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

by Maria C. Trujillo

  “Thank you.” I sighed. “I was going to tell you, but with Margherita … the baby … I’m not sure if I would even call it a plan. I’ve just been making it up as I go along.”

  “Zia has left to sell something to a secondhand clothes dealer. I’m not sure how lucky she will get, it being Christmas and all.”

  “She left without me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she say anything?” I asked.

  “No, because I told her you would be coming with me to dine with my father.”

  “I am?”

  “Certainly. You will charm him until he is ripe for the picking. Then I will ask him to lend us his horse to travel to Vinci.”

  “I am not sure how charming I can be,” I said, slumping my shoulders.

  “With talk like that we will be walking to Vinci,” he said, leading me out of the Santa Croce. The air around the piazza was crisper than it had been the day of the joust.

  “What about Margherita?” I asked, looking around the piazza.

  “They are arranging for her burial now.” Leonardo frowned. Maybe it was because it was Christmas or that underneath our superficial layer we were miserable, but everyone who walked past us seemed too happy.

  “By the way, you never told me you knew how to play an instrument!” I said, trying to lighten the mood. Leonardo blushed. “What is that instrument called?” I pointed to the case strapped over his shoulder.

  “It is called a Lyra de Baccio.”

  “I didn’t know you liked music,” I said as we moved around herds of families on their way to mass. “Do you play anything else?” I asked when we reunited.

  “A bit.”

  “That means a lot, right?”

  “I have some ideas for different instruments,” he said as we walked into Piazza della Signoria.

  “To create new ones or alter ones that already exist?”

  “Both,” he said, turning onto Via della Prestanze. Leonardo stopped short of a door situated under a round arch. The wall that butted it belonged to the Palazzo della Signoria. Leonardo grabbed the metal rings attached to the entrance and knocked. One of the doors groaned.

  “Buonasera, Leonardo,” said a housemaid.

  “Buonasera, Maria.”

  “I don’t know if your father is expecting you,” said the girl. She was young in figure alone; her face looked more worn than Zia’s.

  “That sounds about right,” said Leonardo, widening the gap in the door. “Could you set two more places for supper?” He handed her our cloaks. “Is my stepmother at home?”

  “Si.”

  “And my father?”

  “In the hall.”

  “This way, Viola,” signaled Leonardo, taking the steps in giant leaps.

  The ceiling rose high above us as he led me into the den. Tapestries of feasts and flowers hung against the stone walls. Ser Piero sat on an elegant cherry wooden chair engrossed in a book. A fire crackled near his upholstered footstool. On the opposite side of the room was a long dining table set with silver candelabras. Ser Piero looked up from his book at the sound of our approaching footsteps.

  “What a surprise!” He beamed, welcoming Leonardo with arms spread wide.

  “What are you reading?” asked Leonardo, examining the book in his father’s hands.

  “It is about astronomy,” answered Piero. His son shook his head disapprovingly.

  “And it is in Latin?” said Leonardo as if it couldn’t have gotten any worse.

  “Have you said hello to your stepmother?” asked Ser Piero, while I admired the ceramics sitting on the mantelpiece.

  “Not yet,” said Leonardo.

  “Go check on her, then.” Leonardo dutifully left to greet his stepmother.

  “Do you like those?” asked Ser Piero. I mulled over how I was supposed to charm someone that was already so enchanting.

  “They are beautiful.”

  “They were made by my mother. They are quite good, are they not?”

  “Very, signore.” He looked me over, trying to politely unravel my person.

  “Would you like to see something?” I nodded. He walked over to a finely carved chest and from it withdrew a leather folder. As he moved closer to me, he untied the folder's knotted straps. “These are the drawings I showed Verrocchio before Leonardo became an apprentice,” he explained, turning the pages tenderly. It was startling how naturalistic the drawings were.

  “How old was he when he drew these?” I asked.

  “I think there is a mixture here, but somewhere between twelve to fourteen years of age,” he said, pausing on a drawing of a kite.

  “They are amazing.”

  “I thought so too.” He grinned proudly. “But to make sure, I wanted to show them to Verrocchio. Once I did, he wouldn’t let me leave until I promised to let him take on Leonardo as an apprentice.” Most of the drawings were studies of insects, animals, or flowers. “After my first wife and father died, Leonardo and I moved to Florence. In the beginning it was difficult for him. He was extremely fond of them both … Growing up in the country didn’t help.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps from beyond the den reached us. Piero quickly went to place the drawings back in their hiding place. Maria strode under the doorframe carrying two more place settings.

  “That must have been very hard for you and him.”

  “I had already been doing work in Pisa as a notary. So moving to Florence was not much different. Nevertheless, it was a great loss to our family. Slowly our situation has improved,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Now for instance! You are the first friend he has ever introduced me to.”

  “Allora?”

  “Indeed,” he stressed.

  Silence stretched as I recalled how often my dad had complained about something similar. At least once a month he would remind me that we were both not allergic to people and that if I invited a friend over he would promise not to embarrass me.

  “You have a lovely home, signore.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I told Leonardo he is welcome to come and go as he pleases, but it seems he is more comfortable in the workshop.” He motioned for me to sit down in the chair opposite his. It was easy to see who Leonardo got his easy manners from, as I took in his warm smile.

  “Well, I wouldn’t take it personally, sir. It’s probably because all the other boys stay at the workshop.”

  “Perhaps.” He stared at me and I looked away from his eyes, busying myself with the spines of books that were stacked on a nearby table. “What appears to be certain is that you have a kind heart, Viola.”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to maintain a normal skin shade.

  “Sometimes, I worry whether Leonardo will ever forgive me,” he said.

  The sudden confessional tone of our conversation caught me off guard. Leonardo had said to be charming, so I tried to think of one of my mom’s lovely and witty anecdotes that she would say to dinner guests. Yet none seemed helpful. The arrival of a young woman escorted by Leonardo interrupted Ser Piero’s confession. She was sickly thin and about a head shorter than me with lips stuck in a constant pucker.

  “This must be Viola,” she said, barely moving her mouth. As she approached me, she waved her apricot gown back and forth emphasizing the gold thread that made the fabric shimmer. “Leonardo was just telling me all sorts of wonderful things about you.” Her eyes darted between me and Ser Piero.

  “Good things, I hope,” I replied. She looked to be about my older sister Clara’s age, and at least half the age of Ser Piero.

  “My love, our family has just arrived, shall I tell them to enter?”

  “Please do.”

  “I am sorry for our unexpected visit,” I
said, realizing they had guests.

  “Nonsense,” replied Ser Piero.

  The guests soon spilled in and their voices filled the broad room. The whole family was a jolly party. Each one took my hand and introduced themselves in Italian so fast I could barely keep up. When we sat down to the Christmas feast of roasted fowl and sautéed mushrooms, Leonardo sat on my left side and one of the relatives on my right. The supper that covered the table sat on creamy linen and red velvet. Sage steamed from the hot platters. Before we ate, Ser Piero led us in a long prayer that left more than one person licking their chops in hungry anticipation.

  “Amen,” he concluded, and so the genteel race for the best bits began. Leonardo looked quite content to have his plate of fried eggs piled with mushrooms.

  “Is he ripe yet?” asked Leonardo. A few pieces of egg white hung from his mustache.

  “I think you should clean your face first.”

  “No!” he protested, licking the corners of his mouth. “That is for seconds,” he smiled before wiping his face on the purple napkin. “You have to look like you’re listening to us, agreed?”

  “Agreed.” While Leonardo turned to his father, I perked my head forward.

  “Papa?” interrupted Leonardo. His father’s shake of the head hinted he already knew what we were about.

  “Son? What is it you want?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I miss Grandma and Uncle Francesco.” His father raised his eyebrows at this. “When are you going to Vinci next?”

  Ser Piero took a sip of red wine. “Not for another month or so.”

  “That is too long … I have been telling Viola all about the farm and she is eager to see it.”

  “When did you want to go?”

  “Tomorrow?” Ser Piero was in danger of spitting out his wine.

  “Viola and I get very few free days from the workshop … so I wanted to take advantage.”

  “Viola!” interrupted Ser Piero. “Have you tried the pigeon?’

  “Umm …” I winced at the thought of eating something that in New York City were regarded as rats with wings.

  “You really must. It is Maria’s specialty.”

  “Please, Papa, don’t avoid the question.”

  “I knew it,” said Ser Piero, tearing off a piece of ciabatta.

  “Knew what?”

  “You only come to visit me when you need something.”

  “That is not true,” protested Leonardo. “I know you are busy and I do not want to get in your or Francesca’s way.

  “You mean your mother’s way,” corrected Ser Piero.

  “Sure.” A silence soon ensued, which lasted until dessert was served. Meanwhile, I was debating what I should say between mouthfuls of tangy custard.

  “Leonardo, be a good lad and play us something,” Ser Piero broke in.

  “You know I don’t like playing for strangers,” muttered Leonardo.

  “And I don’t like taking my horse out of the stables on such short notice. In any case, they are not strangers but family.”

  Leonardo grumbled all the way to what looked like a guitar but with an oval drum propped against the wall. The guests quieted as Leonardo tuned the strings to his liking. He took a deep breath and stroked the instrument’s chords.

  Oh lovely Rosa

  My sweet spirit

  Do not abandon me to parish

  In princely love

  Nay abandon me

  To torment, I who am

  Forced to wait and be faithful

  Save me now

  From my heart ache

  Rose of my heart

  Do not leave me in pain

  Leonardo led the party through another chorus before he put down the instrument. My mouth was dry despite the oily custard that rolled around my mouth.

  “Have you heard that song before?” asked Ser Piero. I shook my head. “It’s called ‘O Rosa Bella.’ It is one of Johannes Ciconia’s most famous works.”

  Leonardo took his place again amidst the dying applause. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I still have egg white hanging from my incredibly masculine facial hair?”

  “You’re just full of surprises.”

  “I could have told you that.” He winked. It was not long before it was impossible to control my yawn. “Shall we?” said Leonardo, pivoting his head towards the door. We both stood and rounded the table with lots of “thank yous” and “merry Christmas.” Once we arrived at Francesca and Ser Piero, we stopped.

  “The horse will be ready and saddled at daybreak.” He kissed his son on both cheeks.

  “Grazie, Papa.”

  “Thank you …” I added, unable to voice how grateful I truly was.

  “Say goodbye to your mother, too.”

  “I will,” said Leonardo.

  Our mood on the way home could not have been more different. This one bright triumph shone light on what had been a dark day. With the piazza and streets abandoned, we practically danced towards Via dei Benci, and I only tripped a few times on the slick stones.

  “I will pick you up in front of the house, so be ready,” he ordered before heading back to the workshop.

  “Yes, sir!” I called after him.

  I deliberated in the damp night whether I should visit Giulia and Margherita. The glow from within the cozy house concealed itself behind thick curtains. My hand was already on the metal knocker when Zia whistled. I turned around to see her short frame outlined by the fire’s brightness. She waved her arm in a hurried motion, beckoning me to cross the street.

  For the first time it was hot in the house. Usually, I could see my breath evaporate in front of me, but that night we enjoyed a blaze kings could only boast. Zia bustled about preparing a bag and a large basket. Though she was not smiling, I could feel her excitement.

  “I got a small fortune for your dress, Viola. There will be plenty for a wet nurse and clothes … I used some to buy some extra firewood in case Ginerva decides to visit.” My heart melted at the notes of hope in her voice.

  “What a good idea.”

  “This bag has apples and calzones for your trip,” she said, pointing to a burlap sack.

  “What’s that?” I pointed to a woolen blanket tied in an elaborate knot.

  “That is for Margherita,” she added cheerfully. “You weren’t expecting to hold her the whole way. Your arms would fall off.”

  “How long is the trip?”

  “It depends on the horse and how fast you go … but since you have two people and a baby you will need to travel at a slower pace.”

  “So how long?”

  “If you leave at dawn you should get there by midday.”

  “Oh!” I said surprised by the six-hour journey.

  “I talked to Giulia. She promised to feed Margherita until she was good and full. So hopefully she will sleep the whole journey,” she said. “If she wakes up she will be hungry, and your long journey will seem an eternity.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rosa

  The blanket of pale yellow that covered navy skyline signaled dawn’s arrival. It was a chilly morning but the heat from last night’s fire lingered through the small house. Zia was cooking a medley of cream, honey, and leftover chestnuts. The nutty fragrance that wafted from the pot gradually lifted the spirits of the small kitchen. A jumble of different sized sacks waited to be packed onto the horse. I fidgeted with Idan as I stood by the window waiting for a sign of Leonardo. Zia’s sudden change in attitude towards my Vinci scheme invigorated my confidence in it. My heart lightened at the prospect of being relieved of Margherita’s heavy charge.

  “Shall I go get Margherita?” I asked, looking outside the window.


  “I dare say you will have her long enough. Let her rest,” said Zia.

  I was nervous about meeting Ginerva and the Medici rendezvous. My nerves were as raw as they had been when my parents separated. Everything someone said or did around me would mingle with the turmoil fermenting inside me. That was how I felt, vulnerable. Zia moved quickly around the kitchen, finishing breakfast. In the past week Zia had shed decades off her age. When I had first looked up at her from the kitchen table, she looked as though she would not see next year. Now, as she hummed a tune that sounded a lot like the one that Leonardo had sung the night before, she looked rejuvenated. Even the scar that engraved her cheek was lighter in the early morning sun.

  “Is that, Oh Lovely Rosa,?” I asked.

  “Yes … how do you know it?”

  “Leonardo sang it to his father’s guests last night.” The sound of horseshoes pacing against the cobblestones interrupted us.

  I went to open the door for Leonardo. He was leaning forward on top of the copper horse exchanging caresses and whispering sweet nothings in its pointed ears. “You’re late.”

  “I was just being considerate. Didn’t want to make you feel bad for being behind,” he teased, sliding down from the horse.

  “You look like a regular cowboy.” I laughed as he tied up the horse’s reins to a metal ring embedded in the house’s wall.

  “A what?”

  “It’s a guy who is really good with animals or works with them on a farm,” I explained, but Leonardo did not look convinced. “They are very …”

  “Resourceful?”

  “Yes!”

  “You forgot to add incredibly handsome to that description.”

  “Oh, you mean the horse?” I replied.

  “That is precisely what I meant,” he said, stroking the horse’s long muscular neck.