Читать книгу Painting Mona Lisa - Jeanne Kalogridis - Страница 10

On that late April morning, Giuliano faced a terrible decision: he must choose to break the heart of one of the two people he loved most in the world. One heart belonged to his brother, Lorenzo; the other, to a woman.

Though a young man, Giuliano had known many lovers. His former mistress, Simonetta Cattaneo, wife of Marco Vespucci, had been hailed as the most beautiful woman in Florence until her death two years ago. He had chosen Simonetta for her looks: she was fine-boned and fair, with masses of curling golden hair that fell far below her waist. So lovely was she that they had carried her to her grave with her face exposed. Out of deference for the husband and family, Giuliano had watched from a distance, but he had wept with them.

Even so, he had never been faithful. He had dallied with other women during their affair and, occasionally he had revelled in the talents of whores.

Now, for the first time in his life, Giuliano desired only one woman: Anna. She was handsome, to be sure, but it was her intelligence that had entrapped him, her delight in life and the greatness of her heart. He had come to know her slowly, through conversation at banquets, and at parties. She had never flirted, never attempted to win him; indeed, she had done everything possible to discourage him. But none of the dozens of Florentine noblewomen who vied and simpered for his affections matched her. Simonetta had been vapid; Anna had the soul of a poet, a saint.

Her goodness made Giuliano view his former life as repugnant. He abandoned all other women and sought only the company of Anna, yearned to please only her. He wished to marry her, to father her children and none other’s. Just the sight of her made him want to beg forgiveness for his past carnal indulgences. He longed for her grace more than God’s.

And it seemed like a miracle when she had at last confided her feelings: that God had created them for each other, and that it was His cruellest joke that she was already given to another man.

As passionate as Anna’s love was for him, her love of purity and decency, was even greater. She belonged to another, whom she refused to betray. She had admitted her feelings for Giuliano, but when he pursued her – when he cornered her alone during Carnival at his brother’s house and begged for her – she rejected him. Duty, she had said. Responsibility. She had sounded like Lorenzo, who had always insisted his brother make an advantageous match, and marry a woman who would add even more prestige to the family, and not disgrace.

Giuliano, accustomed to having whatever he wanted, tried to bargain his way around it. He pleaded with her to come to him in private – simply to hear him out. She wavered, but then agreed. They had met once, in the ground floor appartamento at the Medici palazzo. She had indulged his embraces, his kiss, but would go no farther. He had begged her to leave Florence, to go away with him, but she had refused.

‘He knows.’ Her voice had been anguished. ‘Do you understand? He knows, and I cannot bear to hurt him any longer.’

Giuliano was a determined man. Neither God nor societal convention gave him pause once he had made up his mind. For Anna, he was willing to give up the prospect of a respectable marriage; for Anna, he was willing to endure the censure of the Church, even excommunication and the prospect of damnation. It seemed a small price in order to be with her.

And so he had made a forceful argument: She should go with him to Rome, to stay in a family villa. The Medici had Papal connections; he would procure for her an annulment. He would marry her. He would give her children.

She had been torn, had put her hands to her lips. He looked in her eyes and saw the misery there, but he also saw a flicker of hope.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ she had said, and he had let her return to her husband to make her decision.

The next day, he had gone to Lorenzo. Giuliano had wakened in the middle of the night and was unable to return to sleep. It was still dark – two hours before sunrise – but he was not surprised to see the light emanating from his brother’s antechamber. Lorenzo sat at his desk, with his cheek propped against his fist, scowling down at a letter he held close to the glowing lamp.

Nearby, another lamp cast light on the wall in front of him, where three large wooden panels had been propped – another artistic acquisition. Lorenzo had acquired them only a few weeks ago, from a family that owed him money; he was most excited about them because the artist, Uccello, was using the ‘new perspective’ to make the scenes appear more realistic.

Giuliano was not impressed. The panels depicted opposing armies at the very instant of their engagement. Banners fluttered in the sky; lances and swords were wielded; beautifully caparisoned horses reared and bared their teeth. They glorified Death. Giuliano could not understand how something as changeable and meaningless as politics should justify the killing of men and breaking of women’s hearts. The panels honoured a battle that had taken place a hundred years before, between Florentine and Sienese forces; many soldiers had died, but few today could remember their names, and no one cared why they had sacrificed themselves.

Giuliano returned his gaze to his brother. Normally Lorenzo would have glanced up, would have forced away the frown to smile, to utter a greeting; that day, however, he seemed in uncommonly ill sorts. No greeting came; Lorenzo gave him a cursory glance, then looked back at the letter. Its contents were apparently the cause of his bad humour.

Lorenzo could be maddeningly stubborn at times, overly concerned with appearances, coldly calculating when it came to politics, and at times dictatorial concerning how Giuliano should comport himself, and with whom he should allow himself to be seen. But he could also be enormously indulgent, generous, and sensitive to his younger brother’s wishes. Although Giuliano had never desired power, Lorenzo always shared information with him, they always discussed the political ramifications of every civic event. It was clear that Lorenzo loved his brother deeply, and would gladly have shared control of the city with him, had Giuliano ever shown an interest.

It had been hard for Lorenzo, to lose his father, and to be forced to assume power when so young. True, he had the talent for it; but Giuliano could see it wore on him. After nine years, the strain showed. Permanent creases had established themselves on his brow and shadows had settled beneath his eyes.

A part of Lorenzo revelled in the power, and delighted in extending the family’s influence. The Medici Bank had branches in Rome, in Bruges, in most of the greater cities of Europe. Yet Lorenzo was often exhausted by the demands of playing the gran maestro. At times, he complained, ‘Not a soul in the city will marry without my blessing.’ Quite true. And that very week, he had received a letter from a congregation in rural Tuscany, begging for his advice: The church fathers had approved the creation of a saint’s statue; two sculptors were vying for the commission. Would the great Lorenzo be so kind as to give his opinion? Such missives piled up in great stacks each day; Lorenzo rose before dawn and answered them in his own hand.

He fretted over Florence as a father would a wayward child. Lorenzo spent every waking moment dedicated to furthering her prosperity and the Medici interests.

But he was keenly aware that no one loved him, save for the favours he could bestow. Only Giuliano adored his brother truly, for himself. Only Giuliano tried to make Lorenzo forget his responsibilities; only Giuliano could make him laugh. For that, Lorenzo loved him fiercely.

And it was the repercussions of that love Giuliano feared.

Giuliano straightened and cleared his throat. ‘I am going,’ he said, rather loudly, ‘to Rome.’

Lorenzo lifted his brows and his gaze, but the rest of him did not stir. ‘On pleasure, or on some business I should acquaint myself with?’

‘I am going with a woman.’

Lorenzo sighed; his frown eased. ‘Enjoy yourself, then, and think of me suffering here.’

‘I am going with Madonna Anna,’ Giuliano said.

Lorenzo jerked his head sharply at the name. ‘You’re joking.’ He said it lightly, but as he stared at Giuliano, his expression grew incredulous. ‘You must be joking.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘This is foolishness … Giuliano, she is from a good family. And she is married.’

Giuliano did not quail. ‘I love her. I won’t be without her. I’ve asked her to go with me to Rome, to live.’

Lorenzo’s eyes widened; the letter slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor, but he did not retrieve it. ‘Giuliano … Our hearts mislead us all, from time to time. You’re enthralled by an emotion; believe me, I understand. But it will ease. Give yourself a fortnight to rethink this idea.’

Lorenzo’s paternal, dismissive tone only strengthened Giuliano’s resolve. ‘I’ve already arranged the carriage and driver, and sent a message to the servants at the Roman villa to prepare for us. We must seek an annulment,’ he said. ‘I don’t say this lightly, brother. I want to marry Anna. I want her to bear my children.’

Lorenzo leaned back in his chair and stared intently at his younger brother, as if trying to judge whether he were an impostor. When he was satisfied that the words had been meant, Lorenzo let go a short, bitter laugh. ‘An annulment? Courtesy of our good friend Pope Sixtus, I suppose? He would prefer to see us banished from Italy.’ He pushed himself away from his desk, rose, and reached for his brother; his tone softened. ‘This is a fantasy, Giuliano. I understand that she is a marvellous woman, but … She has been married for some years. Even if I could arrange for an annulment, it would create a scandal. Florence would never accept it.’

Lorenzo’s hand was almost on his shoulder; Giuliano shifted it back, away from the conciliatory touch. ‘I don’t care what Florence will or won’t accept. We’ll remain in Rome, if we have to.’

Lorenzo emitted a sharp sigh of frustration. ‘You’ll get no annulment from Sixtus. So give up your romantic ideas: If you can’t live without her, have her – but for God’s sake, do so discreetly.’

Giuliano flared. ‘How can you speak of her like that? You know Anna, you know she would never consent to deception. And if I can’t have her I won’t have any other woman. You can stop all your match-making efforts right now. If I can’t marry her—’

Even as he spoke, he felt his argument fail. Lorenzo’s eyes were filled with a peculiar light – furious and fierce, verging on madness – a light that made Giuliano believe his brother capable of true malevolence. He had only seen such a look in Lorenzo’s eyes rarely – never before had it been directed at him – and it chilled him. ‘You’ll do what? Refuse to marry anyone at all?’ Lorenzo shook his head vehemently; his voice grew louder. ‘You have a duty, an obligation to your family. You think you can forget it, go to Rome on a whim, pass our blood on to a litter of bastards? You would stain us with excommunication? Because that’s what would happen, you know – to both of you! Sixtus is in no mood to be generous with us.’

Giuliano said nothing; the flesh on his cheeks and neck burned. He had expected no less, though he had hoped for more.

Lorenzo continued; the hand that had reached for his brother now became a jabbing, accusatory finger. ‘Do you have any idea of what will happen to Anna? What people will call her? She’s a decent woman, a good woman. Do you really want to ruin her? You’ll take her to Rome and grow tired of her. You’ll want to come home to Florence. And what will she have left?’

Angry words scalded Giuliano’s tongue. He wanted to say that though Lorenzo had married a harridan, he, Giuliano, would rather die than live in such loveless misery, that he would never stoop to fathering children upon a woman he despised. But he remained silent; he was unhappy enough. There was no point in making Lorenzo suffer the truth, too.

Lorenzo emitted a growl of disgust. ‘You’ll never do it. You’ll come to your senses.’

Giuliano looked at him a long moment. ‘I love you, Lorenzo,’ he said quietly. ‘But I am going.’ He turned and moved to the door.

‘Leave with her,’ his brother threatened, ‘and you can forget that I am your brother. Don’t imagine I am joking, Giuliano. I’ll have nothing more to do with you. Leave with her, and you’ll never see me again.’

Giuliano looked back over his shoulder at Lorenzo, and was suddenly afraid. He and his older brother did not joke with each other when they discussed important matters – and neither could be swayed once he had made up his mind. ‘Please don’t make me choose.’

Lorenzo’s jaw was set, his gaze cold. ‘You’ll have to.’

The following evening, Giuliano had waited in Lorenzo’s ground floor apartment until it was time to meet Anna. He had spent the entire day thinking about Lorenzo’s comment about how she would be ruined if she went to Rome. For the first time, he considered what Anna’s life would be like if the Pope refused to grant an annulment.

She would know disgrace, and censure; she would be forced to give up her family, her friends, her native city. Her children would be called bastards, and be denied their inheritance as Medici heirs.

He had been selfish. He had been thinking only of himself when he made the offer to Anna. He had spoken too easily of the annulment, in hopes that it would sway her to go with him. And he had not, until that moment, considered that she might reject his offer; the possibility had seemed too painful to contemplate.

Now he realized that it would save him from making an agonizing choice.

But when he went to meet her at the door and saw her face in the dying light, he saw that his choice had been made long ago, at the moment when he gave his heart to Anna. Her eyes, her skin, her face and limbs exuded joy; even in the shadowy dusk, she shone. Her movements, which had once been slow, weighed down by unhappy consequence, were now agile and light. The exuberant tilt of her head as she looked up at him, the faint smile that bloomed on her lips, the swift grace with which she lifted her skirts and rushed to him relayed her answer more clearly than words.

Her presence breathed such hope into him that he moved quickly to her and held her, and let it infuse him. In that instant, Giuliano realized that he could refuse her nothing, that neither of them could escape the turning of the wheel now set in motion. And the tears that threatened him did not spring from joy; they were tears of grief, for Lorenzo.

He and Anna remained together less than an hour; they spoke little, only enough for Giuliano to convey a time, and a place. No other exchange was needed.

And when she was gone again – taking the light and Giuliano’s confidence with her – he went back to his own chamber, and called for wine. He drank it sitting on his bed, and thinking of Lorenzo.

He finally understood the depth of his elder brother’s love and caring for him. When he had first become fascinated with Anna, he had gone to Lorenzo and asked, ‘Have you ever been in love?’ He had always felt pity for his brother, on account of his unhappy marriage.

Lorenzo had been busy at his desk, but at the sound of his brother’s voice, he had looked up and forced his stern expression to lighten. ‘Of course.’

‘No, Lorenzo, I mean desperately, hopelessly in love. So much in love that you would rather die than lose your beloved.’

Lorenzo sighed with mild impatience. ‘Of course. But the story ends sadly, so what would be the point in its telling?’

‘You never want to speak to me of sad things.’ Giuliano said. ‘Just like Father, always trying to protect me, as if I weren’t able to fend for myself.’

Hidden hurt glimmered in Lorenzo’s eyes as his gaze flickered down and to the side … and into the past. Giuliano realized he was thinking of their father, Piero, and of the day he died. In his last moments, Piero had asked to speak to his eldest son alone; Giuliano had always assumed it had been merely to relate political secrets. But at that instant, seeing the haunted look in Lorenzo’s eyes, Giuliano realized their conversation had dealt with something more important.

‘I’m sorry, Lorenzo. I didn’t mean to complain …’

Lorenzo gave a small, unhappy smile. ‘You’re entitled. But … you’ve already seen enough grief in your short life already, don’t you think?’

Recalling the conversation, Giuliano swallowed wine without tasting it. Now it seemed like a mockery that God had given him the wonderful gift of Anna’s love, only to have it cause everyone such pain.

He sat for hours, watching the darkness of night deepen, then slowly fade to grey with the coming of dawn and the day he was to leave for Rome. He sat until the arrival of his insistent visitors, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. He could not imagine why the visiting Cardinal should care so passionately about Giuliano’s presence at Mass; but if Lorenzo had asked him to come, then that was good enough reason to do so.

He hoped, with sudden optimism, that Lorenzo might have changed his mind; that his anger had faded, and left him more receptive to discussion.

Thus Giuliano rallied himself and, like a good brother, came as he was bidden.