Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (14 page)

He seemed a little disappointed. For one reason or another I did not want to take anything from him. The seed of doubt that my friends had planted was growing. Angst pulsed against my ribcage.

“What’s that you have hanging around your neck?” asked Giuliano, pointing to Idan.

I had forgotten to tuck Idan underneath my dress in my rush to leave the house. I tried to look casually at Leonardo but he was completely lost in his own reflections. Just like his older brother, he made a grab for it, but I beat him to it.  

“Oh this? It’s a family heirloom. The only thing left I have from my parents,” I softened my voice to make it sound more convincing.

“But what … is it?” he stressed.

“It’s a compass.”

“Interesting family heirloom.”

Usually I considered myself pretty good at reading people. On the subway ride to school I would glance at the familiar or strange faces of commuters and try to make out their lives through the clues they wore or what dangled from their bodies. The tightness in his beautiful smile seemed insincere.

“My grandfather was a pirate … It’s sort of broken, so I very rarely open it, otherwise I would love to show it to you,” I said.

My terrible lying skills always managed to come through. A pirate? What was I thinking? Trying to change the subject, I asked him if he was excited about the joust. His eyes sparked as he glanced at Leonardo.

“Yes! It is going to be spectacular. You’re coming, of course?”

“I think so,” I replied.

“My brother is eager to renew his acquaintance with you. We both would like to invite you to the dinner and festivities after the joust.”

Although distrust crept into my heart, it did not make me like him less. I was beginning to understand that stigma about how nice girls fall for bad boys. The thought of dancing in a palace wrapped in the arms of Giuliano was incredibly tempting. It took me a while to answer.

“I am honored, but I don’t think that would be wise. Please tell your brother I appreciate the invitation.”

“Leonardo?”

“
Si
?” he said suddenly as if abruptly pulled from the depths of his conscious. “Could we have a few moments alone? We will be right behind you,” asked Giuliano. Leonardo looked at me and I nodded.

“I will walk behind. I am in no rush,” he said before stopping.

“Why will you not come to the palazzo?”

“I don’t think Zia will approve.”

“And?”

“And I don’t have anything … appropriate to wear.”

“Both obstacles can be easily rectified. We will not take no for an answer,” he insisted. His body moved in closer to mine and beneath his cloak, I could feel him searching for my fingers but I crossed my arms. We were getting very close to the workshop, but with every step the tension thickened.

“Have I done something to upset you, Viola?”

“No,” I replied too quickly.

“Forgive me for persisting, but it seems like you have something on your mind,” he said.

I had a lot of things on my mind. It was difficult to pinpoint what was bothering me more: Zia’s warning or Signore Maroni’s shame.

“Yesterday I went to Ponte Vecchio.” I let the words hang in the heavy fog surrounding us. “While I was there guards came and broke the table of a sweet elderly man named Signore Maroni.” Giuliano’s head hung and his eyes fixed on the wet floor. “He is a poor fisherman who is the sole caretaker of his grandsons and has no way to take care of them if he has no table. He can’t—”

“So you are upset because you think I’m to blame?” he interrupted. His warm brown eyes narrowed.

“No, that’s not what I meant to say.”

“So you think it’s my family’s fault?” he snapped. Choosing not to make the situation worse, I tried to avoid the question. We stopped in front of the workshop. “In fairness, we provide a service and your dear Signore Maroni should not ask for a loan if he does not have a plan to pay it back with interest.” In truth, I knew he was right, but it made me mad all the same to hear him speak to me condescendingly.

“But a million and one things could have happened since then.”

“If we treated everyone on a charity basis, we would be the ones with our tables broken on Ponte Vecchio,” he said before he gave me a curt nod and strode away. Somehow, I had turned a pleasant walk into a disaster.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Massaccio

“Is it just me or was that as awkward as it looked?” said Leonardo.

“Not helpful, Leo,” I said, bristling my shoulders, but he just shrugged it off.

“He will be back … unfortunately.”

He coughed. Trying not to laugh, I elbowed his side as we walked under the canopy of the workshop. When I entered the kitchen, Margherita accosted me. She had positioned herself on a stool by the doorframe.

“Are you crazy?” she shouted. “You do know that what you and Verrocchio are about to do is borderline sacrilege?”

It was an intimidating sight. Her burgeoning belly seemed to have gotten bigger and her face was scarlet from the heat of the stove.

“I know it’s strange but—”

“What if you get caught?”

“I don’t know …”

“I do! You will be put into jail or worse.” Even though we were almost the same age, she seemed so much older than me.

“I want this.”

“Why?

“I want to be a great artist … and I don’t think it’s right that men get to do it and we can’t. We deserve to be treated equally and not handed about like property or slaves.”

Margherita just shook her head from side to side. “You have such strange ideas.”

“They may be strange, but they’re true.”

“And impossible,” resigned Margherita as she reached for the broom propped against the pointed arch. “I hope for your sake they don’t get you into trouble.”

“Me too,” I breathed.

The morning was turning out to be wretched. Margherita rattled off a long list of chores that started with scrubbing the workbenches. The day’s hours passed by quickly, except for the part I spent sweeping the frozen courtyard. Verrocchio came into the kitchen while Margherita and I were finishing our meal of pasta and beans.

“Is Massimo ready to start his apprenticeship?” he asked. I scarfed down the last of my lunch and stood up.

“Margherita, fetch Renzo and go upstairs with Viola to help her dress.”

“But, sir, we didn’t buy any clothes—”

“Leonardo told me about the old man … He was also so gracious as to give you some of the clothes he outgrew. Despite the way it appears, I am not running a charity. So before you give all my money away, think on it twice,” he said before walking into the workshop.

Margherita and I followed him into the smoky studio. The apprentices were finishing their lunch as well. Little Renzo was at the head of the table and was playing with his cutlery. She whispered in his ear and his pupils dilated with excitement.

“
Grazie
, Renzo and Margherita for helping me,” I said as the door of the study closed behind us.

“I think it is a great idea!” piped Renzo.

“I think it’s a terrible idea,” said Margherita.

“How about you two go behind there and I will throw the clothes over?” he suggested, motioning to the partition.

“It’s freezing so we should do this quickly, Viola,” said Margherita, staring at the empty fireplace.

“You mean Massimo,” corrected Renzo with his finger pointed in the air. As it was too early for his face to be covered in soot, the bright pink of his cheeks made him even cuter.

“Not yet, she isn’t.”

Between Renzo’s instructions and Margherita’s knot tying abilities I managed to put on a pair of thick, black tights and a short, wrinkled tunic with long sleeves that fell at my wrists. This was the first time I congratulated myself on still needing to shop in the girls’ bra section of most stores. Otherwise, this plan might not have worked out so great. The olive tunic had laces at the top and was far too big for me around the waist and hips.

“Let’s use that belt of yours,” suggested Margherita, taking the neon orange belt from my dress. She fastened it around my waist and the heavy fold of the tunic hid it from view. “You forgot about the shoes.” She pointed down at my purple sneakers. At hearing this, Renzo raced out of the room and returned with a foul pair of soft leather shoes.

“Oh no!” I protested.

“But they’re the only pair!” retorted Renzo.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Margherita, holding up the pair of stinky shoes by a handkerchief as if they would attack her.

“I’ve come this far,” I said putting on the shoes the way people rip off a Band-Aid.

“It is good your hair is not very long, otherwise we might have to cut it,” she said.

There was a hard knock at the door before Verrochio stepped into the room. “Are we ready?”

“
Si
, signore,” we chimed.

I stepped out from behind the partition. Even though I did not have a mirror, I felt convincing. Verrocchio had his hand in a fist blocking his mouth. It was hard to tell if he was thinking seriously or laughing.

“Your eyes are a dead giveaway,” he said, clearly amused by the situation. “Maybe we can get a hat for you … Yes, that might be best. Let’s head down. There is a lot of work to do.” We all filed out of the study and followed the workshop master downstairs. The nervous feeling from this morning that had started in between my ribs had infected every cell in my body. A sharp whistle caught the attention of the apprentices painting, chipping, and chattering away.

“As discussed yesterday, we have a new and very ordinary apprentice named Massimo,” Verrocchio announced, making sure to stress the word “ordinary.” He motioned for me to come out from behind him.

Once I stepped forward, one of the boys burst out laughing and the others quickly followed until the room shook with every type of laughter. There was the kind that left a stitch in your side, the loud and obnoxious, and last but not least, the gasping for air type. As usual I started to sweat with embarrassment. In retrospect, it must have been funny to watch me, but in the moment I didn’t think it was even a little bit funny.

Leonardo had started clapping and shouting the cheer, “Long live Massimo.” Other boys followed and the laughing slowly turned into applause. Verrocchio held up his hands for the room to quiet.

“That’s quite enough! I hope you all got it out of your systems. Let me stress, again, the importance of normalcy and secrecy,” he said, looking into the eyes of each pupil but lingering on Salai’s sour expression in the corner of the room. “Back to your duties,” he boomed. Gradually, the clamor reached its usual level.

Verrocchio put his hand behind his back and looked at me hard. “Have you ever heard of Cennini, Viola?” I shook my head. “Well, he was a workshop master too, and he would say something very wise that went something like this …” he paused. “If you with a lofty spirit are fired with this ambition, and are about to enter the profession, begin by decking yourselves with this attire: enthusiasm, reverence, obedience, and constancy. Are you ready?”

“
Si
!”

“Good!” He clapped his hands together. Today, you will be our new
creato
. Meaning you will perform the most basic tasks.”

“Like what?”

“Color grinding, preparing gesso, sanding, and making charcoal pens.” He must have realized my less than enthusiastic spirit because he leaned a little closer and added, “It’s important because this is the only way you will be able to value the work of others. Not only that, but it will give you an understanding of colors and their different properties. Renzo will walk you through the different tasks.”

The young boy had been standing next to me the whole time, thrilled with his new assignment. Distracted by Perugino’s painting of a landscape, Verrocchio moved closer to investigate.

Renzo took the opportunity to grab my hand and led me to the opposite side of the workshop. As we walked, I could see Leonardo, who was staring beyond the painting in front of him. It was his first day painting the missing angel and he looked slightly unnerved. The wooden palette rested at his side laden with pale and dark hues of red and blue. Although his sleeves were rolled up, his posture straight, and his hand armed with a paintbrush, he was completely still.

“Go on! It’s getting tiring just waiting for you to start!” I said as we walked by him. Not stopping to see his reaction, I continued following Renzo.

He stopped in front of a cluster of shelves with an array of bright colors encased in glass jars “These are all the powder colors we have; their names are written on the lids.” He took down one of the jars filled with a white powder and read, “Lead white.”

“Oh!” I said a little startled, as I was pretty sure that lead paint was toxic. “I think that is actually really bad for you,” I said.

“I don’t really know if that matters or not,” he said with a shrug and took another jar from the shelf. “Malachite.” It was a beautiful turquoise color.

“What about that one?” I asked pointing to a tiny jar.

“We are not allowed to grind or touch that one,” he warned. “It is called ultramarine.” I remembered using a paint tube with that name in art classes.

“Why not?” I asked.

“It’s made from a stone called lapis lazuli, and it’s really expensive. If a patron wants it for a painting, he will ask for it specifically or get it himself. This little bit is just leftovers that we carefully swept off table tops.”

Renzo and I spent the rest of the time grinding red ocher and making gesso. He told me they used the goat scraps I had brought on my first day to make the gesso along with some plaster. My fingers were tinted orange, and my arms hurt from grinding. It was boring work but better than scrubbing the floor.

The moment Renzo left to attend to the fire, Salai slithered towards me. “What a dangerous position you have put yourself in,” he said, pushing the ringlets from his eyes. “You are asking quite a lot of us to keep your dirty secret.”

“You should probably share that with Verrocchio because it’s his dirty secret too,” I snapped, but he pretended not to hear me.

“Call it what you like, my lips can be sealed with your lovely mouth,” he whispered.

“Does the sweet Viola feel tougher now that she is disguised in boys' clothes?” His eyes darted about my face. “How would your dear Zia react if she were to find out you were lying to her?”

“Stop blackmailing me, Salai … I know you have nowhere else to go,” I said, taking care not to move a muscle.

“Is that what the master told you?” He looked cross. “I have talents I can take elsewhere … There is no place to grow here anyway when you have fools like Leonardo taking up all the attention with his ‘genius’ scribbles. I know Latin!”

“Good for you, but you are a fool to think Leonardo is one,” I said braver than I felt.

“Now that’s not necessarily true … I can definitely be foolish,” said Leonardo. I turned around to see Leonardo’s smile, but it was taut and rigid with anger.

“Go ahead and change, Massimo, we need to walk back.” The glint in his eyes made me question whether he was forgetting our pact from this morning.

“Scout’s honor,” I reminded him and quit the workroom.

Changing out of the boys' clothes was much easier than putting them on. While I waited for Leonardo beneath the canopy, a plump rat ran so close to my feet I screamed. He came rushing out of the workshop asking me what happened.

“I saw a huge rat!”

“That’s all?”

“What do you mean that’s all?” I said, glaring at him.

“If everyone screamed every time they saw a rat in Florence, there would be no peace because all you would hear is one constant shrill from sunrise to sunset,” he said and walked onto the street.

During the day, carts, feet, and hooves had kicked up the mud from this morning’s rain, creating landmines of filthy puddles. Fresh dirt coated the stone walls on either side of us.

“Are you tired?” asked Leonardo.

“Not completely. Did you begin the angel or did you just sit there?” I asked.

“Where was that attitude two minutes ago?” he asked. “Yes, I did, but it will take longer to finish because it’s oil.”

“That’s true. I forgot about that.”

“Let’s go visit Masaccio.”

“Who’s he?” I asked. Leonardo shuddered as if I had sworn something awful.

“Every artist needs to meet Masaccio, but it’s even more important to appreciate him. If not, you will end up like Perugino and repeat the same ten figures in every painting. His is an incredibly dull business.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“It is not like he doesn’t know it. Perugino uses the same poses and faces because they are popular and lucrative, but that is not the point. The key is Masaccio,” he said as we turned into the crowded Piazza del Duomo. We crisscrossed onto a series of short streets until we arrived at a smaller plaza. “That’s the Basilica di Santa Maria Novella.”

He didn’t need to point it out as it took up most of the plaza. The façade of the basilica had two different levels. The top portion had a triangular pediment and directly below it a rectangular structure.
At its center was a rose window. A band of white marble decorated with dark green outlines of squares separated the two levels. The pointed arches separated by pilasters were decorated with the same zebra stripes that were visible throughout the beautiful basilica. All the elements seemed rounder than the Duomo and made it feel more welcoming.

“What is that next to the basilica?” I asked, pointing to an arcade attached to the church.

“That is a cloister; it is where the Dominican monks live and work.”

On the opposite side of the piazza was another arcade but the arches were rounder and it had two stories. In between the arches were sky-blue medallions with little putti.

“What about that building?”

“Let’s leave that for another day,” he said.

“Sure, but what is it?”

“It’s an orphanage.”

“Oh,” I said, staring at the steps that led to the round arches.

“It was designed by the same architect who finished the Duomo.”

“Brunelleschi?”

“Good girl.” He smiled.

“I am going to say ‘good boy’ every time you do something I approve of and see how you like it,” I said.

“Then you won’t be saying it often.” He grinned and walked towards the double doors of the basilica.

Similar to San Lorenzo, it had a nave with a side aisle on either side separated by an arcade. The same black and white stripes covered the ribs of the ceiling. The hundreds of candles that marked the passageways burned with a mystical glow. Leonardo walked towards the left aisle. Supporting the basilica were several pillars that made up the colonnades. An elevated horizontal band of stone attached itself to one of the pillars. An elaborate staircase leading to the suspended porch wrapped around the pillar. A round disk that looked as if it had cut into the stone lay suspended above the round capsule.

“What’s that?”

“It’s an ambo,” he replied, lowering his voice. “It was designed by our friend Brunelleschi, but I think his adopted son ended up finishing the job.” Elaborate floral motifs were carved into the ambo. Its borders framed scenes from the Bible. “An ambo is where they read from the scripture,” he explained, grabbing my hand.

Midway down the left aisle we stopped in front of a wall staring at a painting of Christ crucified. Leonardo and I stood in respectful silence for the masterpiece. The painting was rather morbid and dark. Only the muted light struggling through the stained glass could touch the painting. The color palette ranged from burgundy to taupe and dark blue. It looked to be about twenty feet tall.

We both had to look up at the gloomy figures that occupied the painting’s space. Close to the bottom lay a stone sarcophagus supporting a bone skeleton. A string of words appeared as if carved into the stony crypt.

Above the crypt two heavily draped figures flanked each side of the painting. The one on the left was an older man clothed in a dull red cloak with his hands clasped in prayer, staring up at the cross. His companion on the right was in the same pose but dressed like a nun in black from head to toe. Further into the painting stood two figures; I assumed one of them was the Virgin Mary because of her halo. She had her arm up in a gesture that suggested she was presenting her son. The standing figure opposite her also had a halo. In between them was Christ crucified.

What really stunned me about the painting was the figure behind Christ. The figure was a robust older man with a white beard and another halo suspended over his head. He was lifting up the cross that held Jesus.