence. Leonardo has one, and frequently lends it to his apprentices. I hold the other, and the third one is now in your hands. And come to Brother Benedetto or to me if you require any information.”

“No doubt,” said Brother Benedetto, “we’ll be of more use to you than the brother librarian.”

“But may I ask what you expect from this humble inquisitor who is now at your service?”

“That you find a complete and convincing explanation of this Last Supper. That you identify, if it exists, the book on which he said it was based. That you determine whether that book is or is not a heretical text like the Apocalipsis Nova. And if it is, that you detain him.

“In exchange,” the Father Prior continued, smiling, “we will help you with your riddle. Even though, in fact, you haven’t yet told us what it is.”

“I’m looking for the man who wrote these verses.”

And I showed them a copy of “Oculos ejus dinumera.”

20

Bernardino Luini hardly dared cast his eyes beyond the easel. Even though he was a man of over thirty, with his adolescence long behind him, this kind of work always upset him. He had never known a woman—in fact, he was perhaps the only one in the guild who never had—and he had sworn to God that he never would. He had also promised it to his father, just after turning fourteen, and before that to his master when, as an apprentice, he entered the most prestigious bottega in Milan in order to learn the artist’s craft. Now, however, he regretted it. The fact was that Crivelli’s daughter had, for the past two weeks, put his weak nature to the test. Naked, with her golden locks falling down either side of her body, sitting on the edge of the bench with her blue eyes fixed on the ceiling, the little sixteen-year-old countess was the living image of desire. Every time she dropped her angelic posture and glanced at him, Bernardino felt as if he were dying.

“Master Luini,” Donna Lucrezia’s voice sounded softly, as if it too were tempting him, “when do you think the child’s portrait will be ready?”

“Very soon, my lady. Very soon.”

“Remember that the deadline for our contract is next week,” she insisted.

“I know that well, my lady. Of no other date am I so fully aware.”

The young Venus’s mother often attended the modeling sessions. It was not that she distrusted Bernardino Luini, a man of irreproachable reputation who was rarely seen working outside a monastery, but she had heard so many stories about the voracity of the clergy and even of that of the Pope himself, that she did not think it superfluous to oversee these encounters. Luini was a very handsome man, though perhaps somewhat effeminate, and yet he was the only gentleman whom her husband allowed unescorted into their house without fearing for her honor. Because the count certainly had reasons to be concerned: rumors of a relationship between his very beautiful wife and the Duke of Milan were on everybody’s lips. Lucrezia was a much-desired woman, a free woman for whom every novelty was a source of excitement. And Elena, their daughter, already appeared to be her mother’s worthy successor.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” the countess observed proudly. “Those apples she has for breasts, so firm, so hard…You can’t imagine, Master Luini, how many men have been driven wild at the sight of them.”

Wild? The painter barely managed to keep his brush from trembling violently. His canvas already depicted almost all of the details of Elena’s body, though he had imagined her hair darker and longer, covering her belly and hiding from sight that source of all pleasures which he had long ago renounced.

“What I don’t understand is why you’ve chosen the subject of Mary Magdalene to portray my daughter, and precisely at this moment. It’s as if you wished to draw the attention of the Holy Inquisition. And all Magdalenes are sad, miserable women. And I don’t know what to think of that horrible skull in her hands…”

Luini put down the brush on his palette and turned toward Donna Lucrezia. The afternoon light was falling on her couch, outlining the forms now vaguely familiar: the blond tresses identical to those of Elena, the highly delineated cheekbones, the same moist, fleshy lips. And the same breasts, rising and falling under a tight bodice of Dutch cloth. Seeing her reclining there, he fully understood the extravagant passion of Ludovico for such beauty, and barely paid attention to her comments about the Inquisition.

“My lady,” he said. “I must remind you that you yourself gave Master Leonardo permission to choose the subject and send you the disciple of his choice.”