fast-approaching business day. He came out onto an open piazza. There, a team of his assistants—Giulio Romano, the older and more stoic Giovanni da Udine, and the potbellied, rosy-faced Gianfrancesco Penni, with his unruly red-gold curls—all garbed nearly as expensively as the
mastro,
waited for him. Together, the four well-dressed, important-looking men walked onto the next street and into the wisps of fog that moved around them all like great, illusive fingers of smoke—until Raphael came to a sudden stop.
At 21 Via Santa Dorotea, they all stood before a slope-roofed, salmon-colored facade, with a little brick-colored door and a wooden sign printed with the word
Panetteria
swinging gently on two wide brass hooks above it. Giulio had not told him that his new Madonna model was a baker’s daughter. She had seemed to him too delicate, too elegant, for such a common existence. Nevertheless, Raphael drew back the weathered shop door, took a step down onto the rough stone floor, and stood amid a collection of early morning patrons and baskets of fragrant bread.
“Is it a loaf of the fruit bread you are after?” asked the short, squat man with the green, wide-set eyes who held back the muslin curtain with a meaty hand. Behind the man, Raphael could see sacks of flour propped against the wall, and he could smell the rich, sweet scent of rising bread dough. “If you are, I’ve just told everyone else they’ll not be ready before—”
The man, lightly caked in flour from neck to toe, but for the sheen of perspiration covering his beefy round face, stopped in midsentence. Raphael saw his lower jaw slacken as he focused on the four elegantly dressed companions, far too grand for this neighborhood bakery. Still, Raphael lowered himself into an elegant and courtly bow, tipping his scarlet cap as he rose again and stepped forward. Everyone else inside turned as well, and the chatter fell to an abrupt and noticeable hush.
Beyond the smudged panes on the bakery window a crowd had gathered. “I am Raphael Sanzio, and I wish to speak to the husband of the girl called Margherita.”
“Much to my great sorrow, Margherita has yet no husband. But I am her father, Francesco Luti,” he explained, his chest puffed up a little with hopeful pride as he wiped his floury hands on the apron tied tightly below his paunch. “I understand you wish my daughter to model for you.”
“
S,
I do wish it very much.”
“Per favore,”
said Francesco with a sweeping hand, indicating the small back room. “Will you not come inside, Signor Sanzio, where it will be more private for us to speak?”
Raphael followed Margherita’s father into the small, stifling kitchen, with its heavy oak beams, the room dominated by two fiery bread ovens and a scarred, flour-coated oak table. Francesco Luti drew out a chair and offered it to the man known as royalty by everyone in Rome.
There was something in being here Raphael thought, some echo of his long forgotten childhood that struck him. The rich, sweet scent of baking bread brought it quickly back for him. His own father had been a painter at a ducal palace, yes, yet their life had been quite humble. As a boy, there had been trips to the butcher, the wine merchant, and the baker after the duke had gone to his own opulent table. Even in his fine silk doublet and elegant hose, he suddenly found, at this moment, that the world of his childhood did not seem so very far away.
“So she is unmarried,” Raphael repeated casually, remembering the man he had become.
“It is so.”
“I assumed by the small child she carried that—”
“Her sister’s youngest son, Signor Sanzio.”
Raphael saw a glitter in Luti’s eye, as though his mind, and his coin pouch, were working faster than his mouth. “My daughter, Letitia, is blessed with four strong sons. Of course I wish the same for my Margherita, but at times, what the mind knows the spirit refuses—”
“You would do well to hold your tongue
mastro,
waited for him. Together, the four well-dressed, important-looking men walked onto the next street and into the wisps of fog that moved around them all like great, illusive fingers of smoke—until Raphael came to a sudden stop.
At 21 Via Santa Dorotea, they all stood before a slope-roofed, salmon-colored facade, with a little brick-colored door and a wooden sign printed with the word
Panetteria
swinging gently on two wide brass hooks above it. Giulio had not told him that his new Madonna model was a baker’s daughter. She had seemed to him too delicate, too elegant, for such a common existence. Nevertheless, Raphael drew back the weathered shop door, took a step down onto the rough stone floor, and stood amid a collection of early morning patrons and baskets of fragrant bread.
“Is it a loaf of the fruit bread you are after?” asked the short, squat man with the green, wide-set eyes who held back the muslin curtain with a meaty hand. Behind the man, Raphael could see sacks of flour propped against the wall, and he could smell the rich, sweet scent of rising bread dough. “If you are, I’ve just told everyone else they’ll not be ready before—”
The man, lightly caked in flour from neck to toe, but for the sheen of perspiration covering his beefy round face, stopped in midsentence. Raphael saw his lower jaw slacken as he focused on the four elegantly dressed companions, far too grand for this neighborhood bakery. Still, Raphael lowered himself into an elegant and courtly bow, tipping his scarlet cap as he rose again and stepped forward. Everyone else inside turned as well, and the chatter fell to an abrupt and noticeable hush.
Beyond the smudged panes on the bakery window a crowd had gathered. “I am Raphael Sanzio, and I wish to speak to the husband of the girl called Margherita.”
“Much to my great sorrow, Margherita has yet no husband. But I am her father, Francesco Luti,” he explained, his chest puffed up a little with hopeful pride as he wiped his floury hands on the apron tied tightly below his paunch. “I understand you wish my daughter to model for you.”
“
S,
I do wish it very much.”
“Per favore,”
said Francesco with a sweeping hand, indicating the small back room. “Will you not come inside, Signor Sanzio, where it will be more private for us to speak?”
Raphael followed Margherita’s father into the small, stifling kitchen, with its heavy oak beams, the room dominated by two fiery bread ovens and a scarred, flour-coated oak table. Francesco Luti drew out a chair and offered it to the man known as royalty by everyone in Rome.
There was something in being here Raphael thought, some echo of his long forgotten childhood that struck him. The rich, sweet scent of baking bread brought it quickly back for him. His own father had been a painter at a ducal palace, yes, yet their life had been quite humble. As a boy, there had been trips to the butcher, the wine merchant, and the baker after the duke had gone to his own opulent table. Even in his fine silk doublet and elegant hose, he suddenly found, at this moment, that the world of his childhood did not seem so very far away.
“So she is unmarried,” Raphael repeated casually, remembering the man he had become.
“It is so.”
“I assumed by the small child she carried that—”
“Her sister’s youngest son, Signor Sanzio.”
Raphael saw a glitter in Luti’s eye, as though his mind, and his coin pouch, were working faster than his mouth. “My daughter, Letitia, is blessed with four strong sons. Of course I wish the same for my Margherita, but at times, what the mind knows the spirit refuses—”
“You would do well to hold your tongue
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