The Birth of Venus (10 page)

“And who has told you that? Not Plautilla. She is not so cruel.”

I hesitated. “No, not Plautilla.”

“Tomaso.”

I shrugged.

She thought about it. “Your brother has an acid tongue. It would perhaps have been better not to have made an enemy of him.”

“It was none of my doing,” I said sullenly. “He finds it easy to take offense.”

“Well, no matter. When it comes to important things, blood is thicker than water,” she said firmly. “So let us think about the shoes.”

Thirteen

P
LAUTILLA WAS LIKE A SHIP IN FULL SAIL. EVEN HER FACE
was plump. It was almost as if she were disappearing inside her own flesh. Her hair had lost its fairish tint. No time for dyeing now. With that bulk she probably couldn’t make it as far as the roof anymore. She didn’t seem to mind. She was thick and placid, like an animal slumped at the water hole, too big to move. But then it was very hot.

We were the first to arrive. My mother brought sweetmeats and sugared almonds, and Plautilla showed us round the newly decorated bedroom. There were new tapestries on the walls and on the bed a set of hand-embroidered sheets, monogrammed with the family crest and a border pattern all around. The baby’s crib was to the side, filled with a white damask coverlet fringed with gold and silver. The wedding chest sat in a place of honor, the dancing Sabines looking too energetic now for the stifling heat. Does men’s lust grow sluggish at such times? Certainly a child conceived in high summer was considered suspect; something to do with the double heat of the air and the lust, but then I was not old enough to have been taught the inner rubric of such things. No doubt it was an education to come.

I had heard from Tomaso that Maurizio had wagered 30 florins against 400 that the baby would be a girl. That way his disappointment might be compensated by his winnings, though I doubt it would have covered what he had paid out for all the accessories. Everything was according to the fashion: fragrant white wines for the mother-to-be and a brace of young pigeons for after the birth, because their flesh was easy to digest. You could hear the birds cooing, oblivious of their fate, in the courtyard below. The midwife was retained, the search was on for a suitable wet nurse, and the room was furnished with objects of taste: small devotional paintings and statues so that during her labor Plautilla might look on only beautiful things and so increase the beauty and character of the child. I was impressed. Maurizio, it must be said, had done everything his chubby pigeon of a wife could wish for.

“Mama tells me the painter has done the birthing tray,” she added breathlessly, as we reached the end of her inventory. “She says it is wonderful. I asked for the Garden of Love on one side and the grid of a chessboard on the other. Maurizio does like to play,” she said, then giggled girlishly at her own words.

Would I too be saying things like this when I was married? I stared at my fleshy, happy sister in a kind of horror. She knew so much more than I did. How could I ever get around to asking her?

“Don’t worry,” she said, poking my arm conspiratorially. “Now you are bleeding you will understand it all soon enough.” She made a face. “Though I must tell you it is not like reading books at all.”

So what is it like? I wanted to say. Tell me. Tell me everything. “Does it hurt?” I said, almost as if I hadn’t intended to.

She pursed her lips and looked at me, savoring the moment of power. “Of course,” she said simply. “That is how they know you are pure. But it passes. And then it is not so bad. Really.” And I thought looking at her that she meant it, and for the first time I realized that my vain, silly sister might have actually found something she could do well in life. It made me glad for her and even more terrified for myself.

Our conversation broke up as new guests arrived, friends of the family, all bringing their small offerings. Plautilla moved around them, laughing and smiling. Then the gentleman joined us.

He was wearing a wine-colored velvet cloak, finer than the one in church, the like of which my father would definitely have approved. He looked older than the other times I had seen him, but daylight is crueler than candles and oil. He noticed me as soon as he came in, but paid his first compliments to my mother. I saw her fold her hands over each other and give him her full attention. It was presumably not the first time they had met. Was I surprised? You know, I am still not sure. Someone told me much later that you always know the people who are going to make a difference in your life, from the very first time you set eyes on them, even if you do not like them at all. And I had noticed him, as he had me. God help us.

I caught Plautilla in one of her billowing sidles across the room and pinned her to the nearest wall, or as near as her belly would permit.

“Who is he?”

“Who?”

“Plautilla, I cannot pinch you as I used to. You might go into labor and I could not bear your screams. But once your baby is born I can pinch
it
with impunity, since it will be years until it can blame me.”

“Alessandra!”

“So. Who is he?”

She sighed. “His name is Cristoforo Langella. He comes from a noble family.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “So why would he be interested in me?”

But there was no time for further gossip. He had already left my mother’s side and was heading our way. Plautilla broke away from me and sallied across the room, smiling. I stood rigid and studied my feet, my posture defying all rules of charm and femininity.

“Madam,” he said, bowing slightly in front of me, “we have not, I think, been formally introduced.”

“No,” I muttered, darting him a glance. There were heavy crow’s-feet around his eyes. At least he knows to laugh, I thought. But can he do it with me? I looked at the floor again.

“So, how are your feet today?” he said in Greek.

“Maybe you should ask them yourself?” I answered, in a voice that reminded me of my childhood tantrums. I could feel my mother watching me, willing me to behave. While she couldn’t hear what was going on, she would know my facial gestures well enough to mark sarcasm from acquiescence.

He bowed again, much lower this time and addressed the hem of my gown. “How are you, feet? You must be relieved there is no music.” He stopped, then looked up and smiled. “We saw each other in church. What did you think of the sermon?”

“I think if I were a sinner he would have me smelling the boiling oil.”

“Then you are lucky that you are not. Do you think there are many who hear him and don’t smell it?”

“Not many. But I think if I were poor I would hear the screams coming from my betters first.”

“Hmm. You think he preaches rebellion?”

I thought about it. “No. But I think he preaches threat.”

“True. Yet I have heard him vent his spleen on everyone, not just the rich and the frightened. He can be very critical of the Church.”

“Perhaps the Church deserves it.”

“Indeed. You know that our present pope has a picture of the Madonna painted above the entrance to his bedroom? Only she has the face of his mistress.”

“Really?” I said, momentarily seduced by such superior gossip.

“Oh, yes. It is said his table groans under the weight of so many roasted songbirds that the woods around Rome are silent now, and his children are welcomed into the house as if sin were no sin at all. But then, to err is human, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know. I suppose that is what the confessional is for.”

He laughed. “Do you know of the frescoes of Andrea Orcagna in the refectory of Santa Croce?”

I shook my head.

“He paints the Last Judgment with nuns’ heads between the Devil’s teeth. And Satan looks as if he is suffering indigestion from the number of cardinal’s hats he has swallowed.”

Despite myself, I started to giggle.

“So tell me, Alessandra Cecchi. Do you like the art of our fair city?”

“Oh, I adore it,” I said. “And you?”

“The very same. That is why Savonarola’s words don’t freeze my soul.”

“You are not a sinner?” I said.

“On the contrary. I sin often. But I believe in the power of love and beauty as an alternative route to God and redemption.”

“You follow the ancients?”

“Yes,” he said, in a theatrical whisper. “But tell no one, because the definition of heresy is getting wider every minute.”

And naïve though I know it was, I found his conspiratorial manner rather thrilling. “Your secret is safe with me,” I said.

“I knew it would be. So tell me, what defense should one proffer when our mad monk lectures us on how illiterate old women know more of faith than all the Greek and Roman thinkers put together?”

“One should give him a copy of Boccaccio’s
Defense of Poetry.
His translations of the tales of the classical gods find only the most Christian of virtues and moral truths.”

He stood back and looked at me, and I swear I did not misread the admiration in his eyes. “I had heard that you were your mother’s daughter.”

“I shouldn’t take much comfort in that, sir. My brother is fond of telling everyone that while she was carrying me she saw violence in the streets and it curdled me in her womb.”

“Then your brother is cruel.”

“Yes. But he may still be honest.”

“Still, in this case he has made a mistake. You enjoy your studies. There is nothing wrong in that. Is it just the classics, or do you favor our own writers too?”

“I think Dante Alighieri is the greatest poet Florence has ever produced.”

“Or ever will. We would have no argument there. Can you recite
The Divine Comed
y
?”

“Not all of it!” I said. “I am barely sixteen.”

“Just as well. If you could recite it all, we would still be here at the Second Coming.” He looked at me for a moment. “I hear that you draw?”

“I . . . who told you that?”

“You must not be so nervous with me. I have already entrusted my secret to you, remember? I only bring it up because I am impressed. It is unusual.”

“It wasn’t always. In ancient times—”

“I know. In ancient times, Varro’s daughter Maria was celebrated for her art.” He smiled. “You are not the only one to be familiar with Alberti. Though he couldn’t know then that Florence’s own Paolo Uccello had a daughter who worked in her father’s workshop. The littlest sparrow, they called her.” He paused. “Perhaps you might let me see your work sometime. I would like that.”

A servant appeared at his elbow offering sweetmeats and spiced wine. He took a glass and handed it to me. But the spell had been broken. We stood silent for a while, both of us looking somewhere else. The silence grew, if not uncomfortable, then rich. Then he said, in the quiet voice he had used in the dance, “You know, Alessandra, why we are meeting here today?”

I felt sick to my stomach. Of course I should say no, as my mother might have taught me. But the fact was I did know. How could I not?

“Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

“Would that be acceptable to you?”

I looked up at him. “I was not aware that my feelings would be taken into consideration.”

“Well, they are. That is why I am asking you now.”

“You are kind, sir.” And I know I blushed.

“No. Not really. But I would like to think myself fair. We are both strange fishes in this sea. The time for fighting alone is drawing to a close. Talk to your mother. No doubt we will see each other again.”

He moved away from me and soon after took his leave.

Fourteen

T
HERE IS MUCH TO RECOMMEND HIM, ALESSANDRA. HIS
father and mother are both dead, so you will be mistress of your own house. He is well educated. He writes poetry and is a connoisseur and patron of art.”

My mother was too agitated to keep her hands in her lap. I had had a night and a day in which to become more anxious. “He sounds like the city’s most desired suitor. Why is he not already married?”

“I believe he was writing something and put all his energies into that. Then recently two of his brothers died, both without heirs. The name is important and he needs to preserve it.”

“He needs a son.”

“Yes.”

“Which is why he needs a wife.”

“Yes. But I think he may also want one.”

“He hasn’t wanted one before.”

“People change, Alessandra.”

“He is old.”

“Older, yes. But it is not always a fault. I would have thought you of all people would understand that.”

I sat looking at the wooden carvings on the settle. It was midafternoon and the rest of the house was asleep. The summer loggia at the top of the house was open to what little breeze the weather could offer, and its walls were painted the coolest of green to remind one of nature. But even here it was too hot to think. By this time of year we would usually be in the country, at my father’s farm. Our continued presence in the city was the sternest sign yet of his civic anxiety.

“What do you think of him, Mama?”

“Alessandra, I don’t know a great deal. The family is good; in that respect it would be a most honorable match. For the rest, all I can say is that he saw you at Plautilla’s wedding and a few weeks ago he made an approach to your father. He is not part of our circle. I hear that while he espouses learning he does not involve himself in politics. But he is cultured and serious, and given the tensions of the moment that may be more sensible. Other than that he is almost as much a stranger to me as he is to you.”

“So what is the
gossip
about him? What does Tomaso say?”

“Your brother speaks ill of everyone. Though interestingly, now I think about it, he has spoken no ill of him. I am not sure he knows him. But, Alessandra, the man is forty-eight years old. He will have lived his life up until now, of that there is no doubt.”

“Men live, women wait.”

“Oh, Alessandra. You are too young to sound so old,” she said, in the same voice with which she had calmed a thousand of my tiny storms. “It is not such a tragedy. You will see how to make it work for yourself. He may well enjoy his own company as much as you enjoy yours.”

“So it will be a marriage based on absence?”

“And none the less satisfying for that. You know there are things you do not understand yet, though you may find that hard to believe.”

We smiled at each other. This pact of ours had been forged early. The virtues that I didn’t have—how long was the list? silence, obedience, modesty, timidity—she would overlook in private as long as I did not humiliate her in public. She had taught me as well as she could. And I had tried. Really.

I wondered if this was the conversation that daughter and mother were meant to have before marriage and, if so, when we would come to the wedding night. I tried to jump the great chasm in my mind. I saw myself waking up in a strange bed, next to a strange man, opening my arms to greet another day. . . .

“I want Erila as part of my dowry,” I said.

“You shall have her. He will have his own slaves, but I am sure he will look favorably on ways to make you feel at home. When your father talked to him he was quite solicitous about that.”

There was a long pause. It was so hot. My hair was damp with sweat and my skin felt as if someone had sprayed it with warm water. In the streets there was already talk that this too was God’s punishment: He had stopped the seasons to show us the extent of His displeasure. I wanted nothing more than to bathe, then lie on my bed and sketch the cat as it lay sprawled across the coverlet, too indolent to move. Of my own volition, my life was about to be blown apart and I was almost too tired to care.

“So are you saying we are decided, Alessandra?” asked my mother gently.

“I don’t know. It feels so fast.”

“It was your decision. Your father says if the French come they will be here within the month. There will be little time for ceremony then.”

“Yet I thought the point of marriage was that it allowed us to prove our status to the rest of Florence. There won’t be much time for that now.”

“That’s true. Though in the present climate your father thinks that may be no bad thing. I find it hard to believe: Do you actually
want
to parade through the streets with everyone looking at you, having been scrubbed and groomed for weeks before?” And I thought for a second how frightening it would be to live without the one person who knew me almost as well as I knew myself, even if she could not always admit it.

“Oh, Mama. If it was up to me I would prefer to stay here, read my books, paint my paintings, and die a maid. But,” I said firmly, “I know I cannot do that, and therefore since I have to take someone, it might as well be him. I think he will be”—I roamed a little for the word—“I think he will be kind. If I turn out to be wrong, then he’s old and maybe he’ll die soon and I’ll be free.”

“Oh, don’t even wish that in jest.” Her voice was fierce. “He is not that old, and you should know there is no freedom in widowhood. You would do better to get used to the convent now.”

I stared at her. Had it ever been an option for her? “You know I still have that dream.” I sighed. “About the place where I would be allowed to do what I want. While honoring God for the privilege.”

“If there were such a convent, Alessandra, half the women in the city might wish to be in it,” she said, with quiet tartness. “So. It is decided? Good. I shall tell your father. I believe your husband-to-be would be equally ready for an early ceremony. There will not be time for us to commission a
cassone,
which means we must get a secondhand chest or use one that passed down through the family. If he asks, do you have any preferences for what the paintings might be?”

I thought about it. “I don’t mind which story, as long as it’s not that sad girl in the Nastagio story, chased by dogs and disemboweled. Let there be a lot in the art to look at.” I was back in a strange bedroom in a stranger’s house, and suddenly all my courage seemed to trickle away. “When I am married and gone from here, who will I talk to then?” I said, and I heard my voice split along the seam.

She looked taken aback, and I knew it had cut her too. “Oh, my dear Alessandra, you will talk to God. As you surely must. It will come easier there because you will be alone. And He will listen. As He does. As He did to me. He will help you to talk to your husband. In that way you will become a good wife and a good mother. And it will not all be pain, I promise you.” She paused. “I would not let that happen to you.” And I think as far as she could, she really believed that.

So it was that she spoke to my father that night, and the contract of consent between our families was drawn up that week, with the stipulation that the dowry requirements would be met within the month and the marriage celebrated and consummated on the same day.

WHICH WAS JUST AS WELL, BECAUSE FIVE DAYS AFTER OUR
CONVERSA
tion Charles VIII gave Florence his answer to her offer of neutrality. Having crossed the Tuscan border, he marched on the fortress of Fivizzano, sacked the town, and massacred the entire garrison.

In the cathedral the congregation moaned under Savonarola’s tongue: “For behold, Florence, the scourge has fallen; the prophecies are being fulfilled. It is not I but God who foretold it, God who is leading the armies. The Sword has descended. . . . Now it is coming. Now.”