Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

So, he intended to make good on the previous evening’s threat. My heart began to pound. Curious, Zalumma frowned at me.

“He intends to take me to hear Savonarola,” I hissed at her. “Before God, I will not go!”

Zalumma, unshakably on my side, ceased lacing my sleeves and called out, “She was slow to wake and will be ready in a few moments, Ser Antonio. Can you return then?”

“I cannot,” my father answered, his tone unyielding, determined. “I will stand here until she comes out. Tell her to hurry; we must leave soon.”

Zalumma looked at me and lifted a finger to her lips-then she crept to a chair and gestured for me to help. Together, we lifted it quietly from the floor and took it to the door. She propped it so that it barred entry, then silently slid the bolt to lock us in.

Then, as if we had committed no crime, I stood while Zalumma returned to lacing my sleeves.

After a long pause, my father again pounded the wood. “Lisa? I can’t wait longer. Zalumma, send her out.”

Zalumma and I faced each other, our eyes wide and solemn. The long silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of the door being tried, then muttering, then renewed pounding.

“Do you dare defy me! How shall you face God, disobeying your father so when all he has at heart is your well-being?”

Angry words came to my lips. I pressed them tightly together and held my tongue.

“Lisa, answer me!” When none came, he called, “What shall I do? Bring an axe, then?”

Still I would not speak, though my temper vexed me. After a lull, I heard him weeping. “Do you not see?” he moaned. “Child, I’m not doing this to be cruel. I do this for love of you. For love of you! Is it so horrible going to listen to Fra Girolamo, knowing that it will please me?”

His tone was so pitiful that I was almost moved, but I held my silence.

“It is the End of Days, child,” my father said mournfully. “The End of Days, and God comes to pass judgment.” He paused, then let go a heartfelt sob. “I feel as though it is the end… Lisa, please, I cannot lose you, too…”

I bowed my head and held my breath. At last I heard him move away; there followed the sound of his tread upon the stairs. We waited some time, fearful of a trick. Finally, I motioned for Zalumma to unbar the entry. She did so, and after a quick glance outside to confirm my father’s absence, she gestured for me to come to the window.

Below us, my father was walking alone to the carriage, where the driver waited.

My sense of jubilation was temporary; I knew I could not elude him forever.

That evening, I did not go down for supper. Zalumma smuggled me a plate, but I had little appetite and ate sparingly.

The knock came later, as I expected; once again, my father tested the door, which I had bolted. This time he did not call out, only stood quietly for a time, then let go a deep sigh of surrender and retreated.

This continued for more than two weeks. I began to take all my meals in my chamber and ventured out only when I knew my father was absent; often, I sent Zalumma alone to market in my place. After a time, he ceased coming to my door, but filled with mistrust, I continued to avoid him and kept myself locked in my room. When he was at Mass, I slipped away to Santo Spirito, arriving late and worshiping briefly, then leaving before the service had ended.

I had, like my mother, become a captive in my own home.

Three weeks passed. Lent came, and with it, my father’s zeal increased. He frequently stood outside my door and preached of the dangers of vanity, gluttony, and wealth, of the evils of Carnival and celebration while the poor starved. He begged me to attend Mass with him. So great were the crowds who came to listen to Florence’s fiery Savonarola-some journeying from the surrounding countryside as his fame spread-that he had moved from the smaller church at San Marco to the massive sanctuary at San Lorenzo, the church which housed the bones of the murdered Giuliano. Even then, my father said, the building could not house all the faithful; they swelled out onto the steps and into the street. The hearts of Florentines were turning to God.

I remained silent, protected by the thick wood that stood between us. At times I lifted my hands to my ears in an effort to blot out the sound of his earnest voice.

Life grew so unpleasant I began to despair. My only escape was marriage, yet I had given up hope on the artist from Vinci, and Giuliano, owing to his high position, was unattainable. In the meantime, Lorenzo-who alone was capable of uttering the name of an appropriate groom-was too ill to speak.

Yet my spirits were lifted when Zalumma, smiling, returned from market one day and slipped another letter, stamped with the Medici seal, into my hands.

My dearest Madonna Lisa,

I am truly disappointed that your father has yet to respond to our letter requesting that you be permitted to visit Castello with us. I can only assume that this is no oversight, but a tacit refusal.

Forgive me for not writing you sooner. Father has been so desperately ill that I am beginning to give up hope. The gemstones suspended in wine, administered by the doctors, have proven useless. Because of his poor health, I have not troubled him; however, I have spoken to my eldest brother, Piero, who has agreed to write a second letter on my behalf to Ser Antonio. He will suggest to your father whether, should he deem a visit to Castello inappropriate, he might entertain the possibility of my visiting you at your palazzo-with your father and my brother present, of course.

Should that be refused as well, I must ask: Is there perhaps a public place where we might accidentally encounter one another in the city?

I apologize for my brazenness. It is desperation to see you again that makes me so. I remain

Your humble servant,

Giuliano de’ Medici

The letter remained in my lap for some time as I sat, thinking.

The marketplace was the obvious choice. I went there often, so no one would think it odd. Yet it was likely that I would encounter a neighbor there, or a family friend, or the wife or servant of a man who knew my father. It was a crowded public place-but not crowded enough to elude our driver’s keen eye and too full of familiar faces. A tryst between a young girl and a Medici son would be noticed. There was no other place the driver regularly took me. If I went anywhere out of the ordinary, he would certainly report it to my father.

Zalumma stood beside me, consumed by curiosity. Courtesy, however, kept her silent, waiting for me to share what I wished of the missive’s contents.

“How long,” I finally asked her, “would it take for Ser Giuliano to receive a reply?”

“It would be in his hands by the morrow.” She favored me with a collusive smile. I had told her everything of the tour in the Medici palazzo: of Ser Lorenzo’s kindness and frailty, of young Giuliano’s boldness, of Leonardo’s graciousness and beauty. She knew, as I did, the impossibility of a match with Giuliano, yet I think a part of her reveled in flouting convention. Perhaps she, too, was possessed of a wild hope that the impossible might somehow occur.

“Bring me quill and paper,” I said, and when they came, I scratched out a reply. Once it was folded and sealed, I handed it to her.

Then I rose, unbolted my door, and went downstairs to seek my father.

XXIX

My father embraced me when I told him I would attend Mass with him. “Two days,” I told him. “Give me but two days to pray and ready my heart; then I will go with you.” He granted it happily.

The next day, as Zalumma had promised, the letter was delivered into Giuliano’s hands; Giuliano made my unknown messenger wait, and penned a reply that very hour. By evening, shuttered in the safety of my