The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (20 page)

Between my grandmother and me the old war continued as before. This time what brought us into contention was my costume. La Nonna and her ladies had strong opinions on color, trimming, accessories, caps, hair arrangement, and every other aspect of female fashion. Just as it should be, since none of them had ever been seen in anything but black bombazine since the day she was married — a fashion experience which fitted them uniquely to select a costume for a queen.

What they concocted was a shapeless, dowdy outfit in shiny gray satin which they thought to spice up by tacking onto it hundreds of little red satin bows. I knew that this mismatched creation would make me into a figure of fun. And when I asked to see myself in a mirror, my worst fears were confirmed. All that was needed to complete the picture of a fool was a cap and bells. And so I informed my grandmother.

The aspersion on her taste sent her spine — never notably pliant — into a spasm of rigidity. “This is the garment you will wear, my dear,” she informed me in her most steely tone.

“No, I will not, Grandmother,” I replied, equally obdurate. “For it is tasteless and vulgar and stupid and silly and makes me look more a fool than a queen.”

There we stood, centurions of the sewing room, neither willing to give a cubit. Luckily, at that moment, a referee appeared, none other than Maestro Ambrogio, our old dancing master, who had been hired for the day to give me lessons in how to turn and make a low bow without tripping over my train. He took one look at me and erupted into a flourish of giggles, pointing at me as if I were a buffoon in a clown suit. I could not have coached him better for my purpose.

“What is this apparition supposed to represent, Madonna Sarabella?” He inquired between hoots.

“It is the Jewish queen, maestro,” La Nonna replied sternly, drawing herself up into her most regal attitude, the one where her ample breasts pointed straight out like twin
bombarde
.

But the maestro had seen too many displays of female armamentaria to be intimidated. “This girl is supposed to be a queen, madonna, not Punchinello,” he admonished her.

“But we thought the satin would do . . .” I had never seen my grandmother so out of countenance.

“Well, you people can practice whatever foolish economies you wish.” The maestro dismissed her creation with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “But don’t be surprised if the Duke has you all on the rack for mocking him with this travesty. He expects something rich and regal from the Jews. Pearls, he said. And velvet. And jewels out of your strongboxes, fit for a queen.”

A new costume was begun that very day, the most beautiful gown I had ever seen. Where they found the stuff to make it, I do not know. It was a velvet so thick that even the February cold did not penetrate its great heft. And the fur that lined my cloak was the most excellent miniver. They piled gold on me until I felt faint from the weight of it. And then finished by placing on my head a tiara so thickly studded with emeralds and carnelians that you could hardly see the gold mounting beneath.

But all this splendor was laid upon me so coldly and with such disdain that had it not been for the warmth I drew from Penina, I think I would have perished from the frigidity of my surroundings in spite of my miniver cloak.

Fortunately I had little time for hurt feelings. I had to learn how to walk in a train almost two meters long without tripping myself, how to curtsy to the floor in a very low-cut dress without exposing myself immodestly, and most important, how to mount and dismount an elephant.

At our first meeting, the beast, whom Penina and I named Sarabello on account of his resemblance to my grandmother, proved no challenge to my courage. A special pen had been set aside for him just north of the city gates and there he sat on his huge haunches, his eyes closed as if in a stupor, refusing to budge. If elephants can be said to have moods, I would have said Sarabello was morose. Penina surmised that he missed his mother. Whatever the cause of it, Sarabello demonstrated a most peaceable nature that first day. His keeper, a strange little brown man in a huge white turban, had him already saddled in anticipation of my arrival. Now all I had to do was mount the beast, sit balanced on his back under a
baldacchino
for a few moments, then dismount.

Eyes firmly shut, I ascended the ladder that my cousin Asher, appointed as my groom, balanced against the beast’s side. I was terrified. However, the ascent was accomplished without incident. Then began the effort to force the beast to stand up so that I might get the feel of riding him. In vain did his little keeper prod and poke him. No reaction from the beast. As a last resort, the keeper picked up a pail of water standing nearby and threw it full force into the elephant’s face. All it got him was a high toot and a blast of wind. The beast had made up his mind to stay put and no power on earth, it seemed, would make him move.

With a shrug, the keeper beckoned me to descend. I did so thankfully. And no sooner had my feet touched the ground than Sarabello slowly but not ungracefully raised his great bulk into a standing position. Whereupon all those assembled applauded wildly and the elephant curtsied daintily. A charming performance but not one to bolster my hopes for the actual wedding procession two days hence.

The day of the wedding dawned clear and very cold. As a concession to the weight of my costume, I was carried on a litter to my rendezvous with the elephant. My grandmother and her ladies and several of the
parnassim
walked behind me in a solemn procession. Every expression, every look in that morose group foretold disaster. I kept my spirits up by fastening my eyes on the shining countenance of my friend Penina, who had vowed to follow the procession on foot for its entire length.

Finally we reached the appointed place. Once again my cousin Asher took hold of the ladder to balance it up against the side of the elephant so that I might mount. But this day, our beast was disinclined to make himself agreeable. With one tremendous throw of his huge body, he shunted the ladder to the ground. And then, as if to make his intention clear, he smote it into splintered sticks with one stamp of his great foot.

I saw myself lying dead on the Ferrarese cobbles, thrown down by this ferocious jungle creature and trampled by him — just as the ladder had been — before anyone had a chance to drag me to safety . . . if, indeed, anyone made the effort, an unlikely possibility since all my
famiglia
wished me dead.

I looked to Penina for reassurance. She cast a weak smile in my direction. Even she had lost faith in the enterprise.

Meanwhile, Asher had been sent off for a new ladder, leaving me to saturate my eyes with the sight of the unruly beast and fill my ears with the raucous trumpeting that filled the air.

Just then, my attention was arrested by the fast clip-clop of a horse approaching from the direction of the
castello
. Could this be a messenger from Duke Ercole canceling the appearance of the Jewish queen? Had God taken pity on me?

When the rider rounded the corner and made straight for me, hope flooded my being. His velvet doublet and heavy golden chain marked him as someone more distinguished than a mere page. And the manner in which he dismounted and strode toward me, straight as a rod, marked him as some sort of knight. Despite my agitation, I also managed to observe that he was very young and that his legs and thighs were most beautifully formed.

Now he stood before me, this knight, the Este colors streaming from a plaquette pinned to his
berretta
marked with the initials PG. Every inch the courtier, he thrust one elegantly shod foot forward and, sweeping his cloak behind him, bowed low.

“Respects, ma’am,” he began. “The Duke sends his best wishes to the Jewish queen for a safe journey atop the beast. And the bride, Madonna Anna, begs her to accept these colors as a token of gratitude for the fine wedding offering.”

Thereupon, he brought out from under the folds of his cloak a carved wooden box and opened it to reveal ribbons to match his own — one red, one purple, one black, held together by a small gold plaquette in the shape of an elephant.

“May I?” The young cavalier held out the plaquette with the intention of pinning it to my breast. I had but to lean forward to receive the attention. Would that forward gesture make me appear bold and common to him? For a moment I stood poised on the decision. Then, I chanced to look up and found myself staring directly into his eyes. They were the color of cornflowers, clearer than the most perfect sapphire stone.

As they say of such encounters, the world stopped turning at that moment. God knows how long we would have stood there with our eyes locked in embrace had not Sarabello chosen that moment to relieve himself at our feet.

Jarred into action, the young cavalier neatly sidestepped the cascade and, without waiting for my permission, fastened the colors over my shoulder and across my breast. He managed to avoid looking any longer into my eyes; he also managed to brush the tip of my breast with his hand. Oh, the touch!

Then, before I had the chance to utter a word, he was off. I watched him stride across the square to remount his jennet and jump directly onto his horse from a standing start. The last impression I had of him was a black velvet
berretta
streaming ribbons among a shower of copper curls.

My fears forgotten, I mounted the elephant lightly, as if wafted up by a zephyr, and proceeded to drift through the streets of Ferrara on the back of the beast, oblivious of the tumultuous crowd, the spectacular floats, the gorgeous costumes, and the decorations that transformed Ferrara into a garlanded fairyland. All I heard was the sound made by the beaded fringe of the canopy as it swayed from side to side — a soft repeated click — and all I saw before me was the remembered vision of a pair of cornflower-blue eyes, a slightly off-center nose, and a devil-take-it grin. I passed that ride in a dream of love.

When the procession reached its destination at the Reggio, darkness was beginning to descend. There I said farewell to Sarabello and swept into the
castello
on Asher’s arm. Would my Knight of the Este Colors be at the feast? I wondered. Would he speak to me? Would he even recognize me?

He seemed not to be present at the banquet, a sumptuous repast featuring tables piled with capons, fish, pies, and the most elegant pastries cunningly molded into figures and glazed with colored sugar to resemble polychromes. Nor did I find him in the audience for the masked dancers who entertained the gathering after supper nor among those who crowded the floor for the common dancing. I did, however, recognize the young princess, Isabella, come from Mantova for her brother’s nuptials and looking every inch a marchesana in black velvet — the better to display her infinite pearls. Her head swathed in a huge turban, her hair pulled tight back in the
scortino
style, she captivated me with her aura, a mixture of the majestic and the exotic.

Even in the bloom of her youth Madonna Isabella was never truly beautiful. The Sforza bride had a longer neck than she and a smaller waist. But our Madama far outshone the pallid bride, waxen with fatigue after the long day’s exertions, who approached each step with a deep sigh. By contrast, Madonna Isabella had plainly thrived on the events of the day. The Estes are relentless processionists. Any one of them, even the fat cardinal, is capable of riding a caparisoned horse for leagues on end, tossing out sweetmeats or coins and smiling, always smiling.

Like most of the Ferrarese who were invited, Asher and I did not presume to dance but only stood by and watched. And at last, I did catch a glimpse of the young knight who had brought me the colors that morning. Seeing him whirl by with this great lady or that, I did not expect him to notice me. But I would have eagerly given ten years of my life — no, twenty — for just one turn around the floor in his arms.

Beside me, Asher jiggled his foot impatiently. The gaiety and music that fed my fantasy gave him vertigo. Could we not, he pleaded, make our bows to the Duke and go home? The tinge of green that tinted his cheeks spoke eloquently in his cause. I agreed.

Without much difficulty we found the Duke seated in a robing room, his gouty foot propped up on a stool.

“Sir . . .” I greeted him with the curtsy I had practiced.

“Ah, the little Jewess . . . Grazia, is it not?”

“Yes, sir. And this is my cousin Asher dei Rossi.” Asher managed an unsteady bow.

“You have done your people proud today, Grazia. You made a courageous queen.” He reached out and patted my head. This was the time to plead for my father. I would never have a better opportunity.

“Excellency, is it appropriate for me to beg a great favor of you on this happy day?” I asked in my humblest manner.

“Ask away.”

“It is about my father, sir. He longs to be restored to the light of your sun.”

“Daniele’s exile is no doing of mine, child. It is a matter for the Jewish council to settle.”

Did I sense a lowering of the temperature? No matter. Once begun, I must finish my task. “But your word carries such weight, Excellency,” I continued.

“You want me to intervene with the Jews for Daniele — is that what this is all about?” His manner was suddenly brusque.

“Yes, sir.” I took a deep breath and launched into my oration. “It would seem a hard thing to an ordinary man to take the part of one who had injured him as my father injured you, sir. But to men of generosity and greatness of soul such as your Magnificence, it is a natural and easy thing to forgive a crime and to go beyond even that largeness of spirit and befriend the criminal. I beg you, sir, to shower your compassion on my unworthy father.”

With this, I prostrated myself at his feet and crouched there waiting for his response. It was not long in coming.

“Get up, girl,” he ordered me gruffly. “You take a great liberty to bother me with such a sordid matter on this happy occasion.”

“I chose the occasion because I knew that your heart would be full this evening and hoped it might be full even to the overflowing.”