Buch lesen: «Painting Mona Lisa»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Prologue: Lisa June 1490

I

II

PART I April 26, 1478

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

December 28, 1478

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X

PART II LISA

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Epilogue: Lisa July 1498

LXXI

Acknowledgements

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue: Lisa June 1490

I

My name is Lisa di Antonio Gherardini Giocondo, though to acquaintances I am known simply as Madonna Lisa, and to those of the common class, Monna Lisa.

My likeness has been recorded on wood, with boiled linseed oil and pigments dug from the earth or crushed from semi-precious stones, and applied with brushes made from the feathers of birds and the silken fur of animals.

I have seen the painting. It does not look like me. I stare at it and see instead the faces of my mother and father. I listen and hear their voices. I feel their love and their sorrow, and I witness again and again, the crime that bound them together; the crime that bound them to me.

For my story began not with my birth but a murder, committed the year before I was born.

It was first revealed to me during an encounter with the astrologer, two weeks before my eleventh birthday, which was celebrated on the fifteenth of June. My mother announced that I would have my choice of a present. She assumed that I would request a new gown, for nowhere has sartorial ostentation been practised more avidly than my native Florence. My father was one of the city’s wealthiest wool merchants, and his business connections afforded me my pick of sumptuous silks, brocades, velvets and furs. I spent those days studying the dress of each noblewoman I passed, and at night, I lay awake contemplating the design.

All this changed the day of Uncle Lauro’s wedding.

I stood on the balcony of our house on the Via Maggiore between my mother and grandmother, staring in the direction of the Ponte Santa Trinita, the bridge which the young bride would cross on her ride to her groom.

My grandmother had come to live with us several months earlier. She was still a handsome woman, but the loss of her second husband had soured her and she was faded and frail; her hair had grown white at the temples, and her body bony. She would not live out the year. My mother was dark-haired, dark-eyed, with skin so flawless it provoked my jealousy; she, however, seemed unaware of her amazing appearance. She complained of the adamant straightness of her locks, and of the olive cast to her complexion. Never mind that she was fine-boned, with lovely hands, feet and teeth. I was mature for my years, already larger and taller than she, with coarse dull brown waves and troubled skin.

Downstairs, my father and Uncle Lauro, attended by his two sons, waited in the loggia that opened onto the street.

My mother suddenly pointed. ‘There she is!’

From our vantage, we could see down the length of the busy street to the point that it ended and the Ponte Santa Trinita began. A small figure on horseback headed towards us, followed by several people on foot. When they neared I could make out the woman riding the white horse.

Her name was Giovanna Maria; I had met her often during her six-month courtship with my mother’s brother. She was a friendly, plump fifteen-year-old with golden hair. Never again would she look as lovely as she did that day, in a pink overgown covered with seed pearls, her curls tamed into ringlets beneath a tiara of braided silver. When she arrived, my uncle helped her dismount. He was twice Giovanna’s age, a widower whose eldest son was two years her junior; she seemed painfully young standing next to him.

Before we joined them downstairs, my grandmother eyed the pair sceptically. ‘It cannot last happily. She is Sagittarius, with Taurus ascendant, and Lauro is Aries; everyone knows the Archer and the Ram despise one another. And with Taurus … the two of them will constantly butt heads.’

‘Mother,’ my own reproached gently.

‘If you and Antonio had paid attention to such matters—’ She broke off at my mother’s sharp glance and urged us downstairs to greet the bride.

I was intrigued. My grandmother was right; my parents loved each other, but had never been truly happy. For the first time, I realized that we had never discussed my natal chart.

I decided to bring up the matter with my mother as soon as possible. Well-to-do families often consulted astrologers on important matters. Charts were routinely cast for newborns. In fact, an astrologer had chosen that very day in June as the most fortuitous for Lauro and Giovanna Maria to wed.

After the feast as the dancing commenced, I sat beside my grandmother and questioned her further about the futures of the bride and groom. I discovered that Lauro had been born with his moon residing in Scorpio. ‘As a result, he has never been able to resist a Scorpio woman. It caused much heartache in his first marriage. Giovanna Maria’s moon is in Sagittarius, so she would be happiest with a man of her own sign.’ Grandmother sighed. ‘I married twice. Once for love – and we were miserable. The second time, I made no such mistake. I went to the astrologer. And though I had to turn down some well-born candidates, when I met your grandfather—’ her expression and tone softened ‘—I knew the stars smiled on us. Our charts were perfectly matched. A gentler, finer man was never born.’

‘My sign … and my moon … What are they?’ I asked. ‘Who would be a good match for me?’

She gave me an odd look. ‘Born in June … You would be Gemini, then. As for the others, I cannot say.’

‘But you were at my birth,’ I persisted. ‘Wasn’t an astrologer hired?’

‘I was too busy helping your mother – and you – to worry about such a trivial thing,’ she said. Politely, I did not point out that she had only just finished lecturing me on its importance.

That night, I lay awake puzzling over why I did not know such important information. Certainly my parents had consulted an astrologer at my birth. I was, after all, a rare creature: an only child, the bearer of my family’s hopes.

The next morning I went to my mother’s room. She was abed, though it was late; her health was poor and the wedding festivities had exhausted her. Even so, she welcomed me warmly. I clasped her hand and settled on the edge of her bed.

‘I have been thinking,’ I began solemnly. ‘I know I am Gemini, born mid-June. But I am now old enough to know the full details of my horoscope. What is my moon, and what sign is ascendant for me?’

My mother hesitated. Clearly, she had expected a discussion of fabrics and fashion, not this. ‘I am not sure.’

‘But you must have kept a copy of my birth chart?’

Her face, which rarely met the sun, flushed. ‘You did not come easily into the world, Lisa. You were small and I was ill afterwards, your father was so concerned … We did not think to have it done.’

I was aghast. ‘But I must know these things, to make a proper match. Grandmother has said so.’

My mother sighed and leaned back against her pillows, her long dark braid falling over one shoulder and into her lap. ‘Lisa … people marry every day without worrying about their stars. Your father and I are such an example.’

I dared not respond to this. Instead I countered, ‘Have you had your chart cast since your birth?’

In reply, she glanced guiltily downwards. ‘It is no small expense.’

But I heard her resolve weakening, and pressed. ‘It is less costly and involved than a gown. And it is what I want as my birthday gift.’

She sat forwards and reached out; cupping my chin in her hand, she studied me fondly. ‘You should reconsider. You will soon be a woman. A gown is far more practical.’

‘I will only outgrow it; but I will never outgrow the use of such important information.’ As an only child, I was often indulged and well aware of the power I wielded. Deliberately pitiful, I said, ‘Please.’

Because it was not safe for my mother to venture out, we did not go to the astrologer’s residence, but instead summoned him to our palazzo.

If the astrologer was not a wealthy man, he certainly behaved as one. From a window in the corridor near my bedroom, I watched secretly as his gilded carriage arrived in the courtyard behind our house. Two elegantly-appointed servants attended him as he stepped down, clad in a farsetto, the close-fitting garment which some men wore in place of a tunic. The fabric was a violet velvet quilt, covered by a sleeveless brocade cloak in a darker shade of the same hue. I could not see his face well from that distance, but his body was thin and sunken-chested, his posture and movements imperious.

Zalumma, my mother’s slave, moved forwards to meet him. Zalumma was a well-dressed lady-in-waiting that day. She was devoted to my mother, whose gentleness inspired loyalty, and who treated her slave like a beloved companion. Zalumma was a Circassian, from the high mountains in the mysterious East; her people were highly prized for their physical beauty and Zalumma – tall as a man, with hair and eyebrows black as jet and a face whiter than marble – was no exception. Her tight ringlets were formed not by a hot poker but by God, and were the envy of every Florentine woman. She generally kept them hidden beneath a cap – perfectly round on the sides, and perfectly flat on top, which she said reminded her of her native dress – with a long scarf that ballooned from her hair’s volume. At times, she muttered to herself in her native tongue, which sounded like no language that I had ever heard; she called it Adyghabza.

Zalumma curtsied, then led the man into the house to meet my mother. She had been nervous that morning, no doubt because this astrologer was the most prestigious in town and had, when the Pope’s forecaster had taken ill, even been consulted by His Holiness. I was to remain out of view, for this first encounter was solely a business matter, and I would only be a distraction.

I left my room and stepped lightly to the top of the stairs to see if I could make out what was going on two floors below me. Though my hearing was keen, the stone walls were thick, and my mother had shut the door to the reception chamber. I could not even make out muffled voices.

The initial meeting did not last long. My mother opened the door and called for Zalumma; I heard her quick steps on the marble, then a man’s voice.

I retreated from the stairs and hurried back to window, with its view of the astrologer’s carriage.

Zalumma escorted him from the house – then, after glancing about, handed him a small object, perhaps a purse. He refused it at first, but Zalumma drew close and addressed him earnestly, urgently. After a moment of indecision, he pocketed the object, then climbed into his carriage and was driven away.

I assumed that she had paid him for a reading, though I was surprised that a man of such stature, whose demeanour reflected prideful arrogance, would read for a slave. Or perhaps it was as simple a thing as my mother forgetting to pay him.

As she walked back towards the house, Zalumma happened to glance up and meet my gaze. Flustered at being caught spying, I withdrew.

I expected Zalumma, who enjoyed teasing me about my misdeeds, to mention it later; but she remained altogether silent on the matter.

II

Three days later, the astrologer returned – this time without his attendants. Once again, I watched from the top floor window as he climbed from the carriage to be greeted by Zalumma. I was excited; Mother had agreed to call for me when the time was right. I decided that she wanted time to polish any negative news, and give it a rosier glow.

This time the horoscopist wore his wealth in the form of a brilliant yellow tunic of silk damask trimmed with brown marten fur. Before entering the house, he paused and spoke to Zalumma furtively; she put a hand to her mouth as if shocked by what he said. He asked her a question. She shook her head, then put a hand on his forearm, apparently demanding something from him. He handed her a scroll of papers, then pulled away, irritated, and strode into our palazzo. Agitated, she tucked the scroll into a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt, then followed on his heels.

I left the window and stood listening at the top of the stairs, mystified by the encounter and impatient for my summons.

Less than a quarter hour later, I started violently when downstairs, a door was flung open with such force it slammed against the wall. I ran to the window: the astrologer was walking, unescorted, back to his carriage.

I lifted my skirts and dashed down the stairs full tilt, grateful that I encountered neither Zalumma nor my mother. Breathless, I arrived at the carriage just as the astrologer gave his driver the signal to leave.

I put my hand on the polished wooden door and looked up at the man sitting on the other side. ‘Please stop,’ I said.

He gestured for the driver to hold the horses back and scowled down at me, clearly in a foul mood; yet his gaze also held a curious compassion. ‘You would be the daughter, then.’

‘Yes.’

He appraised me carefully. ‘I will not be party to deception. Do you understand?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm. I see that you do not.’ He paused to choose his words carefully. ‘Your mother, Madonna Lucrezia, said that you were the one who requested my services. Is that so?’

‘It is.’ I flushed, not knowing whether my admission would anger him further.

‘Then you deserve to hear at least some of the truth, for you will never hear the full of it in this house.’ His pompous irritation faded and his tone grew earnest and dark. ‘Your chart is unusual – some would say it is distressing. I take my art very seriously, young lady, and employ my intuition well, and it tells me that you are caught in a cycle of violence, of blood and deceit. What others have begun, you must finish.’

I recoiled, startled into silence by such unexpected harshness. When I found my voice, I insisted, ‘I want nothing to do with such things.’

‘You are fire four times over,’ he said. ‘Your temper is a furnace in which the sword of justice must be forged. In your stars, I saw an act of violence, one which is your past and your future.’

‘But I would never do anything to hurt someone else!’

‘God has ordained it. He has His reasons for your destiny.’

I wanted to ask more, but the astrologer called to his driver and a pair of fine black horses pulled them away.

Perplexed and troubled, I walked back towards the house. I lifted my gaze, and saw Zalumma staring down at me from the top floor window.

By the time I returned to my chamber, she was gone. There I waited for half an hour, until my mother called for me.

She still sat in the grand hall where she had received the astrologer. She smiled when I entered, apparently unaware of my encounter with him or of Zalumma’s distress. In her hand she bore a sheaf of papers.

‘Come, sit beside me,’ she said brightly. ‘I shall tell you all about your stars. They should have been charted long ago, so I have decided that you still deserve a new gown. Your father will take you today into the city, to choose the cloth; but you must say nothing to him about this.’ She nodded at the papers. ‘Otherwise, he will judge us as too extravagant.’

I sat stiffly, my back straight, my hands folded tightly in my lap.

‘See here.’ My mother set the papers in her lap and rested her fingertip on the astrologer’s elegant script. ‘You are Gemini, of course – air. And have Pisces rising, which is water. Your moon is in Aries – fire. And you have many aspects of earth in your chart, which makes you exceedingly well-balanced, and this indicates a most fortunate future.’

As she spoke, my anger grew. She had spent the past half-hour composing herself and concocting a happy falsehood. The astrologer had been right; I could not expect to find the truth here.

‘You will have a long, good life, wealth, and many children,’ my mother continued. ‘You need not worry about which man you marry, for you are so well-aspected towards every sign that—’

I cut her off. ‘No, I am fire four times over,’ I said. ‘My life will be marked by treachery and blood.’

My mother rose swiftly; the papers in her lap slipped to the floor and scattered. ‘Zalumma!’ she hissed, her eyes lit by a fury I had never seen in her before. ‘Did she speak to you?’

‘I spoke to the astrologer myself.’

This quieted her at once. and her expression grew unreadable. Carefully, she asked, ‘What else did he tell you?’

‘Only what I just said.’

‘No more?’

‘No more.’

Abruptly drained, she sank back into her chair.

Lost in my own anger, I did not stop to think that perhaps my kind and doting mother wished only to shield me from evil news. I jumped to my feet. ‘All that you have said is a lie! What others have you told me?’

It was a cruel thing to say. She glanced at me, stricken. Yet I turned and left her sitting there, with her hand pressed to her heart.

Later I realized that my mother and Zalumma had had a terrible argument. They had always been on the most amiable terms possible; but after the astrologer’s second visit, my mother grew cold each time Zalumma entered the room. She would not meet her slave’s gaze, nor would she speak more than a few words to her. Zalumma, in turn, was sullen and silent. Several weeks passed before they were friends once again.

My mother never spoke to me again of my stars. I often thought of asking Zalumma to find the papers the astrologer had given my mother, so that I could read the truth for myself. But each time, a sense of dread held me back.

I already knew more than I wished.

Almost two years would pass before I learned of the crime to which I was inextricably bound.

PART I April 26, 1478

III

In the stark, massive Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, Bernardo Bandini Baroncelli stood before the altar and fought to steady his shaking hands. He could not, of course – no more than he could hide the blackness in his heart from God. He pressed palms and fingers together in a gesture of prayer, and held them to his lips. Voice unsteady, he whispered, pleading for the success of the dark venture in which he found himself entangled, pleading for forgiveness should it succeed.

I am a good man. Baroncelli directed the thought to the Almighty. I have always meant others well. How did I come to find myself here?

No answer came. Baroncelli fixed his gaze on the altar, fashioned of dark wood and gold. Through the stained glass windows in the cupola, the morning light streamed down in golden rays, glittering with dust as they glinted off the golden fixtures. The sight evoked unsullied Eden. Surely God was here; but Baroncelli sensed no divine presence, only his own wickedness.

‘God forgive me, a most miserable sinner,’ he murmured. His quiet prayer mingled with the hundreds of hushed voices inside the cavernous Church of Saint Mary of the Flower – in this case a lily. The sanctuary was one of the largest in the world, and was built in the shape of a Latin cross. Atop the juncture of the arms rested the architect Brunelleschi’s greatest achievement: il Duomo. Dazzling in its sheer expanse, the huge dome had no visible means of support. Visible from any part of the city, the orange brick cupola majestically dominated the skyline, and had, like the lily, become a symbol of Florence. It stretched so high that, when he first set eyes upon it, Baroncelli thought it must surely touch the Gates of Heaven.

Baroncelli dwelt in a far lower realm this particular morning. Though the plan had seemed simple enough to be foolproof, now the painfully bright day had dawned, Baroncelli was overwhelmed with foreboding and regret. The latter emotion had always marked his life: born into one of the city’s wealthiest and most eminent families, he had squandered his fortune and fallen into debt at an advanced age. He had spent his life as a banker, and knew nothing else. His only choices were to move wife and children down to Naples and beg for sponsorship from one of his rich cousins – an option his outspoken spouse, Giovanna, would never have tolerated – or to offer his services to one of the two largest and most prestigious banking families in Florence: the Medici, or the Pazzi.

He had gone first to the most powerful: the Medici. They had rejected him, a fact he still resented. But their rivals, the Pazzi, welcomed him into their fold; and it was for that reason, that today he stood in the front row of the throng of faithful beside his employer, Francesco de’ Pazzi. With his uncle, the knight Messer Iacopo, Francesco ran his family’s international business concerns. He was a small man, with a sharp nose and chin, and eyes that narrowed beneath dark, disproportionately large brows; beside the tall, dignified Baroncelli, he resembled an ugly dwarf. Baroncelli had eventually come to resent Francesco more than the Medici, for the man was given to fits of temper and had often loosed a nasty tongue on his employee, reminding Baroncelli of his bankruptcy with stinging words.

In order to provide for his family, Baroncelli was forced to grin while the Pazzi – Messer Iacopo as well as young Francesco – insulted him, and treated him as an inferior when in fact he came from a family with equal, if not more, prestige. So when the matter of the plot presented itself, Baroncelli was presented with a choice: risk his neck by confessing everything to the Medici, or let the Pazzi force him to be their accomplice, and win for himself a position in the new government.

Now, as he stood asking God for forgiveness, he felt the warm breath of a fellow conspirator upon his right shoulder. The man praying just behind him wore the burlap robes of a penitent.

Standing to Baroncelli’s left, Francesco fidgeted and glanced right, past his employee. Baroncelli followed his gaze: it rested on Lorenzo de’ Medici, who at twenty-nine years old was the de facto ruler of Florence. Technically, Florence was governed by the Signoria, a council of eight priors and the head of state, the gonfaloniere of justice; these men were chosen from among all the notable Florentine families. Supposedly the process was fair, but curiously, the majority of those chosen were always loyal to Lorenzo, and even the gonfaloniere was his to control.

Francesco de’ Pazzi was ugly, but Lorenzo was uglier still. Taller than most, and muscular in build, his fine body was marred by one of Florence’s homeliest faces. His nose – long and pointed, ending in a pronounced upward slope that tilted to one side – had a flattened bridge, leaving Lorenzo with a peculiarly nasal voice. His lower jaw jutted out so severely that whenever he entered a room, his chin preceded him by a thumb’s breadth. His disturbing profile was framed by a jaw-length hank of dark brown hair.

Lorenzo stood awaiting the start of the Mass, flanked on one side by his loyal friend and employee, Francesco Nori, and on the other by the Archbishop of Pisa, Francesco Salviati. Despite his physiognomic failings, he emanated profound dignity and poise. In his dark, slightly protruding eyes shone an uncommon shrewdness. Even surrounded by enemies, Lorenzo seemed at ease. Salviati was a Pazzi relative, and no friend, though he and Lorenzo greeted each other as such; the elder Medici brother had lobbied furiously against Salviati’s appointment as Archbishop of Pisa, asking instead that Pope Sixtus appoint a Medici sympathizer. The Pope had turned a deaf ear to Lorenzo’s request, and then – breaking with a tradition that had existed for generations – he fired the Medici as the Papal bankers to replace them with the Pazzi – a bitter insult to Lorenzo.

Yet today, Lorenzo had received the Pope’s own nephew, the seventeen-year-old Cardinal Riario of San Giorgio, as an honoured guest. After Mass in the great Duomo, Lorenzo would lead the young Cardinal to a feast at the Medici palace, followed by a tour of the famed Medici collection of art. In the meantime, he stood attentively beside the Riario and Salviati, nodding at their occasional whispered comments.

Smiling while they sharpen their swords, Baroncelli thought.

Dressed unostentatiously in a plain tunic of blue-grey silk, Lorenzo was quite unaware of the presence of a pair of black-frocked priests standing two rows behind him. The tutor to the Pazzi household was a youth Baroncelli knew only as Stefano; a somewhat older man, Antonio da Volterra, stood beside him. Baroncelli had caught da Volterra’s gaze as they entered the church and had glanced quickly away; the priest’s eyes were full of the same smouldering rage Baroncelli had seen in the penitent’s. Da Volterra, present at all the secret meetings, had also spoken vehemently against the Medici’s ‘love of all things pagan’, saying that the family had ‘ruined our city’ with its decadent art.

Like his fellow conspirators, Baroncelli knew that neither feast nor tour would ever take place. Events soon to occur would change the political face of Florence forever.

Behind him, the hooded penitent shifted his weight, then let go a sigh which held sounds only Baroncelli could interpret. His words were muffled by the cowl that had been drawn forward to obscure his features. Baroncelli had advised against permitting the man to assist in the assassination – why should he be trusted? The fewer involved, the better … but Francesco, as always, had overridden him.

Where is Giuliano? the penitent whispered.

Giuliano de’ Medici, the younger brother, was as fair of face as Lorenzo was ugly. The darling of Florence, he was called – so handsome, it was said, that men and women alike sighed in his wake. It would not do to have only one brother present in the great cathedral. Both were required, or the entire operation would have to be called off.

Baroncelli looked over his shoulder to glance at the shadowed face of his hooded accomplice and said nothing. He did not like the penitent; the man had injected an undertone of self-righteous religious fervour into the proceedings, one so infectious that even the worldly Francesco had begun to believe that they were doing God’s work today.

Baroncelli knew that God had nothing to do with this; this was an act born of jealousy and ambition.

On his other side, Francesco de’ Pazzi hissed. ‘What is it? What did he say?’

Baroncelli leaned down to whisper in his diminutive employer’s ear. ‘Where is Giuliano?’

He watched the weasel-faced Francesco struggle to suppress his stricken expression. Baroncelli shared his distress. Mass would commence soon now that Lorenzo and his guest, the Cardinal, were in place; unless Giuliano arrived shortly, the entire plot would evaporate into disaster. It was unthinkable, there was too much danger, too much was at stake; too many souls were involved in the plot, leaving too many tongues free to wag. Even now, Messer Iacopo waited alongside a small army of fifty Perugian mercenaries for the signal from the church bell. When it tolled, he would seize control of the government palace and rally the people against Lorenzo.

The penitent pushed forwards until he stood alongside Baroncelli; he then raised his face to stare upwards at the dizzyingly high cupola overhead, rising directly above the great altar. The man’s burlap hood slipped back slightly, revealing his profile. For an instant, his lips parted, and brow and mouth contorted in a look of such hatred, such revulsion, that Baroncelli recoiled from him.

Slowly, the bitterness in the penitent’s eyes eased and the muscles in his face relaxed to the point that his expression resolved into one of beatific ecstasy, as if he could see God Himself and not the great ceiling’s smoothly curved marble. Francesco noticed, and he watched the penitent as though he were an oracle about to give utterance.

And give utterance he did. ‘He is still abed.’ And, coming back to his senses, the man carefully drew the hood forwards to conceal his face once more.

Francesco clutched Baroncelli’s elbow and hissed. ‘We must go to the Medici Palace at once!’ Baroncelli was not given to superstition, but could not disobey his employer.