“How long,” I finally asked her, “would it take for Ser Giuliano to receive a reply?”
“It would be in his hands by the morrow.” She favored me with a collusive smile. I had told her everything of the tour in the Medici palazzo: of Ser Lorenzo’s kindness and frailty, of young Giuliano’s boldness, of Leonardo’s graciousness and beauty. She knew, as I did, the impossibility of a match with Giuliano, yet I think a part of her reveled in flouting convention. Perhaps she, too, was possessed of a wild hope that the impossible might somehow occur.
“Bring me quill and paper,” I said, and when they came, I scratched out a reply. Once it was folded and sealed, I handed it to her.
Then I rose, unbolted my door, and went downstairs to seek my father.
XXIX
My father embraced me when I told him I would attend Mass with him. “Two days,” I told him. “Give me but two days to pray and ready my heart; then I will go with you.” He granted it happily.
The next day, as Zalumma had promised, the letter was delivered into Giuliano’s hands; Giuliano made my unknown messenger wait, and penned a reply that very hour. By evening, shuttered in the safety of my bedchamber, I read and reread his answer until Zalumma finally insisted I blow out the candle.
Though it had rained steadily the day before, the evening of the second day was as beautiful as one could hope for in early April. As we rode up to the church of San Lorenzo, the sun hung low in the sky, its warmth offset by a cool breeze.
My father had not exaggerated concerning the size of the crowd that came to hear the friar preach. The throng covered the church steps and spilled out into the piazza; yet despite the size of the gathering, there was no sense of excitement, no liveliness or joy here. It was as hushed as a funeral, the quiet broken only by sighs and softly murmured prayers. Every form was draped in somber colors. There were no women dressed brightly for display, no flash of jewels or gold. It was as though a great flock of chastened ravens had gathered.
There was no possible way for us to push through the crowd to hear. For a moment, I grew sick with fear: Did my father intend for us to stand outside in the piazza? If so, all was lost. . . .
Yet as my father helped me climb from the carriage, Giovanni Pico appeared; he had been awaiting us. The act of setting eyes upon him still made me flinch.
My father embraced Pico, but I knew him well enough to notice his enthusiasm was feigned. There was just a hint of coolness in his smile, which faded almost instantly when he drew away—a little too swiftly.
His arm upon my father’s shoulder, the Count turned and led us toward the church. The crowd parted for him; most recognized him and bowed, acknowledging his close tie to Fra Girolamo. He sidled easily into the sanctuary, guiding my father as he held my arm and pulled me along; Zalumma followed closely.
San Marco had been filled to capacity when I had last heard Savonarola preach, but here in San Lorenzo people eschewed all social niceties and sat pressed against one another, shoulder to shoulder, barely able to raise their arms to cross themselves. Though it was a cool night, the church was heated by the great number of bodies; the air was close, redolent of perspiration, filled with the sound of breathing, sighing, praying.
Pico led us to the front of the church, where the bulky monk Domenico held our place. I turned my face away lest he or the others see my hatred.
He lumbered past us, speaking briefly only to Pico, and disappeared into the throng. Only then did I look about me—and notice the distinctive and familiar face of a gangly, tactiturn youth. It took me a moment to recall where I had seen him: in the Palazzo Medici, sitting silently with Botticelli and Leonardo da Vinci. It was the sculptor Michelangelo.
Service began. The ritual of Mass was brief, pared to its bones in acknowledgment that the people had not come to partake of the Eucharist; they had come to hear Savonarola speak.
And so he did. The sight of the homely little monk gripping the edges of the pulpit pierced me far more painfully than the presence of Pico, or even the murderer Domenico.
When the preacher opened his mouth and the sound of his rasping voice filled the cathedral, I could not prevent a tear from spilling onto my cheek. Zalumma saw and gripped my hand tightly. My father saw, too; perhaps he thought my sadness sprang from repentance. After all, many listeners—mostly women but some men, too—had begun to weep as soon as Savonarola uttered his first sentence.
I could focus little on his words; I caught only snatches of the sermon:
The Holy Mother Herself appeared unto me and spoke. . . .
The scourge of the Lord approaches. . . . Cling you unto sodomy, O Florence, to the filth of men loving men, and the Lord will strike you down. Cling you unto the love of riches, of jewels and vain treasures, while the poor cry out for want of bread, and the Lord will strike you down. Cling you unto art and adornment which celebrates the pagan and fails to glorify Christ, and the Lord will strike you down. Cling you unto earthly power, and the Lord will strike you down.
I thought of Leonardo, who by then had surely, wisely, returned to Milan. I thought of Lorenzo, who was bound to remain, though his own people’s hearts were being poisoned against him. I thought of Giuliano the elder, whose earthly remains rested here, and wondered if he listened with horror from Heaven.
Disaster shall befall you, Florence; retribution is at hand. The time is here. The time is here.
I turned and whispered to Zalumma. I put my hand to my forehead and swayed as if dizzied. My actions were not entirely feigned.
She reacted with concern. She leaned past me, toward my father, and said, “Ser Antonio, she is ill; I fear she will faint. It is the crowd. With your leave, I will take her outside briefly for some air.”
My father nodded and made a quick, impatient gesture for us to go; his eyes were wide and shining, directed not at us, but at the man in the pulpit.
Pico, too, was so captivated by the words of Fra Girolamo that he paid us no mind. I turned—to find standing directly behind me a man, tall and thin, with a long, sharp chin, whose face provoked an elusive and unpleasant recognition. He nodded in acknowledgment; startled, I nodded in return, though I could not place him.
Zalumma and I forced our way through the barrier of contrite flesh—first to the great open doors, then down the stairs, then through the throng in the piazza, who pressed as closely as possible toward the church, hoping to catch a word, a glimpse, of the great prophet.
Once we were free, I craned my neck in search of the driver. He was nowhere to be found—a relief. I nodded to Zalumma and we hurried to the church garden, walled in and hidden behind a gate.
Inside, beyond the stony memorials to the dead and a path lined with bloomless, spiny rosebushes, two cloaked men—one tall and one of average height—stood beneath the branches of a budding tree. The light was fading, but when the shorter pulled back his hood, I recognized him at once.
“Giuliano!” I half ran to him, and he to me. Our respective escorts—his scowling and sporting a long sword—remained two paces behind us.
He took my hand—this time with some awkwardness—and bent to kiss it. His fingers were long and slender, as his father’s must have been before they grew twisted from age and disease. We stared at each other and lost our tongues. His cheeks were flushed and streaked with tears.
After a struggle to regain composure, he said, “Father is so sick he can barely speak; today he did not recognize me. The doctors are worried. I was afraid to leave him.”
I squeezed his hand. “I am sorry. So sorry . . . but he has been very sick and recovered before. I will pray for him, for God to heal him.”
He gestured with his chin at the sanctuary. “Is it true, what they say? That Savonarola preaches against him? That he says unkind things?”
I answered reluctantly. “He has not spoken of him by name. But he condemns those with wealth and art and power.”
Giuliano lowered his face; his curling brown hair, chin length, spilled forward. “Why does he
hate Father? He is in such pain now. . . . I can’t bear to hear his groaning. Why would anyone want to destroy everything my family has done to help Florence? All the beauty, the philosophy, the paintings and sculptures . . . My father is a kind man. He has always given freely to the poor. . . .” He lifted his face again and eyed me. “You don’t believe such things, do you, Madonna? Are you one of the piagnoni now?”
“Of course not!” I was so offended by the statement that my ire convinced him at once. “I would not be here at all, were it not for the chance of seeing you. I despise Fra Girolamo.”
His shoulders slumped slightly, relaxed by my words. “For that I am glad. . . . Lisa—may I address you so?” At my nod, he continued. “Lisa, I regret that my sorrow intrudes on us at this meeting. For I have come to speak of a matter you might find preposterous . . .”
I drew in a breath and held it.
“The evening you came to visit us—I have thought of nothing else. I think of nothing but you, Lisa. And though I am too young, and though my father might have objections, I want nothing more. . . .” He grew embarrassed and dropped his gaze as he fumbled for words. For my part, I could scarce believe what I was hearing, though I had dreamed of it often enough.
He still held my hand; his grip tightened, and his fingers began to worry my flesh. At last he looked up at me and said, his words rushing together: “I love you—it is awful; I cannot sleep at night. I want no life without you. I wish to marry you. I am young, but mature enough to know my own mind; I have borne more responsibility than most my age. Father would want a more strategic match, I am sure, but when he is better, I have no doubt that I could make my case to him. We would have to wait a year, perhaps two, but . . .” At last he ran out of breath, then took in a great gulp of air and said, his eyes shining not with tears now, but pure fear, “Well, first I must know how you feel.”
I answered without pause or thought. “I want nothing more fervently.”
His smile dazzled. “And your feelings? . . .”
“Are the same as yours. But,” I added softly, “my father would never permit it. He is one of the piagnoni.”
His enthusiasm was limitless. “We could negotiate with him. If we required no dowry . . . If we paid him sufficiently so that he need not work . . . I have met Ser Antonio. He has always been most respectful, and seems to be a reasonable man.” He fell silent, reflecting. “Father is too ill to consider this . . . but I will take this up with my elder brother, Piero. I can reason with him. By the time Father recovers, the engagement will have been announced. He has always indulged me, and this time will be no different.”
He spoke with such wild optimism that I found myself convinced. “Is it possible?”
“More than possible,” he said. “It is done: I shall see to it. I will not be dissuaded. I will speak to Piero tonight, and hound him in the morning, if need be. And I will bring a report of my success to you tomorrow. Where shall we meet, and when?”
“Here.” I could think of no better place for subterfuge. “And at the same time.”
“Tomorrow evening, then.” Abruptly, he leaned forward and kissed me full on the lips; startled, I recoiled slightly—but I would be a liar if I did not admit that I quickly returned his ardor.
That was, of course, the impetus for our respective escorts to pounce and separate us. Giuliano was herded toward a waiting carriage, while Zalumma led me back to the church.
I whispered to Zalumma. “Am I foolish, or is it possible?”
Her hand was on my shoulder, guiding me; her gaze was focused on the near-distant crowd. “Nothing is impossible,” she said.
This time, I did not have to feign my unsteady step.
XXX
I slept not at all that night—knowing that Giuliano, too, probably lay awake in his bed on the other side of the Arno. I surrendered all heartbreak over learning that Leonardo favored men; I told myself that his admiring gaze had been that of an artist assessing a potential subject, and nothing more. Friend, he had written, and that was precisely what he had meant.
But Giuliano . . . handsome, intelligent, appreciative of the arts, and young, like me . . . I could dream of no better husband. And the love he bore for me provoked my own. Yet I could imagine no earthly bribe—gold, jewels, property—that would convince my father to give me to a Medici.
I prayed that night to God for Ser Lorenzo to recover and give Giuliano permission to marry me, for Him to soften my father’s heart and make such a union possible. I prayed, too, that the portrait il Magnifico had commissioned would become reality.
Just before dawn, when the darkness was barely beginning to ease to gray, I was seized by an unpleasant revelation: The stranger who had nodded at me in the sanctuary was the same man who had been standing behind me, and helped me to my feet, at San Marco the day my mother had died.
. . .
That morning, my father was pleased to hear that I would again attend Mass at San Lorenzo. I was tired from want of sleep, and my nerves allowed me to eat little that day; my obvious pallor would, I hoped, provide me with the excuse I needed to again slip outside the sanctuary, to the garden.
It was the sixth of April. I remember the date clearly, given what was to follow.
The morning had been clear, but sunset found the sky eclipsed by blackening clouds; the wind bore the smell of coming rain. Had I not been so desperate to see Giuliano, or my father so desperate to hear the teachings of the prophet, we might well have stayed at home to avoid the imminent deluge.
Outside San Lorenzo, the ranks of the faithful had swelled to a number even greater than that of the previous evening; the prospect of ill weather had done nothing to discourage them.
Once again, I was forced to set eyes upon Count Pico, who greeted us with his usual unctuous courtesy, and upon Fra Domenico, who held our place near the pulpit, then disappeared. Given my nerves, I remember little of the ceremony or the sermon; but Fra Girolamo’s opening words were delivered so forcefully I will never forget them.
“Ecco gladius Domine super terram cito et velociter!” he shouted, with such vehemence that many of his listeners gasped. “Behold the sword of the Lord, sure and swift over the Earth!”
The worshipers fell abruptly silent. The only sound in the great cathedral was that of Savonarola’s hoarse, ecstatic proclamations.
God had spoken to him, Fra Girolamo claimed. He had attempted the previous night to pen a sermon about Lazarus the risen, but the proper words eluded him—until God Himself spoke them aloud to his prophet.
God’s patience had been tried; no more would He hold back His hand. Judgment was coming, judgment was here, and nothing now could stop it. Only the faithful would be spared. He spoke so convincingly that I had to struggle not to be frightened.
The air was warm and close. I closed my eyes and swayed, then felt the sudden conviction that I had to break free of the crowd or else be violently sick, there in the sanctuary. I caught Zalumma’s arm with fierce desperation. She had been waiting for my signal, but at the sight of my honest distress grew alarmed.
“She is sick,” she told my father, but he was once again utterly beguiled by the prophet and did not hear. And so Zalumma pushed me through the barricade of bodies outside, into the cool air.
The words of Savonarola’s sermon were whispered from person to person until they found their way outside, onto the church steps, where a peasant shouted them for those gathered there.
Repent ye, O Florence! Mothers, wail for your children!
The black, roiling clouds made early evening as dark as night. A cold wind off the Arno brought with it a brackish smell. The freedom and air revived me somewhat, though I was still anxious to hear Giuliano’s report.
We made our way to the church garden; I pushed open the gate. Inside, there was darkness, and against it the blacker shapes of trees whose branches writhed with each fresh gust of wind, setting blossoms asail.
But Giuliano was not there.
Not yet there, I told m
yself firmly and, raising my voice above the wind, said to Zalumma, “We will wait.”
I stood, my gaze fixed firmly on the open gate as I tried to conjure Giuliano and his guard from the shadows. Zalumma shared no such hope; her face was turned toward the starless sky, her attention on the coming storm. In the distance, a man’s voice floated on the breeze.
These are the words of God Himself. I am an unworthy messenger; I know not why God has chosen me. Ignore my frailties, O Florence, and focus your hearts instead on the voice of He Who warns you now.
We waited as long as we dared. I would have stayed longer, but Zalumma patted my shoulder. “It’s time. Your father will become suspicious.”
I silently resisted until she took my elbow and propelled me toward the gate. I walked back toward the church, my throat and chest aching with contained emotion. Despite the ominous weather, the crowd on the steps and in the piazza had not thinned; many had lit torches, their winding ranks a great, glittering snake.
Neither Zalumma nor I had the strength to push our way back inside; her insistence that they should let a noblewoman pass was greeted with scornful laughter.
I turned, thinking to go back to the garden, but Zalumma gripped my arm. “Stay,” she urged. “Do you hear? They have stopped repeating his sermon. Mass is almost over; your father will be out soon.” She added, in a lower voice, “If he had been able to come, he would have been waiting for you.”
I turned my face away, then started at the nearby rumble of thunder. Murmurs came from the crowd; an old man shouted, “He speaks the truth. The judgment of God is upon us!”
An inexplicable fear seized me.
When my father emerged from the church, trailed by Count Pico, he did not scold me, as I expected. To the contrary: He was kind. As he helped me up into the carriage, he said, “I know you have not been well of late. And I know how difficult it is for you to see Fra Girolamo. . . . But in time, your heart will heal. I tell you,” he said, his voice wavering with emotion. “Your mother is smiling sweetly down on you from Heaven this night.”
I, Mona Lisa Page 18
