Tuscan Daughter

by Lisa Rochon

  It was like this every day: morning became afternoon, afternoon became night. The hours were swallowed whole by the art of careful, patient work.

  “Under order of the Florentine government!” A man’s voice, unexpected, shouted from outside his studio. The oak doors were thrown wide and three men stepped inside. Michelangelo immediately recognized Soderini, a friend of the family and the republic’s governor, who heartily supported the Wool Guild. He knew the governor’s footman and, to his chagrin, he recognized the third man as Machiavelli, the second chancellor, who had nearly run him down on his horse.

  “Gonfalonier, welcome,” said Michelangelo, addressing Soderini by his formal title, though he wanted to order the three men away so that he could continue to work in peace. The governor stepped toward the David, all business, ignoring the greeting. Experiencing art unsettled Soderini. Michelangelo had heard stories of the man wiping his brow furiously with a silk cloth, overwhelmed by the luminous frescoes of Giotto or the brilliant perspectives of Brunelleschi. Once, Michelangelo had been sitting quietly inside the Brancacci Chapel at Santa Maria del Carmine, sketching Masaccio’s luminous depiction of Adam and Eve being banished from Paradise for eating the forbidden apple, and Soderini burst into the church with a loud, excited entourage. The visit was part of a civic itinerary to educate the new governor on the city’s master works, but it had to be cut short. Seeing the fresco of the weeping, humiliated Adam and Eve, Soderini started pacing and muttering about the evil imperfection of man. It was the same when they made a stop at Santo Spirito to examine the crucifix up close. The limp body of a teenager sculpted by Michelangelo tore at the governor’s emotions. Afraid of upsetting the day’s schedule, his advisors guided him outside for fresh air.

  There had been no warning that Soderini and Machiavelli would be visiting this morning. Michelangelo braced for an unpleasant encounter and a strange reaction to the David. Even from high up on the scaffold, he could see that the governor’s forehead was already slick with sweat.

  “We must determine where to put the thing when it is complete,” said Soderini, to no one in particular.

  “My lord,” said Machiavelli grandly. “The advantage of our surprise visit is to see the colossus up close.” He rubbed his hands in delight. “In advance of the public viewing.”

  “My trusted chancellor,” said Soderini, wiping his face aggressively, clearly suffocated by the binding of his official woolen doublet, “you are a man of unexpected pleasures. Tell me, Michel, where do you keep your wine?”

  The sculptor climbed down effortlessly along the scaffold rungs and jumped to the floor. Picking up a carafe of wine, he wiped a glass with the edge of his dusty apron. Soderini downed the drink in one gulp and wiped his mouth with the length of his arm, as if a common oarsman.

  “Seems too big for the upper buttress of the Duomo,” said Machiavelli, cocking his head and throwing his gaze to the rafters, as if imagining the cathedral. “Per the signed contract.”

  “Chancellor, I see your point. Worthy of an animated debate. Could we set the David on prime real estate in front of the Palazzo Vecchio?”

  Michelangelo listened to the men discussing him as if he was no longer in the room. He detested the chancellor’s authoritative voice, his need to declare a position every time he spoke. Here was a man trying too hard, with his black eyes and cropped hair wet with oil, likely from a class lower than Soderini’s and Michelangelo’s families. Status and class would always separate them—but Machiavelli was making up for it, developing a hard love of the classics, of Plato and Aristotle, of the work of Botticelli and classical architecture and jousting.

  “I see it more and more in Florence,” said Machiavelli, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, pleased with another of his assessments. “We need to pay attention, you and I.” He pressed a fist to Soderini’s shoulder to emphasize his point. “The artist is no longer a creature. He is a creator.”

  “Michelangelo is a dear family friend. I’ve watched him grow—”

  “No longer a child, grown into an artist with a mind of his own.”

  “If I may,” interjected Soderini. “My God, the gaze of this David—it’s overwhelming. Never before have I locked eyes with the eyes of a sculpture and felt my own mortality. I have to admit that my thoughts feel cloudy, a little messy. Michel, give me some more wine. It appears there is something amiss with the face.”

  Here it comes, thought Michelangelo, looking up to the timbers and back to the ground, shifting restlessly on his feet.

  The gonfalonier tapped his nose. “Yes, indeed, the nose,” he continued. “The nose appears too large.” He scratched at his neck. “Anybody else feeling the heat crawling everywhere?”

  For a long while, Michelangelo did not move as he tried to make sense of the man’s meaning. Finally, as if struck by enlightenment, he reached into his leather pouch for a fine-tipped chisel, then, with the other hand, he dug into the pocket of his smock and pulled out a fistful of marble dust, kept for polishing. He climbed easily up the scaffold and leaned from the top platform, about fourteen feet in the air. His chisel tapped with expert precision, the notes echoing through the studio. He released the dust into the air; it was beautiful to behold, a cloud of subterfuge.

  “Better?” he shouted, gazing without emotion through the scaffolding. Soderini tapped a hand to his rolled velvet cap to signal respect. Michelangelo gripped the block of extra marble he had tapped against, pleased with his duplicity. The David was beyond the comprehension of Soderini—or indeed any mortal—just as God was unrecognizable and ethereal. He, Piero Soderini, of a family with minor nobility, had no right to look upon this colossus, this monster-child of fearlessness, and attempt to improve it.

  What now? Here was Machiavelli, climbing the wood scaffolding, hauling himself up like an Olympian!

  “Signore Michelangelo di Buonarroti, you are an honored son of Florence.” Machiavelli wiped his long-fingered hand over his closely cropped head. “The world will visit your David; long convoys and pilgrimages of people will worship your talent.”

  “If I can pay my rent with my wages, I am pleased,” said Michelangelo, bristling at Machiavelli’s sudden switch in tone from condescension to excessive flattery. His father and brothers had already laid claim to most of the four hundred florins for this commission, beyond what he had donated to the beggar girls. They were urging him to find new work. Repairs to the farm in Settignano and their villa in Florence depended on his salary. “The governor, or that prior you are so friendly with, the one at Santo Spirito, they must have money to spare,” his father would harp every time they met.

  The wooden platform creaked under the weight of both men as Machiavelli stepped closer.

  “Should I come up?” It was Soderini. He lifted a foot as a hero might, prompting Michelangelo to picture Hercules slaying the Nemean Lion.

  The men on the scaffold ignored him. Soderini put his foot back on the ground.

  “You were born to sculpt,” said Machiavelli, inspecting the statue closely.

  “Some say I was.” Michelangelo stared at the man who was now beside him. He had an intensity that was difficult to measure or trust. “My nurse, Agnella, was married to a stonemason in the hill town of Settignano. He would take me to the quarry when I was a boy and we would sleep on the marble at night.”

  “Bed of marble. Sounds uncomfortable.”

  “Even warmed by the sun, it never grows soft,” Michelangelo admitted.

  “With your art, you hold much power.” Machiavelli allowed the flattery to flow out of him. “You might have been a governor,” he said, waving a hand toward the ground and Soderini, who seemed to be stroking the feet of the David. “A prince. Or a tyrant. But this!” He clapped a hand on Michelangelo’s bare back, breathing deeply as if inhaling the smell of his sweat. “This hits us mortals here.” He pounded his heart. “This is the power of the artist.”

  “You flatter me, Chancellor.”

  “I am Niccolò Machiavelli. Ad
visor to the governor,” he said, bowing low. “Admirer of princes such as yourself,” he whispered, fixing his gaze on Michelangelo.

  Machiavelli flicked his leather gloves up and down in the palm of his hand. Much like the flicking of a poisonous snake’s tongue, thought Michelangelo.

  “My lord, I am certain we can both agree that Florentines should be celebrated for more than the ability to turn out fine wool and silk brocade for gentlemen.” Machiavelli clenched his hands behind his back. “Let us stand for a city recognized once again by Venice, Milan and Rome for the right of all people to think and create.”

  “You make a pretty speech, Niccolò Machiavelli,” shouted the gonfalonier, his head twisting past the scaffold to look up at the men on the highest platform. “But Florence must be defined on its own terms, not as a city measured against another metropolis”—he looked at Machiavelli to ensure he was listening—“to borrow a term from the ancient Greeks.”

  Soderini now turned his full attention to the towering man-boy in front of him. The warrior’s left hand held the pouch of the sling with wise self-assurance, but the right hand was cocked, veins pulsing, hiding the rock that would kill the enemy. The governor looked pale, and Michelangelo was moved to ask: “Gonfalonier, are you quite well?”

  “It’s just that I had not expected this. This colossus,” said the governor, weakly. “He’s much bigger than I imagined. I feel as if . . .”

  “Go on,” encouraged Michelangelo.

  “To be frank, I feel my own mortality torn asunder and thrown onto the ground, a useless heap of ashes.” He turned his back on the David, drawing a patch of linen from his vest. “A jug of water?” he said weakly to his footman. He slowly swiveled back toward the colossus, then away from it again.

  “I speak for myself and the gonfalonier when I offer our congratulations.” Machiavelli took a knee, inspiring Michelangelo to do the same. He waited, looking up at the timbers of the studio while his lips moved silently: Hail Mary, full of grace . . .The prayer lifted automatically from his lips, but he was unable to speak directly to the man kneeling in front of him.

  “Could I entice you to consider another, even grander commission?” Machiavelli spoke in hushed tones, leaning closer. “You will be well compensated for your work.”

  “Chancellor, you are too kind.” Despite the lure of money, Michelangelo was talking in platitudes in the hopes the rodent-headed man might disappear from his scaffold. “A man of your position, with many affairs to manage. The Pisans, whether Florence should go to war with them again.” The Pisans had slaughtered Beatrice’s father—leading to that tragic, bizarre moment when he first met her. The memory came hurtling back to him, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

  “All in good time,” said Machiavelli. “A young man like yourself needs to be thinking about your next big work. Something grand, as grand as this commission.” Lowering his voice still further, he confided, “I’d like to put you and a great master to a task.”

  “A great master?”

  “You and Leonardo da Vinci. The pride of Florence. The only living rival worthy of your genius. Creating, dazzling, in the Great Council Hall of the Palazzo Vecchio.”

  “In the same room?”

  “Frescoes on the east wall. You are our genius artists. Our best gladiators.”

  Michelangelo dipped his head and did not speak for a long while. Then he said, “This David consumes me. I think it might devour me whole.”

  He had no idea what Machiavelli was up to, but he wished more than ever for the chance to get back to the sculpture towering in front of him. Cracking a weak smile, he swung easily from one platform of the scaffold to the next and jumped to the floor. Michelangelo thought all government officials fat-kidneyed, especially when they showed up without an invitation. Even a visit from the pope would have annoyed him.

  He pocketed his chisel and turned to Soderini. “I should get back to it.”

  “It’s a miracle, your David,” said the governor, extending a hand to Michelangelo’s shoulder and gripping it hard. “Your father must be so proud.”

  “I suppose so,” said Michelangelo, knowing it to be untrue.

  “How old are you, son?”

  “Twenty-eight.” He looked shyly to the floor and up to the timbers. “Though I barely have time to keep track of the passing moons.”

  “Old enough to be thinking of marriage. Any prospects in mind?”

  “Of course,” lied Michelangelo again. “A man needs a piece of prettiness to put his mind at rest.”

  “Well, then, as an old family friend, here’s to toasting you many times at your wedding!”

  Machiavelli leapt from the scaffold and took a final appreciative look at the David. “This is the kind of greatness this city needs. You’ve done it, Michelangelo.”

  “Gentlemen, I bid you goodbye.” Michelangelo bowed low. “My work awaits me.”

  He had already climbed to the top of the platform by the time the men walked out of the studio and closed the oak doors behind them. Slowly, with a deep breath, he bent to pick up his buff, but decided against it. Crouching down, he held his hands against his ears. The muffled silence soothed him. Oh, to be deaf, he thought, and avoid all of the world’s endless useless chatter.

  Chapter 24

  Your fresco of the Battle of Anghiari is the talk of the town,” said Lisa Gherardini. Leonardo set down his cup of spring water and looked over at her. It was true that he had signed the contract enlisting his services as painter of a monumental fresco for the city hall. Machiavelli had arrived at the monastery last fall, pounding his heels down the hallway to Leonardo’s studio, his brow shining with sweat, his eyes lit with a maniacal intensity. Soon enough, people had started asking about the commission. Leonardo would have to set his mind to drawing a preparatory cartoon of the historic battle scene when the Florentines triumphed over the Milanese army.

  For now, he was surprising himself by being intrigued by the woman standing in front of him. She had emerged from behind the changing screen and was wearing the clothes he had chosen for her. Unconventional, of course, but she and her husband had decided to trust his vision for her portrait. Wasn’t that why they had hired the great one?

  Leonardo had decided to dress Lisa in typical Florentine fashion. She would wear a gamurra woven from the finest silk and dyed a rich, verdant green, with yellow velvet sleeves attached to the fitted bodice by ribbons. Her hair would be loosened below a transparent black silk veil, and there would be a suggestion, very discreet, of a linen camicia undergarment appearing at her cleavage. Sleeves discreetly rolled back at the elbow. No halo. No jewels at her neck. Her skin naked. Not even her wedding ring. Subtractions, reductions of color—all of this pleased him.

  He stared at her, taking in the aesthetic of her garb. “Yes, this is fine, very fine,” he murmured to no one in particular. He was weary of the brush. But Lisa was a woman of complexity. Her child had died. Even with an overbearing husband, there was something of a wild spirit that lurked deep within her. Here she was, enduring. He was thinking of the future, when he might add borders of embroidered braid, or drapery that shifted according to the slightest adjustment in her posture—even, perhaps, a gauze overgarment.

  “Have you started the wall painting?”

  It was their second meeting, on a day in May that had bloomed pink and exploded to radiant blue skies.

  “Art begins in my mind. When the idea is complete, the sketching is quick.”

  “So you have not started it,” she said, challenging him.

  He looked up and saw something new in her eyes. Amusement, a flicker of light—more reflection, rather than all grieving. Time was slowly healing the woman.

  “I wish I had such abilities—to conjure an idea and give birth to it,” she admitted, surprising him again. “Beatrice told me it was the best feeling, to imagine a song or the shape of something—even angels—and offer it as an improvement to this.” She waved a hand in the air. “The atmosphere.”
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br />   “You are in possession of a brain,” he said, picking up a sketchbook and a conté. He felt an irrepressible desire to help this woman feel less sorrow and more hope. “You are naturally predisposed to exercise its magnificent powers.”

  She pressed a silk handkerchief to her brow. “Women possess many assets. Yet we are tutored to expect nothing from our thoughts.”

  “Leave some room for change,” he said.

  “I wish it could be so, but . . . your advice . . . I find it to be blithe. I can’t explain it. But your words have upset me.”

  He set the conté down and looked at her. “I see.” He wanted to understand. Perhaps his advice had been delivered with an air of higher authority, but he was unsure how to comfort this Florentine lady. “Shall I call the musicians back? The jugglers?”

  “No, what use is distraction? Let me feel this darkness. Imagine a wave of despair crashing through me. Unbidden.”

  He waited, head bowed.

  “I remember how the doctor hovered over my child’s body. Her dead body,” said Lisa, her cheeks glistening with tears. “The priest was there, too. I heard the rustling of silk, his hand pressing ashes in the shape of a cross on my little girl’s forehead. I lifted her up, and kissed her cheeks. Her skin . . .” She looked over at Leonardo and he met her gaze. “Her skin was still warm. Such an exquisite creation, small eyes and nose. Even in death, she was a thing of beauty. My Piera.”

  “Her spirit will always be with you,” he said, but immediately regretted the poor solace of his words.

  She wiped her cheeks roughly with the back of her hand, forgetting her silk hankie. “I remember how the priest’s bitter breath poisoned the air. He lit the coals in the holy thurible, lifted its chains and smoked the room with frankincense. Then he said: ‘Piera has passed from this life, as pleased God.’ I’ll never forgive him for that.”