Before she could think of what she wanted to say, Moto held his hands up, palms toward her, bringing that topic to a close. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not setting foot on that cursed island either.”
Now it was her turn to demand more information, and Moto—the new Moto?—was willing to give it. He laid out his own story: knowing who he was—who he was attracted to—from a very early age and knowing he couldn’t tell anyone. Even though everyone seemed to know it anyway. Never having friends in school and, worse, always knowing that his entire family—his father above all—was so deeply disappointed. Ashamed. And telling him, showing him, in so many ways, so many times, that even though they loved him, he could never be a real part of the family. He was not a real man.
He started strong, as if he’d been waiting a long time to tell her this, but he didn’t get far before his voice faltered and faded.
And now they were both near tears.
With nothing left to say or ask, Lucia rolled herself, fully dressed, in the coverlet on the bed and took refuge in sleep.
Moto sat by the window with the neon light flashing on his face in the dark.
“Lulu! Wake up!” Moto was shaking her. “We have to go.”
Groggy, disoriented, wrapped in a filthy coverlet on a thin mattress in a cheap hotel, Lucia struggled out of ugly dreams into ugly reality. The flickering neon of the hotel sign still filtered through the threadbare drapes.
“What time is it?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Morning or . . . ?”
“Morning.”
She shook her head to clear it. Moto was insistent.
“Come on! We have to go. Now!”
“Where are we going?”
For a moment, Moto’s smile lit up the room.
“We’re going fishing.”
When Professor Richman woke up, his sore throat was worse. And when he looked in the mirror, the bruises on his neck were frightening. But he decided to wear his wounds proudly. He’d come by them honorably. He’d faced that thug down. And an extravagant room-service breakfast helped to ease the pain. And now he smiled as he examined the photographs that had been delivered to his room by the bellhop as he was finishing breakfast. The concierge had done an impressive job, getting the roll of film developed and printed in less than an hour. The professor wasn’t even slightly embarrassed by insisting that it was urgent, even though the film had been sitting in his camera for weeks. After all, he’d been recuperating from the unfortunate events at Te-Te’s chapel, and after that, he’d been rather busy.
The prints weren’t very large, but after a career deciphering cuneiform tablets, the professor never traveled without a high-power magnifying glass—and now he reveled in the fine details that his “antique” camera had captured on film. He made a mental note to point out to Lucy that her cell phone camera instantly produced digital blurs that were as worthless as they were immediate.
He bent to his task and, as his eyes focused on the pictures he’d taken that afternoon at the orphanage, his mind was flooded with a series of images: the first time he had seen the painting in the dark of the sacristy and known in an instant that it could not possibly be a Caravaggio; the second time he had seen it, as the two thugs dragged it into the chapel, with the dead body of Lucia’s “zio” lying on the floor in a pool of blood; and the last time he had seen it, in the half-light of the warehouse, as some maniac tried to smash through the door with an axe.
Professor Richman was not by nature given to deep reflection. He took life as it came—often enough for better, but occasionally most certainly for worse. His academic career had been satisfying, if not dramatic. His marriage had been much the same. And since both had ended—one very much as expected, one very much by surprise—within weeks of each other, he had been dealing with this new life of his.
Now he stopped to consider how it had become clear that “wake me when it’s over” was not a good approach to life.
He found himself thinking through the stunning disruptions of the past weeks that had brought adventure, violence, injury, moments of terror, and moments when he surprised himself with courage he didn’t know he possessed. It made him wonder what his life might have been if he’d made different choices much earlier, if he’d sought adventure instead of comfort and certainty. He might have been a hero. He might have been dead. It made him smile.
But now he was here. He was alive and, as he sat up and stretched his back, he was comfortable.
Congratulations were in order.
He accepted them graciously.
And enough of that.
He bent back over the photographs.
Chapter 26
Roma
1606
The Marchesa Costanza Colonna received Cardinals del Monte and Benedetto Giustiniani at her brother’s Asciano residence, Palazzo Colonna on Via della Pilotta. Not far from the Quirinale, the palazzo was one of the finest in all of Roma.
“So once again we must save our wayward friend,” said the Marchesa Colonna once the cardinals had taken their seats across from her.
Del Monte glanced at the frescoed ceiling above them.
“I have sent word to my niece, the Princess Doria in Genoa,” continued the marchesa. “She said that her husband, Giovanni Andrea Doria, has offered refuge.”
“The Dorias? They are relatives of Ottavio Costa as well, are they not?” said Del Monte, turning to his cardinal companion.
“Is not all Roma related?” said the marchesa. “Sì, Giovanni is Costa’s nephew.”
“Bless the prince and your loving niece. Your intervention on Merisi’s behalf is generous,” said Cardinal Giustiniani. “Michele is a difficult man. I’ve had my own run-ins with him—if not for my brother, Vincenzo, I might not intervene.”
“We all intervene when it comes to genius, my good friend,” said Del Monte.
“Michele will, of course, be expected to paint something in return for their hospitality,” said the marchesa. “But we think he will be much safer in Genoa.”
“This is marvelous news, my dear marchesa,” said Cardinal del Monte.
“Attacking the pope’s legal scribe was rash,” said Cardinal Giustiniani. “We will have to work with the pope’s nephew Cardinal Borghese to allow Caravaggio back into Roma.”
Cardinal del Monte pressed his lips tight together, bleeding them of color. “Yes. Only Scipione Borghese can arrange that solution.”
“Cardinal del Monte, you may tell Michele that all is arranged. I trust he will travel in your carriage?”
“He should travel in mine,” said Cardinal Giustiniani. “I know my brother would want that. Cardinal del Monte has no business to conduct in Genoa, while we often do with family matters. Roma already suspects Del Monte of harboring Michelangelo.”
“It’s true,” said Del Monte. “Too many times he has fled there after a crime. He returns like a dog running with his tail between his legs.”
“Then it is settled. I’ll send a coach this evening to Palazzo Madama,” said Cardinal Giustiniani.
“I greatly appreciate your efforts,” said the marchesa, rising. “I thank you, good cardinals, for your act of compassion in protecting our mutual—and immoral and totally incorrigible!—friend. He shall live in Genoa until this situation settles.”
The marchesa folded her hands together and drew a deep breath.
“I pray to God Almighty this papal notary does not die from his injury.”
Chapter 27
Roma
1606
Cecco spotted Lena in the Piazza Navona. She was back to her usual spot near the church of San Giacomo degli Spagnoli. Her head drooped like a wilting flower.
Cecco bit his lip watching her. Two signori passed by him close enough to hear.
“Guarda!” said a man in a crimson velvet jacket. Look! “That’s the one Caravaggio made into a Madonna. The Church rejected the painting.”
“Why?” asked his mustached companion, running his eyes
over Lena’s body.
“Too lascivious. Her breasts falling out of her bodice. But Cardinal Borghese hangs it now in his palazzo.”
“I would like to have laid my eyes on that one before Borghese snatched it,” said the man, toying with the ends of his mustache. “Che bella!”
“Fancy her in your bed tonight? She’s fallen on hard times, this Madonna. I hear she’s cheap nowadays.”
“I wouldn’t mind her blessing my picio.”
They both laughed and walked on. Lena looked down at the gray stones of the Piazza Navona.
“Lena,” Cecco called to her from the shadows. He walked to her side. “I have word from my master!”
“Oh, Cecco!” she said, her eyes lighting up.
“He is returning from Genoa. Signor Pasqualone has recovered,” he said.
Lena’s body unfurled like a fern tendril in a shaft of light. “Cecco!” Before he knew it, he was enclosed in her embrace.
She’s so warm . . . like a mother. She smells of toasted bread.
“I’m unable to eat or sleep, worrying about him,” said Lena. “He will be the death of me, I swear it!”
A hand reached out for Cecco’s shoulder, shoving him away.
“Get out of the way, boy,” growled a voice.
Cecco looked up to see a Knight of Malta approaching Lena.
“How much?” he said to her, eyeing her bosom.
“It depends on what you want,” she said, lowering her eyes to the paving stones.
“I want everything. I’m as fierce as a rutting ram, whore.”
Lena colored. “Come with me to my pallet,” she said, not daring to look at Cecco.
“Up the ass,” said Roero, looking squarely at Cecco. “I want that too, puttana!”
Lena shuddered, looking beseechingly at Caravaggio’s boy. “I do this to feed my son,” she said. “God forgive me!”
“Come on, whore,” said the knight, pushing her on. “I don’t have all day—I’m in port for only three days. Your artist friend might return before I sample your wares.”
He turned toward Cecco.
“Tell your master what I’m going to do to his girlfriend.”
He cupped his groin and roared with laughter.
It was an ugly sound.
Two days later, Caravaggio invited Lena to dine with him at a little tavern on the Campo de’ Fiori.
They sat across from each other at a tiny table.
“Ah!” he said. “To be back in Roma. You cannot imagine how I lusted for this city.”
He drew in her scent, his nostrils flaring.
“I want to paint you again,” he said.
“Michele!” she said, her throat flushing in delight.
“Dead,” he said. He bit into his pasta, a devilish smile on his lips.
“Dead?” Lena stopped eating her plate of lentils and set down her spoon.
What homecoming is this? Lena thought.
“An attorney for the pope has commissioned it,” said Caravaggio through a mouthful of food. “He wants it to hang in his chapel in the Carmelite church over in Trastevere, Santa Maria della Scala.”
Lena pushed her lentils around the earthenware plate. “A Carmelite church?” she said. “No order is stricter.”
A gleam came to his eyes. “Sì, damn them. High morals and pigheaded.”
Lena thought of the latest rejection. “But Michele, how will you depict me?”
“Not you, the Madonna,” he said, his smile fading. “Dead, of course. Very dead.”
“But surely the Church wants the ascension of the Virgin, entering heaven, angels—”
“What do I care? They are foolish sots. Mary died—her body was left behind, like all the rest of us will be!”
Lena took a deep breath, her white bosom rising in her low-cut bodice. Two men eating next to them stopped talking to admire her.
“Eat your food,” snarled Caravaggio. “She is not here for your entertainment!”
The customers hunched over their plates, grumbling.
“Will you pose for me, Lena?”
“Of course, Michele,” she said. “But . . .”
“But?”
“Could you . . . would you consider their wishes? Letting Mary ascend to the heavens in—”
“Lena! Basta!” said Caravaggio. The men next to them stopped chewing, hearing the anger in his voice. Lena recoiled, snapping her mouth shut.
“How I execute the painting has nothing to do with you! Or anyone else!” Caravaggio said. “I paint according to my heart. What I see before me. I already have the vision!”
“Oh, but Michele!” said Lena, tears springing to her eyes. “What of the rejection of the last one?”
“What of it? Politics!” said Caravaggio, growling. “Hypocrisy. I blame it on that Baglione—a jealous artist, spreading rumors, inciting fear. He wants all the commissions.”
“Do you think . . . my breasts—”
“Your breasts are beautiful. Exquisite! Does the Church really think the Madonna had no breasts? The clergy officially declares a healthy bosom unholy. They say that to depict Jesus Christ naked with a picio dangling is blasphemy. Made in the image of God, says the Bible. Does a naked child not have a penis?”
Lena’s face crumpled. “Antonio is such a darling baby. How could they not love him?”
“Two days it lasted in that damned chapel. A mule cart carried it away to whom? The pope’s nephew Borghese again!” said Caravaggio sourly. “He bought it for a hundred scudi. He was waiting like a vulture. Borghese knows good art—it doesn’t bother him to see a beautifully bosomed woman. He coveted the painting!”
“But I can never see it again?”
“No. You can’t. And the popolani, the common people I painted it for. They will never see it again. Not in my lifetime.”
Lena said softly, “I’m sorry, Michele.”
“There are some brutti bastards in Roma,” he said, taking a deep draught of wine. He looked away bitterly.
Lena reached across the table and took his hand. “And what of the painting for Sant’Agostino?” she whispered, squeezing his fingers gently.
His scowl faded. “Ah, you humor me, my Lena. You know as well as I. Lines out the door from both directions, Piazza Navona and Via della Scrofa. Poor bastards broiling under the hot sun, waiting to get in. I’ve seen pilgrims praying to the painting itself. They see themselves in it, the way I intended. The popolani.”
A rosy glow colored Lena’s throat and face.
“That’s right, bella. They come to see you.”
Caravaggio touched her cheek with his hand, his fingertip stroking her skin.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” he said, his voice thick. “I want to hold the Madonna in my arms, under the bedsheets where no one else can see her. Tonight I don’t want to share you with anybody, bella mia.”
Chapter 28
Roma
1606
Cecco looked at the finished canvas. Lena was painted in a red dress, sprawled across a bed.
Her mourners stood stricken with grief, the woman attendant next to her sobbing. Caravaggio had added a few touches to Lena’s face to make her almost unrecognizable, especially in death.
But Cecco knew.
“What do you think, Cecco?”
“Well . . . she is certainly dead.”
“Certo!” said Caravaggio, raising his arms overhead to stretch. “Mary is a real woman. Not a being spiraled up to heaven with a flock of angels, not a cloud of mist disappearing into the sky. She is dead. Gone.”
Cecco’s eyes scanned the canvas. Dark. Even darker than usual, much of the canvas in organic carbon black tinged in copper resinate for sepia tones.
Then there was the silvery white, an ominous light on the dead Virgin. Cecco picked at his fingernails, remembering the buttery yolk for the egg tempera that his master mixed with his oils to render flesh tones.
The flesh tones of the living. Dead Mary had no egg yolk, no warmth.
/> The red drapery Cecco had arranged—under his master’s supervision—as a canopy over the deathbed was filled with menacing shadow. It hovered like a bloody storm cloud, billowing and diving over the Madonna. He noted the light reflecting off the neck and back of a young Mary Magdalene bent over in a chair, sobbing. The clarity of the Magdalene’s exposed skin and spine conveyed vulnerability, a pathos that struck the boy’s heart.
Mary’s face and lifeless hand over her swollen belly were also awash in light, as were the bald pates of the mourning apostles. There was a rumor that his master had watched the fishermen drag a woman’s dead body out of the Tiber, studying her swollen features.
I hate seeing Lena dead. Cecco fought a shiver. He realized his cheek was wet. But he’s right. It is a masterpiece. I want to fall to my knees and sob.
“Do you think they will like it, Maestro?” said Cecco, his eyes still engaged on the painting. “Your patrons, the Carmelites?”
“Bugger them if they don’t,” said Caravaggio, wiping his hands on a rag.
“It’s good. Very good,” said Cecco.
“It’s better than that,” snorted Caravaggio.
The Carmelites did not like the painting. It was removed within days, and another artist, Carlos Saraceni, was contracted to paint a more suitable image.
“To hell with these pricks!” said Caravaggio, drinking his second pitcher of cheap wine in a cramped osteria off Via della Scrofa on Vicolo della Vaccarella. “I waste my paint and talent on the fucking bastards.”
“The painting is magnificent,” mumbled Mario Minniti, keeping pace with his friend’s alcohol consumption. “Fucking morons. Philistines!”
Onorio Longhi squinted at his two artist companions. He was so drunk he could barely keep himself upright on the bench; twice, Mario had had to grab his shoulder to keep him from toppling over backward. “It was the dead part,” Longhi said. “They didn’t like seeing the Madonna dead.”
“Instead of spiraling up to heaven?” said Caravaggio. “Like some sort of homing pigeon?”
Light in the Shadows Page 19
