Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (7 page)

“I would say the best thing you could do would be to marry her off. But as you say, she has no dowry and that is out of the question.”

“Listen to me, Andrea, she is bright. I trust her completely, and you would do well to take her on as she can help Margherita.”

“I see that it has already been decided.”

“I can do it, mist—I mean, Master Verrocchio,” I said confidently. “I want to help in any way I can.”

“I can see to it that she makes it safely to Zia’s after the day’s work,” added the familiar playful voice of Leonardo, who had been eavesdropping at a nearby workbench.

Verrocchio’s smile consented to the deal. “Those clothes will not do, Viola. Normally, I give my new boys a uniform. But seeing as you are a girl, I will see to it that you get some clothes fit for work. I can pay you one grosso a week and that is not negotiable.” He turned to Leonardo and said, “Since you have played the role of a spy so well, you will be responsible for her care and help me make sure that everyone is on good behavior.”

“As you say,” he replied with an easy expression and a shrug of his shoulders.

“Margherita!” bellowed Verrocchio.

A young girl of sixteen years or so appeared under a pointed arch. Margherita had a delicate heart-shaped face and red cheeks that were quieted by a few smudges of flour. She wore a dark green cotton dress with sleeves rolled up past her elbows. When she realized that there was a company of people waiting on her, she wiped her dirt-coated hands on an apron tied just above her waistline that fell all around her burgeoning belly.

“Yes, sir?”

“I want you to show Viola around. She will be helping you around the workshop.” She pulled back a loose piece of straight blonde hair and tucked it under the pristine white bandana that covered her head.

“I hope you have not been dissatisfied with my work, sir?” She grimaced.

“Not in the least. It is just that I have a soft spot for young ladies in need of work and a worse weakness for my Zia.” Still apprehensive, Margherita nodded and offered me her right hand.

“Viola, I will expect you in a couple of hours. Stand up straight and be on your very best behavior,” Zia said, pinching my cheek before walking towards the canopy.

The phrase reminded me of my father’s last words before he left me alone with Mrs. Reed. What I really wanted was to follow Zia out of the workshop, but my determination had grown since seeing the painting. I let myself be guided farther into the workshop.

CHAPTER NINE

Portrait

The moment we were out of Verrocchio’s line of vision, Margherita let go of my hand and warned me to keep up with her pace.

“Since you came dressed for church, there is no point in giving you any real work to do,” she said, wiping the beads of sweat from her nose and forehead with her apron. “Not that I can’t handle all the work myself, because I can. For now, I will just show you around the shop as the master said.”

As she led me up the stone staircase, the scent of her sweat and citrus grinds followed us. When we reached the landing, there was a dim, narrow hallway that had one high square windowpane at its end. My immediate instinct was to look around for the light switch, an expectation quickly dashed. Margherita pulled out a large key from her apron and walked to the door on our right. When the door opened, the hallway’s sandy stone and brick colored tile were illuminated.

I followed her into a modest rectangular room. The bright light that came from two large rounded windows made us squint. “This is the master’s study and where the apprentices come to copy drawings.”

Looking up I saw an elaborately carved wooden ceiling. The dark wood panels brought birds, flowers, and plants of all sorts to life.

“You are not to touch anything in this room and especially those,” she said, pointing towards five shelves bursting with books.

Their colorful spines did look tempting. The apprentices and their master seemed to use the books often as there was no dust on the books themselves.

A plush carpet laden with floral designs stretched across the wooden floor. “Every other day I sweep this room and wash the floors … You will do that now and you will also be sure not to get the carpet wet and to wipe down the table. Once a month I polish the tables,” she said, pointing out the two tables and their stiff benches. While she continued to explain the many tasks that I would soon have to take on, my eyes lingered on the left corner of the room where there was a divider.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing to the corner of the room.

“That is where I sleep.” Her cheeks grew a shade more crimson. “Verrocchio took me on when I had to leave the orphanage … so this is where I live.”

I immediately regretted asking. How was it that I had my own little room with wool blankets to boot and she was pregnant and sleeping behind a wooden panel? Even though she was being short with me, I felt more and more sorry for her.

Margherita steered me out of the room and as she shut the door informed me that door on the other side of the hallway led up to the master’s living quarters. “The master’s two nieces live in the top apartment and do not like to be disturbed.” The reassuring thunk of the lock sounded. Removing the key, she pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “That door leads to the apprentices’ quarters. In other words, it is where the boys sleep. You would do well to stay away from there. That is probably the best piece of advice I could give you,” she finished with a sad and absent look. Her hand had rested on top of her bulging belly, but she pulled it away when she noticed I was looking.

“When is your baby due?” I asked.

“Should be another three weeks or so … That is what the master’s doctor said, but a gypsy at the market told me it would be sooner.”

“You both must be very excited.”

“What do you mean you both?” she retorted. Once again, I had put my foot in my mouth. Although uncomfortable, I decided to continue on with the mess I had started.

“Well, you and the father.”

She stiffened and let out a sarcastic snort. “The father doesn't care about me or the baby,” she confessed and quickly shuffled back downstairs.

I followed her closely, and we continued on our tour of the workshop. As we stepped through the center of the principal work room, I could feel eyes haunting us. “You must not interfere with the work of the apprentices. The best time to sweep is when they are all meeting in a group with the master.” Goosebumps sprawled over my skin, and I began to feel like a fly stuck to sticky paper. “Make sure you do not sweep away something they are working on.” She spun around suddenly. Surprised, I took a step back and bumped into someone behind me. “Are you listening to me?” she asked annoyed.

“Sorry!” I said, turning around. The boy who had been putting wood into the oven when I first arrived had been stalking our steps. He was staring up at me with a goofy grin. The young boy had a sweet look but was very thin. His brown, wavy hair fell in a tangle around his shoulders and his face had a dry layer of soot. Margherita snatched a look over my shoulder to see what the holdup was.

“Renzo!” she said in an annoyed but motherly tone. “Have you been stealing milk from the kitchen?” The creamy evidence of Lorenzo’s guilt stuck to the peach fuzz of his upper lip.

“It is already a while past our morning meal, Marga …” he said, batting his long eyelashes and flashing his white teeth—complete with a missing front tooth.

This seemed to work often as she beckoned him to follow us. Surprisingly, he grabbed my hand and began to strut alongside me looking very pleased with himself. Renzo’s small hand felt very warm against my cold one.

“For the love of our lady, Renzo I don’t know how you are so skinny whilst you eat so much! I feel as if I spend half of my time feeding you. You would be so lovely with full rosy cheeks, but the more I feed you the skinnier you get.”

We went under the pointed archway where I first saw Margherita and strode into the kitchen. A door ajar to the courtyard sent a chill through the air. A long but shallow stone basin with a water faucet and some brass jars took up the side of the wall lit by the courtyard. The opposite side had shelves built into the wall, and a heavy oven with a curved overhanging structure allowed the smoke to escape. On the work surfaces were some dried herbs picked from the overhanging bundles, sliced lemons, and some pale sausages.

After Margherita served Renzo his second glass of cream, he sat down on a large crate by the door. His long, skinny legs dangled over the crate and drops of milk dribbled down his chin. Margherita pointed to a different cutting board where a pile of figs, garlic, and basil were waiting to be chopped.

When I rolled up my sleeves and began to chop, Renzo’s sweet voice sang out, “O though with the milk white face, the winds are hushed as thou pass by and all the stars caress thee with their beams.”

“What is that nonsense you are singing? Where did you hear such ridiculous words?” asked Margherita.

“The old poet in the Piazza del Duomo.”

“You would do better by listening more to the master and less to that fool in the piazza.”

I tried hard to repress laughter, but it escaped through my nose, and to my horror I snorted. Little Renzo started laughing and went away bouncing up and down. “It worked! The old poet is a genius!”

Margherita’s laugh carried over the crackle-pop of frying sausages. A few minutes later, we carried the morning’s meal of bread, cheese, figs, sardines, and liver sausage onto one of the cleared tables. The apprentices were all salivating on the table’s benches. We left them to devour their meal in the kitchen where we both began to clean the pans.

“When you arrive tomorrow, bring something to cover your hair and ears. It dampens the sound of the apprentices, but not so much that if Master Verrocchio calls you, he can’t be heard.” Her hand pressed her bump in pain. “The baby is kicking hard.”

“That means it has lots of energy, right? That can only be a good thing,” I said optimistically, but she looked miserable. “I don’t mean to be rude as I don’t know you, but you don’t look very excited about having a baby. Where I come from women have rights and you can give your baby to someone who really would love to raise the child. There is no shame in it, and it sounds like you are not happy with the idea of bringing up the baby by yourself. I know I couldn’t do it at our age.” My words appeared to soften her face a bit.

“It is an unthinkable idea. Why would someone want my baby? I am poor and my blood is far from noble. Florence knows who I am and many know I am pregnant. Everyone will think my baby died or that I dropped it off at the orphanage. I could not stand that talk.” She resumed scraping the fat off the pan. “I will manage … Let us clear the table. They are already behind.”

To no one’s surprise, the food had been demolished and the floor littered with sardine heads, breadcrumbs, and fig pits.

“Gross …” I mumbled.

“What does that mean?”

“Disgusting.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Well, they made such a mess of the floor.”

“But that is normal. If not, it would be on the table and we would have to clean it up all the same. I do not know how they do it where you come from, but most households in Florence only clean underneath the tables once a week.”

As we began to take trips to and from the kitchen, I noticed Leonardo had started working on a sketch. While I was trying to make out the face of his portrait, I felt a hand tug on my skirt so hard that I almost dropped the four dirty plates I was carrying. Turning around, I saw a beautiful young man, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old. His head was covered in perfect ringlets arranged around his high cheekbones and pointed chin. His lips stretched into a conceited smile. Despite his prettiness, the whole of his person gave me the creeps. As I revolved back around to leave with the plates, he tugged on my dress again.

“Where are you going so fast? We haven’t been introduced yet.” Frightened, I tried to get Leonardo’s attention, but he was engrossed in his drawing. Margherita walked back into the room from the kitchen. When she saw what was happening, she looked worried.

“My name is Gian Caprotti da Oreno, but everyone calls me Salai,” he whispered with his greasy voice.

“What are you doing Salai? Let go of her dress.”

“Margherita … all she has to do is tell me her name and ask politely.” Margherita’s strong exterior crumbled at the sound of her name from his pursed lips.

“My name is Viola … Would you please let go of my dress, Gian?”

“You mean Salai?” he jeered, tugging my dress harder.

“Let go of my lady’s dress,” interrupted the high chime of little Renzo as he tried to pry off Salai’s hands. Salai let out a fit of laughter that stirred Leonardo from his sketch.

“What are you doing, you idiot!” he said annoyed that he had been disturbed while drawing. “Take your honey-covered hands off Viola’s dress or I will tell Verrocchio of your insolence. She is under his private care and you are to treat her as you would one of his nieces.” When he let go of my dress, I could tell that Salai was angry and his pride was hurt. “Go to Landucci’s. We need more malachite for The Baptism of Christ.” In one smooth motion, he fastened his cloak and made his way towards the entrance, all the while muttering insults under his cloying breath.

As I watched him leave, Verrocchio’s words rang in my ears. “
I cannot be responsible for her well-being …
”

“I see I cannot leave you alone for five moments together,” teased Leonardo, cleaning the charcoal from his hands with a rag.

“I tried to catch your attention, but you were drawing.”

“Are you a bird without song? Are you a beggar without a tongue? Speak, Viola! Scream if need be.”

“I protected her, Leo!” proclaimed Renzo, pointing at himself. “She is my lady, not yours. It was I who made her laugh in the kitchen with my poetry.”

“She is neither yours nor mine. She belongs to herself,” said Leonardo and began to further mess up Lorenzo’s hair before he continued. “Though it is good she has such an honorable lad to protect her. You are as fierce as you are loud. A match made in the so-called Heaven above. Surely the both of us can be protectors, Lorenzo.” The boy began to stroke his invisible beard and nodded his head in agreement. “Move along then and finish your duties before Master Verrocchio gets back.” Lorenzo returned to stirring the oven’s embers and splintered wood.

“Do your best to avoid Salai. He will bring you nothing but grief and anxiety. If he comes near you, run the opposite direction, find me, or screw up your face so you don’t look quite so pretty. Like this …” He finished by making a face to rival the nearest gargoyle. “No need to worry about me, sweet Viola. I am as docile as a dear brother. So that will be the last blush between the two of us, understood?”

“Of course.” I pressed on my cheeks with my hands. The corners of my mouth had started to hurt from smiling so much.

“So stop blushing then!”

“Then stop talking about my blush and it will stop!” I said. Shaking his head, he picked up his abandoned sketch.

Margherita grabbed my hand again, more tenderly than she had this morning, and led me back into the kitchen. Upon entering, we saw a chubby man wearing a long brown tunic nibbling on olives and left-over cheese rinds.

“Stop that, Perugino, or you will get even more well-rounded than you are already,” chastised Margherita.

“Margherita, always so lovely. If only everyone called me well-rounded,” he said, stuffing the last olive into his mouth. “I think the exact term is fat, but I don’t mind. In fact I think others wish they could be as fat and well fed as I,” he finished, looking at me curiously.

“This is Viola. She will begin tomorrow as another house maid.”

“Everything in this old workshop will smell the sweeter now that we have two young flowers to keep away bad airs.” His hungry eyes scavenged the kitchen but did not find anything else to eat. “Alas, I must be off now. By chance do we have any wine to chase my snack?”

“No, but I will chase you out of this kitchen if you do not hurry,” she snapped, scraping crumbs into a crate. “Viola, please help me finish these dishes.”

Deciding there would be no wine from this kitchen, the apprentice's round face and sense of humor left us to our tasks. I began to wash the dishes.

The ice water hurt my hands and I could not help thinking,
this is what I get for complaining about doing the dishes at home
. After a while my hands turned red and I could not feel the cold as much, but the pain throbbed up to my elbows.

Renzo skipped into the kitchen shortly after I had finished the dishes and announced that the master had returned and needed Viola for the rest of the day. Margherita looked a little disappointed. Her attitude had changed dramatically since this morning.

“Till tomorrow then. Come prepared to work this time,” she said.

I smiled and nodded reassuringly as Lorenzo grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the kitchen. “Your hands are freezing!” he said, leading me upstairs two steps at a time.

When I entered the study, the rumble from within hushed. Verrocchio was standing by the window when he signaled me to sit in the chair at the center of the room. “Viola, I would like to create a preliminary sketch of your face,” said Verrocchio. Panic was my first reaction to this request. Why did he want to take a portrait of me?

“Therefore, I need you to sit quite still in that seat until we have completed it. If we do not do it now, I am likely to forget about it completely.”

Rooted to the spot, my heart worked extra hard to pump blood to the rest of my body. Looking around the room, I saw Perugino, Leonardo, and one other boy I did not know. They armed themselves with their parchment and charcoal, waiting for me to sit down. “Please sit, Viola … Boys! I want different angles, so position yourself accordingly … Do it now,” he barked. Verrocchio guided me to the chair, arranged my hair, and tilted my head into his ideal position. “It is best if you look a little towards the floor. It will help you stay still and you won’t be quite so nervous.”