Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa

For the moment, love of my mother took precedence over my father’s anger. He ran to us and took Zalumma’s place, catching hold of my mother tenderly. Together, he and the driver carried her into the house; as they did, he glanced over his shoulder at Zalumma and me. He kept his tone low so it would not distress my semi-conscious mother, but I could hear the anger coiled in it, waiting to lash out.

‘You women will see her to bed, then I will have words with you.’

This was the worst possible outcome. Had my mother not succumbed to a fit, we could have argued that she had been too long housebound, and deserved the outing. But I was overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility for all that had happened, and was ready to submit to a well-deserved tirade. My mother had taken me into the city because she delighted in me, and wished to please me by showing me the city’s treasures. My father could never be bothered; he scorned the Duomo, calling it ‘ill-conceived’, and said that our church at Santo Spirito was good enough for us.

So my father carried Mother up to her bed. I closed the shutters to block out the sun, then helped Zalumma undress her down to her camicia, made of embroidered white silk, so fine and thin it could scarce be called cloth. Once that was done, and Zalumma was certain my mother was sleeping comfortably, we stepped quietly out into her antechamber and closed the door behind us.

My father was waiting for us. His arms were again folded against his chest, his lightly freckled cheeks flushed; his gaze could have withered the freshest rose.

Zalumma did not cower. She faced him directly, her manner courteous but not servile, and waited for him to speak first.

His tone was low but faintly atremble. ‘You knew of the danger to her. You knew, and yet you let her leave the house. What kind of loyalty is this? What shall we do if she dies?’

Zalumma’s tone was perfectly calm, her manner respectful. ‘She will not die, Ser Antonio; the fit has passed and she is sleeping. But you are right; I am at fault. Without my help, she could not have gone.’

‘I shall sell you!’ My father’s tone slowly rose. ‘Sell you, and buy a more responsible slave!’

Zalumma lowered her eyelids; I saw the muscles in her jaw clench with the effort of holding words back. I could imagine what they were. I am the lady’s slave, from her father’s household; I was hers before we ever set eyes on you, and hers alone to sell. But she said nothing. We all knew that my father loved my mother, and my mother loved Zalumma. He would never sell her.

‘Go,’ my father said. ‘Get downstairs.’

Zalumma hesitated an instant; she did not want to leave my mother alone, but the master had spoken. She passed by us, her skirts sweeping against the stone floor. My father and I were alone.

I lifted my chin, instinctively defiant. I had been born so; my father and I were evenly matched in terms of temper.

‘You were behind this,’ he said; his cheeks grew even more crimson. ‘You, with your notions. Your mother did this to please you.’

‘Yes, I was behind it.’ My own voice trembled, which annoyed me; I fought to steady it. ‘Mother did this just to please me. Do you think I am happy that she had a spell? She has gone out before without incident. Do you think I meant for this to happen?’

He shook his head. ‘A girl so young, so full of such brazen disrespect. Listen to me: You will stay at home, by your mother’s side, all week. You are not to go to Mass or market. Do you not know how serious this offence is? Do you not know how terrified I was, to come home and find her gone? Do you not feel at all ashamed that your selfishness has hurt your mother so? Or do you care nothing for her life?’

His tone steadily rose throughout his discourse, so that by its end, he was shouting at me.

‘Of course —’ I began, but broke off as my mother’s door opened, and she appeared in the doorway.

Both my father and I were startled and turned to look at her. She looked like a wraith, clutching the doorjamb to keep her balance, her eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. Zalumma had taken down her hair, and it spilled darkly over her shoulders, her bosom and down to her waist; she wore nothing but the billowing camicia, with its long, puffed sleeves.

She spoke in nothing more than a whisper, but the emotion in it could be clearly heard. ‘Leave her be. This was my idea, all of it. If you must shout, shout at me.’

‘You mustn’t be up,’ I said, but my words were drowned out by my father’s angry voice.

‘How could you do such a thing when you know it is dangerous? Why must you frighten me so, Lucrezia? You might have died!’

My mother gazed on him with haggard eyes. ‘I am tired. Tired of this house, of this life. I don’t care if I die. I want to go out, as normal folk do. I want to live as any normal woman does.’

She would have said more, but my father interrupted. ‘God forgive you for speaking so lightly of death. It is His will that you live so, His judgment. You should accept it meekly.’

I had never heard venom in my gentle mother’s tone, had never seen her sneer. But that day, I heard and saw both.

Her lip tugged at one corner. ‘Do not mock God, Antonio, when we both know the truth of it.’

He moved swiftly, blindingly, to strike her; she shrank backwards.

I moved just as quickly to intervene. I pummelled my father’s shoulders, forcing him away from her. ‘How dare you!’ I cried. ‘How dare you! She is kind and good – everything you are not!’

His pale golden eyes were wide, bright with rage. He struck out with the back of his hand; I fell back, startled to find myself sitting on the floor.

He swept from the room. As he did, I looked frantically about for something to hurl after him; but all I had was the cape still about my shoulders, a gift from him of heavy alessandrino blue wool.

I bunched it in my hands and threw it, but it went scarcely farther than an arm’s length before dropping silently to the floor – a vain gesture.

And then I came to myself and ran into my mother’s room to find her on her knees beside the bed. I helped her up into it, covered her with a blanket, and held her hand while she – once again half asleep – wept softly.

‘Hush,’ I told her. ‘We didn’t mean it. And we will make amends.’

She reached up blindly, looking for my hand; I clasped hers. ‘It all repeats,’ she moaned, and her eyes at last closed. ‘It all repeats …’

‘Hush now,’ I said, ‘and sleep.’

I sat at my mother’s bedside the rest of the day. When the sun began to set, I lit a taper and remained. A servant came bearing my father’s request that I come down and sup with him; I refused. I did not want to be reconciled yet.

But as I sat in the darkness watching my mother’s profile in the candleglow, I felt a stirring of regret. I was no better than my father; out of love and a desire to protect her, I had permitted my rage to overtake me. When my father had lifted his hand, threatening her – though I did not believe he would actually strike her – I had struck him, and not once, but several times. This, even though I knew our fighting broke my mother’s heart. I was a bad daughter. One of the worst, for I was vengeful and plotted against those who harmed the people I loved. When I was ten, we had a new servant, Evangelia, a stocky woman with black hairs on her chin and a broad red face. When she first witnessed one of my mother’s fits, she proclaimed – like the priest in the Duomo – that my mother was possessed of the Devil and needed prayer.