The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (58 page)

“We meant no disrespect,” my grandfather muttered.

“Certainly not to Messer Judah,” my grandmother added, careful not to include me in her admission.

“If that is so, then have the humility to change your stance. Cover the windows of this house. Hang the crepe over the door. Close up the
banco
.”

“Not the
banco
! That is impossible.”

The
banco
. Money. Profit. Greed. That was what lay at the bottom of their intransigence. Now I understood. But understanding only made me more implacable.

“Either the
banco
will be closed or I will call Judah away from his service to the French,” I announced. “But remember this: If you are excommunicated the dei Rossi bank may be closed forever, since no other Jew will do business with you.”

“The girl is a witch,” my grandmother muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

“No, Grandmother. Not a witch. Only a loving child who insists that proper respect be paid to her parent.”

In the end they capitulated. They had no choice. All my threats were backed with truth. Judah, a stickler for observances, would have been hugely offended. He certainly would have taken the matter up with the great rabbis of the large cities where he was so well known. And excommunication was a very real possibility.

That night, Asher was sent to me with their counterproposal. They would close up the
banco
and rent a stall in the marketplace in which to conduct dei Rossi business.

Only on condition that no blood member of our family worked in that stall, I rejoined, and sent Asher back to them with my condition.

After a pause of some time he returned. They had agreed.

The skirmish was over. I had won. But I knew the battle would go on. And so it did. For the entire month, the house was a theater of war: Gershom, Asher, and I against the rest, with Jehiel hovering uncertainly between the opposing forces. It was surely the most unpleasant month of my life. Only the thought that I would soon be able to leave, and leave with honor, sustained me.

But before that happy escape, there was the will to be attended to. I had given it over to the family lawyer for safekeeping with instructions that the seals not be broken until the thirty days of our mourning were done. Until then I had refused to discuss the matter. But sure enough, on the thirty-first day after my father’s death — the very day that the
banco
reopened and the curtains came down — La Nonna summoned the lawyer and ordered all of us into the
sala
for the reading of Papa’s will.

The document began with expressions of love and regard for his family and a wish to be pardoned for any wrongs he had done any of us; not an endless palaver of ethical platitudes like the introductions to some wills, but a clear straightforward message from the heart — very much in Papa’s style.

Then came the bequests. As the old lawyer began to read in his sententious voice, everyone in that room leaned forward, each face a picture: Gershom, confusion; Jehiel, apprehension; Dorotea, avarice; Ricca, a smug satisfaction that I could not read.

“To my firstborn son, Jehiel, I leave my astrolabe . . .” Jehiel clapped his hands together in undisguised glee. “And my share of cargo in the good ship
Helena
bound this year of 1496 for the Occident. Should she return safe to harbor in Venezia, he will be a rich man. Should she founder at sea, he must depend for his future upon his own wits and whatever patrimony comes to him upon the death of his grandfather, head of the house of dei Rossi.”

At once all eyes turned toward my grandfather. But he simply nodded and kept his own counsel.

The lawyer continued. “To my beloved daughter, Grazia, wife of Judah del Medigo, I leave all my books and I urge her to share this treasure with her brothers at such time as either shows an inclination toward scholarship.” I thought of that small library now residing in Finzi’s warehouse, not more than twenty volumes in all but each beautifully made. The illuminated Maimonides I vowed to send for at once and to keep by my bedside so that I might read a little of the wisdom of that great sage each morning of my life in Papa’s honor. For he valued Maimonides above all the wise men of Israel.

Lost in these lofty thoughts, I almost missed the second part of my bequest. “Also to Grazia, I bequeath my house in the Via Sagnola where she lived her early years. And I instruct her to share it with her brothers should they ever need a roof, an instruction I know to be unnecessary because of the great love these three children of mine bear for each other.”

“You did well to worm the house out of him,” Dorotea whispered sharply in my ear.

“What house?” My question was genuine.

“What house indeed! My house, that Daniele promised to me, as if you did not know it. Shame on you, taking advantage of a man too sick and weak to resist your pleas.”

This time she forgot to whisper. And even my grandfather seemed distressed by her show of temper. “Control yourself, Dorotea,” he cautioned. And to forestall any further outbursts, to the lawyer: “Continue, maestro. And speak up, please.”

“I speak as loud as I am able.” The lawyer sniffed twice through his thin, pointed nose and continued. “To my widow, Dorotea, and to her children, Asher and Ricca, I leave my present house on the Via San Simone and all the furnishings thereof —”

“But that house is condemned,” Dorotea interrupted. “It is being torn down by order of the Gonzagas.”

“My uncle could not have known that at the time he drew this will,” Asher answered her evenly.

“Then we must have the other house in its place,” she announced, rising to her feet. “Is that not a fair interpretation of my uncle’s will, maestro, since he meant us to have the better house?”

“I doubt that the law would see it that way, madonna,” he answered quietly.

“But this arrangement goes against Uncle Daniele’s wish.” No triumph now on Ricca’s face, only undisguised rage. “Uncle did not intend to see me and my mother on the street. He meant for us to have a fine house. Besides, Grazia does not need a house, do you, Grazia? You will give us the little house, will you not, Grazia?” she wheedled.

“How Madonna Grazia disposes of her inheritance is not the issue here, little lady,” the lawyer cut in, somewhat testy now. “The terms of the will are clear. The house in the Via Sagnola is hers. And the house in the Via San Simone is yours. And if there is no longer a house in Via San Simone, that is God’s will and you had best accept it.”

Whereupon Dorotea shrieked, “
Dio
, You have made me a homeless widow and my children two homeless orphans. Why me? Why me?”

I could have told her, but even I had not the gall to pretend to interpret God’s intentions. I simply sat silent, eyes lowered, and waited for the next
bombarde
from the lawyer. But before he could begin, my grandfather rose from his seat and, in a gesture of compassion unprecedented for him, placed his hand on Dorotea’s head and patted it once or twice. “Do not weep, daughter,” he said. “You will always have a home here with us. You and your children are dear to us. And remember, Daniele’s is not the only patrimony in this family. I cannot live forever.”

“Oh, Grandfather, do not even say that.” Ricca sprang up. “I cannot bear to think of life without you and La Nonna. Remember you promised to dance at my wedding. And at the birth of my first son. Promise me you will not die.”

Plautus could not have written her speech better. And the vain old man sucked in every false word like a bee sucking in nectar.

But Dorotea was not so easily distracted. She knew her father-in-law’s capricious nature and the value of his promises. And one look at me must have assured her that she would get my mother’s house away from me over my dead body.

When at last the list was done the lawyer took a deep breath and asked for a glass of wine, which he downed in one gulp as if to fortify himself for the next explosion.

“While my younger son, Gershom, remains short of his maturity,” the reading went on, “I commend the management of his affairs to my daughter, Grazia, and her husband, the renowned physician del Medigo. It is my wish that they supervise his education and guide him in the way of an honorable life. To assist him in reaching his goal after he is grown, I bequeath to him my life’s savings, a sum of some twenty thousand ducats on deposit at the dei Rossi
banco
in Ferrara. That sum ought to buy him a good wife and a house in which to put her when the time comes.”

“But that is
my
money!” Once again Dorotea rose to her feet. This time her eyes were wild and her shout a shriek that could have been heard as far as the
castello
. “That money is mine. He has no right to it.” And before anyone knew what she was doing, she had rushed across the room and grabbed the terrified boy by his hair. “Give it back, you little swine. Daniele promised it to me. You have no right to it.”

It took all our efforts to subdue her. She clung to that child’s hair like a drowning man to a raft, and left him in a state near to shock. I determined then and there to make self-defense a part of his education as soon as I took charge of him. No man should be defenseless against attack in this violent world. Nor woman either.

After some moments of confusion Dorotea was led off, still wild around the eyes and threatening to sue my hapless little brother, who crouched shuddering in the crook of my arm. And La Nonna glowered at me as if I were responsible for the entire farce.

“Is it true, Grazia? Did my son promise his wife the money?” she demanded.

“I have no idea, Grandmother,” I replied tartly.

“Very strange. Very odd,” she muttered. “But then my son always was a strange one.”

“He was an honorable man, a fine husband, and a good father to his children,” I retorted.

“Still quick to take offense, Grazia?” Her beady little eyes squinted over at me. “I had hoped that marriage would soften you.”

“My honorable husband finds me the gentlest of wives,” I replied. “But he would not expect me to stand by and hear my father slandered.”

“Nor I.” A little voice beside me piped up. Gershom.

“Be quiet, child,” she grunted.

“At any rate you will not have to put up with my odious presence any longer. Now that our mourning is over, there is nothing to keep me here.”

“As you wish,” she answered coldly. “Can we finish up quickly, Ser Moshe?”

“There is little more to be read, Madonna Sarabella,” he answered. “Only a few small bequests to some old servants and retainers. To a cook named Rosa, five gold ducats.” Poor old Rosa with the red nose whom Dorotea had dismissed. “And to Uncle Zvai of Bologna, twenty gold ducats.” Dear old Zio Zeta. I had a sudden longing to see him again. We would be passing through Bologna on our way back to Firenze. I made a note in my mind to inquire if we might stay in the little house on Jew Street. I would show Gershom the place where he had suckled at Gelsomina’s breast. And Jehiel . . . I turned to look at him. To my astonishment, his lips were red with biting and his breath was coming in short, angry bursts.

Did he too feel cheated by Papa’s will? It seemed unlikely. And yet there he sat, his face working in a most agitated way. I must sort this out at once.

“Are you angry with me about the house?” I asked him as soon as the lawyer had left the room.

“How could I be angry? You deserve the house. You nursed Papa. You cared for him. Dorotea ran away. She deserves nothing.”

“Then what is troubling you?”

As I had so often seen him do in the past month, he stood silent, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

“Come, Jehiel,” I urged him. “Tell me. Whatever it is, we will always love each other. Maybe I can help.”

“No! You will not understand. And you will try to dissuade me. But I will not be dissuaded, Grazia. I have made up my mind.”

“To what?”

“To stay here in Ferrara with La Nonna and Grandpa and to marry Ricca.”

My face must have turned quite pale with shock.

“I love her, Grazia. We love each other,” he went on, speaking very fast. “Everything is all arranged. Grandfather says he will persuade the Duke to give me a post in his foundry.”

“A foundryman? Is that your ambition?”

“Papa understood me. I knew you would not.”

“I do not mean to be hard on you. But you are my little brother.” I leaned over to embrace him but he turned his face away.

“I am not a baby, Grazia, to be rebuked and then fondled and forgiven. I am a man.”

“A man! At fifteen!”

“I will soon be sixteen. Old enough to do a man’s work. And to perform a man’s duties in the bedroom as well. Look. Look at this arm.” He rolled up the sleeve of his
camicia
. “Do you see those muscles? They are a man’s muscles. I am a man now, Grazia. I do not need a mother.”

“Nor a sister? Nor a friend?” I asked.

“You will always be my sister. And I hope my friend. But you cannot run my life. I am not made like you and Judah. I know you despise me for it but I am not.”

“We do not despise you.”

“He does.”

“Perhaps he expects too much, but he loves you as I do.”

“No, Grazia. If we are to be true friends we must have truth between us. Your husband despises me because I am not a scholar. He regards me as an ignorant lout. But I have my own ideas, Grazia. I have already learned the watchmaker’s art from a master in Mantova. And I have designed a small crossbow that catapults an arrow much more fiercely than a mere archery bow and is light enough for a man to carry in the hunt. It is almost done. And when I have finished it, I will present it to the Duke — you know he loves both hunting and new gadgets — and I am certain to get an appointment at his cannon foundry.”

“You want to spend your life making cannons?”

“Not only cannons. Other machinery. Battering machines. And hoists. And fording craft. And even bridges. I like to make things, Grazia. You could never see that.”

“You never tried to make me see it, Jehiel. You have avoided me ever since I came here. In all our days of mourning, never a smile from you nor a touch on the arm.”