Thorn

possibly purchase some of the shop's output. The subject of the Hungarian woman, whether she was still there or not, could arise for discussion as if by accident.

We went through the streets on foot and without escort, which seemed to be the ordinary way for the Medici to get about in town, though Piero with his gout frequently used a litter. Every few paces, or so it seemed to me, Lorenzo was greeted by someone high or low, and as often as not he paused to exchange good wishes and bits of gossip.

'Do you think the woman we want is this artist's mistress?' I asked him when we seemed to have a moment clear for private conversation.

Lorenzo paused in the middle of a narrow way, smiling and gesturing with an exaggerated flourish for an elderly woman carrying a market basket of vegetables to go ahead of him. I had been told again and again that this family of wealthy merchants who were my hosts were also the virtual dictators of Florence; never before had I seen dictators who behaved in such a fashion.

'I do not think so,' he answered me when we were alone again. 'I know Andrea's tastes . . . no, I think not.'

The workshop was a smaller, poorer place than I had been expecting. One large room, well lit by skylights and windows, took up most of the interior space in a building rudely constructed of planks and timbers. Off this large room a few doors led to smaller chambers in the rear, and to a yard. All was primitive as a stable, or very nearly so. Verrocchio its master was rough-looking too, a stocky man of about thirty with a gross face, dressed in workman's clothing covered with various kinds of stains. He greeted Lorenzo with warmth, and told us that his poor house was ours—then grew nervous when Lorenzo whispered in his ear something of the true purpose of our visit.

In the middle of the big room, under a roof panel open to the clear Florentine sky, an old man with rheumy eyes was posing in loose Biblical-looking garb while a single unshaven apprentice sketched him in charcoal on a prepared panel. After stammering some shy greetings to us, they both went on with the job. The door to one of the rear rooms stood open, revealing an elderly female domestic scrubbing at a pot.

Lorenzo and I sat at one side of the studio for a while, playing the role of customers while its master spoke with us about current projects. Or, rather, the tough-looking artist spoke with his young patron who rather resembled a Mafia don of a later century, while I listened and tried to look as if I understood them or at least was interested in what they talked about. Then, with a hint from Lorenzo to guide my taste, I purchased a small, newly-wrought gold chain.

Lorenzo then said that he had an important commission in mind; for the supposed heavy business discussion Verrocchio conducted us into the privacy of what must have been his own bedroom. The chamber was small, its walls heavily decorated with paper sketches. As the elder guest I was granted the single chair; Lorenzo perched on a chest, and Verrocchio sat on the rumpled bed, the only other article of substantial furniture available.

Yes, signori, about that girl, of course. She had been gone for the last two days, and Verrocchio did not know where, any more than he knew from where she had come. Some weeks ago one of the apprentices had brought her in, saying that he wanted to use her as a model and that she was willing to pose for others also. So she had been, even posing naked without protest, which had convinced Verrocchio that she was a whore. A good model, though. He had given her food, a place to sleep with the female servants, and a little money once or twice. She had spoken Italian badly and with an odd accent—certainly not the Greek accent so common in Florence since the refugees from fallen Constantinople had swarmed in; but outside of that, and a certain odd beauty in her face, he had thought her no different from any of a hundred other vagrants and runaways who could be picked up in the streets and taverns. Yes, somewhat better looking than most of them, that was all. Here on the wall were a couple of sketches of her made by his apprentices, if we would like to see.

I naturally looked with interest, but only one sketch showed the model's face at all clearly, and it had distorted her features into such an artificial expression of heaven-sent rapture that I thought it would be useless for identification. I made no comment.

Verrocchio talked on, nervously. He had had vague plans of posing the girl himself—yes, there was something truly lovely about her, signori—but the next thing he knew, she was gone, no one knew where.

I asked: 'Which apprentice was it who brought her round? That stubbly fellow out there?'

'Yes. Would you gentlemen like to talk to him?'

We went out into the large room again, where Lorenzo with his usual good humor approached the dark- cheeked youth. Would he settle a small bet? That young woman who was here until a few days ago, what language did she really speak, besides her bad Italian?

The pseudo-prophet with the rheumy eyes got a chance to rest from posing. The apprentice put down his tools. He dropped things and was upset at being questioned. He stuttered that he really didn't know, he didn't think that he could tell us much.

I demonstrated what Hungarian sounded like. Yes, said the nervous youth, that might have been it. But he wasn't really sure. He had never talked to the girl much and didn't know her name. True, he had picked her up in a tavern, and brought her here for some modeling, but you gentlemen know how that goes—excuse me, perhaps you don't—but a man doesn't always learn their names. No, he didn't know where she was now. She had seemed unhappy—she had gone off—

It seemed to me that there was more to be learned from this man, but he was not mine to question as I willed. He was probably a valuable worker here. Perhaps later, I thought.

'Let us talk to the servants, then,' said Lorenzo, still effortlessly maintaining the pose of a small bet to be settled. 'And to the other apprentices.'

The few servants were soon casually processed. I allowed them to get away with knowing nothing whatsoever, at least for the time being. As for apprentices, Verrocchio informed us that he presently had only three. The second, a somewhat younger and handsomer lad than the one we had already spoken to, was called in from the yard where he had been mixing pigments. This one, acting not too bright, only giggled slightly and glanced nervously at his master when I asked him how well he had known the woman; he did confirm, though, that my Hungarian sounded like the language the young woman had muttered to herself in when she was upset.

'What was she upset about?'

The youth made an eloquent gesture with both arms, that seemed to take in all of life.

'I have only one more apprentice, gentlemen. He lives at home, but is due to arrive here at any time now. Will you honor me by waiting?'

'It is we who are honored by your company, maestro,' said Lorenzo, and sat down again for some more leisured conversation about Art. The staff went back to work. Presently the lad we were waiting for appeared. He looked to me no more than about twelve years of age, though quite tall and strong for his years. He was better dressed than either of his older colleagues.

Lorenzo, beginning to put a question to him, paused in mid-sentence. 'Say, I think I know you. Your father is Ser Piero the notary, is he not? Yes, of course, and how is he?'

'Father is well, signore.'

Again we went through our list of questions. This time Lorenzo, as an acquaintance, did most of the talking.

'The girl perhaps talked to you about herself? Your good master here says that you spent more time drawing and painting her than any of the others did.'

'Yes, she modeled for me many days. But we did not talk very much.'

'Perhaps,' I put in, 'you have a drawing, at least a sketch, some good likeness of her that you can show me?' I realized that our fiction about the bet was by now too tattered to be of any other further use. 'Since you say you put in so many hours at it. Can you draw well?'

The boy looked at me. There was something intrinsically cold, withdrawn, about him. 'I can draw. I threw some of my sketches away, but I think there is something. I will see what I can find.' He turned away.

'Stay,' commanded Lorenzo. 'The important thing is, do you know where she is now?'

'Yes, signore, I think I may know.' We all stared at him. 'In the palazzo Boccalini.'

This obviously meant something to Lorenzo and Verrocchio, who exchanged looks. Then the master of the studio demanded of his young apprentice: 'How do you know this?'