The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (57 page)

“And what of you?” I asked. “Are you impervious to the night’s vapors?”

“I will manage,” he replied.

“You will manage to catch catarrh,” I corrected him. “Come and lie by me. I insist.”

I could see in his eyes that he longed to join me in the cozy warmth of the covers but modesty held him back.

“Please, cousin,” I urged. “I do not wish to journey forth tomorrow in the company of sniffles and coughs. Come.” I patted the pillows invitingly. “Bring the candle. I have Finzi’s inventory here. We can examine it together. Then our last task will be done.”

The suggestion of duty moved him. He did as I asked. And we did sit together and examine the inventory. At least, he did. I merely went through the mummery for his sake.

I have vowed to be honest in this
ricordanza
. Very well, honesty you shall have, to the best of my ability to reconstruct the events of that night. The initiative was mine. I was the one who intrigued my cousin into my bed on the pretext of working over the Finzi papers. I did believe, when I proffered the invitation, that I meant nothing more by it. But once I felt the weight of his body beside me and the warmth of his breath on my cheek, I began to feel stirrings.

At this point I could retreat into metaphorical vagueness and tell you that what happened between my cousin Asher and me was the assertion of the life force in the face of death. All of us court poets are masters of that sort of twaddle. But looking back, I understand that I wanted to lie in a man’s arms that night; I wanted to be possessed by another, stronger being; I wanted to feel my weakness surrounded by a pair of strong arms, to be taken away, out of my sadness and loss. Asher struggled manfully against temptation. But he was no match for my desperate need to be loved.

It all happened quite easily. Quite naturally. Knees touch. Bones thrust. Bodies adjust, closer together with every move. I bury my head in my cousin’s broad shoulder. Softly, he smooths my hair. I raise my face. He kisses my forehead. My cheek. He groans. I open my eyes. The longing in his eyes is unbearable. I kiss his lips. His teeth are clenched tight. Slowly I feel them open to the soft pressure of my tongue. His mouth is liquid. I drink in the nectar, tasting each drop with my tongue.

Passion is like lightning. A chain of reaction. The flame ignited by the kiss rages through our two bodies and down to the nether regions. I feel the hardness of his member and I long to be possessed. Taken over. Taken away. Another groan. “No, Grazia.”

“Yes,” I insist. And so we consummate the moment. And when that act has been performed we fall into a dreamless sleep.

The
bargello
’s men arrived at our door before the light. At the first sound of their pikes against the portal, I jumped up out of bed, leaving Asher, a sound sleeper, safe in Morpheus’ arms.

On my way down the stairs, I heard the sergeant giving orders to his men to fetch the battering rain. “No need for that, good sir,” I shouted through the door. “I will gladly give you entrance just as soon as I unbolt this door.”

It was a disappointed face that leered at me when, a few seconds later, I managed to disengage the bolt and open the door to him.

“Good morning, sir,” I greeted him. “Please come in. We will be gone as soon as our horses arrive.”

“And when will that be?” he growled.

“Any moment now. But pray begin. The courtyard is cleared. And the stables.”

“We begin at the top,” he blustered. “Those are my orders.”

“Very well then,” I replied. “We will conclude our packing with utmost speed. It will take but a moment.”

The more accommodating I was, the more irritable he became. I daresay he resented being cheated of the use of his battering ram. “It will take whatever time I grant you, lady,” he snarled. “Up the stairs . . .” He gave me the barest shove. “I will come along to make certain you do not tarry.”

You cannot imagine Asher’s face when he saw the uniformed sergeant glaring down at him, a pike held aloft like the devil’s pitchfork. For a moment my poor cousin must have thought he had died and gone to hell.

“This gentleman is the representative of the
bargello
, Asher,” I informed him. “He has come to help us pack.”

“I have come to escort you out, lady,” the irate sergeant sputtered. “And you too, whoever you are.”

“This is my cousin, Ser Asher dei Rossi,” I offered politely, as if we were all at a ball, after which neither of the two men had much choice but to salute each other, which they did with equal truculence.

I reached down to the floor where Asher’s garments lay in a little puddle and handed them to him. “I am certain the sergeant will be patient while you say your prayers, cousin,” I advised him. “Is that not so, sergeant?” It was hard to say which of the two was more ill at ease, Asher in his nakedness or the sergeant in his frustration.

“And what is to become of this bed, eh?” The sergeant poked my arm. “You can hardly carry it out on your back.”

What a time for a grand gesture! I could hear myself saying, “You can keep the damn bed. Or give it to the poor. Or burn the cursed thing for all I care.” But alas, deep down, I am a pragmatist and so I answered him that Ser Davide Finzi’s men would be along shortly to take the bed away. And in fact, the Finzi wagon and our horses arrived together a few moments later.

In no time at all Asher and I were mounted and out the stable gate. I looked back only once, just in time to see the first thrust of the battering ram against the facade of the house. The last sound I heard in the Via San Simone was the clatter of a hundred bricks falling.

38

I
slept in Asher’s arms all the way from Mantova to Borgoforte, where we stopped to transfer to the barque that would carry us along the Po to Ferrara. It was there that I vowed to forgo the easy refuge offered me by my cousin’s affectionate embrace.

“Here begins a new life,” I told him as we waited our turn to board the craft. “We must leave the past behind us in Mantova and go on with our lives.”

“I have been thinking the same thought, cousin,” he answered. “You are a married woman, much as I might wish it otherwise.”

“Shh!” I stopped him. “We must not even speak of the matter. Let us go back to the way we were before Papa’s funeral. Brother and sister.”

“No use, Grazia,” he replied dolefully. “That night is emblazoned in my memory as if branded there. I will never forget it.”

“Oh yes you will,” I assured him, with a confidence I did not feel. For I knew the hopelessness of trying to expunge memories of love. “Once I am gone from Ferrara it will be easier.”

“Easier for you. Because you are blameless in this business. But I took advantage of you in your moment of distress.”

“No. It was I, Asher. I led you on.”

“Do not try to lighten my guilt, Grazia. I know what I have done.” Oh, he was contrite. No doubt of it. And guilt-ridden. But beneath his self-castigation, I sensed a deep current of pride and realized that I must give up my share of guilt in the cause of his manliness.

If ever I had imagined my grandparents’ house as a refuge in my bereavement, I was quickly disabused of that illusion. My first sight of the portal sent a message to my brain that something was not right. But fatigued as I was, and nervy and drowned in sorrow, my mind could not capture the precise cause of my unease. That only became apparent after we had entered the house and been greeted by my brothers. As I clasped Gershom to my bosom my eyes focused on his little waistcoat. It was robin’s-egg blue, not black. And his
calze
were parti-colored. Now it came to me what I had missed outside! Where was the swag of black which announced to the world that this was a house of mourning?

They have not heard of Papa’s death, I thought. The messenger we sent ahead has not arrived. But Dorotea’s first words dispelled that thought. “My sympathies, Grazia. We were all grieved more than I can tell you by the news.” She made as if to kiss my cheek but I managed to sidestep her embrace.

“Where is your widow’s veil, Dorotea?” I asked. “And why are not the boys dressed in black?”

“The rabbi tells us that my honored husband’s house is the mourning place,” she answered.

“But that house is half destroyed by now. And there is no one in it to light the candles or say the prayers.”

“Then we are excused.” She shrugged. “It is an act of God.”

“Excused!” I shrieked. “Excused from paying respect to my father? Well, perhaps you are excused, madame. But I am not. Nor my brothers. Call the servants. I want black cloths placed on these windows. And over the door.”

“But you cannot,” she wailed. “Rabbi Abramo says —”

“To hell with the rabbi!” Dorotea gasped. “And to hell with you as well. For hell is where you will certainly be sent for this sacrilege. Now call the servants.”

“I cannot call the servants.” She was shaking now, edging herself out of the room. “This is not my house. Nor is it your house. It is your honored grandfather’s house. And you can speak to him yourself.”

With that she rushed out, followed by a smirking Ricca and leaving me with my brothers and Asher.

“You must go with her, cousin,” I counseled him.

“I must do no such thing, cousin,” he replied, bristling. “I must go with you to our grandfather and complain about this outrage. And the boys as well. We must all go. Come along, Jehiel. Gershom.” And out they marched into the courtyard, leaving me to follow behind like a docile female.

What a change had come over my timid cousin in four days. I can only conclude that sex holds much more magic for men than it does for us women. For I have never seen a virgin bride transformed into a virago by having her hymen broken.

Across the courtyard and into the
banco
trod the little procession. Straight up the staircase to the strong room. In all this perambulating we saw no sign of La Nonna or of my old enemy, Giorgio. But I knew we would soon have the pleasure of seeing them. For Dorotea could be counted on to deliver an instant report of my rash words.

And sure enough, we had barely had time to greet my grandfather in his counting room when in rushed La Nonna — eyes smaller and more squinty than ever — followed by her minion. The years had not been kind to Giorgio. Bent over now with a back hump, his feet bandaged from gout, he shuffled rather than strode and would have presented an altogether pathetic sight had I not remembered the misery he inflicted on me in the days when he was strong. Such memories corrode the wellspring of pity even in the softhearted. I glared at him and uttered no word of greeting.

“Still making trouble, Grazia?” was my grandmother’s greeting.

“More than ever, Grandmother,” was my reply.

Obviously my father’s death had changed nothing between us.

“Now, what is all this fuss about black curtains?” she demanded.

“I and my brothers are in mourning for our father, who died five days ago at Mantova. You and his father ought to be in mourning too. He was your son,” I answered.

“Are you presuming to tell us our duty?” she demanded.

“It appears that someone must.” To my surprise my voice emerged from my throat without a quaver. “All I ask is that you pay the proper respect to my father while I am in this house. When the month is up I will return to Firenze with my brothers and you can dance naked in the
sala
for all I care.”

It was an unnecessary crudity. But I was mad with rage.

Now my grandfather spoke up. “Rabbi Abramo has counseled us on this matter.”

“So I heard,” I retorted.

“Do you presume to put yourself above a rabbi in interpreting the Holy Words?”

“When the interpreter is a bought toady, a virtual catamite, I do indeed put myself far above him. Had I not more important things to do with my time, I would initiate proceedings against him with the
Wad Kellilah
. I still may ask my honorable husband to do so when he returns from Napoli. For I believe that what this scurvy priest has agreed to here is sacrilege.”

“And so do I,” Asher added. Bless him.

“And I,” echoed Gershom.

But not a word from Jehiel. The poor boy stood silent in the center of the room, uneasily turning his head from side to side.

“This house must go into deep mourning for one month,” I announced firmly. “Out of respect for the loss of the eldest son. I will not see my father’s memory shamed by anything less.”

“And if we do not agree?” my grandfather inquired, icy and hostile.

“I will return to Firenze at once with my brothers and trumpet your sacrilege the length and breadth of this peninsula.”

“Unfortunately, your reputation precedes you, granddaughter,” La Nonna spat back. “Who will believe the word of a known
catecumena
, a girl who ran off with a Christian, who denied her religion and disgraced us all?”

“Perhaps they will not believe me, Grandmother,” I answered, for indeed she had a point. “But what Jew in this peninsula would doubt the word of Judah del Medigo? Or in Constantinople or Cairo or even Jerusalem for that matter? Remember, my honored husband is known, respected, and trusted throughout the Jewish world. And I assure you he will be horrified by this disrespect to me and to himself.”