A Bolt From the Blue (5 page)

Frowning, he took an equally close look at me. “I was hard-pressed to recognize you, as well. Your clothes and your hair . . . they are—”

“Pray, Father, do not tell me I have changed so much since you last saw me,” I interrupted him, fearful lest he make a misstep and reveal my disguise. “Despite my apprentice’s tunic, I am still your well-loved son Dino.”

“Ah, yes, that you are, my well-loved son,” he agreed with great vigor. “So tell me . . . er, Dino . . . are you well?”

“Quite well now,” I responded, certain that my wide grin should have been proof enough for him.

And I realized that, at least for the moment, my melancholy had indeed slipped from my shoulders like a discarded cloak. Perhaps the excuse I had given to Vittorio earlier had been the truth, after all. Until that momentous night when I had made my decision to leave home in male guise, I had never in my brief life been away from my family even for a day. Looking back over the recent months, I could see how I had instinctively made Leonardo and my fellow apprentices stand in for the father and brothers I had left behind.

But, here in the presence of my true parent, I realized with a pang that even the most beloved friends could never take their place.

Blinking rapidly so that no tears might mar my carefully boyish facade, I instead asked, “But how can this be, that you are here in Milan? Surely you are not the craftsman that the Master has said is to join him?”

“He is, indeed,” Leonardo spoke up, satisfaction evident in his tone. Then his smile took on a mischievous quirk.

“You do not know how pleased I was to discover that the man whose genius in wood I admired was also the sire of a favored young apprentice,” he told me. “I noted right away that our Signor Angelo had the same family name as you. That was when I recalled you had once told me that your father was an accomplished cabinetmaker from that same part of the province. And as there was some familial resemblance, it was easy to deduce that the two of you were related by blood.”

His grin broadened.

“When I first put the question to Signor Angelo, however, he was reluctant to admit any such connection. Perhaps he feared that your work might reflect poorly upon his name. But once I explained that young Dino was one of my more promising students, he was more than willing to claim you. And he agreed to allow me to make his arrival a fine surprise for you.”

“Please, Signor Leonardo,” my father mildly protested, “my reluctance came from a fear lest some favoritism be shown. I have never doubted young Del—that is, Dino’s—talent with a brush.”

I held my breath, praying the Master had not taken heed of my father’s momentary slip in calling my name. To my relief, he appeared not to have noticed, for he merely nodded. “A talented family, indeed. But let us be off to my workshop. You shall share my quarters for the duration of your stay, Signor Angelo, if that is acceptable to you.”

“I am honored, Signor Leonardo.”

With that, we started back across the quadrangle. Although I had many questions for my father, most could not be asked in the Master’s presence . . . most specifically, those concerning my mother. Instead, I contented myself with eager inquiries after my brothers’ welfare.

“Both are well,” my father replied with a proud smile. “Georgio has taken on most of the daily tasks for our workshop, and he is bringing in work of his own.”

I listened, well impressed, as he named some of our town’s more prominent gentlemen who had commissioned Georgio’s services. Then his smile broadened. “As for Carlo, he has found himself a young woman and will be married this summer.”

“Carlo is taking a wife?”

I stared at my father in amazement and burst out laughing. “I must admit I am surprised, for he was always one to duck his head and mumble whenever a likely young woman looked his way. You must tell him how happy I am for him.”

“Ah, but you will be able to do that yourself,” Leonardo interjected, “for I am certain we can spare you from the workshop for a few days to attend that happy occasion.”

“That’s very good of you, Master,” I managed, though I wondered what excuse I could give him for rejecting his kindness when that time came. I met my father’s gaze and saw the same doubt in his eyes. Later, when we had the chance for private conversation, I would hear from his lips whether or not my mother would allow me to return home again.

We reached Leonardo’s private quarters a few moments later. I gazed about with familiar pleasure for, unlike most of the apprentices, I had been privileged to set foot there numerous times in the past. The single main room served as his bedchamber, as well as the place where he took his meals and entertained his guests. The furnishings were modest if practical: a narrow cot and wardrobe, a larger rectangular table flanked by two benches, and a smaller table and two chairs.

Setting this room apart from most, however, were the wooden shelves lining the far wall . . . or, rather, the objects displayed upon those rows of rough boards. Mixed among the expected crockery were animal bones and clay models of human feet, along with baskets of fur and feathers, and several rock specimens chosen for their intriguing shapes. On the topmost shelf lay what appeared to be the hand of a gigantic frog but was actually a webbed swimming glove that was one of the Master’s newer inventions. His substantial personal library—perhaps two dozen different books—filled any remaining gaps and overflowed onto a stack on the floor beneath.

Gesturing toward the bed, he grandly pronounced it as Signor Angelo’s for as long as he stayed there. “Do not worry,” he added as my father attempted to protest this hospitality. “I have a pallet made up in my private workshop, where I can sleep in equal comfort.”

The workshop in question lay directly off his quarters, with entrance gained by the single narrow door set into the far wall. Perhaps twice as large as his personal chamber, it was the place where Leonardo conducted many of his experiments and built most of his scale models. His larger projects, I knew, were to be found in one of the locked sheds at the far side of the quadrangle.

Unlike the main workshop where we apprentices toiled, the Master’s private workshop normally was kept locked whenever the Master was not within. Once and almost by accident, however, I’d managed a glance inside that secret chamber.

With most of its space taken up with an immense wooden table, which would take four or five men to move, the place had been an exercise in ordered chaos. Sketches and notes covered fully half of that tabletop, with the remaining space taken up by pens and knives and brushes and paints. From the walls and ceiling hung both wood and paper models of various inventions, some appearing to be weapons, and others far more fanciful devices that I could not identify. I’d spent but a few moments there, but I knew that—had I been given leave—I could have spent hours studying what was in a sense the outer expression of the workings of Leonardo’s brilliant mind.

My father made short work of settling in . . . fortunately for him, as the Master’s eagerness to begin their collaboration was obvious. Still, with a gracious nod, he restrained himself and instead played the thoughtful host for a while longer.

“Since you had a bit of a journey this morning, Signor Angelo, perhaps you and Dino would care to stop by the kitchen. I am certain they will accommodate you even this late. I know you two will have much to discuss, and there may be little time for private conversation with him once you and I are well into our project.”

“An excellent plan, signore,” my father agreed with a small smile. “As you say, we have much news to share.”

Turning to me, the Master went on. “Afterward, bring your father back to the main workshop. We will let him make his acquaintance with our other apprentices, and then I shall show him what has brought him here to Milan.”

Bowls and spoons in hand, my father and I took our leave of Leonardo and began the short walk across the quadrangle.

“An impressive fortress,” he declared as he looked about the series of interconnected buildings that made up the main castle. Glancing up at the battlemented walks of the immense outer walls, he added, “It appears secure against any intruders, and yet the design is pleasing to the eye. The red stone and the white symbolize both strength and vision. And the towers rise with grace, despite their great size.”

“I think it the finest palace in all the world,” I replied with no little pride, as if I were Il Moro himself hearing his compliments.

My father smiled. “Ah, and how many palaces have you seen in your time, my child? Now, let us hope that the quality of the duke’s kitchen reflects the same majesty.”

Though the kitchen boy grumbled a bit at serving us this late, we still enjoyed a fine stew and dark bread that appeared to satisfy my father’s appetite. And as we ate, I broached the subject that had niggled at the back of my mind ever since I arrived in Milan.

“And how does Mother fare?”

“Quite well. Her health is good, her beauty is undiminished, and her tongue is as tart as ever.”

“And does she ever speak of me?” I asked, though without much hope.

My father hesitated before shaking his head.

“I fear she has not forgiven you for leaving as you did, in the dark of night and with no word but a terse note. And, of course, she suspects that I have some idea of your whereabouts. Though she is angered at the notion that I know something that she does not, I think it also brings her some comfort to know that you are alive and presumably well.”

I sighed, a painful knot that had nothing to do with the stew forming in my stomach. From my girlhood, my mother and I had managed but an uneasy truce at the best of times. As I grew older, her exasperation with me had grown in equal measure. What decent man, Carmela della Fazia had argued more than once, wanted a wife more interested in drawing pictures than in having babies? If I did not give up my painting, then I surely would never be married.

She had felt herself vindicated when, by sheer dint of effort, she finally had arranged a marriage for me with a well-to-do merchant willing to overlook my reputation as an eccentric young woman. For myself, I’d been horrified at the prospect of wedding a man more than twice my age who was known for his tight purse strings and his fondness for pretty young servants. And so, with my father’s help, I had conceived the plan that brought me here to Milan.

“What was said to Signor Niccolo, when he came to make his offer of marriage?” I asked with another sigh, referring to the man who would have been my husband.

My father’s lips twitched just a little as he replied, “Your mother told him that you suffered a conversion in the middle of the night and decided to take yourself off to a nunnery where you might devote the remainder of your life to good works.”

“Well, at least that would explain my shorn hair,” I replied with a flicker of a rueful smile. “I wonder if she will ever forgive me for disappointing her so.”

“It is hard to say, my child. Your mother is a woman of stern mind, and she is not prone to changing it. You will need to give her more time, I fear.”

I refrained from pointing out that she’d had more than a year to resolve her harsh feelings. Instead, I deliberately turned the conversation to cheerier topics.

“I am so happy that you are here in Milan with me,” I said in a warm rush. “I always envied Georgio and Carlo for being able to spend their days with you. If you can but convince the Master that I would make you a fine assistant, perhaps we can work together just as you and my brothers do.”

“Do not worry, my child,” he replied with a fond smile. “I have already informed your master that a condition of my employment is having you at my side.”

We went on to speak of other things. The subjects mattered little to me, for I was happy simply to bask in my father’s attention again. But finally, he said, “I know that Signor Leonardo must be growing impatient with us. We must return to the workshop and continue our conversations later. Besides, I am anxious to see where you live and work. Your master has, what, two or three other apprentices besides yourself?”

“There are almost twenty of us, Father,” I proudly told him. “I have made many fine friends. There is Constantin, our senior apprentice, and Paolo and Davide and Tommaso and—”

“You share quarters with that many young men?” he choked out, looking aghast. “I had no idea! Surely, that is highly improper, no matter that they think you a boy. I cannot allow that. I shall speak to your master, and—”

“Father, please!”

I glanced about, hoping his cries had not attracted any attention. Fortunately, the only one about was the kitchen boy, who seemed more concerned with stealing a few choice morsels from the plates he was scraping into the garbage pile than listening to our conversation.

“I swear to you, Father, there is nothing unseemly in this arrangement. We each have our own cot, tucked away into an alcove, so it is like being in our own chamber. And I have always been careful to preserve my modesty . . . and theirs, as well. No one has ever questioned whether or not I am a boy. But if you say anything to the Master, suggest any changes to him, he may have cause to suspect the truth about me.”

I finished my plea and watched in dismay the struggle that played across my father’s pleasant, open features. The artist in him understood my dream of one day becoming a master like Leonardo. The parent, however, was aghast at the thought of his daughter living among so many males with no other female around to safeguard her virtue. And while my father always claimed my mother to be the more stubborn of the two, I knew that he could be equally firm in holding to a notion, should he believe it was the right thing to do.

Finally, and to my great relief, he gave a small nod. “Very well, Delfina . . . or, I suppose I must get used to calling you Dino. No matter, I shall reserve my judgment for a time. If I can assure myself that your fellows do indeed treat you as a boy, I will rest easier allowing your masquerade to continue a bit longer.”