I, Mona Lisa by Jeanne Kalogridis

Baptist, covered the walls. But what truly tantalized me was the Door of Paradise on the northern side. There, in fine gilded bronze, the Old Testament came to life in vivid detail. I stood on tiptoe to finger the sweeping curve of an angel’s wing as he announced to Abraham that God desired Isaac as a sacrifice; I bent down to marvel at Moses receiving the tablets from the divine hand. What I most yearned to touch were the delicately rendered heads and muscular shoulders of oxen, emerging from the metal of the uppermost plaque to plow a field. I knew the tips of the horns would be sharp and cold against my fingertip, but they lay too high for my reach. Instead, I contented myself with rubbing the numerous tiny heads of prophets and sibyls that lined the doors like garlands; the bronze burned like ice.
    The interior of the Baptistery was for me less remarkable. Only one item caught my attention: Donatello’s dark wooden carving of Mary Magdalen, larger than life. She was a ghastly, spectral version of the seductress: aged now, her hair so wild and long that she clothed herself in the tangles, just as Saint John clothed himself in the skins of animals. Her cheeks were gaunt, her features worn down by decades of guilt and regret. Something about the resignation in her aspect reminded me of my mother.
    We three made our way into the Duomo proper then, and once we arrived in front of the altar, my mother immediately began speaking of the murder that had taken place there almost fourteen years earlier. I had only moments to draw in the astonishing vastness of the cupola before Zalumma grew worried and told my mother it was time to leave.
    “I suppose so.” My mother reluctantly agreed with Zalumma’s urgings. “But first I must speak to my daughter alone.”
    This frustrated the slave. She scowled until her brows merged into one great black line, but her social status compelled her to say calmly, “Of course, Madonna.” So she retreated, but only a short distance away.
    Once my mother satisfied herself that Zalumma was not watching, she retrieved from her bosom a small, shining object. A coin, I thought, but after she had pressed it into my palm, I saw it was a gold medallion, stamped with the words PUBLIC MOURNING . Beneath the letters, two men with knives readied themselves to attack a startled victim. Despite its small size, the image was detailed and lifelike, rendered with a delicacy worthy of Ghiberti.
    “Keep it,” my mother said. “But let it be our secret.”
    I eyed her gift greedily, curiously. “Was he really so handsome?”
    “He was. It is quite accurate. And quite rare. It was created by the same artist who painted Baroncelli.”
    I tucked it at once into my belt. My mother and I both shared a love of such trinkets, and of art, though my father disapproved of my having anything so impractical. As a merchant, he had worked hard for his wealth, and hated to see it squandered on anything useless. But I was thrilled; I hungered for such things.
    “Zalumma,” my mother called. “I am ready to leave.”
    Zalumma came to fetch us at once and took hold of my mother’s arm again. But when my mother began to turn away from the altar, she paused and wrinkled her nose. “The candles . . .” she murmured. “Have the altar vestments caught fire? Something is burning. . . .”
    Zalumma’s expression went slack with panic, but she recovered herself immediately and said calmly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world: “Lie down, Madonna. Here, on the floor. All will be well.”
    “It all repeats,” my mother said, with the odd catch in her voice I had come to dread.
    “Lie down!” Zalumma ordered, as sternly as she would a child. My mother seemed not to hear her, and when Zalumma pressed on her limbs, trying to force her to the ground, she resisted.
    “It all repeats,” my mother said swiftly, frantically. “Don’t you see it happening again? Here, in this sacred place.”
    I lent my