Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

“Yes, I was behind it.” My own voice trembled, which annoyed me; I fought to steady it. “Mother did this just to please me. Do you think I am happy that she had a spell? She has gone out before without incident. Do you think I meant for this to happen?”

He shook his head. “A girl so young, so full of such brazen disrespect. Listen to me: You will stay at home, by your mother’s side, all week. You are not to go to Mass or market. Do you not know how serious this offense is? Do you not know how terrified I was, to come home and find her gone? Do you not feel at all ashamed that your selfishness has hurt your mother so? Or do you care nothing for her life?”

His tone steadily rose throughout his discourse, so that by its end, he was shouting.

“Of course-” I began, but broke off as my mother’s door opened, and she appeared in the doorway.

Both my father and I were startled and turned to look at her. She looked like a wraith, clutching the doorjamb to keep her balance; her eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion. Zalumma had taken down her hair, and it spilled darkly over her shoulders, her bosom, and down to her waist; she wore nothing but the billowing camicia, with its long, puffed sleeves.

She spoke in nothing more than a whisper, but the emotion in it could be clearly heard. “Leave her be. This was my idea, all of it. If you must shout, shout at me.”

“You mustn’t be up,” I said, but my words were drowned out by my father’s angry voice.

“How could you do such a thing when you know it is dangerous? Why must you frighten me so, Lucrezia? You might have died!”

My mother gazed on him with haggard eyes. “I am tired. Tired of this house, of this life. I don’t care if I die. I want to go out, as normal folk do. I want to live as any normal woman does.”

She would have said more, but my father interrupted. “God forgive you for speaking so lightly of death. It is His will that you live so, His judgment. You should accept it meekly.”

I had never heard venom in my gentle mother’s tone, had never seen her sneer. But that day, I heard and saw both.

Her lip tugged at one corner. “Do not mock God, Antonio, when we both know the truth of it.”

He moved swiftly, blindingly, to strike her; she shrank backward.

I moved just as quickly to intervene. I pummeled my father’s shoulders, forcing him away from her. “How dare you!” I cried. “How dare you! She is kind and good-everything you are not!”

His pale golden eyes were wide, bright with rage. He struck out with the back of his hand; I fell back, startled to find myself sitting on the floor.

He swept from the room. As he did, I looked frantically about for something to hurl after him; but all I had was the cape still about my shoulders, a gift from him of heavy alessandrino blue wool.

I bunched it in my hands and threw it, but it went scarcely farther than an arm’s length before dropping silently to the floor-a vain gesture.

And then I came to myself and ran into my mother’s room to find her on her knees beside the bed. I helped her up into it, covered her with a blanket, and held her hand while she-once again half asleep-wept softly.

“Hush,” I told her. “We didn’t mean it. And we will make amends.”

She reached up blindly, looking for my hand; I clasped hers. “It all repeats,” she moaned, and her eyes at last closed. “It all repeats…”

“Hush now,” I said, “and sleep.”

XIII

I sat at my mother’s bedside the rest of the day. When the sun began to set, I lit a taper and remained. A servant came bearing my father’s request that I come down and sup with him; I refused. I did not want to be reconciled yet.

But as I sat in the darkness watching my mother’s profile in the candleglow, I felt a stirring of regret. I was no better than my father; out of love and a desire to protect her, I had permitted my rage to overtake me. When my father had lifted his hand, threatening her-though I did not believe he would actually strike her-I had struck him, and not once, but several times. This, even though I knew our fighting broke my mother’s heart.

I was a bad daughter. One of the worst, for I was vengeful and plotting against those who harmed the people I loved. When I was ten, we had a new servant, Evangelia, a stocky woman with black hairs on her chin and a broad red face. When she first witnessed one of my mother’s fits, she proclaimed-like the priest in the Duomo-that my mother was possessed of the Devil and needed prayer.

That claim alone would not have provoked my hatred, only my dislike: As I said, I was still undecided as to whether it was true, but I knew such statements embarrassed and hurt my mother. But Evangelia gelia would not let the matter rest. Whenever she was in the same room as my mother, she crossed herself and made the sign to avert the evil eye-two fingers pointing outward in a vee at the level of her own eyes. She began to wear a charm in a pouch hung round her neck, then at last did the unforgivable: She left a second charm hanging from my mother’s door. It was supposedly to keep my mother confined to her room; when other servants confessed the truth of it, my mother wept. But she was too kind and ashamed to say anything to Evangelia.

I took matters into my own hands; I would not tolerate anyone who made my mother cry. I stole into my mother’s room and took her finest ring, a large ruby set in delicately crafted gold, a wedding gift from my father.

I hid it within Evangelia’s belongings, then waited. The predictable occurred: The ring was found, to everyone’s horror-especially Evangelia’s. My father dismissed her at once.

At first I felt a sense of satisfaction: Justice had been served, and my mother would no longer weep with shame. But after a few days, my conscience began to pain me. Most of Florence knew of Evangelia’s supposed crime, and she was widowed with a small daughter. No family would hire her. How would she survive?

I confessed my sin to the priest and to God. Neither brought relief. At last I went to my mother and tearfully told her the truth. She was stern and told me outright what I already knew-that I had ruined a woman’s life. To my relief, she did not tell the full truth to my father, only that a terrible mistake had been made. She begged him to find Evangelia and bring her back, that her name might be cleared.

But my father’s efforts were futile. Evangelia had already left Florence, unable to find employment.

I lived from then on with the guilt. And as I sat watching my sleeping mother that night, I remembered all the angry outbursts of my youth, every vengeful act I had ever committed. There were many; and I prayed to God, the God Who loved my mother and did not want her stricken with fits, to relieve me of my dreadful temper. My eyes filled; I knew my father and I added to my mother’s suffering every time we fought.

As the first tear spilled onto my cheek, my mother stirred in her sleep and murmured something unintelligible. I put a gentle hand on her arm. “It’s all right. I am here.”

The instant I uttered the words, the door opened softly. I glanced up to see Zalumma, a goblet in her hand. She had removed her cap and scarf, and plaited her wild hair, but a halo of untamed curls framed her white face.

“I brought a draught,” she said quietly. “When your mother wakes, this will let her sleep through the night.”

I nodded and tried to wipe my damp cheek casually, hoping Zalumma would not notice as she set the goblet beside my mother’s bed.

Of course she noticed everything, even though her back was to me at the instant I accomplished the act. She turned to me, and with her voice still low, she said, “You mustn’t cry.”

“But it’s my fault.”

Zalumma flared. “It’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault.” She sighed bitterly as she looked down on her sleeping mistress. “What the priest in the Duomo said-”

I leaned forward, eager to hear her opinion. “Yes?”

“It is vileness. It is ignorance, you understand? Your mother is the truest Christian I know.” She paused. “When I was a very young girl…”