The Marriage Portrait(92)
What Alfonso does not know is that Il Bastianino gives her hand or her chin, or whatever part of her he is touching, a secret, surreptitious squeeze—just a minimal hidden pressure. The first time this happened, Lucrezia raised her eyes to the artist, startled, only to find him looking back at her, his face mischievous, provoking. He has a drooping moustache, longish hair that is starting to grey at the sides, pink jowls and animated green eyes. Lucrezia knows exactly his type, a man who cannot resist flirting with a woman, even if she is the duchess consort of his patron, even if she is thirty years younger than him, even if it means risking his life. Eleonora would stare him down—Lucrezia has seen her do this many times, to similar men—with a chill gaze, then tell Cosimo that he was “a man not to be trusted.”
Lucrezia does not look at him again, will not meet his eye. She sits within her pose, as the artist and her husband and the apprentices and various courtiers look at her and discuss her and contemplate what would be desirous in this portrait—more gold, more jewels, a globe, a locket, an animal, a table, a book? What would give the correct impression? How to show the House of Ferrara to its best advantage? The artist sketches, Maurizio advises, Alfonso paces one way, then the other. Nunciata, her dog under her arm and accompanied by the poet Tasso, comes to stand next to Alfonso, peering over Il Bastianino’s shoulder. She gives a small shrug of disdain, as if she doesn’t like what she sees, and whispers something to Tasso, who smiles and shakes his head indulgently. Towards the end of the day, Leonello steps in through one of the doors, positioning himself next to Alfonso, glancing from the sketches to Lucrezia and back again, saying nothing.
She keeps still as best she can, unhitching herself from what is happening in the room, allowing her mind to roam. She becomes other and elsewhere, as she does at night, with Alfonso, leaving just her skin and bone behind, in her stead; only her outer layers remain. The rest of her withdraws, escapes, slips away. She thinks of her white mule, the jangle of its bridle as she rides through the forest; she thinks of Sofia and how she must be setting the nursery table with plates and spoons, perhaps asking one of the other nurses to rub her feet; she thinks of her mother’s beloved insectarium, the oozing digestion of the worms, their adhesive strands of silk; she observes the way the mobile surface of the moat casts a silvery simulacrum of itself on to the walls and ceilings of this room. Then something out of the window catches her eye, pulling her back into the present, into the room.
There, on the narrow battlement of the opposite tower, she sees two figures, walking towards each other: black cut-out puppets against a blue sky. The woman moves towards the man, who is moving towards her; halfway along, they meet. Their bodies merge, the light between them is eclipsed.
It is, of course, Elisabetta and Contrari. Lucrezia recognises the quick step, the profile of the former; the latter has the guardsman’s broad frame and plumed hat. For a moment, she is there with them, feeling the sensation of wind up on the tower, the urgency of their stolen embrace; she is Elisabetta, she is Contrari; the intensity of their love courses through her.
She regards them for a fleeting moment only, before bringing her gaze back into the room.
Alfonso is staring right at her, his eyes narrow.
Lucrezia attempts a smile but her heart is suddenly thudding against her dress. Is it possible that Alfonso could divine something? From her face or the way she was looking out of the window? How could he?
He has noticed something, however. Lucrezia sees that he is now looking out of the window, at the battlements, at the tower, at the sky, and Leonello, also, who has come to stand beside him.
Lucrezia risks a glance: Elisabetta appears to be alone. Contrari has gone. She lets out the breath she has been holding. Perhaps it will all be well.
Alfonso watches his sister move from one end of the tower to the other. His expression is thoughtful, his head tilted to one side, his arms crossed. When Elisabetta disappears from sight, into the doorway at the tower’s centre, he turns back to the room. Lucrezia watches as he unfolds his arms, then walks over to where Il Bastianino is standing. He takes a long, measured look at the sketch the artist is working on, before reaching out and removing the paper from the easel.
“I thought I had made myself clear,” he murmurs, barely opening his lips. “I want something that conveys her…how to put this?…her majesty, her bloodline. Do you understand? She is no ordinary mortal: treat her thus. Ensure, please, the portrait reflects that, above anything else. I want everyone who looks upon this to know instantly what she is: regal, refined, untouchable.”
Il Bastianino gapes at him, for a moment, stunned, then recovers himself.
“Of course, Your Highness,” he says, with a bow. “I shall do my very best to fulfil your wishes.”
Alfonso nods. He casts the sketch to one side, then exits the room, without looking at anyone else.
* * *
A note sent early to her door, in her husband’s handwriting: she is to be painted in an outfit designed to his specification, which was delivered late last night. Would she please put it on, along with the betrothal gift, and come down to the salon? He signs this missive your Alfonso.
In the square room, from a hook in the wall, hangs the skirt of the gown. The bodice and sleeves are separate entities, draped over the credenza and the table. To Lucrezia, as she steps over the threshold, it looks as if a woman has been cut into four pieces and calmly arranged around the furniture.