Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

there and beautiful gardens.”

“I would like that.” Though I reeled happily at the thought, my answer was hesitant. I doubted my father would ever allow me a second chance to visit the Medici. I was still worrying whether he would ever consider letting an artist-even one as renowned as Leonardo-enter our home.

Giuliano smiled at my response. “That would be wonderful, Madonna Lisa! As my father is unwell, perhaps he would permit me to serve as your guide.”

I was suddenly unsettled by the realization that he was taken with me. Surely Lorenzo had not invited me here as a potential bride for his son-Giuliano was still a few years away from the marriageable age for men. And when he did wed, his bride would come from one of the noblest houses in Italy. She would certainly not be the daughter of a wool merchant.

A proper reply escaped me. Fortunately, we had arrived by that time at the side entry to the palazzo. There were no servants here; I remembered dimly that guards stood on the other side, out in the cold. Giuliano halted.

“I leave you here only an instant, Madonna, to make sure your father is waiting for you. I shall return to escort you to him.”

He leaned forward impulsively, unexpectedly, and kissed my cheek. Just as swiftly, he was gone.

I was glad for his disappearance and the absence of witnesses. Judging from the heat on my face and neck, I must have blushed deep as chermisi crimson.

I was torn. This was a kind, likable lad, and handsome-a catch certainly beyond my hopes-yet I could not help but respond to his kiss with a rush of giddiness. At the same time I reminded myself that I was smitten with Leonardo da Vinci. I was safest resting my hopes for wedlock there. Even though he was the result of an illicit union with a servant girl, Leonardo’s father was one of the best-known notaries in Florence. He came from a good family, of roughly the same wealth and prestige as my father’s.

By the time Giuliano returned, I was still too abashed to meet his gaze. He led me out into the chill night, past the guards with swords prominent on their hips, and helped me into the carriage without any acknowledgment of the illicit kiss. And when I settled beside my father, he said simply, “Good night, Madonna. Good night, Ser Antonio. May God be with you both.”

“And with you,” I replied.

As we rode out onto the Via Larga my father was distant, troubled; prayer and contemplation had apparently done little to soothe him or ease the sting of delivering his only child into the hands of Savonarola’s enemy. He spoke without meeting my eyes.

“How was it?” he asked curtly. “What did they do, put you on display for the women?”

“There were no women there. Only men.”

“Men?” He turned his head to glance at me.

“Friends of il Magnifico.” Leery of my father’s disapproval, I did not want to reveal too much, but my curiosity would not let me rest. “Many artists. Leonardo da Vinci was there.” I knew better than to mention Lorenzo’s commission of my portrait; I would leave such negotiations to better diplomats than I. I paused, suddenly timid. “Does he have a wife?”

“Leonardo?” Distracted, my father frowned in the failing light at the road ahead. “No. He is one of our most famous sodomites. Years ago, he was brought up on charges; they were dropped, but he has lived for years with his ‘apprentice,’ young Salai, who is surely his lover.” His voice was without inflection-odd, considering his normally pious disapproval of such men.

With apparently great effort, he asked me the appropriate questions: Who else had been there? Had Ser Lorenzo given any indication as to what man he thought might be suitable? What had I done while there?

I answered curtly, with fewer and fewer words; he did not seem to notice that his offhanded words about Leonardo had stung me. At last he fell quiet, lost in some unhappy reverie, and we rode without speaking through the cold dark city. I hugged the fur-lined overdress tightly to my body as we crossed over the deserted Ponte Santa Trinita, toward home.

XXVI

I spent the next week newly eager to meet my father for supper, in case he had received word from Lorenzo. I still ached over the news about Leonardo’s preference for men. A part of me hoped my father was wrong, or perhaps lying in order to dissuade me from marrying an artist, since such men were generally judged to make unreliable husbands. But I knew I had seen the light of attraction in the artist’s eye.

During this time, I received a brief letter from the so-called sodomite, smuggled to me without my father’s knowledge. When I broke the seal, two more pieces of paper fell out, and slipped to the floor.

Greetings, Madonna Lisa, from Milan.

Our good Lorenzo has commissioned me to paint your portrait. I can think of nothing more agreeable; your beauty begs to be recorded for all time. As soon as I fulfill certain obligations for the venerable Duke Ludovico, I will come to Florence for an extended stay.

I enclose some rough sketches I have made, for your enjoyment. One is a more careful rendering, based on the cartoon I made that evening in the Medici palazzo. The other is copied from my own notebook, and is of special interest to those in the Medici inner circle.

I am eager to begin work on the painting, and look forward to seeing you more than I can say.

Your good friend,

Leonardo

I retrieved the papers from the floor and studied them with reverence. I understood completely now why Leonardo had been called upon to finish the sculpture of Giuliano de’ Medici after his death: His recall of my features was astonishing. From the sparsely rendered ink drawing made in the courtyard, he had produced, in crisp and delicate silverpoint on cream paper, a remarkable rendering of my face, neck, shoulders-truer, it seemed, and more sacred, more profound than any image rendered by my mirror. He had caught me not in the pose he had requested, but rather the instant before, when I had been staring at Giuliano’s terra-cotta bust, then turned to look over my shoulder at the artist. Only my face, in three-quarter profile, was developed and carefully shaded; my hair and shoulders were intimated by a few quick lines. At the back of my head was a vague structure that might have been a hairnet or a halo. My eyelids, the prominence of my chin, the area of my cheeks just beneath my eyes, had been highlighted by the careful application of white lead.

The corners of my lips curled ever so slightly: not a smile, but the promise of one. It was a reflection of the goodness I had seen in the dead Giuliano’s eyes; I might have been an angel.

Dazzled, I stared at the drawing for some time before I finally directed my attention to the other page.

This was a swifter, cruder rendering, and one which provoked my memory; I had seen the image somewhere before, and it took me some time before I recalled that I had seen it together with my mother, on a wall near the Palazzo della Signoria.

It was that of a man dangling from a noose, his face downcast, his hands bound behind his back. Beneath it, the artist had written: “The execution of Bernardo Baroncelli.”

It was a gruesome image, inappropriate to send to a young girl; I could not imagine what had prompted Leonardo to do so. What had Baroncelli to do with me?

The letter itself also renewed my confusion. I look forward to seeing you more than I can say… Was this an allusion to love? But he had signed the letter, with unusual casualness, your good friend. Friend, and nothing more. At the same time, the letter thrilled me: Lorenzo’s commission, then, was a reality, and not just idle speech intended to flatter.

So I waited each night for my father, desperate for word of the portrait or, more important, mention of an invitation to visit Castello.