Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Each night I was disappointed. My father offered nothing on the matter and grunted a negative reply each time I dared ask whether he had heard anything from Ser Lorenzo about a possible match.

Yet after one such discouraging supper, as I retired to my bedroom, Zalumma met me, lamp in hand, and closed the door behind us.

“Do not ask how I acquired this; the less you know, the better,” she said, and withdrew from her bodice a sealed letter. I seized it, thinking it would be from Lorenzo. The wax bore the imprint of the palle crest, but the content was far from expected. By the light of Zalumma’s lamp, I read:

My esteemed Madonna Lisa,

Forgive the liberty I took when you came to my father’s palazzo recently; and forgive the one I take now by writing you this letter. I am too bold, I know, but my courage springs from a desire to see you again.

Father is very ill. Even so, he has given leave for me to take you, with an escort of his choosing and one chosen by your father, to our villa at Castello for a tour. This very day, my brother Piero is writing a letter to Ser Antonio asking permission for you to accompany us.

I am filled with anticipation at the prospect of meeting you once more. Until then, I remain

Your humble servant,

Giuliano de’ Medici

XXVII

For the next few days, I forced all thoughts of Leonardo da Vinci away-though in private I puzzled over the drawing of Bernardo Baroncelli. Foolish girl that I was, I focused instead on the moment Giuliano had leaned forward to place a kiss upon my cheek. I dreamed of Botticelli’s Venus and Primavera. I had only heard them described; now I tried to imagine how they looked on the walls at Castello. I even imagined what my own portrait might look like hanging next to them. I yearned to immerse myself once more in beauty, as I had under Ser Lorenzo’s gentle guidance. At night, I lay in bed and, for the first time since my mother’s death, had thoughts that took me outside myself, outside my father’s house and all the sorrow.

Recently, my father’s business had increased, requiring him to return even later than usual; I had taken to giving up and retiring without speaking to him until morning. He often came home with Giovanni Pico, drinking wine and talking, ignoring the dinner table.

But now I was filled with special determination: I waited steadfastly, ignoring the grumbling of my stomach, sitting for hours at the supper table until he came. I asked no questions of him; I merely sat and ate, certain each night that he would at last mention Lorenzo’s invitation. This I did for four nights, until I could suffer my impatience no longer.

I bade Cook keep supper warm, then seated myself at the readied table. There I sat three hours, perhaps more, until the burning tapers were almost spent and my hunger had grown so strong I contemplated telling Cook to bring me food.

At last my father entered-blessedly, without Count Pico. In the candles’ glow, he appeared haggard and disheveled; he had not taken the time to trim his gold-tinged beard since his wife’s death. Here and there, hairs curled, unruly and out of place, and his mustache, too long, touched his lower lip.

He seemed disappointed, though not surprised, to see me.

“Come sit,” I said, gesturing, then went to tell Cook to bring the meal. When I returned, he was seated but had not bothered to remove his mantle, though the fire in the hearth was quite warm.

We remained silent as Cook brought first the minestra, the soup, and set it before us. When she had gone, I let a moment pass while my father addressed himself to his supper, then asked-trying, and failing altogether, to hide the nervousness I felt:

“Have you received a letter of late on my behalf?”

Slowly he set down his spoon and gazed across the table at me, his amber eyes unreadable. He did not answer.

“From Lorenzo de’ Medici?” I pressed. “Or perhaps Piero?”

“Yes, I received a letter,” he said, then lowered his face and took another spoonful of soup.

Did he enjoy tormenting me? I was forced to ask, “And your reply?”

He paused over his bowl, then-with a contained ferocity that made me start-slammed his spoon down against the table. “There will be no reply,” he said. “I kept my promise to your mother: I will let Lorenzo serve as your marriage broker. But he had best choose a godly man-if he lives long enough to make a decision.”

His anger aroused my own. “Why can I not go? What harm is there in it? I have been so unhappy! This is the only thing that can ease it.”

“You will never again set foot in the house of the Medici.” His eyes were lit with fury. “Their time is about to end. God will cast them down; their fall shall be great. Relish the memory of all the beautiful treasures you were shown, for they will all soon be gone, reduced to ash.”

I judged him to be parroting the words of his new savior and so ignored this. But I demanded hotly, “How do you know I was shown treasures? How do you know?”

He ignored the question. “I have been patient with you, out of tenderness and respect for your sorrow. But I fear for your soul. You will come with me tomorrow to hear Savonarola preach. And you will ask God to turn your thoughts away from worldly things and toward the heavenly. And you will pray, too, for forgiveness for your anger at Fra Girolamo.”

My fists clenched; I set them upon the table, bitter at the realization that a bright and beautiful world-one filled with art and the Medici, with Leonardo and the rendering of my own image by delicate, skilled hands-was going to be denied me. “It is you who should pray to God for forgiveness. You are the one who caused your wife’s malady; you are the one who led her to her death. You are the one who camps now with her murderers, and remains blind to their guilt in order to ease your own.”

He stood so rapidly the chair behind him screeched against the stone. His eyes filled with angry tears; his right hand trembled as he struggled to keep it by his side, to keep it from rising and striking out at the one who provoked his rage. “You know nothing… You know nothing. I ask you this only because I love you! May God forgive you.”

“May God forgive you,” I retorted. I abandoned my chair and turned, skirts whirling; it gave me some small satisfaction that I left the room before he could.

Later that night, lying abed listening to Zalumma’s soft, regular breath and my own growling stomach, I reveled in my disappointment. The inability to see Giuliano made me yearn all the more to set eyes upon him again.

During those brief moments when I did not stew in self-pity, I contemplated what my father had said. Had he merely assumed that il Magnifico would not be able to resist showing a new visitor-be she only a most insignificant girl-the glories contained in his study? Or was there more behind his words?

I slept fitfully, waking several times. It was not until the sky outside began to lighten that I woke again, my mind clear and focused on a singular image.

It was that of Giovanni Pico clad all in black, the physician’s draught nestled carefully in his hands.

XXVIII

The following morning, as Zalumma helped me dress for market, a knock came at my door.

“Lisa,” my father called. “Hurry and finish. The driver is ready to take us to Mass.”