Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (19 page)

“Well, you will have to make do with Viola today. Margherita is sleeping and I don’t want to disturb her.”

“You mean you are going to work in the shop?” asked Sandro, his eyebrows disappearing behind the fringe of his hair.

“Exactly,” I said, hiking up my sleeves and walking into the shop before either of them could stop me.

Verrocchio soon directed me on preparing a wooden panel with gesso. While I waited for the layers to dry, Renzo asked me to help him make more brushes.

After Renzo’s nimble fingers formed neat clumps of white hog hairs, he instructed me to wind the coarse hair into bundles with waxed thread. He lodged a tapered stick of maple in the middle of the bunch and told me to keep wrapping it until the thread concealed the ends of the hair. We repeated this until we had twenty new brushes. Apprentices were waiting by our table grabbing them as we finished securing the wrapping.

“We have to do the same thing but with miniver hair,” said Renzo smudging the soot all over his face.

“What does it come from?” I asked, feeling the soft brown hair.

“They are much higher quality and are made from squirrel hair. They are used to paint the finer details,” explained Renzo, trimming the supple hair with tiny scissors.

“Viola, I need you to work on tracing this drawing,” ordered Verrocchio.

I left Renzo and walked over to the table where Verrocchio hovered. A large square of fabric about five feet wide had an elaborate angel conversing with a man sketched on it.

“You are to trace the lines by making pin pricks along them like so.” He demonstrated. “I know you may find this tedious, but it is extremely helpful to me,” he said before stalking off to check Salai’s gilding technique.

Once left alone with the intricate drawing, I decided to start on the angel’s feathered wings. I was only halfway done with the top portion when I felt someone peering over my shoulder.

“Do you like it?” asked Leonardo.

“I do.”

“Good, I helped out with that one.”

“How is what I am doing helpful?”

“Well it helps us lay down the sketch on the panel. We spread cinnabar or another kind of pigment over the drawing leaving a soft outline that we can then model and hatch in. It is especially useful with proportions.”

“That’s smart.”

“We try.” Leonardo shrugged. “Leave this and grab a board and some parchment. Then meet me in the courtyard.”

I cast a wary glance at Verrocchio, who was fully absorbed in a plaster mold. I found both items quickly before walking out of the shop, through the kitchen, and into the drafty courtyard. When I stepped outside, Leonardo was cradling a snowy dove between his hands.

“How did you...”

“Her wings are clipped,” he said, frowning. “Once they grow back out she will fly freely out of the courtyard,” he explained more to the dove than to me. Leonardo let her down in the center of the courtyard and then tiptoed towards me. The dove examined her plumage to make sure she was not missing any. “Remember what I said about drawing things in motion?”

“Yes.”

“Well this is the best exercise I could come up with that did not involve anything illegal.” He smiled and handed me a piece of charcoal. “I’ll move around the bird while you sketch. Ready?”

After settling on the floor, I nodded and off she flew. The charcoal, my eyes, and the dove’s wings were one. Waves of frustration came and went as I tried to capture the dove’s struggling flight. While Leonardo shuffled the dove about, I tried a combination of thick contour lines balanced by quick hatching, but it felt like an impossible task. My mentor walked towards me to see how I was getting along with the assignment.

“It’s really difficult,” I said.

“More difficult than time traveling?”

“Somewhere in between flying or swimming underwater without coming up for air,” I teased.

“All in all, it is a pretty good try. Let us get back inside before Verrocchio notices we have gone.”

Upon entering the workshop, I was surprised to see so many apprentices crowded in one corner. It was the same nook Leonardo had been working at all day.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Not sure.”

“Is that the baptism painting?”

“Yes.”

“They all look starstruck,” I said, noticing their open mouths and glassy eyes. Verrocchio was at the center of the huddle and clearly moved.

“Alas, my painting days have come to an end,” declared Verrocchio.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

David

During the aftermath of Verrocchio’s outburst and quick retreat, I went to see if it was the angel I saw for the first time in Mrs. Reed’s gallery. The boys’ mixture of jealousy and awe rendered them easy opponents as I elbowed my way to the front of the pack. The angel was not the same as I had remembered. This angel’s face was far more radiant than my memory had led me to believe. For now, I knew better the genius that wielded the brush. The softness of Leonardo’s ethereal angel was inspiring. The wisps of hair that fell around the head and the eyes that stared up at Jesus really set it apart from its angel counterpart. There was nothing awkward or wanting from the blue textile that draped naturally against the kneeling figure. By the time I had contented my eyes’ appetite, no one remained in that corner of the workshop. Leonardo was standing next to me, his body stiff with apprehension.

“Should we get going?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He crossed his arms.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he grumbled. “Just thought you would have something to say is all.”

“I expected nothing less of—”

“Brilliance?” he offered.

“Exactly.” I smiled. “The angel’s natural gentleness is misplaced in the workshop … It makes all the other flat figures stuck behind their panels sick with envy.”

“All right! That is enough.” He reddened. “Let us get going, then.”

“I’m going to check on Margherita first. I will only be a minute,” I said, making my way towards the stairs. I knocked lightly before I entered the library, but no sound came from within. “Margherita?” I whispered.

When I peeked behind the divider, I saw a crumpled blanket at the foot of the bed and her body shifted to one side. As I moved closer to check on her, a sporadic snore rose from her delicate mouth. The pillow was damp but I could not decide whether it was from drool or sweat. I grabbed a dry linen from the hallway cupboard and carefully lifted Margherita’s head. After turning the pillow, I laid the fresh linen on top of the damp one. While I covered her with the blanket that had been thrown off, I noticed she was shivering. It was with a heavy heart that I met Leonardo by the stairs.

“I do not feel right about leaving Margherita with no one to take care of her,” I admitted to Leonardo as we crossed the street.

“Then why are we on our way to Via dei Benci?”

“Because I need to talk to Zia alone first … I also don’t want Zia to be alone on Christmas Eve.”

“The feast at the shop is usually not fancy,” said Leonardo. “Verrocchio sometimes joins his nieces, who almost always go to a banquet at one of their cousins’ houses.”

“All the same, I think it right I should be near Margherita.”

“I think last year she made roast chicken.”

“So hungry! Everything sounds glorious right now.”

“
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,
” beat Idan. I stopped and looked desperately around me waiting for something or someone.

“What is the matter?” asked Leonardo.

Pietro Sforza came rushing out of the house opposite us with such speed that he did not even notice us or the pair of young boys he almost ran over. Once he had disappeared onto a side street, I spun around to get a better look at the house he had fled. It was pieced together with an array of bricks of different sizes and colors. The building looked older than most. It had let go of its original square shape and curved outwards towards the alley that abutted it. The passage seemed to be part of the property. That, or the owner of the dwelling had annexed it. Long strips of canopy hoarded its contents from wandering eyes. The odd alley also had a metal gate that had been poorly shut by its owner.

“This used to be just an empty dead end,” observed Leonardo. “I mean empty, if you do not count the poor folk trying to find shelter.”

“I think this is his house,” said Leonardo as I approached the gate and stole a glance around at the few strangers on the street. “I saw him unloading a bunch of bundles and crates here not too long ago when I was on my way to Mercato Vecchio. It was the same day I met you.” Leonardo scratched his head. “He looked like he was anxious to go unnoticed.” I held Idan up to my ear, but he was still. My hands widened the gap of the metal gate. Once again, my curiosity had taken over my reason. “Viola!” cautioned Leonardo with a sharp whisper. “What are you doing?”

“I want to see what he’s hiding,” I said. Leonardo flashed me a look that showed me how crazy my scheme was. He moved closer to the gate but lingered on the precipice. I was already on the other side of the metal bars.

“So you are too scared to watch a joust, but you are fine with breaking into a judge’s home.”

“Well, when you put it like that … I’m just curious.”

“What if you get caught?”

“We won’t!”

“We?”

“Yes! Idan ticks like crazy when Pietro is close by and I want to find out why. We will have plenty of time to run back out.”

“You are forgetting that I do not believe in your magical Idan,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“Come on, we are losing time,” I said, walking further into the alley.

“Viola,” moaned Leonardo from the gate.

“Don’t be such a mouse.” The gate creaked open and Leonardo followed me inside. “I wish it were lighter outside.”

Crates covered with wax and clay scrapings were propped against the house’s curved wall. A makeshift oven had been built at the end of the alley. As we drew closer we saw a red glow coming from the wreckage of discarded objects.

“Oh my God.”

“What is it?”

“He is trying to cast something,” he said, pointing to the empty glowing cylinder. “He must have just finished.”

“How do you know?”

“That is a crucible...” he motioned to the cylinder suspended between iron bars “...it’s used to melt metal. Those handles are for pouring the bronze.” We both looked closer at the litter that covered the floor. “These,” he said, picking up a metal rod, “this is what keeps the wax mold in place.”

“Why would a judge be casting a sculpture?” I wondered aloud.

“What is even more worrisome is that he is doing this alone,” added Leonardo. “This task should never be done by oneself. It can go terribly wrong.”

“He must not want anyone else to know,” I suggested, noticing a side entrance into the lopsided house. Idan was still quiet. When I opened the door, the little light that filtered through the alley brightened the cluttered chaos within. “This place is a mess!” I said, treading carefully through the wreckage. Old plates of food and papers were scattered everywhere. The room reeked of fat, wax, and smoke.

“He must have left in a hurry,” said Leonardo, looking at the smothered embers in the fireplace.

There were only two pieces of furniture in the broad room, a chair and a massive table, upon which stood a sculpture.

“Viola! That is the David!”

“The David?”

“Donatello’s David sculpture! The one that is usually in the Medici courtyard.”

“Oh no,” I said, suddenly aware of the danger we were in.

“What?”

“Giuliano said it had been stolen.”

“How could you not tell me that?” exclaimed Leonardo.

“Hush! Don’t yell at me. I just forgot.” The statue looked to be of a young boy and was about five feet tall. David was wearing a soft hat with a floral bouquet crowning it. Fair hair caressed his shoulders and neck. Other than the hat, he wore knee-high laced boots. “Why is he naked?” I asked.

“He is not naked, he is nude,” corrected Leonardo.

“But he’s wearing a hat and boots … If he was nude he wouldn’t be wearing anything. The few items of clothing make him look more naked than if he wasn’t wearing anything.” My mom and I had had a similar discussion before about some sculptures in the Metropolitan Museum.

Leonardo considered my words for a few moments as he admired Donatello’s work. “Well maybe he is naked to emphasize how he refused to take the armor offered to him before he faced Goliath.”

“Who is Goliath?” Leonardo laughed at my question. “Just tell me! No need to make me feel stupid.” He put a hand on my shoulder and pointed at the giant mass David was standing on.

“That is Goliath.” After I moved closer to get a better look, I realized the mass was actually a giant severed head. “The story is from the bible. It takes place when the Israelites and the Philistines are at war. Goliath, the Philistines’ best warrior, proposes a man-on-man combat to end the whole battle. Not one of the Israelite warriors was brave enough to accept the challenge. David, who was too young to be a soldier, accepted the proposal. The leader of the Israelites offered David armor and weapons, but he refused, opting to use his trusty slingshot. That is why he is holding a rock in one hand,” explained Leonardo.

“But what about the sword in his other hand?”

“Well, David knocks the Giant down with his slingshot but then severs Goliath’s head using the giant’s own sword.”

“He looks like he couldn’t even lift the sword, let alone use it,” I said.

“It is believed that God gave him the incredible strength he needed to defeat Goliath.” Leonardo drew closer to the sculpture. “I’m not sure you are properly impressed.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is a completely unsupported, freestanding bronze sculpture. It is an incredible challenge.”

“He looks kind of … dainty?” I said. “It almost looks like a woman’s body from certain angles.”

“Perhaps that is intentional.”

“It feels very—”

“Sensual?” offered Leonardo.

“Bordering on the scandalous,” I added, my eyes lingering on the plumage going up David’s leg. “I haven’t seen anything like this in Florence.”

“Well, it is in a private home for a reason. I suppose it is revolutionary. Hopefully a sign of the times to come,” said Leonardo.

I took a step back but my heel slipped and I fell on my butt. The culprit was a huge block of plaster.

“Congratulations on finding the cast,” breathed Leonardo through fits of laughter.

I rubbed the small of my back tenderly as I sat up. Taking advantage of being down there, I grabbed one of the many papers tossed on the floor. It was one of many detailed studies of David’s face and subtle smile.

“I think that’s a copy of Donatello’s hero,” I said, tapping the plaster block with my foot.

“I agree,” seconded Leonardo, who was sifting through the loose-leaf papers by Goliath’s head. “That’s strange.”

“What is?”

“All of the writing on these pages looks like yours.”

“
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,
” rang Idan. I jumped to my feet and snatched the sheet in Leonardo’s hands.

“We need to go, Viola!” pressed Leonardo. My eyes scanned the scrawl of the paper. To my amazement it was in English.

“How could it—”

Leonardo stole the paper away from me, grabbed my arm, and forced me through the side door.

“
Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock
!
”
Idan quickened.

“We won’t make it to the street in time,” I warned. “He’s almost here! Let’s just hide behind the junk piles.”

“We’ll make it,” he said, practically carrying me through the gate.

Pietro turned the corner just as the gate closed behind us. He looked up from his polished boots and locked eyes with me.

“Did you come to call on me?” said Pietro as we stood foolishly outside his house. “I had to step out a moment.” He smiled.

“Uh … no, we were just walking home,” I mumbled, placing my palm over Idan.

“You were sorely missed after your chamber pot departure,” said Pietro, rubbing his shaved head. “Which reminds me … I never did get a look at that family heirloom of yours.”

“Oh yes. Perhaps another day.”

“Someday in the very near future, I imagine,” threatened Pietro over my shoulder. Once we were out of earshot, I told Leonardo about Sandro’s visit and what he had said about Giuliano running after us.

“Do you think the cough we heard on the street may have been him?” I asked anxiously.

“We will never know … I didn’t see him or hear his footsteps behind us.”

A shiver slithered up my spine at the thought of what Giuliano might have overheard. “Sandro said Lorenzo was incredibly angry.”

“But you already suspected that?”

“Yes, but it’s different when your worst fears are confirmed,” I said.

“So you are worried?”

“That’s an understatement,” I replied as we swerved onto Via dei Benci. The sparks beyond glass windows smiled down at the strangers passing through the shadowy street.

“Do not start worrying until after Christmas.”

“That is your comforting advice?”

“It is a good concession,” he said. “The family will probably be too busy to even think about you between their services and parties. But after Christmas it will be business as usual,” said Leonardo, scraping the muck off his shoes on a protruding stone.

“Meaning?”

“Then you can start worrying.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, grasping the door handle.

“Viola, I am not going to lie to make you feel better.” He shrugged. “We’ll figure something out between now and then. In the meantime, I’ll send Renzo over in a bit to fetch you.”

“All right,” I said, resigned, moving to open Zia’s door, but it would not budge. I knocked but no one answered.

“Viola!” called Zia from across the street.

She was chatting with Giulia in the doorway. The young woman rocked a baby in her arms while Zia pinched Luca’s chubby cheeks. The scene of Zia with the happy baby reminded me of my promise to Margherita. Before Giulia vanished into her house, she waved at me.

“I’m sorry, my dear. Giulia had such a nice fire going that I really could not resist her offer. I completely lost track of time,” she said, unlocking the rickety door.

My body shook against the chilly air. I could feel all sorts of sand, wax, and clay glued to the rubber soles of my sneakers as I bent to start the fire.

“How is baby Luca?” I asked, arranging the wood in the pit.

“Heavenly! He is getting so fat.” She beamed.

While my fingers struggled to kindle a spark, I wondered how to move forward with my plan for Margherita’s baby. I knew that Zia alone would not be a good match, but perhaps with the help of a long-lost daughter, Margherita’s baby might have a chance at a happy life.

“Zia?”

“Yes?”

“What would you do if someone gave you a baby?” I asked, blowing life into the flame that had caught on the twigs.

“What a question indeed!”

“I’m serious.” Zia reached for the broom propped in the corner of the room.

“There is not much I could do,” she said, her tiredness gathered in sacks around her eyes. “I’m almost seventy and have not the energy to raise a child.”

“But you like babies!” I protested.

“I do,” she agreed. I debated for several minutes trying to decide whether the time was right.

“Do you have any grandchildren?” The scraping of the broom’s hard bristles on the tile made me cringe.

“No, I doubt very much whether Ginerva will ever be able to have a baby.”

“Why?” I asked, excitement swelling inside me.

Zia leaned on the broom’s pole for support, as if deciding whether she wanted to open that wound. “The marriage my husband had arranged for her was an unhappy one, and then she became so violently ill that we all thought she was dead. The doctor and the priest both pronounced her to be dead, but it turns out she wasn’t.”

“What!” I blurted out.