Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Then he lifted his head abruptly. “Who was there? Did anyone see you?”

“Lorenzo, of course. Giuliano. Piero, his wife, and Giovanni… and Michelangelo.” I took a step away from him. I was in no mood to recount the events of that evening. As an afterthought, I added, “Pico brought Savonarola. The family was very upset.”

“Pico!” he said, and before he could stop himself, added, “Was Domenico with him?”

“No. I’ll talk about it another time, please.” I was profoundly exhausted. I lifted my skirts and went up the stairs, not caring that he stood behind me, watching my every step.

In my room, Zalumma was asleep. Rather than wake her, I remained dressed and leaned upon the windowsill, still watching the stars. I knew they shone down on the villa at Careggi, and I felt that by gazing on them, I remained connected to those who held vigil there.

I had been there perhaps an hour when a light flared high in the heavens, then streaked across the dark sky, leaving a trail of swift-fading brilliance in its wake.

Signs, I heard my father say. Signs and portents.

Still dressed, I lay on the bed but did not sleep. The sky had barely begun to lighten when I heard the tolling bells.

XXXIII

Lorenzo lay in state in the church where his brother was buried. All of Florence turned out to mourn him, even those who had so recently agreed with Savonarola that il Magnifico was a pagan and a sinner, and that God would strike him down.

Even my father wept. “Lorenzo was violent in his youth,” he said, “and did many bad things. But he grew kinder in his old age.”

Giovanni Pico came to our house to discuss the loss, as if whatever news I had borne home to my father was of little consequence. I was not the only one to have seen the comet that night; servants at Careggi had witnessed it as well. “On his deathbed, Ser Lorenzo received Savonarola and was greatly comforted by him,” Pico reported, dabbing his eyes and slurring after many glasses of the wine my father served him. It surprised me to see him so bitterly torn by Lorenzo’s passing. “I believe that he, indeed, repented his sins, for he kissed a jeweled cross several times and prayed with Fra Girolamo.”

Savonarola did not preach that day. Instead, the citizens who had so recently swarmed upon the steps of San Lorenzo to listen to Florence’s prophet now waited patiently to catch a final glimpse of her greatest patron. All of Pico’s influence could not spare us hours of standing along with the others.

We entered the church sometime after noon. Near the altar lay Lorenzo, in a simple wooden box atop a pedestal. He had been dressed in a plain white linen robe, and his hands-the fingers pulled and carefully arranged so they no longer appeared so contorted-had been folded over his heart. His eyes were closed, his lips smoothed into a slight smile. He was no longer in pain, no longer weighed down by crippling responsibilities.

I glanced up from his body to see Giuliano, standing a short distance from the casket between his brother Piero and a bodyguard. Behind them stood a haggard Michelangelo and the artist from Vinci, uncommonly stern and solemn.

The sight of Leonardo brought me no hope, no joy: My thought was only of Giuliano, and I stared steadily at him until our gazes met. He was worn from crying, and now too exhausted for tears. His expression was composed, but his misery showed in his stance, even the cant of his shoulders.

At the sight of me, a light flickered in his eyes. It was inappropriate for us to speak, for us even to acknowledge each other-but in that instant, I learned all I wanted to know. It was as I had thought: We had not spoken of the fact that his father had given him the task of choosing my husband, but he had not forgotten.

I had only to be patient.

The next morning I walked, as usual, with Zalumma to Mass at Santo Spirito. When the service was over and we stepped outside into the pleasant spring sun, Zalumma lingered behind the departing crowd.

“I wonder,” she said, “if I might be permitted to see your mother.”

I did not answer immediately. My grief was still too raw to go to the place where my mother had been buried.

“Do what you wish,” I said. “I’ll stay here, on the steps.”

“Won’t you come?” Zalumma said, with uncharacteristic wistfulness; I turned away and stared determinedly up at the swaying limbs of alder trees against the sky. Only after I heard her steps recede did I relax.

I had stood only a moment, warming myself in the sun, trying not to think about my mother, when I heard earnest voices in the near distance. One was Zalumma’s; the other, a man’s, somewhat familiar.

I turned. Less than a minute’s stride away, amid the crypts and headstones, statues and rose brambles, Zalumma stood talking to Leonardo. He stood in profile, a wooden slate in one hand. Beneath a red skullcap, his hair fell in waves just past his shoulders; his beard had been shortened and trimmed. He seemed to sense me watching, for he turned and smiled broadly, then bowed from the shoulders.

I gave a slight curtsy and held my ground as he approached. Zalumma flanked him, with an air of furtive complicity. She had known he would be waiting.

“Madonna Lisa,” he said at last. Although he smiled, his air was grave, given that Florence was still in a state of mourning. “Forgive me for intruding on your privacy.”

“It’s no intrusion,” I said. “I’m glad to see you.”

“And I you. I left Milan at once when I heard il Magnifico was failing, but sadly, I arrived too late. I have been staying at the Palazzo Medici. I heard you might be here today. I hope it is not too thoughtless of me, given the unhappy circumstances… I wonder if I might convince you to sit for me.”

I spoke without thinking. “But Ser Lorenzo is gone. So there is no longer any commission.”

His answer was swift and firm. “I have already been paid.”

I sighed. “I don’t think my father would permit it. He thinks art is foolishness. He is a follower of Savonarola.”

Leonardo paused. “Is he with you?”

I looked at the slate in his hand. Fresh paper had been attached to it; he wore a very large pouch on his belt. I put a hand to my hair, my skirts. “You intend to draw me now?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “You are perfection, just as you are.”

I felt mildly panicked. “I can’t stay long. I am only supposed to attend Mass, then return home. If I’m late, the servants will wonder where I’ve been and might say something to my father when he comes home.”

“We were paying our respects to your mother,” Zalumma said loudly. I shot her a glance.

Leonardo, by that time, had pulled something from his pouch: a piece of burned charcoal tied to a small, sanded stick. “I know I sent you a copy, based on the sketch I made that night in the Medici courtyard. But I am displeased with it.”

“Displeased!”

“It resembles you, certainly, but I want… something more. I am not good at expressing myself in words, but if you would simply trust me… and sit only for a few minutes, no longer. I have no desire to cause any problems with your father. Your servant here will keep watch over the time.”

I relented. He led me a short ways from the churchyard, where a great boulder rested beneath an oak. There I sat; and he encouraged me to turn gently, again looking over my shoulder at him, so that my face was in three- quarter view.

He took the charcoal-made, he explained, from a stick of willow that had been scorched in an oven until it turned black-and began to draw with impressive speed. The broad outlines came first and quickest.

After a minute or two of silence, I asked, “So, how is it that you remembered all my features so easily-after seeing me only once? The cartoon you made of me was very crude. Yet the drawing you sent me… you remembered every detail.”

He kept his focus on his work and answered distractedly, “The memory can be trained. If I want to remember a