Читать книгу Painting Mona Lisa - Jeanne Kalogridis - Страница 6

My name is Lisa di Antonio Gherardini Giocondo, though to acquaintances I am known simply as Madonna Lisa, and to those of the common class, Monna Lisa.

My likeness has been recorded on wood, with boiled linseed oil and pigments dug from the earth or crushed from semi-precious stones, and applied with brushes made from the feathers of birds and the silken fur of animals.

I have seen the painting. It does not look like me. I stare at it and see instead the faces of my mother and father. I listen and hear their voices. I feel their love and their sorrow, and I witness again and again, the crime that bound them together; the crime that bound them to me.

For my story began not with my birth but a murder, committed the year before I was born.

It was first revealed to me during an encounter with the astrologer, two weeks before my eleventh birthday, which was celebrated on the fifteenth of June. My mother announced that I would have my choice of a present. She assumed that I would request a new gown, for nowhere has sartorial ostentation been practised more avidly than my native Florence. My father was one of the city’s wealthiest wool merchants, and his business connections afforded me my pick of sumptuous silks, brocades, velvets and furs. I spent those days studying the dress of each noblewoman I passed, and at night, I lay awake contemplating the design.

All this changed the day of Uncle Lauro’s wedding.

I stood on the balcony of our house on the Via Maggiore between my mother and grandmother, staring in the direction of the Ponte Santa Trinita, the bridge which the young bride would cross on her ride to her groom.

My grandmother had come to live with us several months earlier. She was still a handsome woman, but the loss of her second husband had soured her and she was faded and frail; her hair had grown white at the temples, and her body bony. She would not live out the year. My mother was dark-haired, dark-eyed, with skin so flawless it provoked my jealousy; she, however, seemed unaware of her amazing appearance. She complained of the adamant straightness of her locks, and of the olive cast to her complexion. Never mind that she was fine-boned, with lovely hands, feet and teeth. I was mature for my years, already larger and taller than she, with coarse dull brown waves and troubled skin.

Downstairs, my father and Uncle Lauro, attended by his two sons, waited in the loggia that opened onto the street.

My mother suddenly pointed. ‘There she is!’

From our vantage, we could see down the length of the busy street to the point that it ended and the Ponte Santa Trinita began. A small figure on horseback headed towards us, followed by several people on foot. When they neared I could make out the woman riding the white horse.

Her name was Giovanna Maria; I had met her often during her six-month courtship with my mother’s brother. She was a friendly, plump fifteen-year-old with golden hair. Never again would she look as lovely as she did that day, in a pink overgown covered with seed pearls, her curls tamed into ringlets beneath a tiara of braided silver. When she arrived, my uncle helped her dismount. He was twice Giovanna’s age, a widower whose eldest son was two years her junior; she seemed painfully young standing next to him.

Before we joined them downstairs, my grandmother eyed the pair sceptically. ‘It cannot last happily. She is Sagittarius, with Taurus ascendant, and Lauro is Aries; everyone knows the Archer and the Ram despise one another. And with Taurus … the two of them will constantly butt heads.’

‘Mother,’ my own reproached gently.

‘If you and Antonio had paid attention to such matters—’ She broke off at my mother’s sharp glance and urged us downstairs to greet the bride.

I was intrigued. My grandmother was right; my parents loved each other, but had never been truly happy. For the first time, I realized that we had never discussed my natal chart.

I decided to bring up the matter with my mother as soon as possible. Well-to-do families often consulted astrologers on important matters. Charts were routinely cast for newborns. In fact, an astrologer had chosen that very day in June as the most fortuitous for Lauro and Giovanna Maria to wed.

After the feast as the dancing commenced, I sat beside my grandmother and questioned her further about the futures of the bride and groom. I discovered that Lauro had been born with his moon residing in Scorpio. ‘As a result, he has never been able to resist a Scorpio woman. It caused much heartache in his first marriage. Giovanna Maria’s moon is in Sagittarius, so she would be happiest with a man of her own sign.’ Grandmother sighed. ‘I married twice. Once for love – and we were miserable. The second time, I made no such mistake. I went to the astrologer. And though I had to turn down some well-born candidates, when I met your grandfather—’ her expression and tone softened ‘—I knew the stars smiled on us. Our charts were perfectly matched. A gentler, finer man was never born.’

‘My sign … and my moon … What are they?’ I asked. ‘Who would be a good match for me?’

She gave me an odd look. ‘Born in June … You would be Gemini, then. As for the others, I cannot say.’

‘But you were at my birth,’ I persisted. ‘Wasn’t an astrologer hired?’

‘I was too busy helping your mother – and you – to worry about such a trivial thing,’ she said. Politely, I did not point out that she had only just finished lecturing me on its importance.

That night, I lay awake puzzling over why I did not know such important information. Certainly my parents had consulted an astrologer at my birth. I was, after all, a rare creature: an only child, the bearer of my family’s hopes.

The next morning I went to my mother’s room. She was abed, though it was late; her health was poor and the wedding festivities had exhausted her. Even so, she welcomed me warmly. I clasped her hand and settled on the edge of her bed.

‘I have been thinking,’ I began solemnly. ‘I know I am Gemini, born mid-June. But I am now old enough to know the full details of my horoscope. What is my moon, and what sign is ascendant for me?’

My mother hesitated. Clearly, she had expected a discussion of fabrics and fashion, not this. ‘I am not sure.’

‘But you must have kept a copy of my birth chart?’

Her face, which rarely met the sun, flushed. ‘You did not come easily into the world, Lisa. You were small and I was ill afterwards, your father was so concerned … We did not think to have it done.’

I was aghast. ‘But I must know these things, to make a proper match. Grandmother has said so.’

My mother sighed and leaned back against her pillows, her long dark braid falling over one shoulder and into her lap. ‘Lisa … people marry every day without worrying about their stars. Your father and I are such an example.’

I dared not respond to this. Instead I countered, ‘Have you had your chart cast since your birth?’

In reply, she glanced guiltily downwards. ‘It is no small expense.’

But I heard her resolve weakening, and pressed. ‘It is less costly and involved than a gown. And it is what I want as my birthday gift.’

She sat forwards and reached out; cupping my chin in her hand, she studied me fondly. ‘You should reconsider. You will soon be a woman. A gown is far more practical.’

‘I will only outgrow it; but I will never outgrow the use of such important information.’ As an only child, I was often indulged and well aware of the power I wielded. Deliberately pitiful, I said, ‘Please.’

Because it was not safe for my mother to venture out, we did not go to the astrologer’s residence, but instead summoned him to our palazzo.

If the astrologer was not a wealthy man, he certainly behaved as one. From a window in the corridor near my bedroom, I watched secretly as his gilded carriage arrived in the courtyard behind our house. Two elegantly-appointed servants attended him as he stepped down, clad in a farsetto, the close-fitting garment which some men wore in place of a tunic. The fabric was a violet velvet quilt, covered by a sleeveless brocade cloak in a darker shade of the same hue. I could not see his face well from that distance, but his body was thin and sunken-chested, his posture and movements imperious.

Zalumma, my mother’s slave, moved forwards to meet him. Zalumma was a well-dressed lady-in-waiting that day. She was devoted to my mother, whose gentleness inspired loyalty, and who treated her slave like a beloved companion. Zalumma was a Circassian, from the high mountains in the mysterious East; her people were highly prized for their physical beauty and Zalumma – tall as a man, with hair and eyebrows black as jet and a face whiter than marble – was no exception. Her tight ringlets were formed not by a hot poker but by God, and were the envy of every Florentine woman. She generally kept them hidden beneath a cap – perfectly round on the sides, and perfectly flat on top, which she said reminded her of her native dress – with a long scarf that ballooned from her hair’s volume. At times, she muttered to herself in her native tongue, which sounded like no language that I had ever heard; she called it Adyghabza.

Zalumma curtsied, then led the man into the house to meet my mother. She had been nervous that morning, no doubt because this astrologer was the most prestigious in town and had, when the Pope’s forecaster had taken ill, even been consulted by His Holiness. I was to remain out of view, for this first encounter was solely a business matter, and I would only be a distraction.

I left my room and stepped lightly to the top of the stairs to see if I could make out what was going on two floors below me. Though my hearing was keen, the stone walls were thick, and my mother had shut the door to the reception chamber. I could not even make out muffled voices.

The initial meeting did not last long. My mother opened the door and called for Zalumma; I heard her quick steps on the marble, then a man’s voice.

I retreated from the stairs and hurried back to window, with its view of the astrologer’s carriage.

Zalumma escorted him from the house – then, after glancing about, handed him a small object, perhaps a purse. He refused it at first, but Zalumma drew close and addressed him earnestly, urgently. After a moment of indecision, he pocketed the object, then climbed into his carriage and was driven away.

I assumed that she had paid him for a reading, though I was surprised that a man of such stature, whose demeanour reflected prideful arrogance, would read for a slave. Or perhaps it was as simple a thing as my mother forgetting to pay him.

As she walked back towards the house, Zalumma happened to glance up and meet my gaze. Flustered at being caught spying, I withdrew.

I expected Zalumma, who enjoyed teasing me about my misdeeds, to mention it later; but she remained altogether silent on the matter.