The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (27 page)

What was it to be? A life without love or a life without family and religion? I had one week to decide.

FROM DANILO’S ARCHIVE

TO GRAZIA DEI ROSSI, THE MANTOVAN JEWESS

The fame that resounds in my ears about your virtue and goodness prompts me to offer the hand of friendship. Listen to my advice. Convert to Christianity and live your life illuminated by the Holy Spirit. For the one flesh-and-blood mother that you renounce, you will find ten more through the love of Jesus Christ. The Madonna of Mantova will be a mother to you. My sister, both my sisters-in-law and myself will be mothers to you. Nor will you lack a gracious husband. Lord Pirro Gonzaga longs for you so much that the wretched man is at risk of losing his head for the love of you. The poor little thing is falling apart like a snowflake that the sun has discovered.

Come to see me within the week. We will debate. I will pull the scales from your eyes. The blindness of the Hebrew faith will become clear to you. Trust me. I speak to you in perfect faith. I have read in the book of the Jews called
The Sanidrin
that the Messiah was born the same day the temple was destroyed. Do not allow yourself to be deceived any longer by your doomed rabbis ignorant of both human and divine doctrine. Instead, join me in Christian fellowship where you will enjoy a husband who is wise and courageous and neither importunate nor wearisome. Every time I hear his witty narrations I am afraid I will die laughing as Philomene, the poet, or Philistione, the actor, did. No melancholy humor will ever reside in your house. Sad thoughts will keep far away from you. I assure you on my faith that you will be more loved by him than Euridice was by Orfeo, than Aspasia was by Pericle, than Orestia was by M. Plautio.

Think and examine well what I’ve told you. Come to me as a sister in Christ. Beautiful and pleasant thoughts to you. May God illuminate you with the living rays of the Holy Spirit and guide you to do the right and wise thing.

Isabella d’Este da Gonzaga

17

A
close reading of Madonna Isabella’s letter left no room for doubt. Although it was couched in the scholarly style of a
disputa
putting forward the superiority of Christ’s religion to the religion of Moses, the true message was that I must convert or sacrifice her support.

As Plautus’s jest goes, it was not difficult to make up my mind; I made it up several times every day. Each time one of my brothers sought me out for heart’s ease or protection, I knew I must stay for their sake. The next minute, having forgotten to bow or ask permission to leave the room, I would suffer such a stinging rebuke from Dorotea or my father that I knew I must flee from this tyranny to the kinder arms of strangers.

Then, on the very day of decision, Papa summoned me to his
studiolo
to tell me that he had acquired a fine new jennet for my use. This gift of love came to my troubled spirit like a message from the angels. Papa did love me. He had opposed his wife for my sake. I could not betray his trust. I would sacrifice love for duty.

But no sooner had I decided than Virgil’s words came back to me, the words spoken by Anna to Dido when she decides to give up Aeneas.

Will you wear out your life, young as you are?
Will you live alone sorrowing and pining, never to know
The crown of joy that Venus gives?

Yes, Anna, I answered. I will give up my youth and the joys of Venus, which I have barely begun to enjoy. And I will live on alone, sorrowing and pining forever.

But the stoical mantle of Dido which fitted me so well on my walk through the house and across the yard was cast off the moment I stepped foot in the stable and beheld my lover. One look and I threw myself into his arms, weeping.

That is how we were discovered, there in the open horse stall where any passerby could see. By my cousin Ricca.

One shriek and she was off to alert the household. At my urging Pirro scuttled up the ladder to the hayloft. His presence could only embarrass him and harm me.

Moments later, they entered the yard like a trio of inquisitors: Papa, Dorotea, and Ricca, the informant.

“He was there with her in the horse stall,” she announced, pointing to where I stood. “They were embracing. I saw it with my own eyes”

“Is this true?” Papa demanded.

“Yes, it is true, honored padre. I was about to —”

“Do not speak. You have nothing more to say to me. Go to your chamber. Go now. Go before I give in to a terrible urge to beat you until you bleed.”

“For shame,” Dorotea murmured under her breath as I walked by. No further words were spoken to me that day. No one came to my room, not even my brothers. I could only assume they were forbidden my company on pain of severe punishment.

I lay awake until the first hours of the morning living and reliving the day’s events, flagellating myself for carelessness, folly, and self-indulgence. Toward the early morning hours I heard the rings of my bed curtains scraping on the rod and found myself looking into the watery blue eyes of Rabbi Abramo.

“Good morning, my daughter.” The oily patina on his words told me he was in his pastoral mode. “I am here on behalf of your loving parents,” he announced. Had they suddenly been struck by paralysis, I wondered bitterly, to have to send an emissary up the stair to speak to me?

“They are sorely tried by your betrayal of them,” he went on. “But I have assured them that you cannot be held accountable for your actions. The evil that dwells in the hearts of all women has taken hold of you. Do not despair.” He placed his soft, damp hand on my arm. “These devils that dwell in you — for that is what they are — can be exorcised.”

“Of what does this exorcism consist, Rabbi?” I asked.

“Twice each day I will come to you and recite certain ancient prayers over you,” he answered. “Words of God, which reduce the power of the devil over your corrupted mind. As for your body . . .”

I held my breath.

“You will be bled every morning, starting on the morrow. And purged every night. And the apothecary will administer a klyster twice each week to complete the cleansing.”

Twice each week.

“How long . . .” I was too fearful to finish my question.

“One month will be sufficient. Of that I am certain. Of course, should the evil spirits prove to be obdurate . . .” He paused a moment to allow the implications of this threat to sink into my mind. “But let us not dwell on failure when success is assured. I never yet have failed with an exorcism. We will begin this evening after sundown.” The tight set of his thin lips persuaded me that there was no appeal against his remedy.

“Can I see my parents now?” I asked.

“You will see no one save myself — and the surgeon and the apothecary — for a full revolution of the moon. For the moment, your honored parents prefer not to see you. Think of the humiliation you have caused them and of the danger into which you have led this family. Begin your penitence by putting their feelings ahead of your own. And spend every minute of this day and the days to come transforming yourself into a virtuous daughter they can be proud of.”

Anger, which is a sin, is also an antidote to despair. The anger that rose up in me gave me the strength to resist, that and the knowledge that I had a bed waiting for me at the
casa dei catecumeni
and friends eager to welcome me there. To give myself reassurance, I took Madonna Isabella’s letter from its hiding place and read, “. . . wretched Lord Pirro is at risk of losing his head for love of you . . . he is falling apart like a snowflake that the sun has discovered.” And, just above, “. . . my sister, both my sisters-in-law, and myself will be mothers to you . . .”

In those words I saw spelled out an entire new family — an adoring husband, a loving mother, loyal sisters. And, in time to come, children of my own, Gonzaga children, fair like their father and strong and fearless like him.

That evening the rabbi came to me as he had promised and chanted his ritual prayers and offered me his purge, for which I thanked him humbly. I even sank to my knees at the bedside so that his last sight of me that night would be of a penitent girl praying to God to help her fight off her devils.

“May the devil take you, Jehovah, you old whore,” I mumbled silently to myself, as I gazed reverently up to heaven. “May you fall into a pit with your prophets and your angels together. And may you drink piss for wine and eat cow’s dung for meat and may you choke on the shit sliding down your gullet as you descend into hell.”

At midnight, the watchman passed beneath my window. “Ring, oh ring, the heavenly bell,” he chanted. “’Tis the sixth hour of darkness and all is well.”

That chant was my signal. I must be packed and gone between now and the matins bell. Into my sack went Cicero’s
Orations
, Caesar’s
Commentaries
, and my “French lies.” I hesitated over my Virgil — an illuminated manuscript that I had borrowed from the warehouse — for I was determined to take nothing of value that might brand me as a thief. But in the end I threw it in the sack. I could not bear to part with it.

I left no note. Instead I made a little pile on my pillow where it would be noticed, of my Hebrew grammar, Maimonides’ commentaries, and my velvet-bound prayer book. Then I laid upon this stack of rejections all the pieces of jewelry that Papa had given me over the years — my pearl necklace, my ruby pendant, and my little diamond ear clips.

Down the corridor my brothers lay sleeping. Gershom’s even breathing was in no way disturbed when I touched my lips to his. But as I bent down to embrace Jehiel for the last time, his thick, sweeping lashes fluttered and his eyes slowly opened. He intuited in a glance the reason for my midnight visit.

No cry escaped his lips. But his deep, dark eyes spoke their own language. He held out his arms, pleading to go with me. Reluctantly, I shook my head. Somehow he understood. Beckoning me back to his side, he reached up and, taking my face in his hands, drew me down to him and kissed me full on the mouth, as brothers and sisters are warned never to do. Then, he let me go.

All that remained now was to recross the
cortile
, gather up Fingebat and my few possessions, and slide down to freedom. But my feet, unbidden by me, made their way to the room where Papa and Dorotea slept. I found them in each other’s arms tightly entwined, like twin snakes. That sight set my hesitant feet firmly and finally on their way.

Releasing Fingebat from his bondage to the pillar was easy work. The heart of a champion was buried in the salt-and-pepper coat of that small fur ball. At first sight of me, he did give out with one delighted yip, but a single “Shh!” stilled his bark. Prohibited from barking, he made his pleasure known by covering my face with eager little licks as we climbed up the ladder to the loft. And he applauded my efforts to lift the trapdoor by jumping up and down in a frenzy of encouragement. The trapdoor was beyond my strength, but miraculously it slowly yielded to my muscles. One last hoist and it fell back with a clatter, revealing the
vicolo
below. I slung my sack over my shoulder, clasped Fingebat tight against my breast, and leapt to freedom.

Any city assumes different guises according to the season and time of day, but none more so than Mantova. At sunup, the moisture that rises from the surrounding lakes burns off and reveals the place for what it is — a small, neat town of no particular distinction except for the Reggio (and the most distinguished thing about that collection of palaces and gardens and fortresses is the question of how so many of them can be crammed into a space not much bigger than Campo Marzio). That is Mantova by day.

But in the hour before dawn, with only the occasional torchlight to penetrate the mist, a wavering diaphanous fog obscures the outlines of the buildings, and Mantova is a city out of one of Maestro Piero’s magic landscapes. As I walked through it, this landscape came to life before my eyes — a figure here, a rustle there, the unmistakable odor of a gutted animal wafting past my nostrils. Each of these small assaults upon my senses nudged the still life into action.

My way to the
casa dei catecumeni
was strewn with memories. I passed the Via Peschiara, the fishmongers’ street, hard by the house we had lived in, in happier times. And the Street of the Jewish Goldsmiths, where I had seen the dancing bear on the day of Fra Bernardino’s sermon. And the Street of the Christian Goldsmiths, where I had seen the friar’s boys brandishing their knives. That day I had been running away from Christians. This time, I was rushing headlong into their embrace.

The house set aside for converts was hidden away on a piazza between the Street of the Christian Goldsmiths and the Via Peschiara. It was not a formidable place, simply an ordinary two-story structure with a small cloister adjoining.

I peered through the iron pickets of the fence. The cloister looked green and peaceful. As I watched, a cleric all in black walked round and round under the colonnade, counting his beads. His hood was up, so I could not see his face. But he certainly did not swagger like a bully or a torturer.