I laughed—a stupid, big guffaw that made me feel foolish and alive—and said, “Mother of Eve, forbid it. For even when it all seems futile—especially when it all seems futile—some of us, at least, must never stop trying to bend the world, even if only a little, toward beauty.”

Chapter LXIV

Chapter LXIV

By the time I extricated myself from my admirers, I feared that Michelangelo had left—packed up his things, already racing back to Florence—and I’d missed my chance, but then, I spotted him. He’d pulled up a chair and was sitting, by himself, in front of my Sistine Madonna.

I grabbed a chair and joined him.

We sat silently for a long while, legs crossed, heads tilted, staring at my painting, so much to say, and yet . . .

He spoke first. “Witnesses to miracles, eh?”

I shrugged without looking at him. I was afraid of the disapproving look I might find on his face. “The idea is too sentimental for your tastes, I know. You hate it.”

“You won’t hear me using it for my own promotional campaign, but . . . it’s not bad . . . For you.” And then, “I’m the one on the left, aren’t I?”

Off that unexpected question, I turned to look at him and followed his gaze, directed at the two putti at the bottom of the altar-piece, those plump, winged-angels staring up at the Madonna above. Those two boys were us, just two witnesses to miracles. The one on the left is raised up on his elbows, chin resting in his hand, fingers half-covering his mouth. That putto only has one wing showing, the second wing hidden by the angel’s turn, making it appear as though one were broken off. Michelangelo had identified himself as a broken-winged angel? I bit my cheek and said, “How’d you figure it out?”

He turned to me with that look, you know the one—that “you-godforsaken-fool” look—and said, “Because, Rafa, I’ve always been the cuter one.”

I smiled as he stood up and strode toward the exit. On his way out, he turned back and said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, in his angry bellowing voice that we all know too well, “Raphael Santi, everything you’ve achieve in art, you learned from me!” He knocked a stack of sketches out of Chigi’s hands and marched toward the exit. I pulled out my sketchbook and . . .

In order to capture that moment perfectly, I didn’t need to change a thing, did I? No. Because Michelangelo storming out of those rooms, all eyes on him, all gossip on him, all hearts on him, while I sat ignored in the background, was the world not only as it is, but exactly as it should be.

Epilogue

Epilogue

Rome. March 1520