I was shaking.
Angelo had paid no attention throughout the whole scene and could not answer.
But a friar who had overheard me, smiled and said: “you may never look on his like again, young man. That was Leonardo—the greatest artist of our time.”
Leonardo.
Yes.
You. You had seen me. Your eyes had eaten me alive.
He died, my Angelo. He died of the plague that followed last year’s flood.
And when my beloved Angelo was dead, I vowed that I would take his place in the world and become what he might have become—an artist, a great horseman, a musician—even a soldier! I didn’t care, so long as I wasn’t relegated to the role demanded of my sex. To be less—to be commanded—to be forever degraded and never heard was intolerable to me. You must understand, it was my curse to be born a woman. I always, always wanted to be a man.
In my room, I would put on my brother’s clothing. My cat, Cornelia, would lie on my bed and watch me transform myself from Betta to Angelo. I would stuff my hair down my back and put on one of Angelo’s caps. I flattened my breasts and wore red hose as a sign of rebellion and put on boots that reached my calf.
I was shameless. I secured a cod piece inside my undergarments to give the impression of total masculinity. It was glorious.
And Cornelia would purr and purr and purr until she was singing. And in the night, while the others were in their beds, I would go out into the streets and walk like a man, unencumbered by the weight of skirts and free to move my arms however I pleased.
And it was in this garb—I refuse to call it a disguise—it was in this garb that I decided to encounter you for a second time. But I needed help. And I remembered hearing that one of Angelo’s boyhood friends had become one of your…young friends. I was still naïve enough not to understand that men could love men. It was simply something I’d never been told. So I dressed in Angelo’s clothes and I sought this young man out—Alfredo Strazzi. I did not inform him of Angelo’s death and he accepted me as my brother. I think he truly believed. That was my impression. And he also accepted that I did not want to come alone to your studio. I understand now that he must have known about you and Angelo—but he said nothing. He must have assumed that there had been an estrangement of some kind—and that what I wanted from you was reconciliation—if I had been Angelo—but I am not.
I don’t really know why I felt compelled to achieve this meeting with you. All I can say is, I had never been able to completely erase the sight of your hungry eyes—and the awe in which others held you as if you were a god.
Jung stared at the page.
It was now one-thirty in the morning.
A bird sang. Once—and then again. A nightingale?
Jung stretched his arms above his head, wiped his eyes, adjusted his glasses and bent again above the book.
Leonardo had fallen into an impersonal, almost clinical mood, cold and devoid of emotion. He spoke without inflection, questioning her almost in the manner of a doctor, or perhaps a lawyer enumerating statistics. Your name? Your age? How old was your brother Angelo when he died?
Betta Gherardini.
Eighteen now, and nineteen in June.
Eighteen.
Are you betrothed?
No. But there are suitors.
Are you a virgin?
This was said meanly, with a smile, as if to be a virgin was the lowest one could sink.
Of course.
Of course? What a curious thing to say at your age—given the times we live in.
I’m not a slut.
Did I imply you were a slut?
To my ears, yes.
More and more curious. You not only throw out words as a weapon, you hear them as an assault.
Your description of Angelo—and some of your drawings of him—portray him as a slut. But he was not.
He was, with me, thank God.
I don’t believe you. I can’t.
He was a liar through and through. It’s time you knew.
He never lied to me.
He may not have lied to you, Signorina, but clearly, he withheld a lot of truths.
Did you love him?
Leonardo did not answer this. Instead, he turned his back on her, stood in the windows and pursued another line of questioning.
You call yourself Betta?
Yes.
Another curiosity. Perhaps you have eccentric parents.
It was Angelo’s name for me.
I see. Betta…
It’s short for Elisabetta, my given name. Caterina Elisabetta Francesca Gherardini. He called me Betta, I called him ’Gelo.
’Gelo. Charming.
It became him.
’Gelo, yes. Angelo, no. Though I dressed him once in wings…
Leonardo’s voice trailed off.
Watching him, Betta was struck by how young he looked—broad-backed and shouldered, with well-shaped horseman’s legs and the torso of someone half his age. His hair, completely loosened now, appeared to be on fire. His shirt was damp with perspiration. It clung to him like a butterfly wing—finely veined and translucent, revealing the pallor of his skin and the sinews in his neck. His hands hung helpless at his sides, the fingers curled to the shape of something absent—another hand, a lock of hair—a word. They closed upon the air, opened and closed again—on nothing.
Some dim part of her—barely accountable—wanted to forgive him. Somewhere inside, a part of her stood up in his defence—as if a vote were in progress and an overwhelming majority had cried out: shame, but one lone dissenter begged to differ. His heart is broken, she thought. Mine was—though not for any reason like his. Perhaps in his own way, he did love my brother. Clearly, in his drawings of him, he had worshipped Angelo in the way that only lovers do—without respect to fear. Every line and every nuance portrays him as he was. Or must have been in Leonardo’s presence—a slut, perhaps—though I would never say so. And if it was true, then at least Angelo was a glorious slut who revelled in his powers.
This way, she was reconciled to the brother she had never known, the Angelo who, between the time when Leonardo had spied her wearing his clothes and the time of his death, had become Leonardo’s favourite. Pace. Pace. At least there had been a life. In those lazy, heat-ridden hours when he lay, being evoked on the page, and the wine-besotted hours when he was tumbled, Angelo’s smile in the drawings had said it all. I am here for you alone—whoever you may be. Not Leonardo only, but anyone who stumbled on his image. This way, the making of the drawings was an act of bravery on Leonardo’s part. With every application of pen and crayon, he had given his beloved away to be shared by anyone who cared to look.
She poured herself a glass of wine, wondering if the sound of it would make Leonardo turn.
At last, he spoke.
Angelo also loved his wine. Trebbiano. Malvasia. Coli Florentini. I took him once to see the vineyards.
We have our own.
He never said so. I think he did not want me to know precisely who he was. He never said he had a twin—only brothers and sisters. He claimed his father was a tyrant…
He is.
…and said that his mother was dead.
She is not.
Leonardo laughed.
Truth and lies! How wonderful he was. Do you have a pet cheetah?
No. I have an alley cat. Cornelia.
He said that one of his sisters had a cheetah called Poppaea, after Nero’s wife. This is not true?
Not true at all. Cornelia is two years old and very plain.
No spots?
No spots.
Leonardo laughed again and shook his head.
What a glorious liar he was. The only truth I had from him, apparently, was that his father was a tyrant.
All fathers are tyrants.
Leonardo turned his head and raised an eyebrow.
More than likely that is true.
He turned away again.
Every child must pay for his freedom
, he said.
If every child were a boy, I could agree with you. For girls and women, there is no freedom—merely an exchange of tyrants.
Do you hate men?
Yes.
As I hate women. My mother was a barmaid. She deserted me. When I was ten my father took me to meet her. She asked my father for money. She paid no attention to me.
Leaning forward, he began to open the windows one by one. Three of them. Four of them. Five.
Betta sat in a chair that had a cool leather seat. The undersides of her breasts were itchy. Her nipples, angered by the ripple of the stars that rode them side to side with every move, seemed to have caught some disease called heat. She wanted to dip her fingers into something icy cold and touch herself there—or apply a kerchief soaked in mountain water.
The fire gave up and died. Betta closed her eyes. The faintest scent of incense drifted through the windows. In spite of the fact that all His acolytes had departed, God was still out there, somewhere in the Piazza—still with His begging bowl, still with His censer swinging in the sleepers’ faces: wake up! Wake up! Pay attention! Though His church was dark, He was everywhere, the remnants of His Mass still humming in the air. For I so loved the world that I gave my only begotten Son to nurture you. Eat of his flesh and drink of his blood…
Some of the old and some of the children in the Piazza would be dead by morning. Starved, in spite of Carnival. It was a daily occurrence. Betta had seen it so often in the past year she was numb with impotence. She opened her eyes again, for fear of seeing the dead in her mind.
A thousand crusts of bread, a thousand litres of milk or wine, a thousand vats of cheese were insults to the need. Nothing could be done. In December’s riots, when the granaries at last stood open to be emptied, mothers and children had died beneath each other’s feet. And still, until now, it had rained—and after the rains, the chilling winds; the mud; the scavenging, terrified dogs; the terrified, scavenging humans—and the only thing unafraid was the Plague. Tomorrow, at Carnival’s end, another Bonfire of Vanities, followed by another Lent, another Easter. Christ would die again and nothing would change—except, perhaps, for the worse. All of this, Leonardo had carefully avoided during his sojourn in Milan, where he spent his hours designing masks and costumes for a ball. Here, in Florence, his focus had closed at once on a human hand and a dying dog.
Well, Betta decided, he’s an artist. What else is he supposed to do? Life is what his life is about, in all its disguises, with all its surprises.
So, you hate women. Is your mother the only reason?
Reason enough for me.
But you must have known dozens—hundreds of other women. How old are you now?
Forty-five. For what it’s worth.
It must be worth something. Forty-five years old and already thought to be the greatest artist of your time.
Pah!
Pah?
Why not? Of course, pah! Think how many others there are—Filippino Lippi—Botticelli—Perugino—Michelangelo—every one of us different from the others. How can you measure greatness in the face of so much genius? It’s ridiculous. I renounce it. For myself, I am a failure.
Who would believe that? The Prince of Milan has spent a fortune on your work. The Medicis…
That is not greatness, Signorina. That is fame—and fame is another story altogether.
And—you will never take a wife?
Take a wife? I think not! Consider what you’re saying. Please at least be sensible.
Elisabetta smiled at this, knowing that Leonardo, whose back was still to the room, could not see her. Please, at least be sensible! It was wonderful. The outrage. The flaunting of it. Whether he acknowledged it or not, the Master had, at least, something of a sense of humour about himself.
Has any woman ever fallen in love with you?
I do not permit myself to be loved.
I see. It is forbidden.
I should be careful, if I were you, Signorina. You are attempting a dangerous conversation.
And yet, you have been loved.
Being loved by boys and men is different than being loved by women.
So I am told.
Men and boys are fearless lovers. Women are cowards—connivers who go wild in the pursuit of riches. Anything for adornment—anything for rings and chains and pins and shoes—for silver, gold and silk—for servants—palaces, horses and power. Women use their bodies as the Medicis used their banks—as vaults in which to accumulate wealth. Women are usurers dispensing loans for which a man can die of paying interest! No—do not speak! I forbid it! You are one of them—using your feminine wiles to gain ascendancy! You came here disguised as a boy! You even used his name—a dead boy’s name—to fulfil your ambition, whatever your ambition is—and now you show yourself to be a woman. What do you want of me? What do you want?
Nothing. Only to know you. Only to understand.
Understand? Understand what? How I seduced your brother?
Perhaps.
He loved being loved! He loved being loved! It was his whole life with me. But I got only his body—not his heart. He loved no one.
Leonardo began to pace the room, picking up books and setting them down—pouring out wine and kicking at tables—moving the chairs from here to there and back again. Beyond the windows, the dogs began to bark. On the upper floor, a group of young men began to sing bawdy songs and threw their boots at the walls. There was the sound three times in a row of breaking glass and raucous laughter.
You hear that?
Leonardo pointed at the ceiling.
They’re inviting me to come and join them. And in half an hour, if I don’t go up to them, they will come down here to me. They will tumble through that door in their shirts and beg me to take them. Bare-assed and bending! The day a woman does that, without asking to be paid—before ordering up a dozen gowns made of silk, the world will end! Thieving, conniving—never, never to be trusted! And you dare to come here wearing his clothes! You are vile! It is vile! You are vile!
Having stopped her ears and closed her eyes in her attempt to shut out his rage, Elisabetta was unaware of how close Leonardo had come to her. She did not see the colour rising in his face, nor the way in which his hands reached out towards her. She knew only that a storm had blown in through the windows and had flung her back along the table, banging her head against its planks until all the lamps were extinguished and she was barely conscious.
Time passed in and out of her awareness, until she found herself lying on the table, dimly aware of her bloodied thighs—staring at her parted knees and afraid to think what might have become of the rest of her.
Her innards hurt. They had been bruised, it seemed, and were aching, though she could not locate precisely where—only that it was somewhere inside, beyond the known parts of her. She was wet and certain the wet was blood, though she dared not look.
Leonardo was just a shadow now, somewhere on the ceiling. Lamplight must have thrown him there—pitched for some reason from below him. Where?
She rolled as best she could towards one side of the table so that her legs—if only she could manage them—could hang down over the edge. It seemed imperative to gain the floor—stand upright—recover her balance. But this was impossible. She had to use her hands to pull her knees together and then to push her calves until her ankles fell like dead weights away from the rest of her, giving her the impression they had been severed.
Sitting up, she felt the ruckled dress cascade like something liquid over her breasts and belly, until the hem of it made a pool in her lap.
Blue. With silver stars—though bloodied now, like every part of her.
Descending, she turned at once to support herself by clutching the side of the table. Beneath where she had lain, the open notebook still displayed her naked brother, now smeared with blood. The pool of cloth spilled down over her thighs—her knees—her shins—and struck the floor. The sound of it was the very sound Cornelia made descending from a window
sill. If only she could wake and find Cornelia nestled against her back—this then would just have been a dream—a nightmare.
Whatever it had been, it was clearly over.
Leonardo, naked but for his shirt, was crouching by the fire. He must have put more wood in place since there were flames again and it was their light that threw his shadow upward. He did not speak—and did not turn.
I have no shoes, Betta wanted to tell him. I have no shoes.
She looked at him the way a beaten dog will look at the next human being who appears. Then she turned and crossed the room to the armoire from which Leonardo had brought the dress she wore. Inside, there were shoes and boots and hats, cloaks, hoods and other costumes. Garb for the victims of his pen, she thought.
She pulled on a pair of boots that must have been some boy’s. They reached her calves and felt like gloves. She then pulled down a heavy cloak with a hood—a monk’s hood, perhaps—and drew it around her shoulders.
I’m going to leave you now, she said in her mind. I’m going to leave you now, and trust I will never see you again.
She moved all the way to the door, turned there and took one final look at where she had been and the man with whom she had been so violently coupled. The Master and all his chairs and tables were on the ceiling now—wavering there like seaweed in a tidal pool.
The door was open. Somehow, she had opened it herself. Then it closed and he was gone from her. As she was gone from him.
In the Piazza, Betta paused beside the dead dog, fearful of looking too closely, afraid the woman’s hand might still be visible—the sleeve of dark blue cotton—one button, made of wood. But it was not, though it would remain forever in her mind.
Crossing herself, she stood and turned eastward, walking beyond the huddled backs and all the fires until there was no more sight of her—and not a sound.
With some dismay, Jung saw that he had come to the last page but one of Pilgrim’s journal.
Why not look?