Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1)

by Maria C. Trujillo

  Margherita grabbed my hand again, more tenderly than she had this morning, and led me back into the kitchen. Upon entering, we saw a chubby man wearing a long brown tunic nibbling on olives and left-over cheese rinds.

  “Stop that, Perugino, or you will get even more well-rounded than you are already,” chastised Margherita.

  “Margherita, always so lovely. If only everyone called me well-rounded,” he said, stuffing the last olive into his mouth. “I think the exact term is fat, but I don’t mind. In fact I think others wish they could be as fat and well fed as I,” he finished, looking at me curiously.

  “This is Viola. She will begin tomorrow as another house maid.”

  “Everything in this old workshop will smell the sweeter now that we have two young flowers to keep away bad airs.” His hungry eyes scavenged the kitchen but did not find anything else to eat. “Alas, I must be off now. By chance do we have any wine to chase my snack?”

  “No, but I will chase you out of this kitchen if you do not hurry,” she snapped, scraping crumbs into a crate. “Viola, please help me finish these dishes.”

  Deciding there would be no wine from this kitchen, the apprentice's round face and sense of humor left us to our tasks. I began to wash the dishes.

  The ice water hurt my hands and I could not help thinking, this is what I get for complaining about doing the dishes at home. After a while my hands turned red and I could not feel the cold as much, but the pain throbbed up to my elbows.

  Renzo skipped into the kitchen shortly after I had finished the dishes and announced that the master had returned and needed Viola for the rest of the day. Margherita looked a little disappointed. Her attitude had changed dramatically since this morning.

  “Till tomorrow then. Come prepared to work this time,” she said.

  I smiled and nodded reassuringly as Lorenzo grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the kitchen. “Your hands are freezing!” he said, leading me upstairs two steps at a time.

  When I entered the study, the rumble from within hushed. Verrocchio was standing by the window when he signaled me to sit in the chair at the center of the room. “Viola, I would like to create a preliminary sketch of your face,” said Verrocchio. Panic was my first reaction to this request. Why did he want to take a portrait of me?

  “Therefore, I need you to sit quite still in that seat until we have completed it. If we do not do it now, I am likely to forget about it completely.”

  Rooted to the spot, my heart worked extra hard to pump blood to the rest of my body. Looking around the room, I saw Perugino, Leonardo, and one other boy I did not know. They armed themselves with their parchment and charcoal, waiting for me to sit down. “Please sit, Viola … Boys! I want different angles, so position yourself accordingly … Do it now,” he barked. Verrocchio guided me to the chair, arranged my hair, and tilted my head into his ideal position. “It is best if you look a little towards the floor. It will help you stay still and you won’t be quite so nervous.”

  Focusing my eyes on the carpet, I could feel sweat start to form under my arms and along my brow. Embarrassed, I wanted to wipe my forehead, but since I could not move there was no stopping it. All I could hear was the fire licking the wood and the soft crunch of charcoal pressing against paper. Was I allowed to talk? Talking was not the same as moving. Typically, I would be too mortified, but I wanted to find out about the painting that was responsible for me being in this predicament in the first place.

  “Excuse me, Master Verrocchio?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I ask something?”

  “You already have.” The boys chuckled at this but I pressed on.

  “Could you tell me about the painting of the baptism downstairs, why it’s not finished?”

  “I have my age as an excuse to forget things, but as you are quite young, you should remember what I told Zia this morning. I have a terrible habit of taking on too many commissions.

  “Who is it for?”

  “What you mean to say is who commissioned it or who is the patron?” He paused as if he was trying to recall a memory. “That painting is for my brother. He is a priest at St. Salvi. It is a priority, but I received a commission from the young Medici. As the elder Medici’s tournament is approaching, this is my immediate obligation. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s…” I hesitated, “…very beautiful … That is, it struck me more than the other paintings in the workshop.”

  “It would be if we could finish the missing angel. As to beautiful, I aim to strike a feeling of absolute benevolence.”

  “What is stopping you from finishing the last angel?”

  “You just arrived? Why the hurry?” he asked.

  By this time, I had forgotten about the sweat trailing down my neck. His question hung on my consciousness like a bad grade you have to show to your parents. How could I get them to finish the painting? The eerie sense that the painting filled me with made me more certain that it was the ticket to getting back home.

  “Arresto!”

  The charcoal immediately stopped its course. Looking up, I saw the pupils examining their work with nervous eyes. Verrocchio was making his way around the intimate room and spent only a couple of seconds on each drawing. Huddled over his students, he had only a handful of words, whether rebuke or praise, for each. When he came to Leonardo, he spent an extra while suspended over his paper.

  He put his hands on both of Leonardo’s shoulders and squeezed them with a minimalist’s approval. “Viola, please collect your belongings … Your work is done for the day. I am sure Zia has seen to your work clothes, so come back tomorrow with the appropriate dress.” Glazing over the eyes of his students he added, “We are done here.”

  When Verrocchio left the room, one of the apprentices, a fair-haired, skinny boy ground his teeth. Perugino was unaffected and unsurprised at the outcome of the drawing session. Shuffling their feet, they packed up their tools and proceeded downstairs. I soon met Leonardo, who was waiting for me by the entrance. Also on the platform was the recently returned Salai carrying a full sack of powder and in an enthusiastic conversation with Verrocchio, during which he had enough time to shoot me some sly glances before Leonardo directed me out the door and onto the grungy cobblestones.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Duomo

  Only a dim light filtered through the clouds and dust onto Via dell’ Agnodo. Across from Verrocchio’s workshop was a tannery. The scent of rawhide, lime, and manure surpassed the confines of its shop. The street was lonelier than it had been in the morning, and it made for a gloomier walk as we passed crude shelters sloping against small churches and brick houses. Outside of these meager wooden enclaves were salvaged bits of trash, bare bones, rags, and a persistent ring of flies.

  Leonardo and I walked in silence for a ways. His assertive but pensive stride was offset by my own occasional misstep. Turning my eyes towards his, I could see they had an absent look.

  “Are you all right Leonardo?”

  “Si … Just thinking.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You don’t have to say that every time you have a question.”

  “Right … Well, I wanted to know why Verrocchio wanted to take my portrait.”

  “I’m not sure,” he said with the same vacant stare. There was a long pause until we reached a corner street called Via della Rosa. Leonardo stopped, looked around, and said, “You live on Via dei Benci, right?”

  “Si.”

  “Let’s go straight then.” Looking up I could see damp clothes drooping from several of the balconies that flanked each side of the narrow street. “Most of the time Verrocchio gives us details about why we are doing a specific work. On any other occasion I would say he just wanted to take down your likeness as a drawing exercise for the apprentices’ sake, but I don’t think th
at was the case today.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he made a big deal out of it … When he makes it a competition …” Leonardo’s words trailed off.

  “And you were the winner?”

  “Of course.” He shrugged.

  “Well that’s good, right?”

  He nodded. “In Florence, it’s all about coming up on top. The other apprentices take it to heart sometimes and it bothers me. I just want to create. I do not want to be distracted by petty rivalries. Any time there is a big commission of any value it is opened up as a competition and each workshop or master submits a miniature artwork of sorts. Whoever the panel or grand patron likes best gets the job.”

  “It seems fair to me, but I understand what you mean. I don’t like competing either.”

  “Sure, it’s fair but it’s limiting because you have to cater to the patron’s tastes while maintaining your own style.”

  “I wish I had seen the sketch.”

  “I am sure you will see it somewhere. Whether it makes its way to a painting of the Virgin Mary or crumpled up on one of the workbenches.”

  Answering him with an ironic laugh I added, “Oh, I don’t think it’ll make it that far. I’ve never seen a painting of a sweaty Virgin Mary. Knowing how well you draw, I’m sure you caught every salty drop.”

  “I did a decent job, don’t you worry.”

  Despite Leonardo’s company, I couldn’t help but concentrate on my freezing hands. Trying to warm them up, I started to rub them together until my arms were tired. The backs of my hands and knuckles were already dry and flaky even though the cold was wet. I was thinking how much I missed pockets when we reached Via dei Benci.

  “I’m in the mood to go by the Duomo. What do you think?”

  “Um …” Glancing up, I could see heavy clouds were extinguishing the sun.

  “It is a short walk.”

  “What’s the Duomo?” He halted in the middle of the bustling street. His eyes bulged as carts whistled past us and strangers grumbled at our impromptu stop.

  “You obviously have not had the pleasure of feasting your eyes on such a wonder of engineering. It is the heart of the city, mostly because it brings salvation to all us sinners, poor or rich. Andiamo!” he decided. Grabbing my sleeve, we continued onto Via dei Pandolfini. Leonardo picked up the pace and I followed jogging behind him.

  Once we turned onto Via dei Calzaiuoli, the street began to broaden. I could see a geometric building the likes of which I had never seen, not even in New York City. The street opened up into a broad plaza. “Is that the Duomo?”

  “No, that’s the Baptistery.” The building shaped like an octagon was covered in a series of arches, square panels, and columns. Some of the shapes were painted on the surface, while the carved stone engaged others.

  “Is the stone painted?” I asked as we walked further into the piazza.

  “Of course not, the paint would start to deteriorate right away. Its inlay is green and white marble brought from Prato.”

  The sound of trumpets caught my ear. Musicians and their instruments spilled out from the bronze doors of the Baptistery. Following close behind was a procession of finely dressed people. A couple hand in hand led the parade and steadily made their way out of the piazza. All of the stragglers left in the piazza had stopped what they were doing and allowed themselves to consume the sight of the veiled woman and her silver train.

  “Is that a wedding?”

  “And a wealthy one at that … They are probably on their way to the feast now.”

  “She’s not wearing white.”

  “Why would she wear white?”

  “Well, where I come from a woman wears white on her wedding day. I guess it’s a symbol of her purity or something.”

  “Interesting … That is kind of obvious, no? Here, that is what the veil is for.”

  The marble walls of the Baptistery burned orange in the setting sun’s light. As we passed I could feel drops of moisture spray my face. Putting my hands out in front of me, I could see flakes of snow melt against my skin.

  “Leonardo, do you think Zia might start to worry?”

  Instead of answering my question, he pointed to a set of golden doors and said, “Remember what I told you about competitions? There was a competition put out for the Baptistery’s north set of doors. Lorenzo Ghiberti, a master goldsmith, won the contest. Years later he was commissioned to make this east set of doors. He passed away several years ago, but his workshop still overlooks this piazza. I think Verrocchio wants to buy the property.” The doors were framed by golden floral and fruit bouquets, as well as several miniature busts. Each square had its own dark frame separating each tale from the other.

  Leonardo, seeing my interest, added, “Each panel depicts different scenes from the Old Testament. Do you see Ghiberti’s master of high and low relief? And look at his use of perspective …”

  I nodded in agreement. It truly was extraordinary. The section at my eye level portrayed women, men, and children with their arms raised towards the mountain behind them. On top of the mountain was a crouched figure. The rocky surface of the mountaintop and the foliage of the trees felt tangible. The closer the figures were to the center of the panel, the higher relief or the more three-dimensional they were. The flatter the people and landscape were, the farther away they looked.

  “What is this panel showing?”

  “It shows Moses receiving the tablets of the Law from God. Ghiberti changed the way we cast in bronze.” As he was explaining all the building’s history with the aid of his hands, I couldn’t help smiling in the wake of his infectious excitement. “You will learn more about that in our workshop.”

  “Does Verrocchio work with bronze too?”

  “Si, in fact, Verrocchio was a goldsmith’s apprentice at first. He himself will tell you he enjoys sculpture more than anything else. He usually only paints when he feels compelled to do so. Usually, he leaves it up to the apprentices to fend for themselves.”

  “That is the Duomo, right?” Opposite the Baptistery was an immense structure where candlelight burned low within its open doors. People were beginning to file into the church.

  “Si … evening mass will start soon. Let’s get a look around before it starts.”

  It was cold enough that snowflakes had started to stick to the ground. Leonardo must have sensed my hesitance to enter the Duomo. “Come on, just tell her you went to evening mass and she will be delighted,” he said and slipped through the door.

  The church was much bigger than San Lorenzo but the facade was similar. The bottom part had a few niches with statues, but the rest was the same rough stone that disguised San Lorenzo.

  When I entered the church I could see Leonardo making his way past kaleidoscope designs of green, cream, and rose inlaid upon the marble floor. While I followed his path through the nave, I heard whispered prayers and passed heavy columns sprouting into pointed arches on either side. The air was thick with smoke from the musky incense and hundreds of candles. Leonardo was waiting for me at the altar.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it is the biggest church I’ve ever seen!”

  “That is because it’s not a church.

  “What is it then?”

  “A cathedral.”

  “Oh …” Surely, I had confusion written on my face because Leonardo continued.

  “Meaning, it is the seat of a bishop.”

  “I understand … I mean I know that a bishop is a Catholic leader, but what does he do exactly?”

  “Viola, take care who you ask such questions to. People will think you are a pagan or even worse … You are lucky I am not a devout Catholic.”

  “Why?’

  “You are full of questions this evening,” he teased. “Firs
tly, I am interested in more tangible subjects like science and engineering. In my opinion, the spiritual is something people appeal to in days of their old age. Furthermore, it is a healthy assumption that everyone who breathes this wretched air is a diehard Catholic, so no one would ask my opinion anyway.” He paused to look up.

  Following his suit, I too peered up at the grand dome that hung above us. The brick octagonal dome was indescribably high and it appeared to be suspended over several dark stained glass windows. At its very center was a circle where a glimpse of the evening’s darkening sky was visible.

  “What’s that circle in the dome called?”

  “An oculus,” he said without breaking his admiration of the dome’s hollow drum. “Sometimes, I come here just to humble myself at the feet of Brunelleschi’s genius … If I have to go along with the assumption that I am pious, I think I can live with that … That is to say, I am grateful for what devoutness has done for artists.”

  “Is Brunelleschi the same architect who designed San Lorenzo?” I asked, remembering that Zia had told me about him at mass.

  “The same … There had been many failed attempts to finish the Dome but to no avail. Until Brunelleschi’s design, the cathedral had an open ceiling for almost twenty years. He convinced Cosimo Medici that he could complete it and obviously he did.” The sound of a soprano’s surreal song echoed off the vaults and disappeared into the drum of the cathedral.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

  “Which one? There have been so many,” he asked, smiling.

  “About the bishop.”

  “Ah yes, well above all a bishop is a very powerful man. He is in charge of an archdiocese, which means a division of many churches.”

  As mass was going to begin soon, we decided to resume our march to Via dei Benci. On our way out of the church, Leonardo saw something that caught his eye and stopped.