LITMIR.BIZ

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Prologue: Lisa June 1490

      I

      II

      PART I April 26, 1478

      III

      IV

      V

      VI

      VII

      VIII

      December 28, 1478

IX

X

PART II LISA

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

       XVIII

       XIX

       XX

       XXI

       XXII

       XXIII

       XXIV

       XXV

       XXVI

       XXVII

       XXVIII

       XXIX

       XXX

       XXXI

       XXXII

       XXXIII

       XXXIV

       XXXV

       XXXVI

       XXXVII

       XXXVIII

       XXXIX

       XL

       XLI

       XLII

       XLIII

       XLIV

       XLV

       XLVI

       XLVII

       XLVIII

       XLIX

       L

       LI

       LII

       LIII

       LIV

       LV

       LVI

       LVII

       LVIII

       LIX

       LX

       LXI

       LXII

       LXIII

       LXIV

       LXV

       LXVI

       LXVII

       LXVIII

       LXIX

       LXX

       Epilogue: Lisa July 1498

       LXXI

       Acknowledgements

       By the same author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       I

      My name is Lisa di Antonio Gherardini Giocondo, though to acquaintances I am known simply as Madonna Lisa, and to those of the common class, Monna Lisa.

      My likeness has been recorded on wood, with boiled linseed oil and pigments dug from the earth or crushed from semi-precious stones, and applied with brushes made from the feathers of birds and the silken fur of animals.

      I have seen the painting. It does not look like me. I stare at it and see instead the faces of my mother and father. I listen and hear their voices. I feel their love and their sorrow, and I witness again and again, the crime that bound them together; the crime that bound them to me.

      For my story began not with my birth but a murder, committed the year before I was born.

      It was first revealed to me during an encounter with the astrologer, two weeks before my eleventh birthday, which was celebrated on the fifteenth of June. My mother announced that I would have my choice of a present. She assumed that I would request a new gown, for nowhere has sartorial ostentation been practised more avidly than my native Florence. My father was one of the city’s wealthiest wool merchants, and his business connections afforded me my pick of sumptuous silks, brocades, velvets and furs. I spent those days studying the dress of each noblewoman I passed, and at night, I lay awake contemplating the design.

      All this changed the day of Uncle Lauro’s wedding.

      I stood on the balcony of our house on the Via Maggiore between my mother and grandmother, staring in the direction of the Ponte Santa Trinita, the bridge which the young bride would cross on her ride to her groom.

      My grandmother had come to live with us several months earlier. She was still a handsome woman, but the loss of her second husband had soured her and she was faded and frail; her hair had grown white at the temples, and her body bony. She would not live out the year. My mother was dark-haired, dark-eyed, with skin so flawless it provoked my jealousy; she, however, seemed unaware of her amazing appearance. She complained of the adamant straightness of her locks, and of the olive cast to her complexion. Never mind that she was fine-boned, with lovely hands, feet and teeth. I was mature for my years, already larger and taller than she, with coarse dull brown waves and troubled skin.

      Downstairs, my father and Uncle Lauro, attended by his two sons, waited in the loggia that opened onto the street.

      My mother suddenly pointed. ‘There she is!’

      From our vantage, we could see down the length of the busy street to the point that it ended and the Ponte Santa Trinita began. A small figure on horseback headed towards us, followed by several people on foot. When they neared I could make out the woman riding the white horse.

      Her name

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