‘Lena, I may not be able to see you for a while. I have to hide. The police . . .’ She waited for him to look at her, preparing a coquettish
smile to encourage him. But he stared at the dirt where his feet fell.
‘Even so, I’ve already seen you in the pose in which I’ll paint you, as soon as I’m free again.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I’ve seen you as the Virgin.
Standing at your door with Domenico. And then also when you were playing with him, walking his feet on yours.’
‘That sounds like me, not the Virgin.’
He whispered, ‘You’ll see. There’s no difference.’
He’s not like the others in the Evil Garden . He’s not just after my honour. Understanding and amazement suffused her chest like warmth from a brazier. He really does
see the Madonna in me.
‘I have to wait for the right commission, of course.’ He looked up, noticing the awe in her face. ‘What?’
She blushed. ‘Nothing. Go on.’
‘That’s how I work, you see. Someone, a cardinal like del Monte, pays me to do a canvas for him, and only then I get my models together for the painting.’
She rocked on her heels, as they waited for a gap in the flow of carriages so that they might cross the Corso. If he sees the Madonna in me, what do I see in him? He carried a sword and
lived in the roughest neighbourhood of Rome. No doubt he mixed with bad sorts – all artists did. But he was gentle; she felt it. That’s why he’s come to me. I’ve never
been like the other girls round here, either. We’re different, him and me.
She lost herself, as if she were dreaming. He took her arm to go across the street, and she jumped as though she had been woken from a sleep. ‘You can call on me in the meantime,’
she said, ‘while you’re waiting for a commission.’
‘What will your suitor, the notary, say about that?’
Her gaze drifted to the other side of the street. She hadn’t expected him to remember the papal notary who came every week to press her to marry him. She would have liked to explain that
the man was two decades older than her, that she hated his arrogance, his assumption that she would want him simply because of his position and wealth. It was hard to find the words now. It was
difficult enough for her to understand her resentment. She ought to have welcomed the man’s attention. She was a menial at a palace, who supplemented her income selling vegetables in
the Piazza Navona, and he was an employee of the Holy Father. The notary could have tried to buy her honour for a night. Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn’t done so that made her dislike
him. It would have been more honest than the pomposity with which he declared that he would have her only on the terms decreed by the Church. She felt disdain in his declarations. By making a show
of his refusal to buy her, he indicated that he believed her to be for sale. Like most men, he saw a poor girl as a whore who had yet to find a pimp.
‘He’s just someone my mother knows.’ She flicked her hand in dismissal. ‘When you paint, how long does a model have to stand in the same pose?’
‘Three or four hours at most. In one day, that is. You’d have to come back again and again.’ He held her glance. She felt their faces drawing closer, the slow, bewitching
course to a kiss. She moved towards him. The tripes slopped to the side and the basket tipped. Caravaggio took a step to rebalance, so the innards wouldn’t fall to the floor. He laughed,
shyly, with her.
Anna was laying out anchovies to dry for a puntarelle salad when they reached Lena’s house. ‘Did you get the sprouts, my girl?’
‘No, I forgot, Mama. I’ll go back out for them.’
‘Better clean those tripes first.’ The old woman saw Caravaggio and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Maestro, how good of you to pay a call.’ She curtsied. He glanced at
Lena. They smiled at her mother’s formality.
Lena unwrapped the grey tripes and slapped them onto the table. ‘I have to get
smile to encourage him. But he stared at the dirt where his feet fell.
‘Even so, I’ve already seen you in the pose in which I’ll paint you, as soon as I’m free again.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I’ve seen you as the Virgin.
Standing at your door with Domenico. And then also when you were playing with him, walking his feet on yours.’
‘That sounds like me, not the Virgin.’
He whispered, ‘You’ll see. There’s no difference.’
He’s not like the others in the Evil Garden . He’s not just after my honour. Understanding and amazement suffused her chest like warmth from a brazier. He really does
see the Madonna in me.
‘I have to wait for the right commission, of course.’ He looked up, noticing the awe in her face. ‘What?’
She blushed. ‘Nothing. Go on.’
‘That’s how I work, you see. Someone, a cardinal like del Monte, pays me to do a canvas for him, and only then I get my models together for the painting.’
She rocked on her heels, as they waited for a gap in the flow of carriages so that they might cross the Corso. If he sees the Madonna in me, what do I see in him? He carried a sword and
lived in the roughest neighbourhood of Rome. No doubt he mixed with bad sorts – all artists did. But he was gentle; she felt it. That’s why he’s come to me. I’ve never
been like the other girls round here, either. We’re different, him and me.
She lost herself, as if she were dreaming. He took her arm to go across the street, and she jumped as though she had been woken from a sleep. ‘You can call on me in the meantime,’
she said, ‘while you’re waiting for a commission.’
‘What will your suitor, the notary, say about that?’
Her gaze drifted to the other side of the street. She hadn’t expected him to remember the papal notary who came every week to press her to marry him. She would have liked to explain that
the man was two decades older than her, that she hated his arrogance, his assumption that she would want him simply because of his position and wealth. It was hard to find the words now. It was
difficult enough for her to understand her resentment. She ought to have welcomed the man’s attention. She was a menial at a palace, who supplemented her income selling vegetables in
the Piazza Navona, and he was an employee of the Holy Father. The notary could have tried to buy her honour for a night. Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn’t done so that made her dislike
him. It would have been more honest than the pomposity with which he declared that he would have her only on the terms decreed by the Church. She felt disdain in his declarations. By making a show
of his refusal to buy her, he indicated that he believed her to be for sale. Like most men, he saw a poor girl as a whore who had yet to find a pimp.
‘He’s just someone my mother knows.’ She flicked her hand in dismissal. ‘When you paint, how long does a model have to stand in the same pose?’
‘Three or four hours at most. In one day, that is. You’d have to come back again and again.’ He held her glance. She felt their faces drawing closer, the slow, bewitching
course to a kiss. She moved towards him. The tripes slopped to the side and the basket tipped. Caravaggio took a step to rebalance, so the innards wouldn’t fall to the floor. He laughed,
shyly, with her.
Anna was laying out anchovies to dry for a puntarelle salad when they reached Lena’s house. ‘Did you get the sprouts, my girl?’
‘No, I forgot, Mama. I’ll go back out for them.’
‘Better clean those tripes first.’ The old woman saw Caravaggio and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Maestro, how good of you to pay a call.’ She curtsied. He glanced at
Lena. They smiled at her mother’s formality.
Lena unwrapped the grey tripes and slapped them onto the table. ‘I have to get
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