The Smile (17 page)

Caterina looks at me, then at Papà. She drops her fork and goes to Papà. “Speak to me, Antonio.” She strokes his ear lightly.

Papà wraps his arms around her waist. He buries his face in her abdomen. She caresses his head. The scene is so tender and private, I quick look down at my food.

Papà clears his throat. “It's everything, Caterina. Everything taken together. France united even before Spain, and it's richer and more powerful every year. The French king threatens to invade the Kingdom of Naples. Everyone sees the Italian states as markets or potential conquests.” He sighs and a sob catches in his throat. “We are in trouble, my lovely bride.”

“We? Our family?”

“All of Florence.” Papà squeezes Caterina so hard, I see her wince.

“We will make it through this, Antonio. You are a sensible man. I will never bring home tomatoes again. I'll throw them to the goats. We can toss this pasta to the goats, as well.” She frees herself from his arms and makes a dramatic throwing motion toward the window.

Papà gives a sad laugh. “Jewel of my life.” He laughs again. “Yes, dispense with the tomatoes. But there's no need to waste the pasta. Besides, we don't want to kill the goats with surprise at such remarkable luck.”

Caterina smiles at him. She carries the tomatoes into the kitchen and returns to her seat, and, amazingly, the meal goes on. Somehow men and women do that—they comfort each other and move on, no matter what's happening around them. I want to do that, too. I want to help Giuliano. “May I accompany you the next time you go to Florence, Caterina?”

She looks at me with delight on her face. “You must. For the very next visit will be to meet our new nephew, of course.”

“I want to go to Florence often.”

“Contessina's wedding feast had an effect on you, I see.” Caterina looks at Papà and he looks at her. A message passes between their eyes.

“Ordinary visits to Florence will not please you much, I'm sorry to say, little Betta,” says Papà. “The streets are overrun with gangs of wild boys. Still, Florence is good for special occasions. I've been thinking,” he says. “You'll turn fifteen in June. This seems the right year to hold a party for you. In the city.”

“A big one,” declares Caterina—and her look says it all: they have been thinking of me. I will have a party, my party, that thing that has become a phantasm. It's hard to believe.

We eat the rest of our meal quietly. As we finish up, we hear hoofbeats. A man bursts through the door without knocking. The pained look on his face is alarming.

“Cousin Ruggiero,” says Caterina.

He comes to stand near the corner of the table between Papà and Caterina.

“What is it?” asks Papà.

“Your sister, Camilla.” Ruggiero hangs his head. “I'm so sorry.”

With dizzying speed, we are once more thrown into a grief that dissolves us from the inside out. Camilla died in childbirth. The infant died, as well. She was a girl. Lost mother, daughter. Lost sisters. We are hollow.

PART Two

CHAPTER Thirteen

SEPTEMBER IS NEARLY UPON US,”
says Caterina. “Just another couple of weeks. I'm thinking October is a good party month—toward the end, when the nights are cool. Aunt Nanina, don't you think a party is due for our Elisabetta?”

“Overdue,” says Aunt Nanina, and the way she says it feels rehearsed. They've been talking about this without me, I'm sure. “We'll throw it in my city palace.” Aunt Nanina sits in her favorite chair like a queen on a throne, ready to give orders, which makes sense, since this is her domain—we're in her country house today. We've been helping her pack up to return to her city palace for autumn. “Let's make the guest list.”

The two women look at me expectantly.

A terrible stone of worry tumbles in my middle. If we really plan a party for me, something major is bound to happen and stop it. For this is the party we would have had when I turned thirteen, if Mamma hadn't died. And the one we would have had when I turned fourteen, if Papà hadn't married Caterina and I hadn't recoiled from both of them in spite. And the one we would have had at the beginning of this summer, on my fifteenth birthday, if Camilla hadn't died in April.

Poor Caterina. Is she ready for a party? She marches brightly from day to day, acting cheery, especially around little Bartolomeo. But there are moments when such a savage loss fills her eyes that I have to turn away to keep from crying for her. I've gotten good at making pasta in the shape of her beloved doves, which I serve her often.

“Let's wait for spring,” I say. “In October everyone's thinking ahead to the winter festivities. No one will want to take the time to come to a simple party for me.”

“A simple party?” Aunt Nanina points to her footstool. “Sit down here, Elisabetta.” I sit obediently. “In my family we don't do simple parties. Everyone will happily make the journey for this party.”

“Everyone will be ready for a celebration by then, anyway,” says Caterina. “The summer started so badly. But people are feeling more optimistic now. It should be a good olive harvest, after all.”

She's right. In June it rained so hard, the Arno overflowed and flooded the cornfields. Since the corn was near ripe, the harvest was lost. It was disaster; though corn is a grain that came to us only recently, it's already become crucial. And not just for animals—everyone but the very rich eats it nearly daily. But the new crops are doing well. And the fruit trees bend under their loads. Yes, October will be a good time for a party. And, truth be told, now that I face the real possibility of a party, I don't think I can wait much longer; I haven't seen Giuliano since his sister Contessina's wedding. I hug myself at the rush of feelings that come unbidden. Nothing bad can happen this time. “All right, let's make the guest list. First of all, Silvia.”

“I don't recall a Silvia.”

“She's my best friend.”

Aunt Nanina looks at Caterina. “What family is she from?”

Caterina comes to stand beside me. She rests her hand lightly on my shoulder. “She's the daughter of Giacomo, a worker at Villa Vignamaggio.”

“Well, now, let's not be ridiculous,” says Aunt Nanina. “It's time for more suitable friends.”

“They're very close.” Caterina's eyes flash warning at Aunt Nanina.

Aunt Nanina's eyes flash right back. She looks at me. “This girl cannot come.”

“We grew up together, Aunt Nanina. We tell each other everything. We . . .”

“Country ways are regrettable. And you are old enough now to realize that, Elisabetta. In the presence of the Florentine nobility, you will do nothing regrettable. And certainly not at a party in the Rucellai palace.”

“But . . .”

“Caterina and I will make the guest list together, without your help, Elisabetta. In fact, we'll do all the party planning. This is the best thing for you. Trust me. Now go take care of little Bartolomeo.”

I open my mouth to object, but Caterina's hand clutches my shoulder so hard, I have to hold in a yelp.

“He's in the kitchen,” says Caterina. “Go be with the sweet joy of your life.”

I blink back tears and seek out my nephew. He comes quickly to me, holding the toy goat I made him by the neck. It's quite limp and worn now, for he takes it everywhere. I lead him out the rear door and into the grasses, where we roll in the sunlight.

Bartolomeo's time is split between Aunt Nanina's summer home and Villa Vignamaggio, where he comes for weeks at a time. After his mother's death, the child was forlorn, going from room to room saying, “Mamma?” There are still moments when he seems confused. We make him jellies then, all in different shapes and colors. Caterina sings to him and I roll with him in the grasses.

But now I'm rolling not to comfort him, but to gain comfort, for Caterina is right: Bartolomeo is the sweet joy of my life. Holding him feels as though I'm being held—all safe and simple. Oh, I wish things were simple now. I have no sense of how to tell Silvia she can't come to my party. Her exclusion is wrong, very very wrong. But I want this party. I want it so much. My head feels like it will explode.

The next day, we ride in the coach back to Villa Vignamaggio. Caterina talks to me over Bartolomeo's head. “You're so good with that child. You belong with him. And he with you.”

“I love him.” I run my fingers through Bartolomeo's curls. “I'll love him all my life.”

A small cry flies from Caterina's throat. “Just as my sweet sister Camilla would have.”

“Caterina . . .” I look at her beseechingly. “Silvia is as close to a sister as I've ever had. Is there nothing I can do to change Aunt Nanina's mind about her?”

Caterina shakes her head and her eyes grow shiny. “Silvia wouldn't feel at ease at the party anyway. You must know that, Elisabetta. She practically merged with the walls at my wedding feast. And that was in a home she knows well. She would suffer at the grand Rucellai palace.”

I turn away and look out the window. Caterina is wrong— Silvia will suffer much more from not coming. But I won't press. Not with those tears in her eyes.

I'm surprised that Caterina noticed Silvia's behavior at her wedding feast. That must mean she noticed mine, as well. I search my memory for details of that day. I felt beastly then, but I hope I didn't do anything too beastly. I don't want Caterina to remember how I acted when I hated her, especially since she was so nice to me through it all. She actually laughed when Uccio jumped in her new fountain and splattered water all up her wedding gown.

We arrive home cranky and tired. So it's only right to wait till the morrow to talk with Silvia. That's what I tell myself, as Uccio and Bartolomeo and I all curl up together to sleep.

In the morning, I take Silvia by the hand for a walk in the woods. “I'm going to have a party at the end of October,” I say softly.

“The blessèd event at last.” Silvia squares her shoulders and smiles with satisfaction. “I hope it's in time. My pa's breathing down my neck. He wants to marry me off to Rocco or Tomà or Alberto. He doesn't care which. All he wants is to get rid of me. Next week is my fifteenth birthday—I won't be able to hold him off much longer. But I think I can make it to the end of October.”

I look at the ground and pretend to pick my way carefully. “Oh, yes, your birthday. I'll make you a special dinner again. Tripe—you love tripe. I remember. With carrots and celery and new onions and . . .”

“Hush about my birthday. It's the party that matters.” She squeezes my hand and hurries along through the undergrowth. “Every bachelor within a day's travel will come, I bet. We'll both find husbands.”

“Silvia, you're rushing . . .”

She slows down. “Sorry, I'm just so excited.”

“That isn't what I meant. Silvia . . . Silvia . . . you're not coming.”

“What?” She stops and moves to stand in front of me.

“You're not invited.”

She looks stricken. “You don't want me?”

“Don't be daft.” I take her hands. “I fought, but Aunt Nanina won't allow it.”

“Aunt Nanina?” She pulls her hands away. “Who cares about her? It's your party.”

“In her palace.”

“Then don't have it in her palace. Villa Vignamaggio is perfect for a party. You saw how beautiful your pa's wedding was. We can . . .”

“It has to be at Aunt Nanina's. And Caterina says you wouldn't be at ease in such a rich palace.”

“Oh, so it's for my own good that they shut the door on me. Ain't that just the cunningest reasoning ever.”

“You're right. Caterina said that just to comfort me, I'm sure.”

“Comfort you? I'm the one needs comforting. I'm the one hurt.”

“It cuts me, too, Silvia. You're my very dearest friend. I want you there.”

“Then fight harder.”

“Aunt Nanina has decided.”

“And she's in charge, eh? She ain't even blood related to you. She ain't even blood related to Caterina. So why's it got to be at her palace? Oh! Her noble palace. In the middle of Florence. I understand. I see it all now.” She holds her nose and marches past me. “It stinks like dung here.” She breaks into a run back toward the house.

I run after her. “You don't understand.”

She twirls around. “Of course I do. I know you, Elisabetta. You want to seal things.”

“Seal things? What are you talking about?”

“You have your party in some rich palace and everyone sees— everyone knows you're top nobility now. So Giuliano chooses you. This is all you hope for in the whole world. Don't lie to me. Lie to yourself if you want. But don't never lie to me.”

I feel like all my blood has flushed away. I throw my arms around Silvia and cling to her. “I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry.” And I'm sobbing.

She stands in my arms like stone.

“I'll have the party at home,” I say.

“No, you won't.” Her words are ice.

I step back and swipe at my tears and look at her. “I will. It's better that way anyway because . . .”

“Hush.” She puts a warning finger up in front of my face. “Not one more false word. Not one, or I might just rip your hair out.” She digs her fingers into her scalp and looks as if she's about to rip her own hair out. “It's unfair.” She breathes slowly and deeply and loudly. “But life's unfair. Nobility and peasants—they don't have real friendships.”

“That's not true! You're my best friend!”