myself.”
Words spoken between them months ago surfaced now and swam circles in his mind like the fish in the pools at Santa Croce. This had been more than a street fight, he knew without doubt. It was more than something minor to be passed off.
When the golden-haired boy returned to model once again for Giulio, Raphael left them, but he did so with a heart that was suddenly heavy, because of the things Giulio would not say. And as much a friend as Giulio Romano had in Raphael Sanzio, there was a door between them. One that remained, at least for now, unopened.
5
“M ARGHERITA!” LETITIA WAILED FROM INSIDE THE BAKERY , her high, grating voice rolling out into the small back garden. “Something has arrived for you!”
In the late afternoon, Margherita stood outside drawing in dried clothing from a rope. The pieces gently fluttered, like colored waves in the breeze, rippling against a stone wall that was draped in vines heavy with fat purple grapes. The sky was bright and cloudless, and on the wall dividing their garden from the next, a ring of doves perched, fat and white, cooing as Margherita pulled the last bit of clothing from the line. She wiped her hands on the apron at her waist and came inside.
“What is it?”
Letitia and Francesco Luti sat together at the kitchen table, just beyond the weathered green garden door. Each of them had a full cup of dark wine before them, and the baby once again lay at Letitia’s uncovered breast. On the table they used for mixing the bread dough, covered still with a thin layer of flour, was a sheaf of paper, wound and then tied with a thick scarlet ribbon. Margherita studied it warily as it lay beside the rust-red clay jug of wine.
“It came from
Mastro
Raphael’s studio. His young apprentice, the one from the other day, just delivered it himself,” Francesco explained. He sat slumped in the scarred wood chair, legs spread, a large hand surrounding the old wooden wine cup. His voice was rasping and heavy.
“Well? Are you not going to open it?”
She backed away from it. “You do it,
Padre mio.
”
“
A Dio,
Margherita! I doubt it is anything dangerous! He is, after all, trying to win you over.” Letitia took a long swallow of the wine as a cool evening breeze blew in through the door and surrounded them.
“That is just what I am afraid of.”
“Not win you
that
way, heaven portend!” Their father scoffed. “He wishes to win your cooperation as a model! A girl like you would not likely interest so grand a man in a personal sense!”
“Well, if you do not open it, I shall have to!” Letitia demanded, reaching across and slipping the ribbon off the end of the parchment.
The paper unfolded before the three of them, revealing a sketch of a Madonna and child, done in black chalk with silverpoint and traces of white heightening in the eyes. The Madonna’s gaze was cast away from the viewer contemplatively as the Christ child played with a small ball she held for him, and her other hand rested gently upon a small open book. Letitia’s small gasp was the only sound as they looked at the crosshatch lines of her gown, the gently tapered fingers, and the expression on her slim, lovely face, whoever she was.
“It is breathtaking,” Letitia finally murmured, fingers splayed across her lips.
“If he is trying to impress you, it should have worked,” Francesco declared.
“I think it is more that he is trying to show me I need not fear him.”
“I suspect there is little to fear in being represented as the greatest of all virgins,” Letitia quipped, running her fingertips gently over the image of the baby as she held her own in her arms. “Especially since she always has her clothes on!”
“Perhaps I have misjudged Signor Sanzio,” Margherita admitted.
“Perhaps?” her father rasped with incredulity. “He is
declaring
to you in this that you need not fear him!”
“His work
is
startling,” Letitia murmured. “It looks as if
Words spoken between them months ago surfaced now and swam circles in his mind like the fish in the pools at Santa Croce. This had been more than a street fight, he knew without doubt. It was more than something minor to be passed off.
When the golden-haired boy returned to model once again for Giulio, Raphael left them, but he did so with a heart that was suddenly heavy, because of the things Giulio would not say. And as much a friend as Giulio Romano had in Raphael Sanzio, there was a door between them. One that remained, at least for now, unopened.
5
“M ARGHERITA!” LETITIA WAILED FROM INSIDE THE BAKERY , her high, grating voice rolling out into the small back garden. “Something has arrived for you!”
In the late afternoon, Margherita stood outside drawing in dried clothing from a rope. The pieces gently fluttered, like colored waves in the breeze, rippling against a stone wall that was draped in vines heavy with fat purple grapes. The sky was bright and cloudless, and on the wall dividing their garden from the next, a ring of doves perched, fat and white, cooing as Margherita pulled the last bit of clothing from the line. She wiped her hands on the apron at her waist and came inside.
“What is it?”
Letitia and Francesco Luti sat together at the kitchen table, just beyond the weathered green garden door. Each of them had a full cup of dark wine before them, and the baby once again lay at Letitia’s uncovered breast. On the table they used for mixing the bread dough, covered still with a thin layer of flour, was a sheaf of paper, wound and then tied with a thick scarlet ribbon. Margherita studied it warily as it lay beside the rust-red clay jug of wine.
“It came from
Mastro
Raphael’s studio. His young apprentice, the one from the other day, just delivered it himself,” Francesco explained. He sat slumped in the scarred wood chair, legs spread, a large hand surrounding the old wooden wine cup. His voice was rasping and heavy.
“Well? Are you not going to open it?”
She backed away from it. “You do it,
Padre mio.
”
“
A Dio,
Margherita! I doubt it is anything dangerous! He is, after all, trying to win you over.” Letitia took a long swallow of the wine as a cool evening breeze blew in through the door and surrounded them.
“That is just what I am afraid of.”
“Not win you
that
way, heaven portend!” Their father scoffed. “He wishes to win your cooperation as a model! A girl like you would not likely interest so grand a man in a personal sense!”
“Well, if you do not open it, I shall have to!” Letitia demanded, reaching across and slipping the ribbon off the end of the parchment.
The paper unfolded before the three of them, revealing a sketch of a Madonna and child, done in black chalk with silverpoint and traces of white heightening in the eyes. The Madonna’s gaze was cast away from the viewer contemplatively as the Christ child played with a small ball she held for him, and her other hand rested gently upon a small open book. Letitia’s small gasp was the only sound as they looked at the crosshatch lines of her gown, the gently tapered fingers, and the expression on her slim, lovely face, whoever she was.
“It is breathtaking,” Letitia finally murmured, fingers splayed across her lips.
“If he is trying to impress you, it should have worked,” Francesco declared.
“I think it is more that he is trying to show me I need not fear him.”
“I suspect there is little to fear in being represented as the greatest of all virgins,” Letitia quipped, running her fingertips gently over the image of the baby as she held her own in her arms. “Especially since she always has her clothes on!”
“Perhaps I have misjudged Signor Sanzio,” Margherita admitted.
“Perhaps?” her father rasped with incredulity. “He is
declaring
to you in this that you need not fear him!”
“His work
is
startling,” Letitia murmured. “It looks as if
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