stood, suddenly. “We’re approaching this in the wrong way,” he stated firmly. “We are no nearer to divining the true meaning of the piece. Let’s leave the painting for a moment and go over your time with Botticelli again.”
I sighed and swore, for we’d been through my interview with the artist a hundred times.
The brother ignored my language. “What did you say just before he became enraged? Tell me word for word, and don’t leave anything out.”
“It was just idle chatter.”
“About what?” he persisted. “Perhaps you mentioned something that was in the painting? One of the figures or flowers?”
Madonna. “I tell, you, I didn’t,” I protested. “I told him what I told you, that I’m from Venice, and that it is a city of great beauty, and great trade too.”
“Anything else?”
“I said something about Pisa and Naples or Genoa, her sea-faring rivals.”
The monk suddenly knelt by me and took my shoulders, with the same urgency but more gentility than Botticelli had done earlier. “You mentioned those three cities, and no more?”
“Yes—well, Venice first of course.”
“But you mentioned Venice in isolation? Then grouped the other three together?”
“Yes.”
“And Signor Botticelli did not react to your mention of Venice? He showed no anger or vexation?”
“No, he was all charm. In fact, it was he who first sang the city’s praises.”
“But he became enraged when you mentioned Pisa, Naples, and Genoa in the same breath.”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
I was. “Yes, I tell you.”
His eyes began to dance. “Three,” he crowed. “Three cities that are doing the same thing. Three maidens that are doing the same dance. You said yourself, they could be the same girl. Three Graces, three cities. Maritime powers. Luciana, you did it!” He spun me round in a mad dervish-like whirl. In the delight of the moment I barely knew that it was the first time he had used my name. Childlike as he, I bent over the painting again. “Cities,” he said. “They’re all cities. Each figure represents a place.”
My blood pounded in my chest, I was no longer tired. “And which other cities?”
“I know not. But I do know that something is afoot.” Brother Guido’s curls stood out from his head like those of a dark angel; his eyes were blue fire.
“But what?”
“War? Trade? Hidden treasure?”
Now he was really getting carried away.
“But we’ll soon find out. And one thing is sure—they think we know already. That is why we are tangled in this coil.”
I looked again at the three beauteous maidens, innocently dancing their strange measure, revolving for eternity in their graceful trinity. “Which is which?” I mused, almost to myself. “Which of the three Graces is which city—Pisa, Naples, Genoa?”
He examined the painting again, calmed a little. “Let us look carefully. What do you notice about them?” He glanced sideways at me. “I would venture you have danced a measure or two in good company, signorina. I imagine you are a dancer of great grace and beauty. Might you see something in their attitudes or postures?”
He was right of course. I am an excellent dancer, and have danced many a measure in the greatest of Florence’s houses, before being taken upstairs to dance quite a different measure in the bedchamber. But even in such houses, I rarely receive such gallantry, and was suckered into giving the Graces my full attention. “Well,” I began. “Their hands look a little—strange.”
“How so?”
“Well, I know three things about courtly dancing.
“Qualcosa Uno: when you dance in a ring, you tend to keep the hands low, as is seemly for a woman in company. But here, the hands of two of them are lifted high, their gaze is lifted to their hands, and the hands themselves twisted into an odd attitude above their heads, in a manner that would not be—well, usual in polite circles.” I felt a little odd speaking of what was seemly, when I, clearly, am not, but I do know a little of manners, even if I do not actually have any.
“Qualcosa Due: in a roundel such as this, the trio should all face the same way.”
Brother Guido nodded slowly. “Perhaps the message is in the hands. The gaze of the left-hand Grace is directed at the clasped hands. Perhaps they are trying to tell us something—make a shape of some kind?”
I looked and looked until I was near cross-eyed, and the monk did likewise.
“Not unless they are trying to tell us about a duck, or some other fowl, for the life of me I cannot see any other shape depicted by