CHAPTER 2
The streets of Florence stretched out like the horizontal and vertical lines of a chessboard, with the ochre-colored rooftops resembling squares of various sizes.
By late night, the city took on a dark golden glow, with the dome of the Florence Cathedral resembling a solitary sun sleeping quietly above.
The pigeons that usually circled the skies had long since returned to their nests, and the citrus trees on the rooftops breathed quietly under the moonlight. Even the night watchman's hounds lazily wagged their tails as they roamed.
Unable to sleep, Hedy got up and began writing.
She took the little money she had earned and exchanged it for paper, pens, and ink, starting to recall many of the things from her past life.
Chemistry, physics, mathematics, biology...
In the forty years of her life, from forty-five to eighty-five, it had felt as though she were a robin trapped in a swamp, struggling harder and harder to breathe.
Her investments had failed time and again. Although she had obtained patents, they were denied by the U.S. military. With the rise of television media, she became increasingly notorious.
She had written halfway when she suddenly looked up, taking deep breaths to block out the frustration building inside her.
Her nineteen years had already passed sixty-six years ago.
Many of her youthful memories needed to be constantly excavated and detailed, then recorded carefully on paper.
It felt like scraping the last bits of sugar from a clay jar with a small silver spoon—no matter how hard she tried, it never seemed enough.
Since her visit to the apothecary, Hedy had become quite uneasy about the city’s medical conditions.
The doctors here, since the great plague, had developed a habit of wearing bird-beak masks. The long silver beak and dark, hollow eyes were terrifying to look at.
She had studied history and knew how people in this era treated their ailments.
Bloodletting, using leeches to suck out wounds, applying snail slime, and even grinding up mummy powder to drink with water.
Absolutely—absolutely—never get sick.
Getting sick would surely have disastrous consequences.
She held the quill made from a raven’s feather, dipped it in ink, and crossed off "quinine" from the list.
Quinine was out of the question; she had asked many people in the city that day, and no one had ever heard of the cinchona tree. It was probably native to somewhere in Latin America.
"Aspirin" was also scratched off. The difficulty of manufacturing it was even higher; it was better to think of something more practical.
As she worked at the desk, Hedy’s thoughts unintentionally drifted back to the past.
Back then, her two children would play at her feet while she focused on completing charts for frequency-hopping communication, her mind full of thoughts about how to get the Navy to accept the technology.
Now, with no submarines, it seemed that much of her knowledge was no longer applicable.
She sighed and glanced at the orange peel in the glass dish.
The experiment with penicillin was still ongoing, and it had made virtually no progress.
If this could really come to fruition, it could potentially save many lives the next time a plague hit.
The next day was Sunday. The master and servant went together to church for Mass, where they would also partake in the Eucharist.
The priest wore an ivory-white robe, and the congregation was pious and solemn.
"May the love of the Father, the holy grace of Christ, and the gift of the Holy Spirit be with you all."
Hedy followed the gesture of the congregation, ensuring that her movements were flawless.
If she revealed she was Jewish in such a setting, it would be like walking into certain death.
"—And also with your spirit," the congregation responded.
"May the Father and Christ grant you grace and peace."
"—And also to you," she whispered softly.
The unleavened bread was the body of Christ, and the wine was his blood.
Eating these was meant to commemorate the suffering of Jesus and to feel the unity of spirit with him.
The taste was quite good, the wine far better than what Da Vinci kept at home.
After Mass, Da Vinci returned home, and Hedy, taking advantage of the Sunday, went to the workshop.
Recently, Da Vinci had been helping the theater crew improve their flags and flying stunts at home—he seemed to have a particular fondness for these flashy endeavors. He had even gone out of his way to create a set of lighting effects for them.
When working on these tasks, he never procrastinated, often coming up with several designs in a single day.
Hedy adjusted her shawl and followed the directions given by the townsfolk to find Botticelli’s workshop.
At first, she thought she had made a mistake and glanced around again to be sure.
It was no mistake—but it wasn’t at all what she had imagined.
Having spent a considerable amount of time with Da Vinci, she had grown accustomed to a rather modest lifestyle.
Meals were always without meat, and fish only came on rare occasions.
The wine sometimes turned sour, likely due to poor sealing.
The workshop, too, was simple and plain—though some of the painted works were colorful, they mostly consisted of earthy yellow and brown tones, sometimes with a hint of mummy brown mixed in.
But when she stood before Botticelli's workshop, all her previous notions were shattered.
The workshops on this street were two or three stories high, spacious and beautiful.
The ground floor was semi-open, with displays resembling a store, showcasing various pieces and the apprentices and craftsmen at work.
The workbenches and easels were spotless, and the canvases were filled with bright, vivid colors—blues and greens that were rich and pleasing to the eye.
The kiln and tools were all new, and many people worked like assembly line workers, either individually or in groups, creating sculptures and paintings. The paintings didn’t bear signatures, clearly the products of a collective workshop effort.
Florence was a city of art, where even young couples, upon marrying, would buy a painting of two figures to hang in their bedroom, following tradition.
If a painter had a patron, life was probably quite enjoyable.
"Hey—" Botticelli, holding an order, quickly descended the stairs from the second floor, smiling as he greeted her. "Since you’ve come here, even the grey wagtails can’t help but sing!"
Hedy smiled slightly and responded warmly, "You can call me Miss Kiesler."
"Are you really Da Vinci's maid?" Botticelli looked her over, admiring her near-perfect proportions, and couldn’t help but compliment, "He’s truly lucky."
He then led her through the workshop, showing her the sculptures and picture frames, telling several interesting stories along the way.
It was clear this was the normal operation of an art studio.
There were apprentices, helpers, and, more importantly, a vibrant array of colors.
On Botticelli’s easel was a half-finished portrait of a noblewoman. Even though the details hadn’t been added yet, the soft, clear face, the pale gold jewelry, and the deep blue bay were already quite vivid.
His brushwork was delicate and light, able to render the skin tones in an extraordinarily lifelike manner.
Hedy studied the painting for a while before looking at him and asking, "Is your workshop the largest in the city?"
"Not by a long shot," Botticelli waved his hand with a smile. "Da Vinci’s teacher, Verrocchio, has a larger workshop. He even employs more helpers, and he doesn’t even have to paint himself."
"His teacher?"
"Yes, Da Vinci studied with him for a long time when he was younger. They worked together on many paintings, like The Baptism of Christ." Botticelli chuckled, remembering something. "In that painting, Verrocchio’s dove looks like it’s been hammered flat. It was Da Vinci’s angel that saved the painting. "
Since Da Vinci revealed his skill, painting the faces of angels and children, the faces of the figures in the workshop were always completed by him.
"Did he learn all his painting techniques from his teacher?"
"I’m not sure about that," Botticelli thought seriously for a moment. "But the two of them certainly have a similar style."
Verrocchio, his teacher, was famously slow with his submissions and easily distracted. He would often abandon a painting halfway through.
In that respect, Da Vinci definitely took it to the next level—he had perfected his teacher's talent for procrastination.
Hedy remembered the way Da Vinci had rolled his eyes and felt a little embarrassed, so she didn’t linger much longer and simply exchanged a few more words before saying goodbye to Botticelli.
As she walked back, she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret, which led her, almost unconsciously, toward the apothecary again.
From what Botticelli had said, Da Vinci’s frescoes were also stunning, his use of color quite remarkable.
But back then, he had been an apprentice in his teacher's workshop, and it was through the workshop’s resources that he had access to those paints.
Now that he had opened his own studio, Da Vinci couldn’t afford the expensive pigments, like ultramarine.
His constant procrastination and tendency to get distracted meant he had yet to finish the frescoes for the Medici family, let alone complete other works to support himself. The sketches and practice pieces he painted at home were mostly in dull, dark tones.
Ultimately, it came down to one thing—he was poor.
Hedy sighed to herself and even thought about taking out some of the silver coins she had secretly exchanged, wondering if she could do something for him.
Hedy walked into the apothecary, aimlessly browsing through the shelves.
Today, the glass jars were filled with crickets and earthworms, and there was a basket of lichen moss, still covered with damp soil, in the general goods section.
What exactly did people in this time drink when they took medicine?
Her gaze wandered around until it landed on a rather beautiful small box.