Da Vinci's Cat Read online

  “An accident?” Federico breathed. No wonder the closet seemed so ominous. “What happened?”

  “He does not say. No—zat is not true.” The ambassador leaned close, his eyebrows so high that they disappeared under his cap. “He says five words: ‘I have lost little Juno.’”

  The hair stood up on Federico’s neck. “Juno?”

  The ambassador grinned at Federico. “You are good spy, eh? I would not tell zis to a man. But to a child—”

  Alas, Federico could not learn more, for at that moment the master of ceremonies whistled everyone to attention, to start the procession to the chapel. Dutifully Federico stood where he was told, his mind awhirl. Dutifully he marched into the Sistine Chapel behind His Holiness (who was carried in upon a chair, as the pope should be), and dutifully he sat in a place befitting the heir to Mantua. The chapel ceiling was being painted, yes. But clever Michelangelo had designed the scaffolding so that the floor of the chapel remained free while he worked, and hundreds of worshippers now filled the space. The ceiling soared above their heads: half unpainted gray stucco, the other half protected by an enormous canvas cloth to catch drips of paint and keep the work secret. Against one wall stood a ladder that Federico had climbed often, for his mother insisted on hearing of Michelangelo’s progress.

  The chattering quieted as the service began. His Holiness promptly went to sleep, as he usually did during ceremonies. Federico could not hear the priests for the pope’s snoring, but it did not matter because he had so much to ponder.

  The great Leonardo da Vinci had designed the closet? How remarkable. And Juno—why, she must be da Vinci’s cat. Somehow, she traveled from France to Rome while only a kitten. Then she’d vanished back into that closet to return fully grown, and return again with Herbert. But how?

  Aha, thought Federico. Herbert is Leonardo da Vinci.

  But no, that was impossible. Leonardo da Vinci dressed beautifully; everyone knew this. And he spoke perfect Italian. And he knew what year it was, for heaven’s sake.

  Perhaps Herbert was a servant of Leonardo da Vinci?

  The great man would not hire someone so ignorant.

  Perhaps Herbert knew the King of France? No.

  It was all so puzzling.

  Federico wished he had a friend to talk to and figure this out. But the obvious person—the only person, really—was Herbert.

  At last the service ended, His Holiness awakening with a snort. The crowd surged around the pope like goats round a bucket of grain, all hoping for a blessing or a word. Federico followed the flock out of the chapel and back to the stateroom, greeting various canons and bishops and secretaries, knights and marquises and counts. Everyone wanted to compliment his outfit and his family, and he must display flawless manners. So he waited, a perfect gentleman, while keeping an eye on the door to the pope’s private office. He must get a sketch for Herbert!

  Slowly he edged nearer. On the far side of the room, His Holiness roared at some jest, and the crowd as one turned to look. Now was Federico’s chance. With a deep breath to stifle his panic, he eased the door open and slipped in.

  What a treasure trove. Shelves crammed with globes and books and statuettes lined the room. An open cabinet revealed rolls of building plans. A ledge held piles of sketches. Hurriedly Federico flipped through. What would Herbert like? A fat cherub carrying grapes? A donkey peering into the manger? A smiling woman with soft curling hair? He paused at a pen-and-ink drawing of a bearded old man, signed by Michelangelo. Perhaps it was a portrait of His Holiness—which explained its place at the bottom of the pile! The pope did not fancy himself old. Federico would be doing him a favor to remove it.

  Hastily unbuttoning his doublet, Federico slipped the drawing underneath. This was not stealing, he assured himself—certainly not. Gentlemen never stole. But still, the less said, the better.

  The door opened as Federico was smoothing the last button. He jumped like a fish on a hook.

  A Swiss Guard in a velvet uniform peered in. Like all Swiss Guards, he was terrifying. “Forgive me, my lord.” He bowed, his hand yet on the hilt of his sword. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

  Federico struggled to appear calm. He was the son of the Duke of Mantua, after all, and a guest of His Holiness. The pope himself had promised Federico free use of the palace. Did not free use include the pope’s office? “Think—think nothing of it,” he stuttered.

  The guard studied Federico. “Are you felling unwell?”

  Again Federico smoothed his doublet. “I simply needed a moment of quiet.” One of his mother’s favorite expressions. He eased past the guard, heart hammering against his ribs.

  Once back in the stateroom, his anxiety did not ease, for the mood had shifted. In the few minutes Federico was absent, something terrible must have happened. I am caught, he thought in panic—

  But no, he was not, for none of the guests even looked at him.

  He eased his way into the crowd. “Pray tell, what has happened?” he whispered to the French ambassador.

  The ambassador leaned in, eyebrows high. “Zere is a thief in ze palace.”

  “A thief?” Federico kept one hand on his doublet.

  “Zat is ze truth.” The ambassador’s voice dropped. “Raphael’s papers were stolen. Every last one.”

  Chapter 5

  A Satisfying Trade

  As the church bells tolled midnight, Federico paced the corridor clutching the sketch of the bearded old man. All evening he’d fretted as he sat through a tedious dinner and even more tedious opera. What if someone realized he had taken this drawing? What if he were connected to Raphael’s missing papers? What if Herbert did not return, and Federico never again tasted chocolate?

  So when Herbert at last stepped out of the closet, Federico felt not relief or joy but only irritation. “Here,” he snapped. “A Michelangelo.”

  “Oh, it is beautiful!” Herbert took the drawing, cradling it like a precious jewel. “Oh, my.” He squatted by Federico’s lantern to study the old man’s thick brows and thoughtful frown. “And look, it is signed. Thank you.” He beamed at Federico. “You thief this?”

  Federico frowned. “Never!” He had given this matter no small amount of thought in the hours of dinner and opera. “I am here in Rome as a guest of His Holiness. A host should treat guests well and give them presents. That”—he jerked his chin at the drawing—“is a present. A gift I have given myself, as a guest. And now I give it to you.”

  Herbert nodded thoughtfully. “That makes much logic.” He settled himself on a stack of planks next to the closet, easing the drawing into his bag. “It is good you are not a thief.”

  “No, I’m not. But what about you?” Federico crossed his arms, still irked. “You took those Raphaels, didn’t you? You need to return them.”

  “I cannot,” Herbert sighed. One by one he removed chocolates from his bag, each piece half the size of a fist. “They make me too much money.” He motioned for Federico to join him.

  Well. Federico should continue his scolding, but he must test these candies first. After a bit of a pause to demonstrate that he was not entirely pleased, he sat on the planks, placing the lantern between him and Herbert. Deliberately he selected the second-largest piece and took a nibble. How delicious the peanuts tasted. Even better than he remembered.

  “It came from Mantua, you know,” Herbert said through a mouthful of chocolate.

  Blinking at the interruption, Federico followed Herbert’s pointing finger. “That closet came from Mantua?”

  Herbert nodded. “I buy it in a junk shop—a shop that sells rubbish. An old wooden trunk. I bring it back to my home. I take it apart, and inside I find beautiful wood.” Herbert gestured at the star on the door. “Later, in a library in Paris—a private library—I read a notebook by Leonardo da Vinci, a notebook about a closet machine.” He shook his head at the memory.

  Federico listened, chocolate forgotten.

  “So I follow his notes and turn the trunk back into a close
t. And out walks a kitten.”

  “Juno,” Federico whispered.

  Herbert nodded. “Da Vinci even writes of her in his notebook.”

  “The kitten came here, too. She played with me.” Federico frowned. “Then she went back into the closet and came out a cat.”

  “That was when she was in New Jersey, with me. Such a wonderful kitten, eh? I have her for two years, then—”

  “Two years?” Federico could not believe it. “But she was gone for only a minute!”

  “In your time it was a minute. But not in mine.” Herbert shook his head. “That is how the closet works. But then by mistake I leave the door open. In she goes . . . and comes back with a collar! By the way—” He held out three worn ducats.

  “Ah.” Federico had rather forgotten about the red collar with pearls. “Thank you.”

  “Do not use them for some years, however. They have a date of 1518.”

  “That’s impossible.” Herbert was speaking one bit of nonsense after another. Still, Federico could not help checking the coins in the lantern light.

  Suddenly he felt very cold. “H-how did you get these?”

  “I buy them from a man who sells antiques.”

  “But they’re not antiques.” Federico rubbed the coins, their edges smoothed by countless fingers. “Antiques are hundreds of years old.”

  “Yes.” Herbert took a deep breath. “These coins are hundreds of years old. I come from hundreds of years away. From the year 1928, from a country called America.”

  “America?” Federico had never heard of it. “That doesn’t make sense. People can’t travel between times.”

  “To you, no. To me, no. But to the great inventor Leonardo da Vinci? Yes.” Herbert nodded at the closet. “He made this. A machine for lookers.”

  “Lookers?” Federico had no idea what Herbert was talking about.

  “You know. They come, they look”—Herbert pretended to peer about—“they learn secrets. That is why it works at midnight. Midnight is the time for lookers.”

  Not lookers, Federico realized with dawning horror. “You mean spies.” He stared at the closet. “It’s a machine for spies. You’re a spy!”

  Herbert chuckled. “No, I am only a man from New Jersey.”

  America? Zhersey? What were these places? “But—but—how . . . ?”

  “It makes you cuckoo, yes, trying to figure this out?” Herbert took another chocolate. “This is what I think. Da Vinci wanted a machine to move people from one place to another place. To spy in the night. But somehow the machine moves you from one time to another time. And when you go back”—he snapped his fingers—“no time passes. I return the very moment I leave. Juno, too. I live my life in America, I do my jobs, and when I am ready, I come here. At midnight.”

  Federico shivered—and not from the breeze dancing through the windows. This did indeed make one cuckoo.

  “By the way, what do you think?” Herbert patted his jerkin. “Do you like?”

  Federico had been so busy with chocolate and talk of the closet that he hadn’t even noticed Herbert’s clothes. Heavens, the man was sporting a jerkin! In fact, Herbert’s entire outfit looked familiar, nothing like his strange garb last night. Familiar . . . but wrong. His cap was out of style by a decade, his hose were striped (striped! In 1511!), and his shoes were fit only for Germans.

  “I am in fashion now, yes?”

  Federico picked his words diplomatically, as his mother would. “Ah. Interesting.”

  “So now we can walk in the palace together, and meet Raphael!”

  “Heavens, no,” Federico blurted. Raphael? Herbert did not even have a belt.

  Herbert’s face fell. “But I study many months to get this right. I pay a tailor. Please, Federico. I must see Raphael. And I want—I hope!—to see the Sistine Chapel.”

  “Alas, the chapel is locked.” Federico eyed the last chocolate. Could he take half?

  “How much candy you want?” Herbert asked suddenly.

  Federico paused mid-reach. “I beg your pardon?”

  “If I dress right, you take me to art. Yes?” Herbert pointed to his clothes. “So how can you fix this?”

  Federico studied him as a sculptor might study a block of marble. “Well, the cap, for starters. One sees beggars in caps like that, but no one in the palace. Certainly not a gentleman. And the hose? Ugh.” He tugged at Herbert’s cloak. “You’re wearing this wrong. If you cover the jerkin, it’s not so bad. The shoes, however . . .” He made a show of frowning, but inside he bubbled with joy. “I warn you, ’Erbert: this will take a lot of chocolate.”

  Chapter 6

  Federico Visits a Madman

  The next day, Federico hurried through Greek and French and Latin while Juno purred in his lap. Thanks to her assistance, he was finished by early afternoon—plenty of time to visit the Sistine Chapel. It would take all his skill to manage Michelangelo. He wished he could bring Herbert’s three ducats, for the sculptor loved money almost as much as art. Juno, beautiful even without a collar, would accompany him. “Be your most charming,” he instructed.

  “Mrow,” she cried, her tail swaying. How fun to visit the palace together!

  Soon into their journey, they encountered yet another treat: Master Raphael, passing through the villa with his usual parade of friends and students and admirers. “Sir Federico,” the painter cried, swooping into a bow. “The gentleman who dances like a Frenchman and rides like a Spaniard. I’ve missed your handsome face.”

  Federico adjusted his doublet, blushing with pride. “Good day, Master Raphael.”

  The artist stooped to stroke Juno. “What a gorgeous creature. So full of love.” He chuckled. “Did you hear that Michelangelo has been to the pope’s new study to see your portrait? Though he’d die before admitting it.”

  Federico did his best to look surprised. “Truly? How do you know?”

  “The smell, of course.” Raphael shook his head. “That man has a bakery’s worth of genius while I have only crumbs.”

  “Far more than crumbs,” Federico assured him. “And I’m sorry about your missing sketches.” For he was sorry, however much the sketches helped Herbert.

  “’Tis no matter.” Raphael smiled. “I shall simply draw more. Come!” he announced to his parade. “Or we’ll miss the architect.” The parade marched off.

  “Well, you certainly charmed one artist.” Federico laughed, petting Juno. “Hopefully Michelangelo will be so easy.” He beamed at the promise of showing Michelangelo’s masterpiece to Herbert. All he needed was the key. How hard could that be?

  They headed up the corridor. Juno scampered ahead, leaping onto stacks of tile like a dragon conquering castles. Why, Federico wondered, did Michelangelo hate Raphael so much? Raphael was absolutely perfect. Thoughtful, courteous, wise, a gentleman in every way. Federico wanted to be exactly like him, with just as many friends, when he had eight and twenty years. Even Juno walked with an extra swing to her tail; Raphael had enchanted her as well. Nimbly she climbed a ladder, swiping at Federico’s cap as he walked by. She raced to the niche with its little locked door. “Mrow,” she commanded, batting it with a paw.

  Federico lifted her up. “That’s the door to Michelangelo’s studio. He doesn’t like anyone going in there, not even you.” He held her tightly as they walked past the closet. “I don’t want you ending up back in that Zhersey place. I like you too much here.”

  “Mrow,” Juno agreed, stretching her neck to be scratched, and she remained in his arms even when they entered the palace and its hubbub of construction.

  At last they reached the grand doors of the Sistine Chapel—doors half as big as the wall. For a moment Federico feared the doors were locked, but no: only heavy. “Best behavior,” he warned Juno, setting her down so he could push. More than once he’d had the privilege of watching Michelangelo at work, the artist standing with his head tipped back, his brush darting between a dozen pots of color. What a miracle, seeing feet and fabric and faces emerge from
the wet plaster on the ceiling. Perhaps that might happen today.

  Slowly the door opened, revealing the vast chapel with the canvas draped above, shafts of sun lighting the distant unfinished ceiling. Michelangelo’s assistants scurried across the floor, gathering up snowflakes that drifted and spiraled through the air.

  Juno sprang into the room, joyfully batting at the nearest flakes. Federico stared in shock, then dashed forward. “Juno! Stop!” These were not snowflakes that fell from the ceiling: they were bits of paper. He snatched a scrap: a penciled elbow. The next scrap contained lines he could not make out.

  “Burn them!” shouted Michelangelo from above. “Burn everything.”

  “No!” cried Federico, grabbing the bits.

  “Who is that? Who has entered? Is it the peacock?”

  “No, Master,” an assistant called. “’Tis only the young lord. Sir Federico.”

  Federico dashed to the far end of the chapel, waving up at the scaffolding. “Hello! I have come to show you my cat.” He pointed to Juno leaping at the scraps. Perhaps she’d charm Michelangelo, too, or calm him at least.

  Michelangelo peered over the edge. “Did you bring any humans?”

  “No, Master. Might I come up?” Stop ripping your drawings, he wanted to scream. But one did not order Michelangelo.

  “Hmph. Lock the door.” Michelangelo stomped back into the shadows.

  Federico decided that this meant yes and carefully began to climb. The scaffolding stood forty feet above the chapel floor, and he did not want to fall.

  “Well? What is it?” Michelangelo snapped as Federico reached the top.

  Federico eased himself onto the scaffolding, away from the edge. Forty feet was high indeed. “What are you doing?”

  Michelangelo tore a drawing to shreds. “I don’t want them stolen. There’s a thief in the palace—haven’t you heard?”