Free Signora Da Vinci by Robin Maxwell Page A

except for disdainful glances or, if I insisted on something for Leonardo’s well-being, the briefest of conversations.
    They pretended generosity by allowing me every Sunday off, but would not permit me to take Leonardo when I went to see Papa. My visits were therefore cut cruelly short, as I missed him painfully, but how could I deprive my son of his feedings?
    Thankfully my milk seemed to satisfy him, and kept him healthy. He fell victim to none of the illnesses of childhood, and developed the sweetest and happiest temperament. Truly, we needed this rude family not at all. My son and I were inseparable and full of joy in each other’s company.
    He never failed to delight and surprise me with his cleverness. He took his first steps—though no one ever believed me—at six months. It took longer than usual for him to speak, but when he did—he was almost two—there was no silencing him. He learned how to question first. And question he did
    “What is this?” “What is that?” “Why?” Endlessly. He needed only to be answered once. Then the name of the flower or bird or insect or object was permanently sealed in his head.
    I would see him sitting in the yard staring for the longest time at a grasshopper climbing a stalk of grass. I could swear he was studying it, as my father would study the sediment left in the bottom of one of his beakers. Then would come the two-year-old’s questions and observations. A barrage of them. “Why he green?” “He eats leaf.” Then a squeal of delight. “He cleans leg!” “Why so long leg?”
    It surprised me at first that although he loved living creatures, Leonardo was not unduly disturbed if they died. He was simply fascinated with them in their dead state and took great pleasure in touching and examining them, in endless sessions in his tiny dexterous fingers, simply happy they were not squirming away or biting him.
    It seemed that this time was more difficult for Piero than it was for me, as I had Leonardo. For Leonardo’s part, he hardly realized that the man was his father, or that he needed anything more than an adoring mother.
    The only light in the family was Francesco. He was the kindest young man I had ever known. I sometimes thought he could not possibly share the same blood with the others, so different was he. Francesco would visit with us in the barn, sneaking us treats from the kitchen, or fashioning small toys for Leonardo out of wood, some of them that moved. These, in particular, were engrossing for Leonardo, who fixed on them as if they were one of his insects, lacking the living spark but nevertheless something to observe and manipulate.
    Francesco would, on a pleasant morning on his way to the fields and herds he oversaw, come and ask me if he might bring my boy with him for the day, promising to take good care of all his needs. I’d watch them as they disappeared out the back gate into the olive orchard, Leonardo riding on “Unca Cecco’s” shoulders or slung like a small sack of grain under one arm, Leonardo always giggling or squealing with delight in his uncle’s company. It was clear as a winter night that Piero’s brother wished Leonardo had been his son, and was repenting of his horrid family’s sins by his loving ways.
    To me, Francesco was a sweet brother, a blessing I had never known growing up. It rarely occurred to me that, close as we had become, the handsome young man never made a romantic advance on a pretty young woman. Occasionally I remembered what Piero had said about Francesco being a “Florenzer,” a man who loved other men, but it seemed irrelevant. A friend, a brother, a kind uncle. That was what mattered.
    One cold winter evening as Leonardo slept in his hammock, Francesco had sneaked into the barn with an extra armful of wood for our fire. He looked troubled as he coaxed a bit more heat into our little room, so I gently coaxed the truth from him.
    “My brother’s become unbearable to live with,” he said. “He still