The Smile (6 page)

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.”

It strikes me that Old Sandra talks as though we aren't part of the nobility of Florence. I suppose it's not disrespectful. After all, we don't live in the city, though we're still within the boundaries of the republic. So in the strictest sense, in the city sense, we're not part of the nobility of Florence. But what irritates me is the slightest suspicion that maybe she doesn't consider us nobility at all. She's our servant, so she has to see us as higher than her. But higher doesn't necessarily mean nobility. Maybe she even thinks Mamma puts on airs to ban cucumbers and melons.

She's old. And she takes good care in what she does. And, well, I like her too much to say anything now that might cause her distress. I go back upstairs and stand outside Mamma and Papà's door. I listen. Rustling sounds come. I put my hand on the door latch, then hesitate. Piero de' Medici's words come back to me; some herbs enhance amorous prowess. He listed parsley, rucola, mint, and anise. Papà's favorite dish has parsley and rucola. Mamma's favorite drink in the morning is mint brew.

A strange sensation runs from my belly up my chest. Like fast fingers touching with only the barest tips. I've never thought of my parents' activities in bed. And I don't want to, ever. I calm myself and knock primly.

“Betta?” comes Papà's voice. “Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what's stopping you? Come on in, my little almond.”

With relief, I rush in and climb onto the bed between them, like I used to do when I was small. We're squished, of course; I'm not small anymore. And both Mamma and Papà have widened in the past few years. But I like it. So I stay there.

“Is something on your mind?” asks Mamma.

“My party. I turn thirteen in a month.”

“We've been talking about that,” says Mamma. “Just now.”

I swallow.

“Florence is behaving like mourning is over.” Papà beams at me. “So why shouldn't we? Let's have that party, right on schedule.”

“Oh, yes.” I hug Papà. “Thank you so much.”

“Which means we have to act quickly, Elisabetta.” Mamma gets up and fetches a dress from her closet. “We must get the invitations out immediately, so everyone can save the day. We have to engage the musicians. Then there's the menu to settle. And getting the dress made. And, oh no, I haven't done anything about getting your
cassone
painted—that wedding chest must be vibrant. And the flowers. And . . .”

“I'll take care of the flowers, Mamma.”

“By yourself?”

“Why not? I don't care about the rest—except for the dress, and I already did my part by designing it. But I do know flowers. The Greve flower show starts today, in fact.” I jump off the bed, excited by the coincidence. “Isn't that perfect? Why, I can go and buy pots and pots of things to scatter all around the house and on both sides of the walk to the front door and, well, everywhere.”

“But will they last till then?”

“I'll get plants with lots of buds. And kinds that bloom over and over.”

Mamma smiles broadly. “That'll be lovely.”

Papà claps and shakes his hands together. “I'll get Giacomo's son, that Cristiano, to drive you to the market in the big wagon.”

I haven't seen Cristiano since that day in the woods, more than a month ago. I wonder if he ever entered his wildflowers in the fair at Foiano della Chiana. Maybe he's already planning on bringing some to Greve today, despite the fact that there's no purse to win. I could tell he really cared about the flowers for their own sake, no matter what he said.

So it's fine for Cristiano to drive me. It might even suit us both. But I don't want to be alone with him. “I'll bring Silvia, too,” I say brightly. “She has a good eye.”

“But a poor mouth,” says Mamma. “I don't like you listening to her rough peasant talk.”

“Cristiano talks the same way, and you didn't object when Papà proposed him.”

“Cristiano is a boy. You won't be conversing with him. You'll just tell him which plants to pick up and put in the wagon. But with Silvia, I know how it is; the two of you chatter nonstop.”

I pinch my lower lip. “How will it look for a noble girl to be in a wagon with a young man and no one else? Especially a young peasant man.”

Mamma stops dressing and looks at me. “Clever again. You use my own worries against me.” She shakes her head. “I miss your old direct ways, Elisabetta. All right, I can ask Sandra if she'll accompany you.”

I look to Papà for help. He just watches Mamma and me with a half-amused expression. I could strangle him. He should be on my side, for I'm always on his. I'm his amazing daughter. Has he forgotten? Help me, my eyes plead.

But his don't change. This is my battle. All right, then. I shall be direct. “Old Sandra needs to stay with her ailing husband, Mamma. We both know that.” I go to her and wrap my arms around her waist. “Talking with Silvia hasn't changed my talk. Listen to me, Mamma. Hear me. You understand me better than anyone. At times better than I wish you did. You know I obey you. I don't adopt Silvia's ways of speaking.” Even when she makes fun of me, I think. But I don't tell Mamma that. Besides, Silvia hasn't said a peep about my language for a long time now.

Mamma takes a deep breath and strokes my hair. “I don't know why you're so set on her. You should have outgrown that friendship by now. It only happened because you're so isolated out here. The two of you have little in common. But all right, take her. As your helper, not your friend. And outfit yourself properly. A nice dress.”

“A shift makes more sense, with all the dirt from the plants and everything.”

“You won't touch the plants. Cristiano will. And Silvia will.”

“But . . .”

Mamma puts her hand up in the halt signal. “What if someone should see you, Elisabetta? Aren't you the one who just brought that possibility to my attention?” Her face softens. “You know I want the best for you. Always.”

I wonder if her idea of best might be at odds with mine. But I love her so much. I kiss her on both cheeks.

Soon I'm sitting on the wagon bench beside Cristiano. Mamma wouldn't hear of me sitting in the wagon bed with Silvia. Especially not in my dress. Arranged like this, it's hard to talk. So we're silent most of the way to Greve.

The main piazza of Greve overflows with flowers. My chest swells in happiness. Children run through the pots, pointing at the brightest ones, the biggest ones, the most unusual ones.

And there are some unusual ones, indeed. Black roses. I've never seen such a thing. As I approach, I realize they're not really black, but of such a deep, rich red, they appear black from a distance. Beyond them is a tall bush of shiny, thick green leaves all peppered with large pink buds that I'm sure will open before my party. “Good day, fine lady,” I say to the vendor. “Can you tell me about your flowers?”

“They're not for sale, if that's what you want to know.” The woman is dressed well. Not richly, but not in farm clothes. She has a city accent.

“What a pity. I'd love to have some for my party.”

“These flowers are beyond the means of a girl like you.”

I stiffen in offense. “Please state your price.”

“I told you, they're not for sale. They're here only to allow the country folk to see what fine things grow in the Medici gardens at Careggi.”

“Medici?”

“Those roses you had your eye on are from Spain. And these . . .” She points to large white flowers. “They're sea daffodils from Crete. They don't usually bloom till autumn, so that makes them even more special. And those ones over there . . .” She points at small blue buds. “They're also from Crete. Those irises bloom only in the second half of the day. At noon you can watch them open. We have Egyptian lotus. And African vines.” She waves her hand expansively. “We have everything.”

“And how much did you say the roses are?” Roses keep blooming. They'd be perfect.

“Persistent, eh?” One corner of the woman's mouth goes up reprovingly. “The Medici don't sell. They keep or give. Nothing in between. And I don't see my master about to give you anything.”

Could this woman be any ruder? “Who might I ask is your master?”

“Giuliano de' Medici himself. He oversaw the selection of which flowers to bring.”

My heart thumps like a fist. “Is he here?”