The Smile Page 4

  He jerks his chin toward the preaching voice. “Scrofulous Savonarola. He kept civil for the church ceremony, at least, but he can’t control himself any longer. My father made a mistake to let him stay in Florence.”

  I turn for a full view of this man’s face. Why, it’s Piero, the oldest son of Lorenzo de’ Medici, and now the wealthiest man of all Florence. My heart skips a beat.

  He notices me now. I realize I’m gaping. I shut my mouth. Piero smiles and his eyes linger on me in a shocking way. I stop dead in my tracks.

  “Let me move to a better spot.” Piero inserts himself between Leonardo and me. He grabs my hand and puts it in the crook of his elbow, holding it in place with his other hand. He acts oblivious to the insult he’s just inflicted on me. “We’ll make introductions once we have privacy.” He turns to Leonardo. “So how is life in Milan? I hear you’re Duke Sforza’s principal engineer for bridges and ships and, most fascinating of all, armaments. Tell me, Ser Leonardo, does he plan to use them to invade Florence?”

  “I’m not privy to the duke’s plans,” says Leonardo. “I merely design things.”

  “And do you ‘merely’ paint still, as well?”

  “I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t paint.”

  Piero sweeps us along the road and up steps into the Medici palace! I can’t believe it. Once inside, Piero spins on his heel and I almost fall against his chest. He kisses my hand. Then up my arm. I cry out and pull away.

  “Behave.” Leonardo steps in front of me. “Monna Elisabetta is a lady.”

  Piero crosses his arms and tucks his hands into his armpits. “Hands off, eh?” He moves around Leonardo and bows. “Is that truly the lady’s wishes?”

  This man is the oldest Medici son. Disgust must not show on my face. I search for the least offensive answer. “You’re a married man, Ser Piero.” And a father, but I don’t add that. I look up at Leonardo, who’s eyeing a painting on the wall.

  “And do you know Alfonsina, my lovely bride?” Piero gives a lopsided smile.

  I shake my head.

  “Do you know what my wife thinks about? Forks, sheets, tablecloths.” Piero counts off on his fingers. “Towels, linen shirts, crisp cakes, puff pastry, Trebbiano wine, salad, pickles, boiled chicken and kid, roast pigeons, almond paste, boxes of sweets.” He drops his hands and sighs. “Guests seem to need these things.” I smell his breath. But he isn’t drunk. “Shall I go on? Want me to name clothing? Or jewelry? Or maybe . . .”

  “Please, stop.”

  “Stop? Do you realize you’re telling a genius to stop? A bona fide genius! Have you no respect?” He sticks his tongue out, like a spoiled child. “Tell me, what office did my father hold?”

  I can’t remember anyone saying. I blink fast. This is shameful. My head is hot.

  “Don’t know, do you? Well, don’t fret, little monna. There’s a reason for your silence. My father was a genius, like his father before him, and his father before him. It runs in the family. Lorenzo Il Magnifico ruled the Republic of Florence by owning the banks and playing the big peacemaker with the other Italian states . . .” Piero pauses with a triumphant smirk. “. . . and all without holding office. So he was never under the thumb of elections that could oust him. We rule—and no one can stop us. Don’t you agree that’s genius?”

  I stare at him.

  “Well, don’t you?” he barks.

  I flinch.

  “Is that a tear?” Piero shakes his head. “You feel sorry for yourself. You think you’re a babe compared to me, don’t you?”

  I pluck on Leonardo’s sleeve, but he takes no notice.

  “I’m twenty-one,” Piero says. “The age my father was when his father died. What do you make of that?” He gives a mirthless smile. “Maybe I was born to take on heavy responsibilities before my time. But, between you and me, don’t you think I deserve more fun before I grow old? Wouldn’t you like to be part of that fun?”

  I step backward quickly and my bottom and shoulders meet the wall behind me.

  “We haven’t eaten yet. I invite you to dine. I’ll stuff myself with parsley, rucola, anise, mint—greens that enhance amorous prowess. Imagine me enhanced.” He laughs.

  “Who are you harassing now, brother?” A priest comes in. Oh, Lord, thank you. And, no, this isn’t a simple priest, he’s a cardinal, wearing the red hat. A boy follows.

  “Ah, pious Giovanni,” calls Piero, with an expansive sweep of the hand. “Do you know little Monna Elisabetta? Let me introduce you. And, yummy little monna, this is my brother, the youngest cardinal ever. He managed to get that red hat at fourteen.”

  Cardinal Giovanni puts an arm around Piero and bows his head briefly to me. “A pleasure. And this is our little brother, Giuliano.” He nods toward the boy.

  The fool, the wise one, and the good one. It should be a delight to stand before the three Medici brothers. And one of them a cardinal! There are but seventy cardinals in the world, and here is one before me—round belly and round cheeks and red hat. But not even relief and awe at the cardinal’s presence can quell the need to distance myself from Piero. Still, I must find a way to do it kindly; they are mourning, after all. I nod to the two younger brothers and take Leonardo’s arm, this time tugging insistently.

  “Is this by Sandro Filipepi?” asks Leonardo. His hand moves in the air as though under a spell that makes him paint the picture himself.

  I glance at the canvas. It’s six women in gauzy clothing with a half-dressed man at one side, a baby angel at the top, and a flying blue man on the other side. Remarkable. I would look closely, only I can’t risk diverting my attention from unpredictable Piero.

  “He goes by the name Botticelli,” says Piero, his eyes still on me. “His work isn’t evocative and atmospheric, like yours, Ser Leonardo. It’s erotic.” He closes and opens his eyes slowly. “Tell me, little monna, do you like my brothers more than me? Admit it; I see it in your movements. But I have news for you. All we Medici have our gifts. Besides the men being geniuses, that is. Lucrezia, the eldest, sings and reads at the same time. She was Father’s favorite, not counting Giovanni. Who can beat a cardinal, after all? But, oh, how could I have forgotten Michelangelo, Father’s chosen boy, better than any blood son?”

  Cardinal Giovanni looks quickly at Piero. Is that jealousy on his face?

  “The second child,” says Piero, “is Maddalena, who knocks her head against the wall without getting hurt. That’s a talent. She was Mother’s favorite. Back when Mother was alive. Aha!” He points at me. “Was that a twitch of sympathy in your otherwise placid face? Do you pity us orphans?”

  Mamma’s parents died in a boat accident when she was ten. A spinster aunt raised her. Oh, I do feel sorry for the Medici brothers. Especially Giuliano, standing there so silent. He’s my age.

  “Father called Maddalena ‘the eye of her mother’s head.’ Pretty strange. And then there’s Luigia, whose gift is talk. Nonstop talk. She’s no one’s favorite. But then, I guess, none of the rest of us is. Then we have Contessina, who screams loud enough to scare the lions. That’s the girls. Now the boys—the sum total before you, if we discount the dead. Giovanni thinks only of the Lord. Giuliano thinks only of laughing.”

  I feel breathless, though Piero’s the one who’s been speaking at a fever pitch. I’m unsteady on my feet. Piero’s energy has sapped my own.

  “A pretty speech.” Cardinal Giovanni keeps his arm around Piero’s shoulder and leads him away.

  “But I haven’t yet explained to the little monna what my talent is,” Piero says over his shoulder as Cardinal Giovanni ushers him out a door with a nod of apology to us.

  Gratitude spreads warm in my chest. My shoulders relax. Leonardo is still studying the painting. And Giuliano appears to be studying me.

  “Any questions?” asks Giuliano. His eyes twinkle as though he’s laughing at me.And to think just a moment ago I felt sorry for him! How rotten, to tease after his beast of a brother tormented me. Well, I’m not scared anymore. I let loose
of Leonardo’s arm and sniff loudly. “Does Maddalena really bang her head against the wall?” I ask pointedly, for if I were in this family, I might.

  “Not all the time.” His voice is gentle and low. I have to strain to hear it. “And Contessina’s screams don’t always scare the lions, either.”

  Did he guess that was what I really wanted to ask? Contessina is the only sister I know—the one I played with a few times. I can imagine her screaming.

  “Want to see them?” asks Giuliano.

  “Who?”

  “The lions, of course.”

  I start in spite of myself. “I’ve walked by the enclosure on the east side of the Palazzo Vecchio,” I say, adopting a formal tone. I may live in the country year-round, but I am not without sophistication. “I’ve seen them a number of times.”

  “Those belong to the Republic.” Giuliano smiles. “We have our own in the palace. You can get much closer to them.” He touches Leonardo’s sleeve. “Ser Leonardo, may I borrow your companion?”

  Leonardo is pressing his temples with his fingertips. He looks at us now as though disturbed from a trance. “You’re the only one I’d really trust her with. If she wants to go, of course.” He raises an eyebrow at me.

  Lions up close. And this is the good brother. Even Piero said all he thinks about is laughter. So his teasing is harmless. I should be plucky enough to put up with that. “Yes.”

  We walk halls lined with tooled leather chairs and mirrors in blown glass frames. I peek into a room and stop, letting Giuliano walk on. A dining table is covered with a cloth embroidered not just at the edges, but everywhere. There are silver settings and china plates holding silk napkins folded in swan shapes. Beside each sits a delicate white bowl of water. Ah, for cleaning fingers. My family passes around a bowl before the meal. But here everyone has their own.

  White lilies cluster in vases of swirling red and gold glass, surely from Venice. Their scent saturates the air. The white candles are not yet lit in the enormous red glass chandelier, but I imagine they give off a dazzling light. And heat.

  The aroma of spiced fresh bread comes from a basket covered with red silk. Everything’s red and white. There’s even a fine white sculpture of an angel in the center, a meter tall. And with a flash, I realize that Piero must have ordered the color scheme just for the occasion; it matches his outfit.

  “Are you already hungry?” Giuliano has returned to my side in the doorway.

  “The angel glitters,” I say. “I’ve never seen marble glitter so.”

  He laughs. “That’s sugar.”

  Sugar? Someone went through all the hours of sculpting a block of sugar, which will last only . . . what? . . . a week at most.

  “Here, let me break you off a wing tip.”

  “No! You mustn’t ruin it. Not after someone worked so hard.”

  “Then something simpler.” He goes into the room, reaches his hand under the red silk and comes back with a bread in the shape of an angel. He puts it on a velvet-cushioned bench outside the door. “You can take it when you leave. Come on. No more stopping. Unless you prefer tables to lions.” His tone teases again.

  “I love animals,” I announce firmly. “Take me to see the lions.”

  “As you wish.” Giuliano leads me down a flight of stairs.

  The smell is what I notice first. The hair at the nape of my neck stiffens. I suppress the urge to run. The lions look at us, turning their massive heads. Three of them, behind thick bars. A female yawns. Her jaws are enormous. She rises and paces.

  I step back.

  “They’re fed often and a lot,” Giuliano says quickly. He looks at me kindly. “I bet if they got out, they’d be too lazy to chase anyone. I wanted to impress you, but, really, it’s nothing impressive. They’re just wild animals, pathetically locked up.”

  I stare at the pacing lioness. Suddenly she seems tragic. This is her prison, probably for life. I look back at Giuliano. He’s changed. His face is as sad as I feel. And then I remember: “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Thank you.” He turns his head away.

  Is he crying? Oh, I wish I hadn’t said anything. It is a funeral, though. It’s what you’re supposed to say. What do we do now? “Do you have other animals?”

  He nods and smiles again. “But your face tells me you don’t want to see them. At least, not the ones in cages. The giraffe, now, you would have wanted to see her.”

  “I did,” I say, happy at both the memory and the turn in the conversation. “We came to town just for that. I was seven, or maybe eight. But I remember.”

  “So you liked her?”

  “Oh, yes. A beautiful creature. Graceful. And quiet. She didn’t make a sound. Papà fed her from his hand. I wanted to, too, but Mamma wouldn’t allow me.”

  “That’s a pity. Her lips tickled. Put out your palm. I’ll show you.”

  I go suddenly shy. But this is the good brother. I offer my palm.

  He makes a fist and rubs his knuckles ever so lightly all over my hand.

  I hold in a laugh. “It does tickle.”

  “The giraffe lived free,” says Giuliano. “She wandered the streets. People would be a flight up, eating their evening meal, and her head would pass the window.” He laughs. “She was the most popular character of Florence. A present from the Sultan of Egypt.” He leads me back out the corridor and upstairs, and he points. “See that beam?”

  The ceiling has an architrave, intricately carved, though it’s hard to make out the details from the floor.

  “That’s how she died.”

  “Who?”

  “The giraffe. She smacked her head.” He laughs. His fingers play above his upper lip hesitantly. “You never seem to know what I’m talking about. But I’m just trying to have an ordinary conversation, Monna Lisa.”

  I smile in surprise at the way he shortens my name. “Papà calls me Monna Betta. But no one calls me Monna Lisa.”

  “Meet No One, then.” Giuliano bows.

  I make the deepest curtsy ever and tuck my hair behind my ears and then feel immediately silly for acting this way. Whatever possessed me?

  “I finally got you to smile. And now that I’ve found the key to the treasure box, I’ll always call you by that name. It suits you. You have too beautiful a smile to be called anything but Lisa.”

  I don’t know why I haven’t been smiling, but I know it’s true. Like Mamma said. I hold in laughter; I hold in smiles.

  And now I hold in my breath. Giuliano has used the word beautiful about me. Or, well, about my smile, but that’s enough. It feels good in an uncomplicated way. Nothing hinges on it. I don’t care anything about his family. He himself is a decent sort; I’m sure of that now. The way he talks about the animals. His quiet manner and quick laughter. He’s the good one. And he admires me, in a clean, free, easy way that makes me happy, and I don’t want to breathe because I don’t want this moment to pass too fast.

  CHAPTER Six

  I STAND IN FRONT OF my closet mirror in the light of earliest dawn and look at my reflection. I’m wearing an ordinary nightdress—not the beautiful party dress Valeria’s mother was supposed to make for me. It’s been a month since the great Lorenzo died and neither Mamma nor Papà has mentioned the party, though they talk together all the time, hushing when I come close. Who knows when I’ll ever have that party?

  It’s ridiculous, especially after I was so anxious about the whole thing, but I feel cheated in a way.

  What would I look like in that dress? I hold my nightdress from the rear and pull it tight, so the form of my body is exposed. I turn sideways and blush in satisfaction.

  I know how men talk about women. When Silvia and I were little, we often played around Papà’s workers, watching out of curiosity. Our presence was so natural and frequent, they rarely stopped their talk before us. And once we hid outside the small shed by Silvia’s cottage and listened to Cristiano and some of his buddies talk about girls. We listened till they said something truly obscene. Then
Silvia took me by the hand and pulled me away.

  I wanted to stay. I want to know what boys think. But no matter how hard I pleaded, Silvia wouldn’t hear of it. She said if anyone ever found out it was her who let me listen to such things, she’d get in trouble. But that was an excuse. Silvia didn’t want to stay for her own reasons; I’m quite sure she’s more put off by that kind of talk than I am. I believe it frightens her.

  I wondered after that if maybe there was something wrong about me. Something wicked. I confessed before Easter, of course. And I said the penance the priest assigned me. But I knew I’d listen again if the chance ever came. I guess that makes it not a true confession, but, well, some things the Lord has to forgive, or we’d all wind up in hell.

  Piero de’ Medici did me a favor that afternoon at his palace: there is nothing wrong with me. The memory of his sleazy behavior brings nausea. I am a decent girl. But I’m still glad that my body’s turning out the way it is. And I’m so very glad Giuliano said my smile is beautiful. I slip on a shift and run downstairs, armed with determination.

  Old Sandra is busy in the kitchen. The body of a plucked and gutted goose lies before her on the cutting counter. She is rubbing salt into the prickled skin of the goose. Mamma will stuff it later. She likes Old Sandra to gather the ingredients and do messy preparations, then she takes over for what she calls the creative part. The creative part of cooking is at the top of her list of what a good wife does.

  “Morning, Sandra.” I press my cheek to hers.

  “Ah, morning, Monna Elisabetta. Ain’t you up early.” It’s not a question.

  “Do you know where Mamma is?”

  “In the bedroom still, I imagine.” She flops the goose over and rubs the other side with salt, leaning her weight into the job. Her knobby fingers redden with the work.

  “Where are the cucumbers?” I ask, for I recognize this dish.

  “Ain’t you heard? There’s an outcry against cukes and melons these days. Them nobility of Florence. They got nothing better to do than make up cockamamie rules. And your mamma said we might as well be cautious.”