The Competition

by Donna Russo Morin

  “But you need not.” It was the farthest thing from what she wanted.

  “No.” Sansone’s head hung low as he laced his breeches, never fully rising. “But I think it best.”

  He finished dressing, kissed her once more, and walked away.

  Viviana saw no anger in his languid movement nor in his stance. When he turned back for one last look at the door, she saw only his unhappiness.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Each sunrise gives birth to new possibilities.”

  There were more of them and they were angrier.

  The crowd of men that gathered every day before the steps of Santo Spirito had grown in number. As Viviana slithered past them and the front entrance, her heart became heavy at the sight of women. Only a few, yes, but their small numbers did not squelch her disappointment. Minds were difficult to change; narrow minds most of all for their entryways were far too small for new ideas to penetrate.

  “Have no care for them, Carina.” Viviana led her along the narrow Via de Coverelli and the even smaller path that wound around behind the basilica. She had told Carina about them, what had happened to Isabetta, for she wanted this young woman—this hopeful artist—to enter this undertaking in full knowledge of what awaited her. Telling was one thing, seeing another, most especially when the sight was nasty and offensive. “They come no closer than the piazza, not a foot upon a single stair. Father Raffaello has seen to it.”

  Natasia’s brother had preached to the horde from the top step as he would have from his pulpit. Perhaps his words of Christian acceptance and generosity had not made an impression, but words of trespass and arrest most certainly had.

  Viviana had waited to bring Carina until they finished the preparatory work: the scaffolds built and in place, all the materials purchased and at the ready. She wished for Carina’s first introduction to the Disciples to be one of creation, for there the magic resided.

  “We rarely work during services; hence we only arrive after Terce. We work only behind the canvas cloth during None, though some choose to join those prayers, so we must have the materials we need to see us through. And we always leave before Vespers.”

  These were not rules laid down by Father Raffaello, but ones all artists obeyed, not a one ever written or spoken. It gave the artists eight or nine hours of uninterrupted work to call theirs on any given day, save for Sunday. There was never work performed on Sunday.

  “Actual work time is limited then,” Carina said, keeping her eyes on the path before her and nowhere else.

  “Indeed,” Viviana sighed. “So we must be as efficient as possible with the time we have.”

  Carina answered with naught but a hesitant nod, lips a tight line on her face.

  “Today will be so very exciting,” Viviana said, rushing to dispel Carina’s doubts and fears. “We are making the arriccio and beginning the first square.”

  Carina’s face brightened; curved lips reached up to drop twinkles into her eyes.

  Inside, the basilica was empty, save for one man.

  “Patrizio, buongiorno,” Viviana greeted the man sitting just outside the shrouded chapel, struggling to keep her surprise from her voice. Was he here to chastise her for entangling his wife in this endeavor, one that had become not only unconventional but dangerous?

  The balding man didn’t move, didn’t respond. Viviana cringed, but would not shy away.

  “Good morning to you, Patrizio,” she said again, a tad louder, softly laying a hand upon his shoulder.

  Patrizio flinched, jerking round.

  “Ah, Viviana,” he said, at last hearing her. “Buongiorno.”

  “Have you come to see our progress, to see how talented your wife is?”

  Patrizio shook his head. “No, I have no care to see it. I will wait for the grand unveiling. I come only…that is, I only know Fiammetta is safe if I am here to know it for myself.”

  It was chivalric of the man, one known for the good care he took of his wife, though Viviana thought there was something else he would have had to say. She would say nothing of it either, then.

  Viviana introduced Carina to the conte, and then turned to the chapel. “We are to our work, Patrizio.”

  The man nodded silently as Viviana led the young girl into the confines of their workspace and to the women within.

  Lapaccia embraced her with all the repressed nurturing spirit churning within her.

  Isabetta kissed both Carina’s cheeks. “Aren’t you the loveliest thing? And is not Marcello a lucky fellow?” Isabetta gave a wink and a nod to Viviana, who preened, already possessive of the daughter she would soon have.

  Fiammetta greeted her as Isabetta had, with kisses, but hers came with a penetrating perusal. “My own daughter will be joining us tomorrow. I have the feeling you two will have much in common.” It was the highest praise Fiammetta could give.

  Leonardo came to her. Viviana watched as the girl’s eyes widened, as small beads of perspiration broke out on her smooth brow. She remembered the first time she had come this close to the maestro and her own reaction; there were no words when faced by such a mystical, serene force.

  “Welcome, child.” Leonardo bowed before her.

  Carina’s head snapped to Viviana, jaw to chest. Viviana smiled, but made the smallest motion of a curtsy and gave a nod of her head.

  Carina shook herself, quickly dropped into a deep, graceful obeisance. “I am honored, maestro.” She rose, raised her chin, peering into his numinous, amber eyes. “I vow to you to be worthy of my place here. I know I have much to learn. I pledge to learn it well.”

  The corners of da Vinci’s mouth twitched. “Then you have already earned your place. To acknowledge the need for learning is to be truly enlightened.” Over Carina’s head, Leonardo’s gaze met Viviana’s.

  Mattea came and took Carina by the hand in an easy manner; no more than five years separated them in age. “Come, cara Carina, come look at the scaffold. See how it is imbedded in the wall? I knocked those holes out.”

  “Where is Natasia?” Viviana turned her attention from Carina now that the group had fully assimilated her charge within the fold.

  Fiammetta simply shrugged and gave a small shake of her head.

  “We cannot wait, I fear,” Leonardo replied. “To complete this first square will take all our time today. We begin with the arriccio.”

  The manner of fresco painting was, by its very name, “fresh” painting. Upon a dry coat of arriccio—a combination of two parts fine sand and one part slacked lime—they would place the sinopia, a stencil made from their detailed sketches. Once the charcoaled lines were in place, they would smear the wall with a fine last coat of arriccio—the intonaco—which would remain wet. Then quickly, speed demanding skill, they would then ply the buono, the dry pigment form of color. As the intonaco hardened, a layer of crystal would form over the pigment, imbedding it into the surface. The surface must be painted before that layer dried. The technique—one of the most difficult for any painter—and its materials, assured that it would stand the test of time.

  The mixture composed, they began to apply it to a square no more than three meters by five meters at the very top left of the chapel, small enough to apply the buono before the intonaco had time to dry. All fresco painting began at the top; in this way, there was far less chance of paint splattering down with the pull of gravity upon portions already completed below.

  “Carina,” Leonardo held out one of the wide brushes used for the application, “would you care to take up your first brush?”

  She walked toward him, hand outstretched to take the brush, face blooming with the blush of roses, shooting stars in her eyes the color of the night sky. If her hand trembled, she paid it no heed. With a determination to make Viviana proud, Carina accepted the brush, slathered it with the plaster, and swept a broad stroke upon the wall.

  “Brava,” Leonardo said mellifluously.

  “Brava!” Isabetta cheered raucously, as she and the others applauded.r />
  Carina, near tears, accepted their true welcome into the group with a lopsided grin and a dipped curtsy.

  The entire square, now completely coated, begged for more attention.

  “Mattea,” Leonardo called, “the sinopia. Isabetta, you are with her.”

  Viviana took Carina by her shoulders and stepped them back a pace or two. “Watch,” she said, voice filled with wonder. She had performed this task many times on the studio walls, as had all the Disciples, but this time was different. This time the world would see.

  The two women worked as one. Mattea lay the sinopia exactly in place; Isabetta held two pointed pieces of charcoal.

  “Done.” Mattea reached for her piece without looking up.

  Isabetta slapped the charcoal into her palm and dropped to her knees upon the scaffold. They drew with furious precision, as if it were blades they held, not brushes. Within minutes, the skeletal form of wispy clouds and three birds in flight appeared.

  “Perbacco,” Carina breathed, though she did not need to; her surprise was as firm upon her face as her nose.

  It took them less than an hour to complete the sketch upon the wall. The next step came, as it so often did, with difficulty.

  “The intonaco, Fiammetta,” Leonardo instructed.

  “No, me.” Lapaccia stepped quickly to the mixture and the large brush.

  “Will you not be too tired to work the buono?” Fiammetta asked the question they were all thinking.

  “I will allow you all that privilege,” Lapaccia replied as she set to work, applying the last coat of plaster evenly and thinly upon the sketch so as not to smudge or obliterate any of its lines, as more than one pair of eyes locked and narrowed.

  The concealing cloth opened, a gasping Natasia rushed in; her breathing and the dark splotches of red upon her cheeks told them she had been rushing for some time.

  “I am so sorry,” she panted, “I could not help my tardiness.”

  “Where have you been?” Fiammetta interrogated.

  “You must be Carina.” Natasia ignored the inquisition completely, stepping to the young girl, and kissing her cheeks. Stepping back, she rummaged in the small drawstring pouch hanging from her waistband and drew out a pendant hanging from a long silver chain. It was no pendant.

  “This, Carina, is yours,” Natasia proclaimed as she furled the chain over Carina’s head, dropping the key upon the young woman’s chest.

  Carina reached down, took up the key, and held it to pursed lips.

  “Molte grazie a tutti.” She thanked them all, though there was no need. They were as grateful for her as she was for them.

  “What wonderful progress you have made already,” Natasia said, nothing more, though more was still expected.

  Indeed, the wall glistened with its own welcome, its need for the pigments as deep and intense as any desire.

  “To your brushes, madonnas.”

  This time Leonardo took the place beside the mesmerized Carina, watching as five women climbed the scaffold and began to paint on the dry pigments, as the pigments soaked up the moisture of the intonaco and became moist themselves. It was a choreographed dance completed almost in the absence of words. The artists spoke with jerks of their heads, grunts, and the pointed tips of brushes, an abbreviated language only those who have worked together long and hard could understand.

  Leonardo directed and encouraged them as he walked among them. “Make your work in keeping with your purpose.”

  Carina, enraptured, slid down the wall at her back, heedless to the dust that clung to her fine gown; she had no smock, yet. She tilted her head this way and that, high and low, left and right, a bird on its perch searching for both prey and predator, to see the women as they worked from each of their perspectives. If asked, she might not have been able to tell where she was at that moment, for she looked to be lost and flying in the azure sky coming to life beneath their brushes.

  The ringing of bells, the murmuring of voices, the clanking of a thurible marked None as it came and went. First one, then another and another, raised themselves up, stretched out their backs and their knees with pops and grunts, until only Isabetta remained at the wall, finishing the small, fine lines of the last bird gliding upon a gentle breeze. The lunette might only be that of a sky but it would be the finest one they had ever created.

  “Ehi. What goes on here?”

  Not a one of them heard him push back the cloth and enter their haven. Not a one of them expected to see naught but a boy, an urchin with the dirt of the street upon him, standing with arms akimbo, questioning them.

  His round brown eyes almost hidden beneath the tangle of tight black curls looked at them expectantly.

  “This is no place for you, ragazzo,” Fiammetta spared the boy the shortest, sharpest glance. “Be gone with you.”

  “But I want to see what they are all fussing about.” A dirty thumb pointed toward the door and, no doubt, the churning crowd still in attendance.

  “We create a fresco,” Lapaccia told him kindly.

  Thick brows disappeared into the nest of his hair. “You? Women?”

  “You are correct,” Leonardo informed him.

  “Mamma mia!” the boy cried out, a palm smacking his forehead. “That is why they are angry.”

  Viviana scrutinized the boy. “How old are you, child?”

  “I am nine and one half,” he said, pulling himself straighter for he was small for such an age. Viviana smirked; more than one of the women softly chuckled.

  “And I am going to be an artist,” the boy said, his voice daring any to defy the contention.

  “Are you?” Mattea asked, fighting her amusement to mirror his serious mien.

  “Sì,” he said matter-of-factly. “I wish to be a sculptor, but I will paint as well.” This last he offered with a cavalier shrug, as if he would be doing the paint a kindness with his use of it.

  Mattea hid her grin. “Then perhaps you should watch a bit as our friend finishes her work.”

  “Perhaps I should,” the boy said, plunking himself down next to Carina.

  He and Carina observed together as Isabetta finished the final touches of the first square and the Disciples began the next. They had set their giornata—a day’s work—to two squares a day for the bottom tier and lunettes, one per day for the main scenes. Only under such a rigorous schedule could they complete the cappella in the time proposed and contracted; only doing so would truly prove their acumen. To fail would be a disaster, not only for them, but for Carina and those like her, for any who hoped to one day walk behind the Disciples, even if they did not yet know it.

  As the six women stood back, stood beside Leonardo and studied their work, deciding where they had done brilliantly and where they could better their work, the child stood.

  “Grazie, madonnas, and you, maestro da Vinci,” he said, pulling back the cloth for his withdrawal.

  Leonardo’s bushy brows bunched together. “You know me, boy?”

  The child baulked at him with a cynical smirk. “Who does not?” he said, as if it was a silly question.

  Without another word, he went as swiftly as he had come.

  “Visit us again, won’t you?” Viviana called out, unable to name the magnetism of this child, only it’s pull.

  “I will,” the boy answered with backward wave.

  Just as he pushed the two-story, thick wooden door open a crack, allowing an orangey swath of sunlight to creep in, Isabetta called out to him as well, “Tell us your name, child.”

  He stopped, glowing in the sun’s ray. “They call me Michelangelo.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  “Well,” Fiammetta harrumphed, “I never.”

  “What a delightful child,” Lapaccia said. “We shall hear from him again.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” Viviana agreed.

  “Humph,” was all da Vinci had to say.

  The women ruminated on him as they cleaned their tools, as they organized their space. Carina pitch
ed in without being asked, winning approval even if it was not her intent. As they made to leave by the back door, as they had come, Isabetta dug in her heels.

  “This is insufferable!” Her raised voice echoed to the heights of the vaulted ceiling. “We have been awarded a commission, received permission from Il Magnifico himself, yet we must come and go from the back like vermin. It is intolerable, and I will not do it anymore.”

  Lapaccia reached out to her. “But after last night, after your injury, is it wise?”

  “I would rather suffer the slings of a thousand rocks than feel myself a coward,” Isabetta avowed, trembling with righteous tenacity.

  “As would I,” Mattea fumed, equally insulted.

  “Well then,” Fiammetta raised her chin, heading for the front door, “we shall put ourselves to the test in more ways than one.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “An artist’s vision sees more clearly than most.”

  How grateful she was to sit.

  Viviana arched her back with a low moan. The carriage jolted forward as it began the short journey home after bringing Carina safely to hers. Viviana slumped back on the tattered cushioned seat with a sigh, letting the rocking soothe her as if she were a baby lolling in a cradle. Her heavy-lidded gaze observed the city as it passed, the vista smudgy in the dusk, the view blurry as the lids of her eyes grew ever closer to closed.

  Until they snapped open.

  Something, no, someone in the small alley off the Via del Corso caught her eye.

  “Stop!” Viviana cried, banging on the roof of the rickety carriage. Viviana’s head jerked forward, then back, as the driver pulled sharply on the reins. The carriage shuddered to a stop.

  Slipping off the seat, Viviana stuck only enough of her head above the opening ridge to see beyond it.

  It is her! But it cannot be.

  Viviana glared at the scene, at the two men talking with the woman; one she recognized as well as she did her own face. Who were those men? What would she, of all people, be doing talking to strange men without any sign of a chaperone or escort?