What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (20 page)

“No, not platonic.
Love
like, I wanna have his babies.”

“But, you comprehend that you cannot?”

“Yeah, I guess. Still, Sandro is expecting me to go to the Ognissanti later today, and well, I can’t.”

“Because Marco forbids it?”

“He does, of course. But really it’s because I’m afraid of the Abbess. I know her from the future, and she keeps beckoning me into the church. I think it’s a trap, to put me back into my urn where I belong.”

He abandoned his charcoal sketch, and picked up his quill and ink to write in his notebook again. “At the Palazzo Vespucci, you claimed there were none comparable to you.”

“I don’t think she’s like me. In my dreams, she says she’s always been there. In the church.”

“Perhaps, I should communicate with her myself.”

“Or distract her, so I can meet up with Sandro,” the childish part of me said, but I knew the Abbess was some sort of all-knowing being that probably wouldn’t fall for distraction.

“I would postulate she has no power over you,” Leonardo said quickly, noticing that Carlo was heading towards us.

“How could you know?”

“Because I have the greatest mind the world has ever known.” He smiled before turning back to his work.

“The
palla
must cool before the next sheets of copper are applied,” Carlo said, as he planted himself next to me. Antonella remained on the other side of the
bottega
, as far from Leonardo as possible.

All but superficial conversation with Leonardo came to an end as Carlo refused to leave my side for the rest of the afternoon. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I stood up, realizing the uselessness of sitting there being stared at non-stop by the kind-faced Carlo, while Leonardo sketched folds of cloth. I had to figure out a way to get to Sandro.

“I’m tired,” I exclaimed. “Can we resume this another day?”

“Of course,
Monna
Simonetta,” Leonardo replied with a bow, and set his chalk down. “I shall take leave of the
bottega
soon, anyway.”

“Oh?”

He looked directly at me. “Yes, I should like to see
The Last Supper
, which Ghirlandaio has just completed in the Church of Ognissanti. I have considered the subject for myself.”

“Really?” I chuckled.

“Yes. And I am also to meet the Abbess at dusk.”

Chapter 34

My wish came true
.

A locksmith had visited the
palazzo
while we were at the shop of Verrocchio. But my secret hope had backfired. The stout, pug of a man had come to install a lock on my bedchamber door, but once he exited, I made the horrifying discovery that the bolt was purposely placed on the wrong side. As soon as I entered the room, a key was turned, sealing me in.

“Hey!” I yelled and pounded. “What are you doing!?”             

“Forgive me,” I heard the voice of Carlo say quietly, as his footfalls receded down the corridor.

Antonella knew better than to try to keep me away from Sandro, but she had convinced me to return to the
palazzo
to plot our escape from Carlo’s watchful eyes before going to meet him. What a mistake that turned out to be.

Earlier, it seemed like everything would go as planned. Supper played out as usual; the static air tensed by Piero’s looming presence, Amerigo being chastised by his father, Nastagio, for his general hyper-enthusiasm
,
Marco’s overly doting charade as dutiful husband. I’d even played along with Marco’s game for Piero’s benefit. As things stood, Marco in no way led me to believe he was displeased with me or otherwise felt the need for my imprisonment.

I sank onto my bed in a heap, formulating ways to break down the door. I looked about the room for objects which could be used to ram it. Increasingly out of my mind, I could think of nothing but getting to Sandro. The morning would bring the joust and my devirginization by Giuliano, and once that happened, I knew nothing would be the same.

“We shall leave earlier than usual,” Antonella suddenly announced, startling me out of my wits as she entered my room from hers.

“We’re locked in!” I pointed to the door dramatically.

“Of course we are not. This will just make it so that none will search for you. They are still unaware Amerigo possesses the key to the back exit.”

“Oh yeah!” I thumped my hand to my forehead.

Antonella went to my wardrobe, opened it and lifted the door to the secret compartment. She pulled out my servant’s dress, and crammed it into a satchel, then removed the gray and white nun’s habit, and placed it on my bed.

“Well? Turn around.” She demanded. When I hesitantly complied, she unlaced the back of my dress, and reached for the habit.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“It is the day of the moon,” she replied.

“Which means…?”

“The tavern, of course.”

“You want me to go to the tavern dressed like a nun?”

“No!” she laughed. “You can change after.”

“You mean, after seeing Sandro?”  I hopped a little in excitement, after finally catching her drift.

“Yes, I suppose Amerigo and I could occupy ourselves for a time.” She smiled.

Antonella helped me dress in the itchy woolen habit, and tucked my hair completely under the white wimple and veil before washing off my archaic cosmetics. I opted not to even glance in the mirror, for fear I would burst into flames for sacrilege. I didn’t really understand Antonella’s reason for having me wear the costume, but I had a cause of my own. The best way to hide from someone is camouflage. Even though I knew the Abbess had a sixth sense about me, I hoped to somehow evade her by blending in with her flock while I met Sandro.

The yards of gray wool almost tripped me the entire way down the narrow stairs and out into the alley. I almost preferred the strangulating corset and petticoat to the heavy contraption.

I moved as swiftly as I could down the streets to the Ognissanti, fearing that someone might stop me to perform some Godly function. Antonella and Amerigo trailed far enough behind, so it wouldn’t appear as though a lowly nun, who had taken a vow of poverty, had servants. When I reached the tall, wooden doors of the church, I paused for a moment. I knew it was the only way to see Sandro and yet my future realm still terrified me.

“Could you go get him for me?” I asked Antonella, plaintively.

“I cannot be your servant here, remember?” she said, sarcastically. “Go on, we haven’t all night!” She gave me a shove about as gentle as her hair brushing. I tripped three steps through the threshold and by the time I regained my balance, I was well into the narthex. I closed my eyes and cringed, waiting for the Abbess to turn on her death stare and render me a pile of ash. But when I opened my eyes, I was still in one piece, with no one but the gentle Leonardo in front of me.

“Proceed swiftly,” Leonardo urged. “I will intercept her in the Great Cloister.”

I nodded in agreement, and quickly moved past him, my head lowered as if in reverence to God. I thought about how many years I’d spent in the afterlife with the silent remains of Sandro in the Ognissanti, and how magical it would be to experience the church with him now.

I walked into the nave unscathed, but marveled at how different the church looked in this time. The walls were gray and severely stark, lacking any natural light from the not-yet-added vaulted windows, and everything seemed to be coated in candle soot. In the modern day, Sandro’s
Saint Augustine
is situated on the right side of the nave while Ghirlandaio’s
Saint Jerome
faces it from the left. Neither Sandro nor any part of his fresco could be seen, but I heard his voice emanating through the church.

A large doorway to the right of the high altar exposed a room full of people and candlelight. I entered the room cautiously, mindful to keep my eyes lowered. Sandro was on the right of the doorway, facing the front of the church, balanced on some scaffolding, while Filippino mixed gesso below.

Another painter, presumably Domenico Ghirlandaio by the gaggle of apprentices that buzzed around, worked on the left side of the doorway. The frescoes were not intended to face one another at all, as they do in the future, nor be prominently displayed. They were only meant to be seen within the cloistered community in this enclosed choir.

I stood behind Sandro for a moment as if in quiet, holy contemplation. Filippino glanced my direction, but kept to his mixing, proving my disguise effective.

“Would you be the one who dares compete with Ghirlandaio?” I asked, in a low tone. Having obviously recognized my voice, Sandro spun around, then gasped when he saw my getup. “I’m
Suara
Anastasia.”

“
Si
,
Suara
,” Sandro coughed to clear his throat. “Not only do I compete, but I shall out-paint the
Garland Maker.
” He tilted his head, and cast his eyes towards the east chapels, a clear signal meant just for me.

Ghirlandaio turned his head towards Sandro for a moment and laughed. Clearly this was a friendly competition.

I sauntered slowly away from the artistic zone in the direction Sandro had indicated. Shortly thereafter, he followed after me and whispered in my ear, “Meet me in the refectory.”

The refectory was
through
the Great Cloister, but I had no choice but to chance it. I crossed quickly, taking note of Leonardo sitting next to the Abbess across the courtyard. They were past the colonnade, chatting on a bench. Leonardo was oblivious to me racing by, but the Abbess stared directly at me and smiled, while caressing the Miraculous Medal she wore around her neck. She made no motions to pursue me, but instead informed me of her omnipotent powers with her evil grin.

The refectory was empty when I entered, with nothing but tables and chairs set up to a prison-like order. I stared at the far wall where Ghirlandaio had recently completed his
Last Supper,
which curved up into the arched ceiling. I had always thought he had won that commission by beating Sandro in their contest, but clearly he simply completed it first.

I sat down in one of the chairs to admire the fresco, which featured Jesus and eleven haloed disciples on one side of the long table, while the halo-free Judas remained alone on the other. I was so fixated on the scene that I didn’t notice a monk enter the refectory until he took a seat next to me—even though there were at least fifty empty chairs to choose from. I decided to keep my eyes straight forward, in humble reverence to the religious painting.

“I am Brother Martino,” he whispered.

Brother Martino?

Most of the words from his future painting escaped me for the moment, but the realization was clear. I brazenly yanked the hood down from the monk’s gray woolen habit, revealing Sandro’s jovial face. Now I knew he used the words to refer to himself.

“I thought this might make you more at ease,
Suara.
” Sandro laughed.

“You look ridiculous,” I replied.

“Yes, but you are still beautiful. How did you get here alone?”

“Alone? I wish. Antonella and Amerigo are just outside.”

“It has been a night of strange events, I must say. I believe Leonardo is in the Great Cloister sketching the Abbess.

“Oh, really?” I asked, turning my head.

“My wish is to show you my plan for this commission, but unfortunately I cannot. Your father-in-law intended for me to compete with Ghirlandaio’s commission from the Umiliati, but we have opted instead to collaborate.”

“Collaborate? How so?”

“We have decided to paint the frescos as pendants. Domenico’s
Saint Jerome
is inspired by a small picture by a Flemish painter named Petrus Christus. Lorenzo has it in his collection. But mine shall be exclusively from my imagination. We shall set both in a cell, with Augustine and Jerome writing at their desks. Up until recently the Umiliati order of the Ognissanti vowed to earn their living solely by the work of their own hands, spinning and weaving wool, but now they have adopted the rule of Saint Benedict, which stresses study. Augustine and Jerome shall monitor the brethren from the choir in their pursuit of divine and human learning.”

I still didn’t understand what any of that had to do with Sandro writing words about Brother Martino in his fresco. “Why did you refer to him as the
Garland Maker
?”

“Because that is the meaning of his nickname.”

“Another nickname?” I laughed.

“His true name is Domenico di Tommaso di Currado di Doffo Bigordi.”

“No wonder he shortened it.”

“His father is famous for creating metallic garland-like headdresses for Florentine women. All of his children are now referred to as Ghirlandaio.”

“Of course, they are.”

I couldn’t help the sarcasm. It would be like calling me doctor, because my biological father was a Cardiologist.

“I am pleased to have seen you before the joust,” Sandro said, gazing at me. I leaned over to kiss him, but he backed away. “But I should not have asked you to come.”

I was embarrassed at first, but then wondered, “Is it because we’re dressed like this and in a church?”

“Yes, of course.” He sighed. “Honestly, no. It is because you are to be given to Giuliano and my hopes remain in vain. Any more contact only makes our inevitable separation more difficult. Perhaps this should be the last time we rendezvous.”

“Really? But—” My argument was cut off by the sensation of another presence in the refectory. I turned to see the Abbess strutting straight towards me, rolling a coin across her right knuckles, and Leonardo trailing helplessly behind. I stood up quickly, and Sandro followed my lead.

“I have something for you, Anastasia,” announced the Abbess; the sound of her voice slicing right through me, leaving my soul bare. She reached her hand out, displaying the coin in her palm.

“No! I don’t want it!” I barked, as though she were threatening to melt me with holy water. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself dashing past her, out of the refectory, winding through the Great Cloister, the nave, and the narthex to claim my freedom on the outside.