Pasquale's Angel

by Paul J McAuley

  If this had been a proper fresco, they would have worked one patch at a time, one day to one patch. Here, with two dozen patches of similar size but irregular shape, each washed with just one primary colour, they could work at speed, laying relatively dry plaster on three patches one after the other, so that by the time they had plastered the third the first would be ready for painting.

  Even with the help of the labourers, who mixed plaster and paint to specified dilutions and carried the trowels and buckets to and fro, Rosso and Pasquale were hard-pressed. There was no time to think. Pasquale was absorbed in the task at hand: the sweep of the smoothing trowel over a freshly applied patch of plaster; the slap of the big coarse-haired brush over the grainy, absorbent wall. The sky bruised beyond the glare of the artificer’s lanterns. Moths kept blundering into Pasquale’s face, attracted to the light as to a candle-flame; his bare arms, scaled with spots of dry paint, were itchy with mosquito-bites. He hardly noticed, and was so caught up with his work that he had to be told to stop by Rosso when at last they were finished.

  6

  Pasquale was watching the labourers dismantle the oddly jointed scaffolding when Niccolò Machiavegli found him. He was sitting on an overturned crate, eating black bread and salt cod with one hand, making quick notes about the workers’ postures with the other; a flask of coarse red wine was at his feet. The taste of coppery pigments and dry plaster-dust mixed with the salt tang of his food. His arms quivered with exhaustion. One of the workmen, a yellow-haired Prussian, had a perfect unmarred physique, and Pasquale resolved to try and get the fellow’s name: perhaps he’d pose for a few pence.

  Rosso was talking with the artificer beside the light-throwing device. The ape, Ferdinand, leaned against its master’s leg, pleased to be freed from the chain that had tethered it to the foot of the scaffolding during the work. The artificer’s assistants were wrestling with the lenses of the device, thick greenish glasses in copper rings on jointed armatures which they moved this way and that in response to their master’s fussy orders. Circles of light moved on the painted wall; shadows thrown by the scaffolding rearticulated themselves, drew up in new configurations. The lamps made a steady roaring.

  Niccolò Machiavegli walked through the glare of the lamps, and Pasquale jumped up when he recognized him, happy to see the journalist. Perhaps he had solved the mystery already.

  ‘I’ll take some of that wine,’ Niccolò said mildly, and while he drank Pasquale asked about his investigations.

  ‘Do you remember that I believed that poor Giulio Romano had sent a message before he was murdered?’

  Pasquale lit a cigarette and blew out smoke with a luxurious voluptuousness. ‘You found out what it was? The captain of the militia was going to make inquiries.’

  ‘There was no message. The captain had the relevant logs searched. Nothing.’

  ‘Then Romano must have used the tower for some other purpose.’

  ‘And yet he had lit the signal-lamps, Pasquale. Why would he do that if not to send a message?’

  ‘Perhaps that was the signal.’ Pasquale thought of the little toy tucked away in his scrip.

  Niccolò smiled. ‘That is just what I think. Perhaps Romano was not sending a signal to the relay-tower, but to someone close by the Palazzo. Perhaps a signal that it was safe to enter by a prepared way. Perhaps Romano was not a spy, but a turncoat within Raphael’s circle. Or perhaps he had business of his own. Or perhaps he was tricked by the murderer, which means that someone wanted him dead—or wanted to hurt Raphael by killing his best assistant.’

  ‘Well, we can’t know that Romano was a traitor. The man is dead. God must judge him.’

  ‘The captain has charged me with a task, Pasquale. I’d have you help me, if you would. I would interview Raphael himself, for the captain cannot. Raphael has the Pope’s embassy, after all. Will you come? You needn’t say a word, but use your sharp eyes and your artist’s sensibility.’

  ‘I’ll do it gladly.’ Pasquale would do anything to meet Raphael. How jealous the other pupils would be!

  ‘We have one call to make before we visit Raphael,’ Niccolò said. ‘I have made a list of the enemies of Raphael, and this is the second name on the list. Michelangelo Buonarroti.’

  ‘Surely not!’ Pasquale said, with a mixture of scandalized affront and prurient interest.

  ‘It’s well known that they are bitter rivals. Michelangelo claims that Raphael has stolen his ideas.’

  ‘They say that’s what caused Michelangelo to quarrel with the Pope. But I do not think Michelangelo would kill one of Raphael’s assistants because of it.’

  Niccolò said, ‘Certainly, to do so in Florence would be very foolish, but anger can make a fool of anyone.’

  ‘He really will talk with you?’

  ‘On this hour.’

  ‘And if Michelangelo is only the second fiercest enemy of Raphael, who is the first?’

  ‘Why, the husband Raphael has cuckolded, of course. Unfortunately, as he is one of the optimates who currently rule this city, and who was amongst those who had me imprisoned on trumped-up charges, I can hardly put him to the question, much as I would like.’

  Pasquale said, ‘Am I allowed to know who he is?’

  ‘If it is necessary…but it is not yet necessary. There’s one more thing,’ Niccolò Machiavegli said, his mild face bent to look straight into Pasquale’s. ‘I have received what I may suppose is a death threat, a broken knife in a package. Of course, it may mean nothing. We journalists are often threatened, and this arrived long after the broadsheet was distributed. I would take it more to heart if it had arrived before the broadsheet went on the streets.’ He raised the flask to his lips and tipped back his head. ‘Ah. This is terrible stuff, Pasquale. Surely Signor Aretino paid you properly?’

  ‘More than enough. Signor Machiavegli—’

  ‘Niccolò. I’m no landowner. Not any more. The Spanish took that away.’

  ‘Niccolò…Do you really think Raphael is involved in a plot against our city?’

  ‘There’s no evidence for that. I’m not going to put him to the question, Pasquale. I’m just going to ask him about his poor assistant, who was so brutally murdered. This is no official investigation, you see. There can be none, for Raphael is under embassy from the Pope. He cannot be prosecuted, or arraigned, or even accused. To do so would be to yield the moral high ground to our enemy. That this is not official, in fact, is just why we are allowed to proceed. There is to be no scandal, no rumour. You understand?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Then if you are finished here, say farewell to your master. We have only a little time.’

  Despite Niccolò’s haste, Pasquale persuaded him to make a detour to the studio, where Pasquale changed from his work-clothes to his best black serge jerkin, a doublet with deep slashes lined with expensive red silk offcuts, and red hose. He washed his face and hands, carefully brushed his curls and pinned a soft velvet cap to the back of his head, Niccolò by now pacing up and down with impatience, then splashed his palms with fresh rose-water and rubbed dried lavender flowers between them, patted the fragrance under his jaw, on the sides of his neck.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘You’ll make some lucky man a fine bride,’ Niccolò said.

  ‘I’m visiting the two greatest artists of the age—of course I must look my best. Just one more thing.’ Pasquale found the lily he had made from scraps of gold-foil, and pinned it to his breast. ‘There,’ he said, ‘now Raphael will know my allegiance,’ and wondered why Niccolò laughed. He added, ‘Should I take my sword, do you think?’ It was a short, sweetly tempered Flemish blade with a pommel he had reworked with gold-leaf and red leather.

  Niccolò’s smile was both amused and sardonic. ‘We are petitioners. As such, we persuade with a keen edge to our intelligence, not our swords. Put down your sword, Pasquale, and follow me.’

  Michelangelo owned a large property on the Via Ghibellina, three houses side by side. He had hi
s workshop in the middle one, which had a large stable he had converted to a studio by raising its roof to the height of three storeys. One half of this big room was screened off; behind the screen, as Pasquale well knew, was the half-finished heroic statue commemorating the victory of the Florentine navy at the Battle of Potonchán, when the Great Engineer’s underwater vessels had sunk half the Spanish fleet bent on invading the empire of the Mexica, and his Greek fire had destroyed most of the rest. Michelangelo had been working on this monument, fitfully, for the last ten years. He would allow no one to see it, not even members of the Signoria, which had sponsored it, and his enemies said that he would never finish it.

  Two apprentices, in long smocks and paper hats, were working on a small block of pure white stone under a flaring crown of acetylene lights. The ringing taps of metal on stone echoed in the high space as they made the preliminary passes to free the shape trapped in the stone. The smell of fresh stone-dust sharpened the air. A trestle-table was littered with their tools: pointed punches, flat chisels and toothed and clawed chisels, battered mallets of different sizes, files, a bow drill. Tubs of abrasives—emery, pumice and straw—stood beneath the table. Above all this, like the skeleton of one of the fabulous antediluvian dragons, towered the steam-winch that manoeuvred large blocks of stone in and out of the studio.

  Michelangelo took Niccolò and Pasquale into his office, a small shed tacked to the side of the studio, its walls scaled with perspective drawings. He had them sit on low stools, handed them glasses of bitter artichoke liqueur, and smiled when Niccolò, who immediately drained his glass, said that it was good of him to agree to this interview.

  ‘I’ve nothing to hide. I was working here last night, at first with my assistants, and later on my own, but that was very late. Several friends were here—I can give you their names if you require it.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but I’m sure it won’t be necessary.’

  Michelangelo said, ‘I’m sorry for Giulio Romano’s death—he could have been a first-rate artist if he had not chosen to live in his master’s shadow. But I never had a quarrel with him. Do have more of this liqueur, Signor Machiavegli. It is the only thing about Rome that I miss. Do you know, by the way, of the Fraternity of Saint John the Beheaded?’

  ‘That, like your excellent liqueur, is also of Rome. I believe its brothers comfort condemned prisoners.’

  ‘Exactly. I was a member of it, you understand. We believed that some good could be found even in the worst of humanity, just as I found my David in stone that had been hacked and botched by Simone da Fiesole (perhaps you have heard of him, Pasquale), a crime, in my opinion, as bad as murder. Through my involvement in the Fraternity, I know all about justice, signor, and the rewards of murder. I have a good business, as you see. I would not give it up for anything, and certainly not for Raphael.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Niccolò said, ‘you know of someone who may have quarrelled with Signor Romano.’

  ‘I don’t keep up with the gossip in Rome,’ Michelangelo said dismissively. He was a lean, sinewy man with excessively broad shoulders, and a keen gaze beneath a craggy brow furrowed by seven deep lines. He leaned forward, his head alertly cocked, gripping the edge of his stool with his powerful hands. His fingers were nicked and scarred, and one nail was blackened by a fresh bruise. They drummed the edge of the stool to the rhythm of his assistants’ work on the stone.

  ‘Old grudges are often the most deadly,’ Niccolò said.

  Michelangelo laughed. ‘That’s true enough. Everyone thinks I have a quarrel with Raphael, but anyone who fights with a good-for-nothing gains nothing. My opinion of Raphael is well known, I won’t deny it, but I have better things to do with my time than campaign against his reputation. The light in the public square will reveal that for what it is, by and by.’

  Niccolò said, ‘I believe you once said that no one who follows others can ever get in front of them.’

  ‘Oh, exactly. Those who can’t do good work on their own account can hardly make good use of what others have done. My quarrel is not with Raphael, but with those who don’t see him for what he is. As for Giulio Romano, no one had reason to dislike him, unless there was some quarrel between assistants. The way Raphael runs his business, it wouldn’t surprise me. He is so careless he must appoint a man to manage his affairs. So long as he wants to be rich, he’ll remain poor.’

  ‘I’m certain that whoever killed Romano was known to him, but that it was not someone of Raphael’s immediate circle.’

  ‘I’d question his assistants closely, Signor Machiavegli—you are going to interview them?’

  ‘Tonight, as you probably know.’

  ‘And you, Pasquale? Are you going to give Signor Machiavegli the benefit of your advice?’

  ‘I’ll help him if I can,’ Pasquale said, pleased and embarrassed by Michelangelo’s attention.

  ‘Then I hope you’re a strong swimmer,’ Michelangelo said. ‘Your master, Rosso, helped gild my David when he was the assistant of Andrea del Sarto. I trust you’re as diligent a pupil as was he.’

  Michelangelo excused himself and had a brief but earnest conversation with his assistants, then returned and poured another round of artichoke liqueur, and affably exchanged political gossip with Niccolò for a few minutes, before gently making it clear that he had much work to do before the next day, when he was leaving for the quarries at Serevezza.

  Niccolò Machiavegli did not seem disappointed by this interview, although Pasquale felt that it had been a waste of time—they had learned nothing that they did not already know.

  ‘On the contrary. We know that Michelangelo still fiercely resents Raphael, and we also know that he will leave the city for the next few days.’

  ‘A polite withdrawal, so that he will not need to meet the Pope,’ Pasquale said. ‘That’s been known about for weeks.’

  ‘Without doubt. But if anything happens while Michelangelo is away, then we will know he is innocent.’

  ‘He could hire ruffians to do his work.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Niccolò said cheerfully. ‘But did you not observe how he treated his assistants? He could scarcely bear to let them work unobserved, and dashed out to check their work as soon as he was able. A man like that, a master of his trade, would not trust others to complete his work for him. I’ve made a long study of the behaviour of men, Pasquale, and Michelangelo is one who will never delegate important work. Now let us hope our interview with Raphael goes as well.’

  There was no crowd of onlookers outside the Palazzo Taddei, and only a single militia guard remained. The man waved Niccolò and Pasquale past with a smile. The gate irised open, and as before one segment stuck; Niccolò gave it a rap, as if for luck, as he and Pasquale ducked beneath it. The major-domo of the Palazzo, splendid in a crimson uniform trimmed with gold, his air grave and faintly disapproving, led them to the half-dozen rooms of the top floor which had been allotted to Raphael and his followers.

  The chambers, lit by candles as scattered as stars, casting more shadows than light, had a rich disordered look, like an encampment of gypsies endowed not only with fabulous wealth but also a ravishing artistic sensibility. The stone walls were swagged with drapery or covered with Flemish tapestries. Canopied beds were in disarray, clothes scattered across them, trays of half-finished meals set on their rumpled sheets. In one room, a naked young man slept face down on a couch, his buttocks pale crescents in the half-light; in the next, black hunting-dogs sprawled on rushes before a cavernous, empty fireplace; in a third, two men at a chessboard hardly looked up as Niccolò and Pasquale were led past by the major-domo.

  Raphael lay on an immense bed in the last of the rooms, propped up on a heap of bolsters. He wore a white chemise loosely tied across his smooth-skinned chest, black hose with an obscenely large codpiece, red felt boots. A young woman slept beside him, her hair unbound and her shoulders bare, the coverlet carelessly cast over her.

  A grey-haired man sat on a stool by the bed; three more of Raphael�
�s followers sat at the fireplace, close to a roaring blaze. One of them, a fat man with sweat standing on his jowly face, loudly and jovially told the major-domo that they would have to start chopping at the furniture if more wood wasn’t brought. The major-domo bowed and said without demur that he would see what could be done, then announced Pasquale and Niccolò and bowed and withdrew, more like a polite host than a servant doing his duty.

  Raphael sat up straighter, stroking the hair of the woman beside him when she stirred in her sleep. He welcomed Niccolò as an old friend, looked askance at Pasquale. Pasquale stared back at him boldly, although he was beginning to sweat in the close heat of the room.

  ‘My assistant,’ Niccolò said.

  The grey-haired man whispered something in Raphael’s ear; the artist nodded. ‘The pupil of Giovanni Rosso,’ Raphael said, staring directly at Pasquale. His eyes were heavy-lidded and half-closed; his eyebrows made a straight black line across the bridge of his proud nose. Threads of gold were wound in the mop of his long black curly hair. In a few more years, Pasquale thought, he would be fat: you could see it in the way his neck made a fleshy bulge to meet his chin as he lounged amongst the bolsters like a sultan; in the thickening of his wrists. The thought did not lessen Pasquale’s awe—here was the richest painter in the world, painter to princes and popes. He looked around, hoping to see sketches, cartoons, perhaps a half-finished canvas propped on a chair. There was nothing of the kind.

  Niccolò said, ‘Pasquale has been good enough to help me. He was here last night. Perhaps you saw the drawings in the broadsheet that illustrated my article.’

  Pasquale said with dismay, ‘They are nothing.’

  Raphael flicked his fingers, as if at a fly. He wore rings on every finger, heavy gold rings studded with rubies and emeralds. ‘I don’t read the broadsheets. I do see that Florentine painters still dress with their customary flair. Is that paint in your hair, or a new tint?’