“Is there an Edith Becker here?”
“I am Edith Becker,” she said.
“Telegram for you, fräulein,” the boy bent forward to hand the envelope to Edith, then turned on his heel.
She stared down at the envelope.
EDITH BECKER, KONSERVATOR
ALTE PINAKOTHEK
MÜNCHEN
It was marked from Berlin. Edith pressed her lips together, her heart jumping in her chest. Was this a message about Heinrich? With shaking fingers, Edith tore the thin paper enclosing the message. She read it, then blinked hard and read it again.
OFFICES OF KAJETAN MÜHLMANN DESTROYED BY FIRE AFTER AIR RAID. YOU ARE HEREBY INSTRUCTED TO MEET DR. MÜHLMANN IN THE DIRECTOR’S OFFICE AT THE ALTE NATIONALGALERIE IN BERLIN ON DECEMBER 1 TO PREPARE FOR PAINTINGS TRANSPORT FOR KRAKÓW. OFFICIAL ORDERS.
34
Cecilia
Milan, Italy
December 1490
“LET US REPEAT IT ONCE MORE.”
Bernardo paced the library, a sheaf of vellum in his hand. Cecilia cleared her throat, and began again:
Perchè le rose stanno infra le spine:
Alle grida non lassa al Moro e cani . . .
While Bernardo paced and Cecilia recited the lines of the newly composed sonnet, Cecilia felt Master da Vinci’s eyes on her. His preliminary drawings complete, the master had set up his easel and a small, foldable table that held pots of pigment as well as a collection of long-handled brushes tipped with the hair of horses, weasel, and fox. Still, Cecilia was puzzled to see that more often than not, the painter used the brush to apply pigment to his own thumb or fingertip, then he carefully applied the thinly diluted color with his finger to the panel. He never went over the same part of the panel twice in one day, letting each soft layer of paint dry before applying the next. So far, only her face had begun to emerge in any detail.
This work was exceedingly slow. They had long abandoned the idea of Cecilia sitting before the window. Sitting still seemed impossible, she thought, especially now. She was filled with nervous energy about the new life growing inside her body. And today, more than any day since she had arrived in the Castello Sforzesco, she was filled with elation, for Ludovico knew she carried his child, and he was happy.
To Cecilia’s great surprise, Ludovico had already guessed that Cecilia was pregnant. And an even greater shock: he had delighted in the news. As her midsection expanded, he told her, so did his admiration for her. When she lay naked and exposed with him, he put his hands on the small swell of her middle, his child inside of her, and he told her she was as beautiful as a flower. Cecilia looked into his face and saw that his joy was as intimate as it seemed pure.
As relief and hope began to overpower the weeks of dread, Cecilia worked to bolster her place in Ludovico’s court with renewed energy. Ludovico had asked Cecilia to perform a suite of rhymes, sonnets, and songs for a group of dignitaries who would visit the castle in two days’ time. Bernardo had paced the room with her until late into the night, correcting her pronunciation, adjusting the nuances of her diction, softening her Tuscan accent, and making small changes to the verses of poetry on his page as they practiced aloud.
Cecilia had the impression that Leonardo da Vinci preferred his subjects to sit still, but he had adapted his practice to follow her as she moved in step with Bernardo across the polished tiles. Perhaps, she thought, the painter still felt guilty about breaking the news of the duke’s marriage before she discovered it in a more decent fashion. He did not complain about her movements. And working on the performance was a welcome distraction for Cecilia, who was becoming more uncomfortable. She wondered if anyone else had suspected the blooming life inside her.
As she came to the end of the poem this time, Leonardo smiled widely. “Brava! The best version yet. They will be captivated.”
Cecilia made a small curtsy. This was the best part of her day, in the happy companionship of these two creative men.
“The old French ambassador is difficult to impress,” Bernardo said. “I have seen it myself. And he has been known to fall asleep as soon as he is seated for a performance. But I feel that this one will at least keep him awake, if not entertain him.”
“The French ambassador?” Cecilia asked. “Why is he coming?”
Bernardo said, “His Lordship is attempting to align himself with King Charles of France.”
“To what end?” Cecilia asked. “Why would anyone want to become entangled with the French?”
“You may be an educated young lady,” Bernardo said, “but you have much to learn about politics. Aligning with King Charles will earn him greater authority, and the duchy greater security.”
“Yes,” Leonardo mused. “And the French have an impressive—and well-organized—army. I might endeavor to offer my services as a military engineer.”
Everyone, Cecilia thought, was elbowing for their own position at court. If she was honest with herself, Cecilia was doing the same. She worked hard to earn the applause and compliments of visitors to the Sforza court. Nothing filled her with light and joy as when a room full of guests exploded in applause after one of her performances. Was she vain for craving the attention, the approval of these strangers? Was it the same for Leonardo, when he earned compliments for completing a painting or one of those strange contraptions of his?
Whatever the case, Cecilia had worked hard to charm every visitor to the ducal court. And her lilting voice, not to mention her careful accompaniment on the lute and her uncanny ability to recite verse, had seemed to impress. It made her proud to know that others found her work so satisfying, and when she saw the look in Ludovico’s eyes each time she charmed someone new, she knew it was working. As much as Cecilia felt the uncertainty of her status in the core of her gut, she had to admit that Ludovico held a certain passionate pull on her. She craved his approval, his assent.
“Your hands, I don’t know . . .” Leonardo gestured for Cecilia to take her seat, resuming the position she took in the portrait. “The dog, perhaps. Can you put her in your arms?”
Cecilia lifted Violina from the floor and settled the dog’s warm, plump mass into her lap as she sat in the chair. Violina looked expectantly at Cecilia with beadlike eyes, then flattened her ears as Cecilia ran her palm over the dog’s small, round skull.
“A traditional symbol of fealty,” said Bernardo.
“No!” Cecilia said. “Not a dog.”
“No dog?” said Leonardo, suspending his brush in midair. “What then?” Cecilia tapped her finger on her chin. It seemed silly but it was an important question, she knew that. Cecilia only knew that the idea of the dog in her lap didn’t sit well with her. Somehow, the word fealty grated at her.
“No, I don’t think a dog will do.”
Leonardo stared at her from behind his easel. “Well, something then. Did you have another idea?”
“How about . . . another animal?”
She saw Master da Vinci’s eyebrows raise.
“Another animal? But the dog seems to be the better symbol for this picture. Loyalty is traditionally expected for such a portrait.”
Cecilia nodded. “But there are other animals people keep as pets. Cats. Birds. Mice. Ferrets.”
“Or an ermine,” said Bernardo, raising a finger like an ancient orator. “In Greek, gale. Gale. Gallerani . . .”