The Smile (20 page)

Pinpricks fly up my arms, my neck, my temples. They make my ears ring.

“I cannot speak as openly with you now as I will later. But I have listened to you today. Your words make me admit things to myself that I hate admitting.” He pauses and sucks his top lip in under his bottom lip. “Monna Lisa, I promise you, I will never steal from anyone. I have ideas for a business venture. With this venture, I can live independently from Piero. I'll take care of you. There are villas to choose from in the Arno River valley. We can have the one in Fiesole, if you like. It's my favorite.”

He looks sideways at me.

I am staring at him. At this beautiful man who smells faintly of apricot preserves and has a voice with modulations that play my every bone. This miracle of a man. Only moments ago he seemed lost to me, and now he has turned the tables. No, not turned, he has spun them. Like a top. I, too, am reeling.

“When we were little, we went to our villa in Fiesole all summer. It may not give you all the joys of Villa Vignamaggio—joys I see you value so highly. One of which you shared with me that evening we spun silk—a moment I return to often in my thoughts. Always with gratitude.” Giuliano swallows, and that Adam's apple jumps again. “But this villa has other joys to offer. I remember it fondly. Poliziano tutored us there. Everyone says Giovanni is the brains of our family. But Piero wrote verse in Latin that was good. I remember a poem he wrote in praise of a pony—a nonexistent pony that he wanted Father to buy him.” He lifts both shoulders in a shrug that seems so defenseless, I'm charmed. “He wasn't always a lout, Lisa.”

“How did you avoid becoming one?” I ask sincerely.

He laughs heartily. “Lord, do I love your directness, Monna Lisa. You allow me to be a better person.”

No one has ever said something so wonderful to me. “I can cook,” I say in a burst.

“We'll have enough money to pay servants, Lisa.”

“No, no. Listen to me. I cannot wait to cook for you. I've been practicing for years. I thought I was paying homage to my mother's spirit. And I was. But now I know I was practicing for you, too. I'll make you meals so fine, you'll hum your heart out.”

Giuliano blinks. Then he smiles and shakes his head. “If you cook them, I'll stand on the table and sing.” His hand takes mine and squeezes as he pulls me inside a private garden through the servants' gate.

We're alone again. I'm not jittery this time, though. I'm flushed.

His hand moves to my cheek, touching ever so lightly. His eyes flicker a question. His lips come close. And he stops. I can practically taste apricot now. It becomes my favorite fruit. I will eat apricot preserves every morning for the rest of my life.

He moves just the slightest bit closer. His arms circle me and press me upward till I am standing on tiptoe. The heat from his cheeks caresses mine. His face comes closer. His eyelashes are thick and black as night. Closer. Until I am aching inside. The infinitesimal span between us holds all the dangers and all the promises of life. And I am ready for them. Yes, Giuliano. I tilt my chin upward and my lips meet his midway.

CHAPTER Sixteen

GIULIANO PLAYS KICK BALL WELL,
but nothing like Piero. Piero is a brute on the field. He attacks with vicious blows to belly and chest and has twice this morning rolled in a tangle of arms and legs with members of the opposing team, shouting obscenities to continue the scuffle. But he's also a natural athlete. He swiftly skirts around players coming right at him and aims the ball with alarming precision. He's made three of his team's five goals so far. I watch the game half-stupefied at the agility of this regrettable man.

The woman beside me leans closer. “Watching Piero, eh? Don't be too impressed. That scumbag does nothing but play ball all day. When he ain't killing someone, that is. All that Medici family, all their friends, all of them is scum really—the richer, the scummier.”

I close my arms into my sides and try to shrink away. What a thoroughly awful woman.

And to say that about Piero. The man may be a lout, but he surely hasn't killed anyone. I put that woman out of my head.

Still, I can believe Piero fritters his day away on kick ball. He's astoundingly good, totally decisive. Giuliano, on the other hand, is tentative; he plays at the sides of the action, always checking, always questioning. These strengths of his in talking and reasoning are weaknesses in athletics. A warm sense of satisfaction fills me. A rational, trustworthy man will make a much better husband than a gifted athlete would.

We have talked, Giuliano and I, laying out as many details as we could in the brief walk here. Tonight, during my party, he will talk with Papà. They will negotiate the dowry informally, because Giuliano will accept whatever Papà offers. Papà won't have to pay anything like the fifteen hundred large gold florins that most fathers of our particular standing give. And Giuliano doesn't need more property, so Papà can keep his holdings. Papà should be delighted—the announcement can be made before the guests go home.

With each word from Giuliano's mouth, my heart is more his. He even came up with the idea of asking Leonardo da Vinci to paint my wedding chest, since it was Leonardo who brought us together in the first place. What could be more perfect?

I never imagined that it was possible to be this happy. Giuliano's proposal was like a gift straight from God. The rightness of it is solid as marble.

I scratch Uccio behind the ears and watch the game and gloat at myself—at how timid I was about facing my own hopes. But now I can let all my feelings run free. Like streams in spring, they flood the land of my soul. The only breath of sadness I feel is that Mamma won't dance at our wedding. But she'll be there in my heart.

It is a pity that Giuliano is the baby of the Medici family instead of the oldest brother. Giuliano would be a leader who could maintain Florence's history. Just as he said, we're the center of the civilized world. Look at literature—at the great poets Dante Alighieri and Francesco Petrarca, and the bawdy storywriter Giovanni Boccaccio. All three penned in our language, proving it is just as good as Latin or Greek. That's what Caterina says. Indeed, there are more presses producing books in Florentine Italian than in any other modern language in the entire world.

And fine arts, ha! All people have to do to recognize Florence's superiority is keep their eyes open as they walk through the streets. No cathedral dome anywhere can be more beautiful than the one Brunelleschi built. No sculptures more fabulous than Donatello's. No doors more awe-inspiring than the bronze ones Ghiberti cast for the baptistery, the ones I pause before in admiration every time I pass. The grandeur of the spirit of Florence peeks out even from the corner eaves of buildings in the graceful ceramics of the magnificent della Robbia brothers.

We citizens of the Republic of Florence are heirs to the most remarkable heritage ever. Florence will not go down in ruin, no matter how dissipated a life Piero leads.

But Giuliano is not the oldest brother; he is in charge only of himself. He'll start a business. He hasn't told me what, but I trust him. Like Leonardo trusted him, when Giuliano was but a boy of seven. He merits trust. He isn't anything like his father. He won't have a mistress, like Lorenzo did, a mistress girls whisper about, saying she was the true cause of his premature death. Giuliano will love me and only me, always. And I will feel the same about him. We will make a good life together.

No, I have never dreamed of a city life. But I remember now the excitement I used to feel as a child when I came to town for festivals. The city has different charms from the country. And I will have a chance to understand so many of those charms better. I will learn to really appreciate art, not just gawk at it. Maybe I'll even read books for pleasure. Caterina can help me acquire some. But, how silly I am: the Medici library holds every text worth having. We can take what we want to our new home.

Our home. Together. The sun warms the air gently as a dream, and I grow complacent on fat plans.

A man behind me shouts, and quickly people are shouting everywhere. A player lies on the field with another standing over him kicking savagely. Neither is Giuliano, thank heavens. The aggressor is a particularly talented player, better even than Piero. The crowd eggs him on. Blood splatters. Still the crowd calls for more. These matches started as military exercises, and their history lives on in their brutality. I know this—it's why Mamma and I never went before—yet I can hardly believe this thirst for violence. My innards churn. I close my eyes. Something gets resolved, for the game goes on.

The men near me set to whispering. I'm so close, I can't help but overhear. They complain because Piero de' Medici has aligned himself with King Alfonso of Naples, and Naples is in a giant dispute with King Charles VIII of France. Immediately, my eyes fly open, every nerve ajangle. Papà fears France terribly. He spoke recently of how the French army was on the move, already tramping through the north of Italy. I bow my head, so it's not obvious that I'm eavesdropping.

“We're risking war.”

“And with the slime of the earth. The French army cuts off heads and burns homes to the ground.”

“And rapes any woman in sight—even girls.”

Papà never spoke about these things.

“The Neapolitans are worse. They treat their own people in the shabbiest way.”

“They're a disgrace. Everyone hates the Neapolitans.”

“Besides, business with France is important.”

“If Piero doesn't shape up and see that the real power lies with France, we'll all be paupers.”

“I've already lost my home to the bank. I'll never get back on my feet if Florence doesn't make amends with France.”

I chew on my knuckles. Giuliano's business will be ruined before it's begun. No. They have to be wrong. Florence cannot be ruined. I back away.

The kick ball game dragged on too long, but finally now it ends and the jousting is about to begin. Giuliano said he'd walk me back to Aunt Nanina's afterward, but I don't want to wait. It's already close to midday. And I can't stay near these stupid naysayers any longer. I skirt around the edge of the crowd till I catch Giuliano's eye. Then I wave and leave before he can even think about coming over to protest. The streets are brimming with traffic now—there's no chance that I'll face anything like what happened this morning with that gang of boys.

I run back to Aunt Nanina's, Uccio trotting beside me. Mindful of Giuliano's warnings, I avoid the Ponte Vecchio, the bridge that's always filled with beggars and prostitutes. Besides, the reek there from the butchers' shops turns my stomach. I go out of my way to take the Ponte alle Grazie. I run over the bridge, all the way, all the way.

“Oh, Elisabetta! There you are.” Caterina hurries to the entrance hall the second I arrive. She stands behind me as I close the door. “I'm sorry to say I have disappointing news.”

“Tell me.” And my heart already races. I knew something awful would happen—my party is doomed.

“Francesco got called away on a business matter, so he won't be with us this afternoon. But don't worry. He's sure to be back for the party. He wanted me to reassure you of that.”

“Is that all?” I actually feel wobbly from relief. “How funny of him. Little Bartolomeo wouldn't enjoy a party anyway.”

“Oh, your little boy is here. He's out back with a servant, chasing the peacocks. He already ate, with Antonio and Aunt Nanina. Because of the party preparations, we're just being casual for the midday meal, staying out of the way of the cooks. I haven't eaten yet, though. I thought I'd wait for you and we could share a quick cold dish.”

“That sounds perfect.”

She hugs me, then leads the way.

Her goodwill wraps around me, like swaddling around a baby. It was so sweet of her to wait to eat till I got home. I am overcome with gratitude at this small act of kindness. Caterina would clearly be a wonderful mother. Oh, I hope hope hope she becomes with child. I hope she gives Papà a son.

We eat, then Caterina ushers me up the stairs. “Aunt Nanina's servant girls have been decorating the dance hall since yesterday. You'll be amazed. And you wouldn't believe the amount of fish and cheese and sweetmeats that arrived this morning.”

She chattered like that while we ate, and she keeps it up now as she helps me dress in this most delectable soft, green gown. She styles my hair without asking. I can do it myself, of course. But Caterina is a magician at it. She parts the center, then sweeps both sides into large loopy buns above and behind each ear. At the tail end of each loop she leaves a good hand's length of hair free, and rubs it quickly between her palms until each strand stands apart from the others. It looks like a spray, like filaments of silk when a breeze catches them. I watch in the mirror in wonder. Will my head float away? “It's amazing.”

“Wait. I'm not finished yet,” she says.

Now she teases free several strands of hair at both temples, so they wind down the sides of my face, all the way to the top of my bodice, like curling ribbons.

“See?” She steps back proudly. “You're a beautifully wrapped present. Your father's gift to the world.”

Just the way she says it hurts my heart. This woman must have a child. I blink back tears. “Thank you.” I kiss her cheeks.

Her eyes are happy. “You're like a sister to me now, you know.”

Of course! She wants me to fill the hole Camilla left. It must be horrible to lose a sister. Maybe more horrible than losing a mother. “And you to me,” I say sincerely.

“Your betrothal won't really change anything—for we are already bound. Wait here.” Caterina goes out the door with a mysterious parting look.