Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

he said, in an inscrutable tone. “Let me ask you this: If you were threatened by the piagnoni, how could you best protect yourself from them?”

“With guards,” I answered. I had drunk more wine than was my custom, and anxiety had rendered me incapable of clear thought.

The corner of Giuliano’s mouth quirked. “Well, yes, there are always guards. But isn’t it better to know what your enemies are planning? And perhaps to find ways to sway them in your favor?”

“So, then,” I began, with the intention of saying carelessly, Michelangelo is your spy. But a knock came at the door before I could utter the words.

I had hoped it was Laura, with news that Zalumma had come-but instead it was a manservant, his brow furrowed.

“Forgive the intrusion, Ser Giuliano.” His well-modulated, polished voice was just loud enough to be audible. “There is a visitor. Your presence is required at once…”

My husband frowned. “Who? I gave instructions that we-”

“The lady’s father, sir.”

“My father?” I barely got the words out before terror rendered me speechless.

Giuliano gave the servant a nod and put a comforting arm around my shoulder. “It’s all right, Lisa. I expected this, and am ready to speak with him. I’ll reassure him, and when he is calm, I will send for you.” And he quietly ordered the servant to stay with me until Laura reappeared, and to inform her to wait with me. Then he kissed me gently upon the cheek and left.

There was nothing to do but pace nervously inside the strange but familiar chamber; I took a final sip of wine from my beautiful chalcedony goblet, then set it down. No measure of spirits could ease my fear. I felt anger, too- anger that my fate was not my own to declare, but rather something to be discussed and decided by men.

I walked back and forth, my hem whispering against the inlaid marble floor. I cannot say how many times I had crossed back and forth inside the long chamber by the time the door opened again.

Laura stepped over the threshold. Her expression was guarded-and after the manservant relayed Giuliano’s command to her, it became even more so. The manservant left, and Laura stayed; the instant we were alone, I demanded of her: “Zalumma has not come, has she?”

She gazed up at me with reluctance. “No. Our driver was sent back without her. Forgive me for not telling you sooner, Madonna. I learned this before the ceremony-but it would have been cruel to have upset you beforehand.”

The news struck me with force. I loved Giuliano and would not leave him-but I could not imagine what life would be like if my father forbade Zalumma to come to me. She had attended my birth, and was my truest link to my mother.

The better part of an hour passed. I refused offers of food and drink as I sat on a chair with Laura standing over me, murmuring comforting words.

I did not hear them: I was addressing myself silently, sternly. I had my husband’s feelings to think of now. For Giuliano’s sake, I would be poised and calm and gracious, no matter what followed.

My determined thoughts were interrupted by a loud clattering sound; something had struck the window’s wooden shutters, which were closed, although the slats were open. Laura rushed over and opened the shutters, then recoiled at another loud thud-the sound of something striking the outside wall just below us.

I rose and sidled next to her in order to peer down.

His hair still damp from the baths, my father bent down in the middle of the Via Larga, ready to grasp another stone. He had climbed out of his wagon and dropped the reins. The horse, confused, took a few paces forward, then a few back; the driver of the carriage behind his cursed loudly.

“Here, you! Make way! Make way! You can’t just leave your wagon there!”

My father seemed neither to see nor hear him. As he reached for the stone, one of the palazzo guards shouted, “Move on! Move on, or I shall have to arrest you!”

Several passersby-a Lord Prior on horseback, a servant with a basket full of bread, a filthy woman in tattered clothes, herding equally filthy, barefoot children-had already stopped to gape at the scene. It was midday Saturday, and the broad street was filled with carriages, pedestrians, and riders.

“Then arrest me,” my father cried, “and let the world know that the Medici think they can steal anything they want-even a poor man’s daughter!” Even at this distance, I could see his utter hysteria on his face, in his posture; he had rushed here without his mantle or cap. He clutched the rock and rose, ready to hurl it. The guard advanced and menacingly raised his sword.

Two floors above them, I leaned out of the window. “Stop, both of you!”

The guard and my father froze and stared up at me; so, too, did the gathering crowd. My father lowered his arm; the guard, his weapon.

I had absolutely no idea what to say. “I am well,” I shouted. It was horrible, having to communicate such private matters in this way. The noise in the street forced me to call out as loudly as my lungs permitted. “If you love me, Father, grant me this.”

My father dropped the stone and hugged himself fiercely, as if trying to contain the agony inside him; then he raised his arms and waved them at me. “They have taken everything, don’t you see?” His voice was ragged, a madman’s. “They have taken everything, and now they want you, too. I will not-I cannot!-let them have you.”

“Please.” I leaned out the window, so precariously far that Laura caught me by my waist. “Please… can’t you let me be happy?”

“Stay with him,” my father cried, “and it will be only the beginning of sorrow for you!” This was no threat; his tone held only grief. He stretched out a hand toward me and caressed the air, gently, as if stroking my cheek.

“Lisa,” he called. “My Lisa! What can I say to make you hear me?”

That morning when I had left the house, I had summoned all of my hatred of him so that I would have the strength to leave. I reminded myself of how, long ago, he had struck my mother and caused her illness; how he had forced her to see Savonarola, which resulted in her death; how, worst of all, he had betrayed her memory by allying himself with her murderers.

But now I saw only a pitiful man who, out of frantic concern for me, had just publicly shouted himself hoarse without embarrassment. Against my will, I remembered the unquestionable love in his eyes when he had begged my mother to see Fra Girolamo, out of hope that she might be cured. Against my will, I thought of the monstrous suffering he must have endured when he realized his urging had led to her death.

“Please,” he called, still reaching as if he could somehow touch me. “I can’t protect you here! You are not safe; you are not safe.” He let go a little moan. “Please, come home with me.”

“I can’t,” I replied. Tears dripped from my eyes onto the street below. “You know that I can’t. Give me your blessing; then we can receive you, and you can rejoice with us. It is so simple.” And it seemed to me so simple: My father only needed to rise, to enter the palazzo, to accept and embrace us, and my life would be complete. “Father, please. Come inside and speak to my husband.”

He dropped his arm, beaten. “Child… come home.”

“I can’t,” I repeated, my voice so hoarse, so faint that this time he could not hear me clearly. But he understood from my tone what had been said. He stood for a moment, silent and downcast, then climbed back onto his wagon. His teeth bared from the pain of raw emotion, he urged the horses on and drove furiously away.

XLII

Laura closed the shutters as I wiped my eyes on my fine brocade sleeve.

I sat down, overwhelmed. I had focused so thoroughly on my joy at going to see Giuliano, on my fear as to whether my escape would succeed, that I had forgotten I loved my father. And despite the public’s dissatisfaction with Piero, despite the teachings of Savonarola, he still loved me. Somehow I had failed to realize that hurting him would feel like rending my own flesh.

Laura appeared at my elbow with a goblet of wine; I waved it away and rose. Poor Giuliano would be coming from a thoroughly upsetting encounter with my outraged father. It had been hard enough for him to get Piero’s