Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

man shouted, “He speaks the truth. The judgment of God is upon us!”

An inexplicable fear seized me.

When my father emerged from the church, trailed by Count Pico, he did not scold me, as I expected. To the contrary: He was kind. As he helped me up into the carriage, he said, “I know you have not been well of late. And I know how difficult it is for you to see Fra Girolamo… But in time, your heart will heal. I tell you,” he said, his voice wavering with emotion. “Your mother is smiling sweetly down on you from Heaven this night.”

We arrived home only moments before the storm.

That night, I awoke to crashing thunder and lightning so bright that I saw the first flash through closed eyes. The storm was too powerful to allow us to sleep, and so Zalumma and I went to the window and stared out across the Arno, watching the dazzling bolts illuminate the sky.

When it was at last over and we returned to bed, I fell into a sleep filled with evil dreams.

XXXI

The next morning we went to the market. I was distracted, downcast over the possibility that Giuliano had experienced a change of heart, that his father or Piero had finally convinced him of the foolishness of marrying beneath his station.

Yet even riding in the carriage, I sensed that something of import had happened in the city. In the botteghe, most artisans’ wares had not yet been put out for display; in those shops that were open, the owners huddled with their clients in serious conversation. In the thoroughfares, people stood in clusters, whispering.

Our first stop was the butcher. He was an older man, thick of girth and bone, and so bald that his pink scalp glistened in the sun; he had dealt with my grandmother, and my mother after her. He worked beside his youngest son, a lad whose brilliant golden hair had already thinned to reveal a bare crown.

Today, the butcher’s easy smile and good humor were missing. He leaned forward, his demeanor grim; I thought at once that someone had died.

“Did you hear, Monna Lisa?” he asked, before I could inquire after the matter. “Did you hear about Santa Maria del Fiore?”

I shook my head. “The Duomo?”

“Collapsed,” he said gravely. “God hurled a thunderbolt, and the great dome has finally come down.” He crossed himself.

I gasped. Such horror, to imagine the beautiful Duomo reduced to rubble…

“But I could see it, crossing the bridge,” Zalumma said scornfully. “It still stands. If it had collapsed, we both would have noticed its absence. Look!” She pointed. “You can even catch a glimpse of it from here!”

The butcher was vehement. “The center. The very center has fallen. What you see is the outer shell. If you do not believe me, go and look for yourself. I have the report of witnesses.”

His son, who was cleaving a lamb’s skull for the brains inside, caught our conversation and called over his shoulder. “Some say it was Lorenzo de’ Medici’s doing. That he had a magical ring with a genie trapped inside, and that it escaped last night and caused the havoc.”

His father snorted and shook his head. “Superstition! But… I must confess, this incident gives credence to Fra Girolamo’s teachings. I was not a follower, but perhaps I will go to San Lorenzo this evening to hear what he has to say about the matter.”

Shaken to the core, I left with the lamb’s shoulder and kidneys, leaving the brains for another. Our next stop would have been the baker’s, but I told our driver of the catastrophe. Though he was loyal to my father and forsworn to deliver me only to those places I was permitted, he was easily convinced to take us to the Piazza del Duomo to see the devastation for ourselves.

The roads leading to Santa Maria del Fiore were crowded, but the closer we drew to the cathedral, the more we were reassured: The red brick dome still rose against the Florentine sky.

“Foolish gossip!” Zalumma muttered. “Wild imaginings, fomented by that madman.”

Madman, I thought. The perfect term for Fra Girolamo, but one I dared not use in my own home… and given the maniacal devotion of his followers, one that was not safe to utter on the streets.

The piazza was filled with carriages and people on foot who had come to see the destruction. It was not of the scale alleged by the butcher, but lightning had struck the brass lantern that topped the great cupola, leaving it scorched. And there was damage to the structure: Two niches had hurtled to Earth, one splitting the cupola, the other leaving a gaping hole in the roof of a nearby house. Chunks of marble had fallen as well and rolled to the west side of the sanctuary, where they rested in the piazza. Pedestrians had congregated around each one, standing at a respectful distance; a child reached forth to touch one of the stones, and his mother swiftly snatched him away, as if the marble itself were somehow cursed.

A white-haired elder pointed west, toward the Via Larga. “You see?” he cried, apparently addressing the entire crowd. “They have rolled toward the Medici palazzo. God has warned il Magnifico to repent his wicked ways, but He can hold back His anger no more!”

I walked back to our driver, who still sat on top of the carriage, marveling at the sights.

“I have seen enough,” I said. “Take us back home, and quickly.”

I took to my bed and told my father that I was ill and could not attend the evening Mass with him. I spent that day and the next waiting for a letter from Giuliano which never came.

I did come down for a late supper at my father’s special request. I thought at first that he intended to make a special appeal for me to attend Mass with him the following morning and so was reluctant, and did my best to appear as miserable as possible. But he had come, instead, to share perplexing news.

“The lions in the Palazzo della Signoria,” he began. I knew of them, of course; they had been gifts from Lorenzo. The two lions were kept in cages and displayed as symbols of Florence’s power. “After all this time, one has killed the other. These are signs, Lisa. Signs and portents.”

It was the evening of the eighth of April. I undressed for bed and lay down, but my eyes would not close; I tossed until I annoyed Zalumma, who murmured a drowsy complaint.

When I heard the sound of a carriage rumbling to a stop behind our palazzo, I pulled on my camicia and hurried out to the corridor to peer out the window. The driver was climbing down by that time; I could make out little else but the outline of horses and a man moving beneath the glow of the torch he held aloft. The cant of the driver’s shoulders, his rapid pace, spoke of unhappy urgency.

He was headed for the loggia. I turned and moved swiftly to the top of the stairs, listening carefully. He pounded the door and cried out my father’s name. Some confusion ensued, with the scuffling sounds of sleepy servants, until at last the driver was admitted.

After a time, I heard my father’s stern voice, and the driver’s unintelligibly soft reply.

By the time my father’s footfall-the hurried steps of a man startled into wakefulness-rang on the stairs, I had already wrapped myself in my mantello. I held no candle, and so he started at the sight of me. His face was ghoulishly illuminated by the candle in his hand.

“So, you are awake then. Did you hear?”

“No.”

“Get dressed, and quickly. Bring your cloak, the one with the hood.”

Utterly confused, I returned to my chamber and roused Zalumma. She was sleepy and could make no sense of my uncertain explanation, but she helped me tug on a gown.

I went downstairs, where my father waited with his lamp. “No matter what he says to you,” he began, then was seized by an unidentifiable emotion. When he recovered, he repeated, “No matter what he says to you, you are my daughter and I love you.”