Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  Her gaze was fastened on the dark stairs. “Is he coming back?” she whispered.

  “No.” I pulled her into the room.

  Her jaw went slack; her mouth opened and her eyes opened wider. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” The realization that my performance this night was finished overwhelmed me. I felt suddenly exhausted, and barely made it to the bed before my legs gave out entirely. I sat, my back against the sturdy wooden headboard, my legs spread out before me, and mindlessly picked up a rose petal and fingered it. Zalumma tipped the flagon of wine and filled the silver goblet, then handed it to me. Its aroma was surprisingly appealing, given that I had felt so ill earlier in the day. I took a small, careful sip and savored it on my tongue; it was as delicious a wine as I had ever tasted, as good as any served by the Medici.

  For the first time that day, I relaxed enough to notice her. She stood at the bedside and frowned, watching me carefully to make sure the drink appealed, that I would not become ill. She was quite handsome that day; her worrying over me had caused her to lose weight recently, which made the cheekbones beneath her dark, upward-slanting eyes more prominent. The ink-black hair around her face had been finely braided, the bulk of it pulled back into a veil of creamy silk; her gown was of rich brown wool edged with gold-colored ribbon.

  “What did he say?” she demanded, when she could no longer bear my silence.

  “He gave me a gift.” I nodded at the garnet brooch on the bedside table. “He gave me a gift and said I must be tired, and then he excused himself.”

  She stared at the brooch. “He’s mad.”

  “Perhaps he’s ill,” I said. “Or perhaps he’s tired himself after so many preparations. Look at the bed.” Her gaze went to the embroidered velvet cover, the matching hangings. “He had all this done for me.”

  “It’s the least he could do,” she said, her tone hard.

  I took another cautious sip of wine and realized I was ravenous. I looked at the plate of dried grapes beside me and frowned. The servants had assumed I would be stuffed after feasting all day and had left these as sweet morsels to be enjoyed with the wine; they did not yet know I disliked raisins.

  Zalumma noticed at once. “Are you hungry? You’ve eaten nothing today.”

  “I would love some bread and cheese.”

  “I’ll find some.”

  I paused. “Bring another goblet-for yourself. And whatever else you wish. I don’t want to eat alone.” Francesco would think it improper, but I didn’t care. I was giddy with relief and, despite my weariness, suddenly in the mood for a small celebration. For at least one night I was free of Francesco’s brutal attentions.

  “Are you sure, Madonna?”

  I clicked my tongue in disgust at the question and waved her off.

  While she was gone, I sat with my eyes closed. I was grateful beyond words to be left alone on my second wedding night; I had not wanted to profane the memory of the first. Aloud, I promised Giuliano: “I will tell your child everything I know of you, of your goodness, and of your father’s. I will tell him of your uncle-my father. And I will teach him everything I know of love and kindness.”

  I closed my eyes and saw Giuliano kneeling on the floor of the chapel after parting the garland of flowers, smiling up at me.

  I smiled, too. And when Zalumma appeared at the door with a tray balanced on one hand, my lips were still curving. On the tray were three different cheeses and half a round loaf of bread. I was glad to see she had brought a second goblet.

  “You’re feeling better,” she said, pleased. “I never saw such a kitchen. You would think they had expected an army today.” Her tone carried a curious undercurrent.

  “What is it?” I demanded. I knew she had discovered something, seen something. “What has happened?”

  She carefully pushed the lamp aside and set the tray down on my bedside table. “Ser Francesco,” she said, her tone puzzled. “When I went down to the kitchen, I could see lamps outside the front door, and hear men’s voices.”

  “And?”

  “I went to the window; I had no candle, so they couldn’t see me. The stableboy was opening the gate. Ser Francesco was on horseback, alone. He was speaking to the boy. I think he was telling him when to expect him back. He kept glancing about as if he were worried that someone might see him.”

  “He left,” I said to myself, trying to fathom what it could mean. Perhaps I should have been concerned, but I was simply happy that he was gone. “It doesn’t matter,” I pronounced. “Here.” I lifted the flagon of wine. “Drink with me, and have some food. I’ve survived my first night here.”

  We ate and drank. When we grew tired, I insisted Zalumma lie down beside me. As a slave, she found the liberty of lying down upon her mistress’s bed uncomfortable; she did not want it thought she had forgotten her place, and she knew Isabella and Elena would notice if she had not slept in her bed in the servants’ quarters. But at last she fell asleep.

  I dozed for a while, too. I dreamed that I was in the wrong house, with the wrong man; the grief of it woke me. I sat up to find Zalumma snoring softly beside me, still dressed in her wool gown, her veil askew, the wood in the fire now reduced to glowing ash.

  It came to me clearly, then, that I was truly married to Francesco, that Giuliano was dead, that these facts could never be undone. I realized that I was going to cry, and violently-and I did not want to be seen or heard.

  I slipped from the bed and, shivering from the cold, hurried quickly, quietly, out of the room. I closed the door behind me and ran halfway down the stairs, then sat upon a step.

  Before I could release the first hoarse sob, a sound stopped me: clumsy footsteps coming in my direction. Yellow lamplight wavered far below me, then gradually lit up the wall like a spreading stain.

  I knew before he appeared that it was my husband. Swaying, he paused to orient himself on the second-floor landing, only a few steps below me.

  “Francesco,” I said softly. I meant only to think it; I did not want to be noticed, least of all by him.

  But he heard and looked up at me, startled.

  “Lisa,” he slurred. He was very drunk. He held up the lamp and squinted at me. He was swaddled carelessly in a black mantello; as he lifted the lamp, the end of it slipped down to reveal his wedding tunic and leggings.

  Near his right hip, the hem of his tunic was bunched up, and his leggings bunched down; and the white wool of his undershirt protruded like a flag.

  I let go an amused, soft snort at the sight, and when I breathed in again, I noticed the sharp smell of cheap lavender. I had detected it before a few times at market on bawdily dressed, brightly rouged women, the sort that Zalumma always steered me away from.

  I heard Francesco’s voice in my mind, saw his lecherous, glittering gaze. Whore. Slut. Harlot.

  But as of that morning, I was a respectable married woman.

  And I was free.

  “I wasn’t able to sleep,” I said swiftly. “But I think I can now. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Francesco said drowsily, and as I ran up the stairs, I heard him groan.

  When I arrived back in my room, I closed the door behind me, leaned against it, and laughed so hard that I woke Zalumma.

  LV

  Spring came, and the weather warmed. During the days, I opened the French doors and sat on the balcony. To my left were the stables, and the kitchen garden, bordered by hedges of lavender and rosemary. Directly before me lay a formal garden with cobblestone paths, young laurel trees, and carefully sculpted boxwood. In the mornings, I walked alone through the garden, past a roaring stone lion, his jaws releasing a cooling spray of water into a stone well. Beyond lay an arching trellis covered with thorny rosebushes, which led to a small grotto of the Virgin, her hands spread to welcome petitioners.

  The child in my belly grew. By April, I had thickened unmistakably; the lines of my jaw, my cheeks softened. My nausea was replaced by a hunger so demanding that I kept plates of food besid
e my bed and often woke during the night to eat. Francesco doted on me like a parent; each day he instructed Agrippina to bring me a bucket of milk, frothy and still warm from the animal’s body.

  My husband never touched me. We behaved toward each other like distant but cordial acquaintances; he gave me whatever I asked for. He did not protest when I ordered that a cot for Zalumma be put at the foot of my bed. But to a great extent, I was his prisoner: I was no longer to go to market. I could attend Savonarola’s sermons and, if I wished, go to our family chapel at Santissima Annunziata. All other outings required my husband’s express permission.

  Francesco and I usually saw each other once daily, at supper. My father joined us. He seemed to take special joy in my company and brightened at any mention of the coming child. But he lost weight, so much so that I worried for his health; and when he sat at the table listening to Francesco, I detected a silent misery gnawing at him. I doubted he would ever be happy again.

  Nor would I, though my life had not become as hellish as I had feared. Francesco heard Savonarola preach in the mornings and visited his whores at night; if he worried over the discrepancy between his public and private life, he did not show it. After a day of work at the bottega and the Palazzo della Signoria, where he served as a Buonomo, he relished his supper and his attentive audience. My father and I listened but said little as Francesco related the news of the day.

  Many changes had come about because of Fra Girolamo, who had decided that God should be deeply involved in the workings of the Signoria. Laws were passed: Sodomy brought a fiery death at the stake, a low décolletage brought public disgrace and a fine. Poetry and gambling were outlawed. Adulterers quaked in fear of death by stoning. (Francesco related this with all seriousness; never mind that he was chief among them.) Men and women who dared sport jewels risked losing them, for the streets were now patrolled by young boys loyal to the friar and determined to seize any “unnecessary” wealth as a “donation” to the Church. Citizens ventured out furtively, worried that a thoughtless act might call attention to themselves, that a chance remark might be taken as proof of indifference toward God.

  We all grew afraid.

  Meanwhile, the Lord dictated that Florence should no longer be governed by the rich. He preferred a Great Council in the style of Venice, and if one was not created, He would smite the city. The Mother of God was also interested in politics. She appeared to the friar and spoke eloquently in Tuscan of the need for reform.

  Savonarola began to preach vehemently against Rome and the scandalous behavior of Pope Alexander, who had brought his teenaged mistress to live with him in the Vatican.

  Francesco taught me a new term: Arrabbiati, the mad dogs. These were the men who snarled at Savonarola, who said that a friar had no business meddling in politics. Francesco had nothing but disdain for them.

  My father, who had once been an outspoken proponent of the friar, now smiled palely or frowned at the appropriate times, but said little. The fire had altogether left him, though he went with Francesco to hear Savonarola preach.

  Talk of the prophet annoyed me. His sermons now excluded women-given that he spoke mostly of political matters-except on Saturdays, when he preached directly to members of the gentler sex. I was obliged to attend; my husband was a Buonomo, after all. Zalumma and I sat and listened in rigid silence.

  But at times I spoke to God. I had forgiven Him, to some extent, after my father’s recovery. But I only prayed at our family chapel at Santissima Annunziata, where I was comfortable. I liked the fact that it was old, and small, and plain.

  During this time, King Charles of France made his way to Naples, only to be ultimately defeated there. His army retraced its steps northward, passing unimpeded again through Rome, until at last it arrived barely two days’ ride from Florence.

  Savonarola warned us all to repent, else God, in the form of Charles, would strike us down. At the same time, the friar went to Siena, heard Charles’s confession, fed him the Host, and threatened him in person with God’s wrath if he did not deliver Pisa into our hands.

  Charles remained mute on the subject; Savonarola returned home without an answer, and we Florentines grew anxious as the French lingered in Siena.

  I couldn’t trouble myself, however. I sat on my balcony and watched the white lilies bloom.

  In May, a flood drowned all the tender young corn growing on the banks of the Arno. A sign of God’s displeasure, the prophet said; if we did not repent, He would send Charles next. I watched the laurel trees grow full and flutter, silvery, in the wind; I watched them bow to the gray rains.

  In June, I stared out at the roses, vividly red against deep green; I inhaled their scent, carried on the breeze. Water flowed from the lion’s mouth with a soothing, repetitive gurgle.

  August was sultry and I was miserable. I could not sleep because of the heat, because of the restless child, because of the ache in my back. I was uncomfortable lying down, sitting, standing; I could no longer see my feet, could not remove my own slippers, could hardly get up from the bed or a chair. My wedding ring grew so tight my finger ached. Zalumma generously applied soap, and when she finally succeeded in wrenching the ring off, I shrieked.

  Zalumma and I counted. We expected the baby to arrive the first or second week of the month. By the last week, Zalumma was pleased-the child’s tardiness would only serve to convince Francesco it was his-but I was too desperate to appreciate my good fortune.

  By the first of September, I was unpleasant to everyone, including Zalumma. I had given up coming down to supper; Francesco sent up small gifts, but I was too irritable to acknowledge them.

  That week, on one particularly hot night, I woke abruptly, filled with a strange alertness. I was sweating. I had balled up my nightgown and pushed it beneath my pillow; the damp linen sheet clung so tightly to my belly that I could see the child stirring.

  I rose awkwardly and pulled on my gown. Zalumma was snoring lightly on her cot. I moved as lightly as my bulk allowed and slipped quietly out the door. I was thirsty and thought to go downstairs where it was cooler, to get some fresh water to drink. My eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, and so I took no candle.

  As I began to descend the stairs, I saw light advancing from the opposite direction-Francesco, I assumed. Like a good wife, I turned, intending to go back up discreetly; but a feminine giggle made me stop, press my back firm against the wall to keep my body clear of the arc of looming light, and look down.

  On the landing below stood Isabella-young, pretty Isabella-in a white linen camicia, with a key in one upraised hand and a candle in the other. She leaned backward into the grasp of a man who had wound his arms beneath her breasts and pulled her against his chest, then pressed his face against her neck. As he kissed her, she fought to repress her laughter-and when she failed, he shushed her, and she pulled away from him to open the door to my husband’s chambers. A lamp burned there in anticipation of his return.

  Francesco, I thought, and Isabella. He had returned an hour or two early; perhaps one of his strumpets had fallen ill, because his schedule was otherwise predictable. I was not at all surprised or offended by the thought of his dalliance, though I was somewhat disappointed in Isabella.

  But the man who raised his face was not my husband.

  I caught only a glimpse of him, of his flashing smile, before he took the key from Isabella’s hand. He was dark-haired, perhaps my age, around sixteen. I had never seen him before. Had Isabella admitted a thief?

  I stood, motionless save for the kicking of the child. For reasons I still do not understand, I was not afraid of him.

  Isabella turned and gave him a passionate kiss; as she left him to go back down the stairs, taking the candle with her, he slapped her bottom soundlessly. Then he went alone into Francesco’s rooms, guided by the lamp shining there.

  I listened to his unfamiliar footfall. With all the awkward grace I could summon, I moved stealthily down the stairs, past the intruder, who had paused in my husband’s
study.

  I went to the kitchen hearth and took the large iron poker, then moved quietly back up the stairs, to Francesco’s study.

  Draped in shadow, I watched as the stranger stood in front of Francesco’s desk, where he had placed a burning lamp taken from my husband’s bedroom. The drawer was open, and the key placed beside it; the stranger had unfolded a piece of paper and was frowning at it, his mouth silently forming words as he read. He was a pretty young man, with a large, strong nose and sharp eyes limned by coal-colored lashes; brown-black curls framed his oval face. He wore an artisan’s clothes: a gray tunic that fell almost to his knees, covering patched black leggings. If he had borne my husband’s jewels, or our gold or silver, or anything of value, I would have called out for the servants. But he was interested only in what he was reading.

  He didn’t see me until I stepped forward out of the darkness and demanded, “What are you doing?”

  He stopped, his chin lifting in surprise, and when he turned to look at me, the paper fell from his fingers. Miraculously, I reached out and caught it, fluttering, in the air before it reached the ground.

  He moved as if to take it from me, but I raised the poker threateningly. He saw my weapon, and his full lips curved in a crescent smile. There was lechery in it, and good humor. Like me, he was fearless. And, like me, he was aware that he simply needed to move a few paces back in order to reach the poker set beside the cold hearth. He glanced swiftly at it, then dismissed the notion.

  “Monna Lisa.” His tone was that of someone mildly startled to find a friend he knew well, but not in the place he had expected. He looked like a poor apprentice, and his speech was that of a tradesman.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “The Devil himself.” His smile never wavered; his gaze grew bemused and challenging, as if I were the one who had trespassed, not he. He was a brazen, cheerful criminal.