And then a thought struck me, abruptly darkening my mood. I had not been able to fathom why my pious father would permit me to attend a party at the Medici palazzo. First, it was too soon after my mother’s death for me to be seen dressed in a party gown; second, he was, by virtue of his devotion to Savonarola, an enemy of the Medici now (business matters, of course, had nothing to do with those of the soul, and so he continued to sell his wares to them). There was only one explanation for his desire to send his daughter in magnificent attire to see il Magnifico: Lorenzo was the unofficial marriage broker for all of moneyed Florence. No child of the upper classes dared wed without his approval, and most families preferred that Lorenzo choose the spouse. I was to be scrutinized, judged like a calf before slaughter. But almost every bride had seen fifteen summers.
My presence in the household was a reproach to my father, a constant reminder of how he had ruined my mother’s life. “I am not quite thirteen,” I said, carelessly dropping the bewitching cangiante into a pile on my lap. “Yet he cannot wait to be rid of me.”
Zalumma set down a fine measure of voided velvet and smoothed it with her hand, then gazed steadily at me. “You are too young,” she said. “But Ser Lorenzo has been very ill. Perhaps your father merely wishes to have his counsel while he is still among us.”
“Why would my father consult him at all, unless he saw a way to marry me off quickly now?” I countered. “Why else take the advice of a Medici? Why not wait and see me married off to one of the piagnoni?”
Zalumma moved to a sumptuous piece of celery-colored damask and lifted it. Sunlight reflected off its shiny, polished surface, revealing a pattern of garlands woven into the cloth. “You could refuse,” she said. “And, as you say, wait a few more years and then be married off to one of Savonarola’s weepers. Or . . .” She tilted her lovely face to study me. “You could let il Magnifico make the choice. Were I the bride, I would certainly prefer the latter.”
I considered this, then set the cangiante aside. While the interplay of hues was intriguing, the fabric was too stiff, the red and green too intense for my coloring. I rose, took the celery damask from Zalumma’s hand, and set it down beside a deep blue-green voided velvet, a pattern of satin vines running through the thick plush. “This,” I said, resting a finger on the velvet, “for the bodice and skirt, edged with the damask. And the brocade with greens and violets, for the sleeves.”
The dress was assembled within a week, after which I was called upon to wait. Il Magnifico’s health had been steadily declining, and it was uncertain when or even whether the affair would take place. I was strangely relieved. Though I did not relish living under my father’s roof, I relished even less the thought of going to live so soon under a stranger’s. And while taking up residence in my mother’s quarters brought painful memories, it also brought an odd comfort.
A second week passed; then, at supper, my father was uncharacteristically silent. Though he often repeated the friar’s assertion that God had taken my mother to Heaven out of kindness, his eyes betrayed uncertainty and guilt, as they did that night.
I could not bear to look at him for long; I finished my meal swiftly. When I excused myself from the table, he interrupted.
“Il Magnifico has summoned you.” His tone was curt. “Tomorrow, in the late afternoon, I am to take you to the palazzo on the Via Larga.”
XXII
I was not, my father iterated firmly, to speak of this with any of the servants save Zalumma. Not even our driver was to know; my father would take me himself, in the carriage he reserved for business.
The next day found me overcome by anxiety. I was to be on display, my good attributes and bad noted and used to determine my future. I would be studied and critiqued by Lorenzo and, I expected, a group of carefully chosen highborn women. My nerves were further undermined by the revelation that Zalumma would not be allowed to accompany me.
The gown, cunningly fitted to suggest a woman’s shape where there was none, was far grander than anything I had worn. The full skirts, with a short train, were of the deep blue-green velvet with its pattern of satin vines; the bodice was of the same velvet with insets of Zalumma’s pale green damask. At the high waist was a belt of delicately wrought silver. The sleeves were slashed and fitted, made from a brocade woven from turquoise, green, and purple threads interlaced with those of pure silver. Zalumma pulled my camicia through the slits, and puffed it according to the fashion; I had chosen the gossamer white silk, shot through with silver thread.
With my hair there was nothing but frustration. I wore a cap made from the brocade, trimmed with seed pearls, and since I was an unmarried girl, my hair was allowed to fall free onto my shoulders. But the coarse waves were irregular, in need of taming; Zalumma struggled with a hot poker to create fetching ringlets. But my locks would not hold them, and the effort created only more chaos.
As it was late February, I put on the sleeveless overdress—the brocade, trimmed with a thick stripe of the damask, then by white ermine. It was open at the center to reveal the full glory of the gown. Round my neck I wore my mother’s necklace of seed pearls, with a large pendant of aquamarine; it had been sized to fall just above the bodice, so that it rested cold against my skin.
At the last, Zalumma drew me to stand before a full-length mirror. I drew in a breath. I had never seen myself look so comely; I had never looked so much like my mother.
When she led me down to my waiting father, I thought that he would weep.
I sat beside my father in the carriage, as I often had when I used to accompany him on business to homes of the nobility. I wore a dark blue wool cape to hide my finery, in compliance with the sumptuary laws.
As he drove, my father was gloomy and reticent; he stared at the late winter landscape, his eyes haggard, squinting at the bright afternoon sun. He wore his usual attire of a plain black wool tunic and worn leggings with a black mantle—not at all appropriate for the function we were about to attend.
The afternoon air was pleasantly brisk, scented with the smoke from countless hearths. We rode alongside the Arno, then crossed the Ponte Vecchio, where most of the shops were still open. I remembered my exuberance the last time I had crossed the old bridge with Zalumma and my mother, how I had taken delight in the magnificent fabrications of the artists and goldsmiths; now, sitting beside my father, I was unable to summon a scrap of joy.
When we crossed the bridge onto the broad Via Larga, I realized that, should I want to voice the question that had been gnawing at me, I had to do so quickly, as we would soon be at our destination.
“Fra Girolamo does not approve of the Medici,” I said. “Why do you take me to Lorenzo?”
My father gazed out at the landscape and rubbed his beard. “Because of a promise. One that I made long ago.”
So, perhaps Zalumma had been right. Perhaps my mother had asked that her daughter’s husband be chosen by the wisest marriage broker in town, and my father, when he was still besotted with his wife instead of Savonarola, had agreed. And knowing that Lorenzo’s health was failing, my father was being cautious and choosing the groom well ahead of time.
Shortly thereafter, my father pulled the carriage up to the gated entry of Lorenzo’s palazzo. An armed man opened the iron gate and we rolled inside, near the stables. I waited for my father to rise and help me down, then escort me on his arm into the palazzo. For the first time in years, I was grateful for his presence.
But he surprised me. “Wait,” he said, extending a warning arm when I moved to rise. “Just wait.”
I sat in a torment of anticipation until, minutes later, the side doors to the palazzo swung open, and a man—followed by a pair of guards—walked out slowly, gingerly, with the help of an exquisitely carved wood-and-gold cane.
In the months since I had seen him, Lorenzo had aged; though he was only a few years past forty, he looked decades older. His skin was sagging, jaundiced. Only one thing pointed to his relative youth: his hair, pure black without a single lock o
f gray.
But even leaning on the cane, he walked with grace and dignity, and the self-possessed air of a man who had never once questioned his own importance. He glanced over his shoulder at one of the guards and gave a nod; the summoned man hurried forward and offered me his arm. I took it and let him help me down.
My father followed and bowed to our approaching host.
“God be with you, Ser Antonio,” il Magnifico said as he stepped up to us.
“And with you, Ser Lorenzo,” my father replied.
“So this is our Lisa?”
“This is she.”
“Madonna Lisa.” Lorenzo bowed stiffly, cautiously, from the shoulders. “Forgive me if I cannot make proper genuflection to such a beautiful young woman.”
“Ser Lorenzo.” I made a full proper curtsy, though I was undone.
“Lisa.” My father spoke softly, swiftly. “I leave you to Ser Lorenzo’s care. I will be in the chapel here, attending vespers. When you are ready, I will fetch you.”
“But Father—” I began; before I could say more, he had bowed again to Ser Lorenzo, then followed one of the guards into the palazzo.
I was abandoned. I understood my father’s intention then: No one but the parties directly involved would ever know he had brought me here. Even those who saw us come in the gate would think that he was simply conducting business, delivering wools to Ser Lorenzo as he always had, with his daughter to accompany him.
Panicked, I looked back at il Magnifico.
He was smiling sympathetically. His eyes were amazing; kind now, and reassuring for my sake, but beneath that was a brilliance, breathtakingly shrewd and sensitive. “Don’t be afraid, young Madonna,” he said, in a weak, nasal voice. “Your father has personal and religious reasons for being uncomfortable at our gathering; it is kinder to release him from such an obligation, don’t you think?”
He held out his free arm to me and I took it, winding mine around his so that my hand lightly clasped his wrist. His own hands were gnarled, the fingers so misshapen and overlapping he could scarcely grip his cane. I suspected it had been some years since he held a pen.
We began to stroll together. I could sense that he used the walking stick to bear a great deal of his weight, so I tried to be more of a support to him than a hindrance.
“Yes,” I said, dully, for all my wit had fled. “He has always disliked social functions; in fact, I cannot remember when he last attended one.”
“I am afraid that you are burdened with me for an escort this evening,” he said, as we made our way to the entry. “And I am sorry for it. Every marriageable young woman who has entered my household has been nervous enough, but at least the others have been comforted by the presence of family.”
“Their mothers and sisters,” I added, thinking how I had none.
He nodded, then said softly, “I hope, dear Lisa, that you are not too dreadfully uncomfortable.”
“I am terrified,” I answered quite earnestly, then blushed at my own unintended candor.
He lifted his face to the waning sun and laughed. “I like that you are honest and given to frank speech, Madonna. You will fare better than most.”
We made our way past armed guards into a wide hallway with polished marble flooring and displays of centuries-old armor and weapons; from there, we passed into another corridor, its walls adorned with paintings hung in gilded frames.
“I gave my condolences regarding your mother’s death to your father,” Ser Lorenzo said. “I should like now to give them to you. Madonna Lucrezia was a fine woman, of great beauty and intelligence; none had a nobler soul.”
I studied him askance. “You knew her?”
He smiled wanly. “When she was younger, and well.” He said no further, for we had arrived at the hall’s conclusion, and tall arching doors; a pair of servants, one on either side, threw them open.
I expected a chamber of moderate size, filled with at most a dozen Florentine noblewomen. I encountered something quite different.
The room could easily have held more than a hundred people; it was high ceilinged and as vast as a sanctuary. Though the sun still hung low in the sky, torches and candelabra of every description blazed. Despite its size, the room was quite warm, given the presence of three large hearths, well fed and blazing. Here again were displays of ancient armor and weaponry, marble busts on pedestals, breathtaking tapestries—one of them, the Medici crest with the palle, in Florence’s colors of blue and gold. Pagan-themed paintings covered the walls; what was not obscured was festooned in beribboned garlands, decorated by ornate masks, a salute to Carnival.
Banquet tables—laden with roast lamb and pig and every type of fowl imaginable, as well as nuts, fruits, bread, cheese, and sweets—had been pushed against the walls. But there was to be no formal dining; the vast display of food was available to any guest at any moment they wished. There were servants to provide plates and knives, servants with empty goblets and flagons of wine. The guests helped themselves to refreshment, then stood talking, or seated themselves upon convenient groupings of chairs.
I was last to arrive: The wine had apparently been flowing for some time, for the conversation was convivial and quite loud, competing with the musicians. I was too overwhelmed to actually count, but my impression was that there were at least thirty persons in the room.
And I the only female.
As was the custom for girls being considered for marriage, I expected for all talking to cease; I expected each man to turn around, and for Lorenzo to make an announcement that I had arrived. I expected to be eyed carefully.
But Lorenzo said nothing, and as we entered the room, the men—divided into several small groups, some laughing, some arguing, some telling tales—did not so much as look up at us.
I kept staring into the crowd, thinking I would at least find one feminine face—perhaps that belonging to Lorenzo’s daughter-in-law, Madonna Alfonsina—but she was nowhere to be seen. This was strictly a gathering of gentlemen, and I could not help but wonder whether my future husband stood among them.
“These are my friends.” Lorenzo raised his reedy voice above the noise. “I have been unable to enjoy their company for some time. As it is Carnival, I thought they would enjoy some small entertainment.” He inclined his head to smile at me. “As I hope you will.”
I did not refuse when he summoned a servant, who brought a goblet—of exquisite gold, adorned with the darkest blue lapis lazuli I had ever seen. It contained watered wine, the most delicious I had ever tasted. The goblet was embarrassingly full.
“This is quite a lot of wine,” I remarked, then silently cursed myself.
His expression turned sly and playful. “Perhaps you shall need it.”
Of that, I had no doubt. “Will you not have some?”
He shook his head, his smile grown sheepish. “My time for indulgence is long past, I fear. Here”—he glanced up, and with his sharp chin indicated a small group of men sitting in the center of the room—“I should like to introduce you to some of my dearest friends.”
I took a swift sip of wine. So, I was to be judged after all—and by the closest of Medici associates. I firmly fixed a small, demure smile upon my lips, and walked arm in arm with my host.
Il Magnifico steered us toward a group of four men, three sitting and one standing beside a table, where plates of food and goblets of wine rested. The man on his feet, the speaker of the moment, was approaching the half-century mark in age. His blond hair was streaked with gray, his body fleshy, his clean-shaven face puffy from drink; even so, one could see he had been quite handsome as a youth, for he had full, sensual lips and great, heavy-lidded eyes. Obviously wealthy, he wore a sapphire velvet farsetto beneath a skillfully draped sky-blue mantle. In one hand was a small plate, heaped with food; in the other, the tiny leg of a roasted quail, which he held up and addressed as if it could hear him.
“Alas, sweet bird,” he intoned mockingly, “how tragic for you that you were never rescued by our friend her
e—and how fortuitous for me that you have instead made my acquaintance first!”
Off to the side sat a dark-haired, dark-eyed lad of perhaps eighteen, whose great high brow seemed precariously balanced atop a jaw so foreshortened it looked as though he had lost all his teeth; his appearance was not helped by the fact that his eyes bulged, or that his demeanor was withdrawn and sullen. He clutched his wine, sipping it while the others enjoyed amicable conversation. The second was an old man, wizened and bald save for a few wisps of hair at the temples. And the third . . .
Ah, the third. The third, the “friend” to whom the speaker referred, I judged to be between the ages of thirty and forty—or perhaps ageless, for his dress and grooming were quite out of fashion, more appropriate to that of ancient Greece or Rome. He wore a tunic so long it reached his knees, of rose-colored, unadorned fabric and untailored construction. His hair, pale brown streaked with gold and silver, fell in perfect waves past his shoulders, almost to his waist, and his beard, also waving, matched it in length. Despite the oddity of his attire, he was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing in the room. His teeth were white and even, his nose straight and narrow, and his eyes . . . If Lorenzo was brilliant, this man was the sun. In his eyes was a remarkable sensitivity, a razor-keen perceptiveness.
I prayed silently: Dear God, if I must have one man in Florence—one man out of thousands—let it be he.
Lorenzo lingered just far enough back so that the four need not interrupt their conversation to acknowledge him. Just as the first man finished speaking, the old one, sitting in the chair next to my beautiful philosopher, frowned at him and asked, “Is it true, then, what they say? That you go to market to buy caged birds and set them free?”
My philosopher grinned charmingly; the standing man with the quail answered for him. “I have accompanied him several times on such missions,” he said, then popped the roasted leg into his mouth and drew out the bone, stripped of flesh. Chewing, he added, his voice muffled: “He has done so since he was a stripling.”
I, Mona Lisa Page 14
