The Night Portrait, page 30
But it was the portrait at the center of the room that immediately commanded his attention. The soft eyes of the girl so skillfully portrayed by Leonardo da Vinci stared past him, the placement of the painting on an easel in the middle of the floor making her even more striking. Among the other works by grand masters, somehow this girl still stood out, her beauty ringing down through the centuries to seize Dominic’s heart.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “It’s her.”
The officer laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it. Duty starts tomorrow morning. Until then, enjoy yourself.” Before Dominic could thank him, the officer was gone and Dominic was left once again to gaze into the eyes of Cecilia Gallerani.
79
Edith
Munich, Germany
June 1945
THAT FAMILIAR FACE—THE SOFT BROWN EYES, THE LIVELY expression. The white ermine.
Edith couldn’t believe her good fortune to stand in front of da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine again. But this time, she was not in a basement of the war-torn countryside; nor was she on a rumbling train or in a salt mine, or the home office of a man bent on destroying all that was good in the world.
Instead, she was in Munich, in her own hometown. This time, she was safe from harm. And the picture was safe, too. She could hardly imagine it.
“It’s not bad news, Edith,” Buchner had told her, and he was right. “It’s an offer from the Allied forces. They want you to come join them as a civilian employee at an Allied checkpoint here in Munich. Works of art from all over Europe—including those pulled from Poland—will go through the checkpoint. The art will be collected, cataloged, and repatriated to its rightful owners, wherever they may be.”
Edith had blinked at him in disbelief. Manfred. The inventories had made it into the right hands after all. Manfred had marveled at the inventories Edith compiled. He told her that he would need some time to talk with his associates and figure out the best way to utilize the important information that Edith had assembled. At last, Edith thought, her labors might bear some fruit.
“The checkpoint is here in Munich?”
Buchner had only nodded. “I hate to lose you again right as you have returned to us, but they are requesting you by name. I have no idea how they know of you, but they insisted on having Edith Becker work with them. You must have done something . . . remarkable.”
The Allies wanted her services, as a civilian. She was not being ordered anywhere. She would not have to leave her father behind and she would still be able to handle and safeguard—really safeguard this time—the priceless treasures she so dearly loved. And at last, her carefully transcribed secret inventories might be put to some use after all.
But shortly after Edith had departed for her new job, news of Generaldirektor Buchner’s arrest spread in hurried whispers and gasps that reverberated through the hallways. He had been accused of collaborating to steal the Ghent Altarpiece from a museum in France, and the Allies wanted to question him on the whereabouts of other works of art. Edith could hardly believe her own good fortune in being invited to help return the works to their owners rather than being arrested for their confiscation.
Had she been responsible for confiscating Leonardo da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine? Edith stared into Cecilia Gallerani’s eyes, so full of life even after five hundred years and countless trips across the war-torn countryside. I did my best to protect you, Edith pled silently with the girl in the picture, as if Cecilia herself could have vouched for Edith’s good intentions. So much of it was out of my control. But in her heart, Edith knew that wasn’t true.
For the first time since she had laid eyes on the picture five years before, Edith felt that she could look at the picture in a new light, in the light of a conservator’s eye. After all the movement through different countries and climates, she feared that the picture might need to be stabilized. She leaned forward and ran her eyes over the surface, looking for cracks, scratches in the raking light.
Carefully, she turned it over. The picture had been painted on a walnut board. There were cracks on the vertical axis, some hairline, others wider.
“It’s you.” Edith heard a strange accent at her ear. “The lady from the lake.”
Edith turned to see a familiar-looking man before her. A slight man, handsome, with chocolate-colored eyes and an American accent.
“Am I right?” he asked, his face earnest and serious. “You led me to this picture.”
Edith studied the name on his uniform, and her eyes lit up with recognition.
“Bonelli! Mister B-Bonelli!” she stammered. She laughed then, throwing her head back so that a wing of chestnut hair traced along her cheek. All her hard work. It hadn’t been wasted after all. She stepped forward and threw her arms around Bonelli’s neck. He staggered back a couple of steps until she finally released him.
Bonelli ran his palm over his hair, recovering from the surprise.
“And you are a hero!” Edith exclaimed, and she watched the corner of his mouth turn up in a sideways grin.
“Call me Dominic.” He extended his hand.
“I’m Edith.”
Dominic gripped her hand. His was calloused but steady. “How strange—and wonderful—to see you again, miss.”
“Indeed,” Edith said, not wanting to let go of the hand of this stranger who had done more to save the portrait in one day than Edith had done in five years. “I should introduce my companion,” she said, gesturing toward the painting. “This is Cecilia. But I think you have already made her acquaintance?”
“I have had the honor.”
Edith smiled again. “She tells me that a brave soldier rescued her from the castle of an evil tyrant.”
“Yep,” said Dominic. “Swept her right off her feet.”
“Her prince in an armored car.” She grinned at him. “But now it is my turn. It will be my job to bring Cecilia back to the way that Leonardo da Vinci must have seen her when she was sitting before him.” She touched the frame of the painting with gentle fingers.
“Why do you call her Cecilia?” asked Dominic.
“People call her Lady with an Ermine,” said Edith. “But we believe that it is a portrait of a young woman named Cecilia Gallerani who lived in Milan about five hundred years ago.”
“Cecilia is my daughter’s name!” said Dominic, his eyes wide. He gestured to the picture. “She was beautiful.”
“Yes.” Edith’s eyes were dark and wide now as they searched the portrait. “And she will be again when I am done with her.”
80
Cecilia
Verme Palace, outside Milan, Italy
August 1491
CECILIA LOOKED UP FROM HER READING TO SEE A FAMILIAR silhouette framed in the doorway. She would recognize him anywhere, his elegant form with light flowing around him. In his hands, he held a large rectangular-shaped package wrapped in blue paper.
Cecilia let out a screech and jumped up and down on the octagonal tiles.
“Cavolo. That all my pictures might enjoy such a reception,” Leonardo said, stepping across the threshold into the shadows.
Cecilia laughed. “Master Leo. I must admit that I am happy to see the painting, especially since I thought I might never lay eyes on it again. But mostly I am thrilled to see you.” Cecilia pressed the painter’s face between her palms and kissed both cheeks. Following her mistress’s example, Violina weaved her way back and forth against Leonardo’s emerald-colored hose excitedly, her tail a frantic mass of white fur.
“I am satisfied to see that you are still surrounded by the beauty that befits you,” he said, taking in the great stairway and the darkened frescoes in the vaulted ceilings of the Verme Palace.
Cecilia shrugged. “It’s not the Castello Sforzesco, but that is only a good thing. Come. You must see how Cesare has grown. And you must tell me everything of Bernardo, and of you and your own pursuits. I have missed you both so much.”
They took their seats in the sala grande, a bright room that overlooked an inner courtyard where Cecilia was trying in vain to grow an olive tree like the ones in Siena. So far, she had only managed to grow it up to a spindly, weak-looking branch. While the artist began to unwrap the blue paper that protected her portrait, Cecilia studied his face. He seemed to have aged years since the last time she saw him. Fine lines stretched across his pale forehead and alongside his eyes. Wiry, gray hairs had sprouted around his once-youthful face. And the color seemed drained from him.
“Are you well, my friend?” she asked, her demeanor turning concerned.
“Yes. Just . . . occupied, more than usual,” he said with a thin smile. “If I am honest, signorina, since your departure from the house, His Excellency has turned . . . restless. Irritable. He loses his temper. He changes his mind. I have begun and scrapped at least a dozen different projects.” He shrugged. “Mostly drawing canals, fortifications, bridges, even new looms for his many silk factories.” He swiped his hand as if swatting a fly.
“You are also painting for him?”
“Yes. Another portrait.” He hesitated, studying her gaze. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them
“Lucrezia Crivelli.” Cecilia whispered her name.
But Leonardo did not answer. He didn’t have to. “I see,” Cecilia said, despairing for a moment that Ludovico had taken another mistress so quickly. Her own dressmaid and would-be companion.
What a naïve girl I have been, Cecilia reproved herself.
The artist sighed, then quickly changed the subject. “Ludovico first enlarged the gardens around the palace. Then he changed course again, back to fortifications along the eastern edge of the city. We have revisited the idea of a bronze equestrian statue to immortalize his father; I had as much as proposed the idea to him years ago and even made a life-sized clay model. You know yourself that there are many white walls in the palace that might be painted. And the duke himself has promised me work at Santa Maria della Grazie. I suppose that I should be gratified. I did work my way into His Lordship’s graces with my offer to support his military efforts. But it has become an unwieldy burden, in the end. I would only admit that to you, since you would understand what I mean about His Lordship’s changes of heart.”
“And Bernardo?”
Leonardo’s brows arched. “If you want to know the truth, he is not himself. Spends his days in the library, reading and writing poetry. He has attempted to make friends with Beatrice. She is learned and lively, I’ll admit, but it is not the same. Bernardo misses you. We both do. And His Lordship has mostly left him to his own projects in the library, which I suspect suits him fine,” Leonardo said with a half smile. “Ludovico has turned his focus away from supporting the artistic life of his palace. Instead, he is obsessed with making alliances with the French throne and the Holy Roman Emperor. He is imagining threats from every corner. He has had me drawing and redrawing military plans until late in the night. I fear that he might be sharing my work with them, and I do not know how they will be used. And Beatrice, well, she seems unable to distract him.”
“Please,” Cecilia said, raising her hand. “I can no longer afford to fill my mind with such concerns. It is enough for me to evaluate my own circumstances.”
“I have burdened you,” Leonardo said. “That was not my intention. Tell me about you, my beauty.”
At that moment, the nursemaid brought Cesare into the room, his black hair damp and his fat cheeks red from his afternoon slumber.
“Amore!” Cecilia jumped up from her chair and took the boy in her arms, covering his face with kisses.
“Young man!” Leonardo exclaimed, tugging gently on the baby’s dressing gown. “I see that they have been feeding you well here.” Cecilia was certain that Leonardo saw the spitting image of Duke Ludovico il Moro in her baby, but he had the diplomacy not to say so. “And I have brought you a gift,” he said to the baby, smiling. “A likeness of your mother. Perhaps years from now, when I am gone, you will look upon it with a fondness for the man who painted it.”
“I wish I could say that I could not accept it,” Cecilia said, hardly able to contain her excitement. “But yes! Of course we will take it. We will find the perfect place to hang it. Thank you,” she said, kissing the painter on the cheek. “Now come. Some air will do us all good.”
Leonardo followed Cecilia, baby in her arms, into the shade of the courtyard. They walked past crumbling stone and roses tangled on the gray arches, and Cecilia’s sad olive tree.
“You are settled here?” he asked, looking up at the coffered ceilings in the archways above their heads. They glimpsed one of the young kitchen maids, who quickly disappeared into the maze of corridors that fed from the courtyard.
The Verme Palace was smaller and not filled with the things that her castle had been, but it would be suitable for Cecilia and Cesare to live well. She had brought with her fine clothes, jewelry, and a few decorative boxes and vases that she was used to seeing in her chambers. To her astonishment, she had even found a trunk for Cesare waiting for them, full of everything a baby could need. As she unpacked her life and Cesare’s, Cecilia wasn’t sure what was worse—to be loved and unable to be kept, or to never have been loved at all.
Ludovico had also sent a nursemaid, a widow who had brought up five boys, to help her raise Cesare. Everything he had promised her she had been given. A fine place to live, lands held in her own name, horses, and a maid to help her raise their son, who would have his father’s protection as he grew into a man. Ludovico il Moro had never promised his own heart to her; she had to admit it. Perhaps, deep inside, she had known from the beginning that she would never have him himself; her own mother and brother had told her so.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s not the ducal palace, but in many ways, it is better.” She gestured for Master da Vinci to sit on a bench alongside an old herb garden now choked by weeds. “I have everything I need. A chambermaid. A wet nurse. A cook. And books! More than I could read in a lifetime.”
“And there is no dogaressa under the same roof.”
“Yes! That is what I like best of all,” she said, laughing. “I do not know how long this will last, but I shall enjoy it as long as it does.” She did not like to admit that the days were long and lonely, that she did not know where she would go when Ludovico decided that her time here was up.
The artist seemed to read her mind. “You know where you will go next, Signorina Cecilia?”
Posed with the question of whether to go to the convent or stay in the castle, she had easily chosen a tenuous life with Ludovico il Moro. But this time, things weren’t so simple. Cecilia was no longer a naïve girl. She knew more now, she had become a woman, and she understood that her decisions had long-reaching consequences. Her decision to stay in the castle against her mother’s will had been the decision of the girl who thought she was a woman, but she now had a child to think of, not just herself.
“My brother has encouraged me to take my vows at the Monastero Maggiore. That is what brought me to Milan originally.”
Leonardo nodded. “A logical solution. The Monastero Maggiore is full of highborn, educated women. You would find others there who share the same interests and talents.”
“So I have been told,” she said. “But I cannot imagine leaving my child behind.” She looked upon her baby with such love and adoration that it would be clear to anyone who saw her how deeply she cared for her son. As if he understood his mother’s words, the boy patted her cheeks with his chubby palms. “I do love him, more than I ever thought I possibly could. He is so beautiful and brings me such joy. And so, it seems that the only other option for a respectable woman like myself,” she said, half smiling, “is to marry.”
Leonardo’s eyebrows rose. “And is that what you want, Signorina Cecilia?”
“I . . . I can’t go to a convent. It isn’t the right place for me. I want to learn and write poetry and spend days in the library. Maybe before I lived in the castle, but I can’t anymore. I’m a woman now and . . . most importantly . . . I can’t possibly think of leaving Cesare.”
“So then, your decision has been made,” he stated. “You’re going to marry.”
“It is the only way for a respectable woman, no? But there is only one problem. Who will take a marked woman with a bastard child? Even a high-ranking one?” They stood quietly for a few minutes, listening to the birds flitting in the arbors of the crumbling courtyard. Cesare contentedly rested his head on his mother’s shoulder and looked at Leonardo with a curious expression.
Leonardo stopped walking and reached his hand to the boy’s fist. “I came here partly to extend an invitation,” he said to Cecilia. “On the feast of Saint James, I am going to meet a new, potential patron who has invited me to San Giovanni in Croce, near Cremona. He is a count. A widower.”
Cecilia stopped walking, too, and eyed Leonardo suspiciously, but he went on.
“Count Brambilla is an active patron of painting, sculpture. Music. Poetry. He has requested that I bring a sample of my work to show him. Word of my work for Ludovico il Moro has spread, and I now regularly receive such promising invitations around Lombardy. This time, I thought that I might take your portrait, seeing that it is one of the best examples of my abilities. And perhaps he would also like to see the sitter, just to ensure that it is a true likeness. Would you consider coming with me?”
81
Edith
Munich, Germany
January 1946
EDITH SAT ALONE, CROSS-LEGGED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE cold floor, staring at a great canvas depicting a sea battle, when she realized there was someone standing at the door. Private Bonelli. Dominic.
She saw him hesitate, then begin to turn around to leave, but she scrambled up to standing and straightened out her skirt. The winter light from the tall window poured icy and silver onto her, reflecting in the tears that ran down her reddened cheeks.
