Moving the tray slightly out of my reach, Verrocchio protested, “As you heard, I am hungry as well, but I think it would be best if we finished our conversation first.”
Looking down at my lap, I retracted my hand. In an attempt to allow more light in, he peeled back the curtains of the closest window. When he sat back down his expression and posture had softened.
“I will not pretend that Salai is an honorable young man. I knew he was lying to me this morning, and I knew that pouch belonged to him. But I confess, I wanted to see how honest your testimony would be. When I found you in possession of this … sketchbook, it was so hard to believe it belonged to you. May I ask one more question?”
Although relieved I was no longer being accused of stealing, my hunger had mounted to the point where I was almost incoherent. “Then can we eat?”
“Most gladly … How did you come here and why?
“I’m still trying to figure that out … All I know is that I was running through a dark hall of stone. The next thing I remember was the execution and being trampled on by hundreds of people in the Piazza della Signoria.”
“That is when Zia and the young Medici found you,” he added. There was a brief pause. My mouth filled with saliva. “Well, what would you have me do, Viola?”
“Excuse me?”
“You are hardly fit to be a housemaid,” Verrocchio explained, cutting the bread.
“Are you letting me go, sir?” I panicked.
“Go where? Home?” He turned to look out the window he had just cleared. “There is still work to be done. We have not even savored our food yet.” Passing me a generous serving, he clarified, “What I meant to say is it seems a terrible waste to have you sweep floors when I have so much work on my hands.”
Not believing my luck, I seized the opportunity. “Master Verrocchio … I am a most willing student. I would love to be an apprentice.”
“It would be most singular to have a female apprentice,” he pondered aloud. Shoving two black olives into his mouth, he mulled over the possibility. “It would be unprecedented and not entirely legal.” The thought of doing something for the first time emboldened me.
“I don’t think it is fair that I too want to learn but can’t just because I’m a girl.” The master looked at me sympathetically.
“You have been quite a handful, I must say, but I do not think there is a better place for you than here. Your talents are most unusual for a girl, and they are absolutely impossible given your class standing.”
“You mean because I’m minuto?” I took a bite of bread.
“Something like that … To get to the point, we cannot make use of your talents as a girl, so you will have to continue your work with Margherita in the kitchens and cleaning.” The gloom of the winter day mirrored my reaction to his jail sentence.
My thoughts readied for a rebuttal when he said with a smile, “At least in the morning. After briefly considering your situation and all the work I need to get done, I have decided to give you a choice. Apart from your early morning tasks, you may also be my apprentice in the afternoon.”
“Yes!”
“Wait, I am not finished. If you agree, I will give you some money and Leonardo will accompany you to pick out some boys' clothes that suit you.”
“So I have to work in the workshop dressed as a boy?”
“Unfortunately, those are the times we live in. I want to make clear that this is quite a risk, for the both of us. I am not sure what the Signoria would do if they found out I had a young girl as an apprentice dressed up as a boy … but I am certain they would not be pleased. There could be penalties.”
“What kind of penalties?”
“Prison, fines, maybe even a trial if we are particularly unlucky.”
The scarred scene of the crying woman, knotted rope, and people cheering stirred from my memory. Never had I been so close to death. Even though it hadn't been my own life in the balance, an overwhelming sensation of dread had consumed me. Despite the risks, becoming an apprentice felt like it was the only way to move forward, to become a better artist, and make my time here worth something.
Verrocchio had polished off the rest of the food while I reflected on the dangers of my decision. “You must understand why it is so important to be secretive. It would be best not to tell Zia, as the less she knows the better her nerves will be.” He poked the fire back to life.
The idea of lying to Zia was bothersome, but I didn’t want her to worry either. To conquer Florence, I needed to become part of the city. Being the mouse was no longer an option. I needed to be the lioness.
“Master Verrocchio, I still want to do it.”
“You agree then? Understanding the circumstances and perils?” I nodded. Verrocchio stretched out his hand, and I squeezed back to seal the pact. “You realize our pitfall might be your eyes. It makes this charade most difficult. They are so singular you are almost impossible to disguise. Save those who have not met you already,” he said with the grin of a mischievous boy. “We will do our best. We must trust our family down there creating away,” he concluded as he stared at the blue-green vignettes painted on the opposite wall.
“What about Salai?” I asked. Verrocchio took a deep sigh and put his feet up on the desk. The tender black leather of his boots hung over the corner of the desk.
“Salai is bound to me … he came to me fatherless and I cannot bring myself to throw him out. He is also what some may call the black sheep of my boys, and I do have a soft spot for those.” Meeting my eyes, he continued seriously, “Be cautious, Viola. If I were a girl I would not look him in the eye. Margherita had to learn that lesson the hard way.” He stood up and walked around the desk. “As I said at the beginning of our conversation, it is a leap of faith. I believe I can manage him, mostly because he has nowhere else to go.”
“I will not let you down.” I stood up. With a fatherly motion, he placed his palms on my shoulders.
“You are strong beneath all that fear. It would do my nieces good to be more like you. Instead, all they do every day is keep to their rooms, sleep, and demand potions to make their hair smoother and skin fairer.”
He walked to the door. “Leonardo!” he boomed. While we waited for Leonardo to appear, Verrocchio told me we needed to figure out another name for me.
“How about Massimo?” He suggested.
Before I was able to protest, Leonardo entered the room. The sleeves of his grey undershirt were rolled up past his elbows. The short navy tunic he wore was spotless and his lion-like hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail emphasizing the stubble protruding from his jaw.
“You called?”
“What do you think of the name Massimo?”
“For who or what?”
“For Viola,” said Verrocchio. Leonardo looked confused at first, but understood his meaning when he saw my open sketchbook on the desk.
“Massimo … sounds perfect.”
“You are joking,” I blurted. Both men laughed. “That is the worst name you could have chosen for me.”
“Massimo it is! Leonardo, you will take her to get clothes for Massimo, no?”
“That will be interesting.”
“Excellent. While you two are gone, I will explain to the workshop our new situation.”
“Master Verrocchio?”
“Yes, Viola?”
“I think that Leonardo wanted to ask you something.” Verrocchio and I both turned towards Leonardo. His eyes focused on his boots as he shifted his weight from side to side.
“Out with it, Leo. It is unlike you to keep your opinions to yourself. You are making me terribly nervous.” Still Leonardo stalled. “Honestly, I am busy and if you don’t speak up, you will most definitely sour my excellent mood.”
“I want to paint the angel.”
“The missing one from the Baptism of Christ.”
“Oh yes, for a moment I forgot about it entirely,” Verrocchio confessed, scratching his head. He looked Leonardo over for a moment. “You have a model in mind?”
“For several days now … It’s a boy I drew by Mercato Vecchio.”
“If you feel you are ready.”
“I do,” assured Leonardo.
“Wasn’t there something else?” I added, feeling bold.
“Yes...” Leonardo cleared his throat “...I wanted to paint it in oil.”
“I don’t care how you do it as long as it’s glorious.”
“It will be,” said Leonardo, beaming ear to ear.
As Verrocchio handed me my satchel, he placed three coins in my palm. “Be quick about it. The day is almost over.” Not being able to contain my gratitude, I gave him a tight squeeze. “Grazie!”
“Prego Viola,” he returned.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ponte Vecchio
We had only made it half way out the door when Leonardo gave me a smug smile that said, “I told you so.” A cloud of feathers surrounded us as plundering pigeons flew from our path.
“Why do you look so pleased with yourself?” I asked.
“I thought my smile said it all.”
“Your smile is lacking some information.”
“That’s not its fault.” He shrugged. “The guilt lies with my secretive companion.”
“Ugh, you always have to have the last word,” I protested.
It was difficult for me to trust anyone, especially after Salai had threatened me. After my confession to Verrocchio, I felt better than I had since I arrived in Florence. It felt like gravity had loosened its strangling grip on me.
“You’re right. Maybe I have been a bit too …”
“Elusive? Mysterious? Distrustful?” he mocked.
“Any of those would work.”
“I know.”
“Do you also know that sometimes you can be … bossy?” I said.
“That’s a very nice way of putting it, and yes, I know that too … I will lay off a bit,” he consented, offering his arm out for me. “Almost forgot to say thanks for pushing me to ask Master Verrocchio.”
“More like forcing you, but you’re welcome all the same.”
The sun was about to make its descent behind the heavy layer of clouds. Frost was settling in between the cracks of the cobblestones. The road’s travelers scattered to finish their day’s business.
Looking around, I did not see any other women on the road we were on. After pausing for thought, I realized that I seldom saw any women walking on the street. Rarer still were girls my age. Perhaps I noticed it then because I was thinking about how lousy it was that I had to pretend to be a guy just to be an apprentice.
“Why are there no women around?”
Leonardo laughed. “There are many. You just can’t see them because they are barricaded in their homes and only come out for church. As a rule, women do not walk around Florence. I might even go as far as to say it is highly discouraged. So most of the women that must walk on the street are old, impoverished, or accompanied by men.”
“Why?”
“Many think a woman’s proper place is at home. Anything outside of it, especially the street, is considered man’s domain.”
“You don’t believe that, right?” I asked incredulously.
“Of course not,” he said, turning onto Via Della Porcellana. It was sad to think of all those girls cooped up behind their balconies. Suddenly, the foul but free air smelled sweeter.
As we passed a pit where workers quarried porous stone, we heard a voice call out, “Leonardo!” We turned around to see a man in his early twenties with wavy auburn hair.
“Ciao, Sandro!” returned Leonardo. The young man approached us with a wide smile. Similar to Leonardo, he wore an indigo tunic that fell just above his knees. The taupe cloak draped about his person gave him an ancient Roman appearance.
“It has been a while,” said Sandro, grabbing Leonardo’s free hand.
“You have been lost. Last week was the first time I have seen you miss a guild meeting.”
“You are not even in the guild yet and you take attendance,” laughed Sandro.
“That is a mere formality.”
“Yes, I know … Well, my father has bought the property just there …” He motioned to a quaint two-story house four doors down. “I have converted the bottom floor into my own workshop.” Sandro’s smile was handsome but not brilliant. He had a strong face in that instead of his features mixing harmoniously, each feature was so pronounced that it stood out separately. His bottom lip weighed down his curvy upper lip. Green eyes bulged from his manicured brow and accentuated his straight nose. His chin was prominent but he had a jawline that most models on the advertisements in Times Square would envy.
“Come in and see,” he pleaded. Not waiting for an answer, he pulled Leonardo into the workshop and I followed.
The workshop was bare. Three worktables and benches arranged in an L shape huddled around the fireplace. The pools of wax on their weathered surfaces suggested late nights at work. Oddly enough, one table had a cracked human skull at its center with fruits and flowers arranged around it. A few tools hung on the wall opposite the fireplace. Piles of wood were scattered about the workshop. On three easels were paintings of the Virgin Mary in different poses. The silhouettes were striking. Each figure was elongated and curved around the painting’s panel.
Leonardo and Sandro were talking about the wonders and woes of running your own workshop when I noticed a boy who looked to be only a year or two younger than me. He was silently preparing a wooden panel for painting. Sawdust from leveling the gesso clung to the buttons of his rust-colored tunic.
“I was sorry to hear about Master Lippi,” said Leonardo.
“Yes.” He grimaced. “Very untimely if you ask me. Actually, he was the picture of health the last time I saw him, which was only two weeks before his death. I mean a little round about the edges but …” His eyes were alert and his tone disbelieving.
“What are you trying to say, Sandro?” asked Leonardo.
In the midst of their conversation, I noticed an open sketchbook on the worktable. It was too tempting to resist. I tiptoed closer so it would be easier to steal a few casual glances.
“What you’re hearing my friend, think—” He stopped and glanced over at the corner where the boy was working. Sandro shook his head, pointed at the skull. “Memento mori.”
Drawn on the open sketchbook page was the head of a gorgeous girl. She had long curls that jumped off the page and some red chalk had been added to her lips. The mysterious lady’s nose was dainty and petite, and her eyes were inlaid perfectly underneath her slightly arched eyebrows.
“True, one of the only truths we really know … All will die,” agreed Leonardo.
The morbid conversation led way for an awkward silence. On the opposite page were more portraits of the same lovely girl. My eyes grew a little wider when I saw that one of the portraits included a full nude drawing. I had seen nude women in paintings or statues. However, it seemed weird to look at the stark body in the middle of a workshop full of modest Virgin Marys and even stranger amid conversations of death.
“Well, we must be going. We have to get to Ponte Vecchio before the shops close,” announced Leonardo.
“But you have not introduced me to your fair friend,” Sandro pointed out.
“Yes, sorry about that. This is Viola. She is a new housemaid at Verrocchio’s workshop … Viola, this is Sandro Botticelli.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, tilting my head.
“Likewise.”
“It’s
too bad Verrocchio swept you up. As you can see I am in need of a housemaid. You don’t by any chance have a sister with your extraordinary eyes?”
“No, I do not,” I answered uncomfortably.
“But she does have a twin brother with those same eyes,” interjected Leonardo.
“Allora? I am fascinated by twins.”
“As am I.” Leonardo winked at my surprise. It was amazing how naturally he spun such coherent lies. “Who is that diligent boy in the corner?”
“I, too, have neglected the duties of introduction,” he consented. “Fillipio, come please.”
The boy walked over to the entrance of the workshop, his eyes barely leaving the stone floor. The dark hair that framed his face and ears was covered with a round blue hat.
“This is Fillipio Lippi, son of my late master. Fillipio, this is Leonardo da Vinci and Viola …”
“Orofino,” I finished. Fillipio politely nodded his head after each introduction.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, but we must be off.”
“Would you mind if we accompanied you? I have a mind to eat meat this evening but have none in my pantry. It would do us good to walk, would it not, Fillipio?”
“We will be almost running to make it on time, but you are more than welcome to come along,” warned Leonardo.
Botticelli grabbed a red hat off a hook near the staircase. “Mama! I am going out! Come watch the shop,” he yelled.
After we heard the creak of the floorboards above we headed out to continue our journey to Ponte Vecchio. Leonardo and Sandro led the way while Fillipio and I fought to keep up with their swift steps. It felt good to be at the rear and have someone else block the wind. The smell of rotten fish met my nostrils before I could even glimpse the river. My insides winced at the stench. To soften the scent, I started breathing heavily through my mouth.
Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) Page 13
