By the time the midday bell had tolled, quite a crowd had gathered to see the spectacle. Some fifty or so people, adorned in their most impressive finery, stood in groups in the North Hall. Up in the gallery, a shimmering green curtain had been hung right across the length of the fresco, concealing it from all in the main hall.
The music began, and the duke appeared, dressed, as always, in black, holding Lucrezia by the hand. He greeted his guests warmly, clearly delighted to be at the centre of this new artistic spectacle. Lucrezia, though, seemed ill-at-ease and uncomfortable. The contrast between this tight-lipped anxiety and the obvious delight Giovanni had seen in her face when she had looked up at her painter the other day could not have been more marked. But as she greeted the guests, he could see she was making an effort.
She spotted him and Giulietta, and slipped her hand from her husband’s. “I’m so glad you’re both here,” she said, kissing Giulietta’s cheek. “I’ll come and find you after the painting has been unveiled, and we can sit together at dinner. I’ll see you a little later.”
She hurried back to where the duke stood, but Giovanni saw her turn to Jacomo, who was standing with Pandolf by one of the windows. Perhaps it was no more than fancy, but it seemed to Giovanni that, as their eyes met, everything else in the room seemed somehow to lose colour, to drain of sound. His cousin and her painter were at least thirty feet apart, and dozens of unwitting individuals stood between them, but it was as though Lucrezia and Jacomo were quite alone, entwined into an intimate embrace.
The music rose in volume. After a moment or two, the duke held up his hands for quiet. The musicians stopped and he began to speak. “My honoured friends, it is a great pleasure to see you here at the Castello Estense today to witness the unveiling of an artistic treasure, created here for me by a rare and—to my mind—unrivalled talent. I have been fortunate indeed that the father house in Assisi has been prepared to lend me its most extraordinary son so willingly and for so long.”
Giovanni saw the friar turn a muffled shade of crimson, while Jacomo stared moodily at the floor.
“The generosity of the brothers has resulted in what I am sure you will soon agree is an image of almost miraculous ingenuity—I cannot in all conscience conceal it from you a moment longer.”
He strode to the foot of the stairs and gestured with a flourish for everyone to move back across the hall, the better to see the painting when it was revealed.
Giovanni, Giulietta and the others waited expectantly. The music swelled once more and the little angel’s voice hung above the instruments with a sweetness that cut to the heart.
The duke reached forwards and pulled a cord, which released the green curtain. It fell to the floor and the guests let out a gasp of astonishment. The picture was vibrant—almost ecstatic, Giovanni thought: the figures of Jason, Talos, the great ship and the Argonauts almost leaped from the wall as they moved from one scene effortlessly and fluidly into the next. His heart jumped as he recognized the face of the wild-haired woman at the far end. And just beyond this beautiful echo of Lucrezia, he saw that the end of the fresco was still hidden by yet another hanging. The tip of a curled golden horn and the end of a twisted branch were just visible beneath it. Giovanni found himself impatient to see the final section, and then one of the guests voiced his own curiosity.
“Pull back that last curtain then, Este—let’s see the rest.”
Smiling, and nodding to the man who had called out, the duke reached behind him towards the shining silk curtain, creased with deep fold-marks that caught the light.
His fingers touched nothing but chill plaster.
His head snapped around to stare at the painting.
Giovanni’s mouth fell open.
The curtain was no more than a painted image. It had fooled them all.
There was a moment’s shocked silence, and then a ripple of murmurs began. Giovanni looked quickly from the duke, who seemed bewildered, to Lucrezia, who was watching Jacomo. As Jacomo’s gaze met hers, Giovanni saw that they each wore a covert smile of pleased collusion.
***
Lucrezia felt a surge of fierce pride as the fresco was finally revealed. Even though she was prepared for it, she was astounded by the cleverness of Jacomo’s depiction of the silk curtain. Watching Alfonso’s fingers touch the surface of the plaster, his hand less than an inch from the hidden picture of her and Jacomo’s brazen infidelity, she was rocked by a thrill of suppressed delight. She pictured the image that she and Jacomo alone knew truly lay behind the concealing paint and plaster, and a savage sense of redress—retaliation—for the loathsome things Alfonso had made her do ten days before fizzed through her. When she risked a glance in his direction, she saw that Jacomo’s eyes were shining and she could not suppress a smile.
The fatigue she had been suffering for days had left her. Here, in the face of this astounding proof of Jacomo’s prodigious skill, she felt exhilarated and joyful, bursting with new-found energy. Her face, which for days had been stiff with tension, seemed possessed again of its own animation. Her smile was an animal released from a cage.
Lucrezia heard Alfonso clear his throat, and looked up to where he stood on the gallery, in front of the painted silk curtain, his fingers tracing its folds and creases. His expression was difficult to read. After a moment’s contemplation of his fresco, he walked the length of the gallery, descended the spiral staircase and stood, one hand on the end of the banister rail, looking at the reverend brother.
“Signore,” Fra Pandolf began, “I am delighted and deeply honoured that our simple deception has proved so successful. Jason’s great prize, for which he has searched for so long, remains tantalizingly obscured and we can only guess now at the image the curtain conceals. The eye is truly deceived—” He broke off and reddened, suddenly anxious. He had noticed the expression on Alfonso’s face.
Lucrezia imagined the group of dignitaries actually being confronted with the image the curtain concealed, pictured their prurient outrage, and smothered a laugh.
Fra Pandolf said, his voice less sure—even conciliatory, “No doubt you are aware of the rise in popularity of this style of work…”
There was another pause, as the friar appeared to be trying to gauge Alfonso’s reaction. The duke seemed lost for words, but before Pandolf could speak again, a tall, heavy man in a dark red doublet said, “Wonderful, Este—quite extraordinary! Heard about this sort of thing only recently…never seen it until now. Would not have thought it possible if I had not seen it with my own eyes. Remarkable, Este, remarkable!”
A murmur of agreement trickled around the hall.
Alfonso straightened, smiled broadly and blinked slowly and deliberately at his guests. “As I said,” he began, “this piece shows a truly miraculous ingenuity…more so than even I thought possible. Fra Pandolf, I believe we owe you a substantial round of applause.”
A rumble of muttered consensus preceded a sustained bout of clapping. Lucrezia’s eyes were fixed upon Jacomo’s as she joined in with enthusiasm.
After a moment, Fra Pandolf raised plump hands for quiet. “Thank you, gracious ladies and honoured gentlemen. I am humbled by your appreciation of our latest achievement and would remind you that I did not create it alone. Please remember in your acknowledgement of what you see today, the others who have helped in its execution: young Tomaso de Luca, here, who so willingly shoulders much of the heavy preparation work, and of course my valued assistant, Jacomo Pennetti, a talented artist in his own right…” Fra Pandolf turned to Jacomo. Lucrezia saw Jacomo widen his eyes and shake his head almost imperceptibly. Pandolf laid a hand on his sleeve, and finished his sentence. “…A talented young artist, without whose help I know I really should not manage at all.”
28
Giulietta was shivering. She laid a hand on Lucrezia’s arm. “Cara, could you have someone fetch me a wrap? It is rather colder out here than I had foreseen…”
“Of course.” Lucrezia beckoned to one of the servants. “Run up t
o my apartments, could you, and fetch the fur-lined wrap—the embroidered one—from the painted chest?”
A wordless nod and immediate action.
“That should be warm enough, Giulietta,” Lucrezia said. “Dining out here in the cortile is lovely but, it must be said, it’s never as warm here as it is in Mugello.”
Giulietta looked around the great yew-wood table. The huge central courtyard of the Castello Estense had been brightly lit to celebrate the unveiling of the fresco: many little braziers around its edges burned cheerfully, and some two dozen candles illuminated the table, lighting it brightly enough so that their fuzzy yellow glow effectively hid the guests on the far side. The plates, silverware and glass sparkled in the flame light and it seemed to Giulietta that the excitable chatter of the thirty or so guests was that glitter made audible.
Above them the sky was a star-pricked, velvet black.
Lucrezia sat on one side of her, and Giovanni on the other. The duke, on Lucrezia’s right, had begun his celebratory meal in an ebulliently animated mood, Giulietta felt, but it had been somewhat brittle, and, as the evening had progressed, he had become increasingly taciturn, and now was doing little more than watching his guests converse, with an expression of brooding suspicion clouding his features.
Lucrezia, though, was positively sparkling.
Giulietta did not know what to think. She had been shocked at the sight of the girl on their arrival in Ferrara—Lucrezia had been ashen, and had visibly lost weight since she had last seen her. Giulietta was quite sure that her former charge was avoiding talking to her—oh, she had been genuinely pleased to see her, that much she could tell, but instead of, as Giulietta had expected, kissing her and clutching her arm and walking with her up to her rooms, regaling her with her usual over-embroidered tales, Lucrezia had clung instead to Giovanni in what had seemed to be silent desperation, and then had disappeared with him to the stables.
Giulietta had been quite alarmed.
Earlier today, as they had gathered in the great North Hall for the unveiling, the child had seemed just as drawn and anxious and tired and, knowing that her fertility—or lack of it—was causing concern back in Cafaggiolo, Giulietta had begun to fear for Lucrezia’s health. But as the unveiling ceremony had progressed, and she had watched Lucrezia’s face light up, and had seen the direction of the girl’s gaze, her fears had dramatically changed course. And intensified.
She was not stupid.
Or blind.
***
The servant reappeared, carrying a dark red, embroidered wrap lined with rabbit fur. Lucrezia smiled her thanks, and took it from him. “Lean forward, Giulietta,” she said, and, as her former nurse complied, Lucrezia laid the wrap across the old woman’s bony shoulders. “There,” she said, kissing Giulietta on the cheek, “that should warm you a little.”
Lucrezia could hardly see Jacomo where he was sitting with the reverend brother on the far side of the table: the glow from the candles was too bright, the table too wide and heavily laden. Any conversation with him was impossible. But its very impossibility was probably fortuitous, she thought. They were too close to the culmination of their plans to risk discovery. It was enough just to know he was there. The fresco was finished. The portrait, he had said, would not take long—Tomaso had already nearly finished the preparations—and the day of their departure drew ever closer.
The more she thought about the intoxicating excitement of flight, the more it seemed to her as though all her senses were ready to explode. She felt as she had as a child after one of Giulietta’s punitive baths—after a sound scrubbing with a rough wash-cloth, she remembered laughing at the sight of herself, hot and rose-pink; remembered tingling all over for more than an hour on numerous occasions.
***
The thought of the hidden image beneath the painted curtain continued to disturb Alfonso as the meal progressed. The moment at which his fingers had touched the plaster and the deception had—so humiliatingly—been made public, was repeating itself in his mind. He had been smiling at that idiot Rovigo—Pull back that last curtain then, Este—let’s see the rest. How fatuous and ill-informed they must all have thought him! Jason’s great prize, for which he has searched for so long, remains tantalizingly obscured. How could he not have seen? Why had he not turned back to the wall before reaching for the curtain? Had he done so, he must surely have realised the trick. It was clever—dear God, it was damnably clever. The depiction of that silk was minutely brilliant. He had not thought Pandolf so skilled, even given his reputation. Even close up, it was all but impossible not to believe what the eye imagined it saw.
But what lay beneath? We can all only guess now at the image the curtain conceals…It remains tantalizingly obscured…
Why had Pandolf covered the last image?
Was something being kept from him deliberately? Was it symbolic? Had Lucrezia told the painters, too, about the potential fate of the duchy, and did this image of the curtain—which had never been discussed with or agreed by him—symbolize their amusement at his ignorance of their scorn? We can all only guess now at the image the curtain conceals. He pictured her up on the gallery, her eyes glittering as she related the sordid details; imagined the painters’ pruriently shocked reactions. But perhaps he was mistaken: his guests, after all, appeared to have been equally deceived and had ended by gasping their incredulity and admiration for the skill of the execution. Whatever the origin of this change in the design, it might in fact, he thought, attempting to console himself, be a piece that would truly rank amongst the memorable works of the century.
Further down the table, a chair was pushed back, scraping on the cobbles. Alfonso leaned back to see who had stood up. Signor della Pretura—small-brained, large-bellied, grey-haired, with lardy, pendulous jowls. Why had he got up from the table? Without comment, Alfonso watched him walk past the visitors from Cafaggiolo, then past Lucrezia and himself, and saw that his guest’s eyes were fixed upon the duchess. Lucrezia opened her mouth to speak, but Pretura held up a fat forefinger and inclined his head towards her. She remained silent, smiling. Several of the other diners had suspended their conversations and were watching him. Alfonso stared in disbelief as his corpulent guest stepped across to a potted cherry tree and—without so much as a by-your-leave—broke off a small branch, which he then brandished like a trophy, as he swaggered back towards Lucrezia, who was watching him over her shoulder.
With an exaggerated flourish, Signor della Pretura bowed deeply and presented her with the wilting branch. “My lady, beauty such as yours deserves recognition. Humble my gift may be, and—” he cleared his throat and nodded to Alfonso, “and—I must confess—purloined from my noble host’s bounteous castle flora, but let it stand here as a symbol of the beauty of the lady of the house.”
Other guests pattered fitful applause, and someone on the opposite side of the table laughed.
Alfonso’s gaze moved from a contemplation of the bulbous and quivering cheeks of one of—in his personal opinion—Ferrara’s least intelligent magistrates, to the face of his wife. Lucrezia’s eyes were shining. Then, to Alfonso’s chagrin, that exquisite spot of joy glowed again in her cheeks, and the corners of her mouth crooked wide. But not for a moment did she include her husband in her enjoyment of the pleasantry. Not for a moment. Instead she favoured that fat, talentless, officious fool with a smile so radiant that he fairly melted before it. It seemed to Alfonso that his wife was now taking pleasure in bestowing her affections with pointed extravagance—and choosing to do so in her husband’s presence whenever she could, presumably that she might enjoy rubbing the salt of her profligacy into the wounds of his humiliation.
Alfonso heard a roaring in his ears, which drowned the noise of the party. He turned away from Lucrezia, battling to maintain an impassive expression, and, as he looked up at the stars, he thought of his peregrine, waiting-on so patiently, so high she was all but invisible. Thoughts of Strega reminded him of Panizato’s unwittingly offered key. The unthinka
ble key that would bring him peace. He had only to wait for the best moment. It would not be long now.
He looked back at Lucrezia, his heart racing, and his skin crawled.
***
Every feeling was heightened: Lucrezia sat still and allowed it all to wash over her. All the colours around her were brighter, the music sweeter, the food tasted more intense and the evening air was heady in her nostrils.
Even the gauche attentions of one of Alfonso’s tedious guests seemed delightful to her in its unsophisticated artlessness as she contemplated the nearness of her departure with Jacomo. As the stout and red-faced gentleman—she did not know his name—bowed and presented her with a drooping spray of leaves, as impressively as though it had been a cluster of diamonds, Lucrezia found his foolish simplicity charming, so different was it from Alfonso’s black, difficult depths. She heard Jacomo laugh from the other side of the table as a few people clapped, but he was still hidden by the glow of the candles.
29
Two days after the unveiling of the fresco, Alfonso entered Lucrezia’s little studio and announced that he had a trip to make to Bologna. He seemed agitated and reluctant to go; she wondered at his repeated assurances that he would only be away for a few days.
“The first sitting for your portrait will be tomorrow,” he said, “and they will be hard at work on the painting itself by Tuesday. I do not wish to let the piece progress too far without being certain that I am satisfied with it.”
“You must arrange it as you wish, Alfonso,” Lucrezia said coolly, not daring to meet his eye in case he detected the swelling bubble of excitement that threatened to escape her at the thought of his imminent absence.
“Shall you be happy to have this portrait painted, Lucrezia?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!” she said. Startled by the question, her enthusiasm spilled over and she saw Alfonso’s surprise at her unexpected response. There was a long pause before he spoke again.
His Last Duchess Page 26
