The Smile (22 page)

“Papà,” I say after supper. “I need to talk with you.”

“I'm sick of talk.”

“It's not politics. It's personal.”

“The personal is the political, Betta. That's the lesson of these times. I know your hopes have been dashed—all our hopes have been dashed. Allow me whatever semblance of peace I can gather right now. We'll talk later, my treasure.”

I think I'll burst. I am ready to press him—to tell him my hopes are not about betrothal with just anyone, but betrothal to Giuliano—and to find out whatever he knows about my dear love. But his eyes stop me. They stare vacantly at a point beyond the table. Deep blue pockets underscore them, as though sadness has pooled there. I pour him a glass of wine and hold my tongue.

Caterina clears her throat. “Can you at least tell us what Piero is doing?”

“He left today. To talk with the King of France.”

“Alone?” bursts from my lips.

“Of course not.” Papà looks at Aunt Nanina, then down at his wine. “But I have not been told precisely who accompanies him.” He gets up and goes into the library.

The same thing happens on Monday. Papà talks about the mess all day; he doesn't want to talk about it all night, too. I imagine every household of Florence filled with women waiting for the men to finally talk to them. Silence wears on us. Caterina's eyes dart. The smallest noise makes her flinch. And Aunt Nanina, she's a shadow of herself, creeping around her own home. A messenger brought her the news that Uncle Bernardo is sequestered away somewhere with other friends of the Medici, trying to figure out what to do. That's all she knows.

A semblance of peace, that's what Papà tries to have through sitting alone at night. Whatever semblance of peace I have comes from being with Bartolomeo. I played with him all day today, as the hours dragged by. And I cooked with him, for the little boy loves throwing ingredients into a bowl. When stirring got too hard, he tossed the spoon on the floor and dug in with both arms, gleeful. I love him so much; just watching him makes me crumble inside. This child must not see war.

Caterina joined us in the kitchen at one point, with a wonderful recipe. I knew she was lying about being a bad cook. She's creative and bold.

But not bold enough to venture out of the palace.

I can't bear staying inside, in this forced silence, any longer, though. I need to know what's happening. On Wednesday afternoon, while Bartolomeo naps, I beg Aunt Nanina to let me accompany the servant Carlo on his errands. Papà is not home, of course, and Uncle Bernardo is still absent, so she is the one in charge.

Aunt Nanina looks at me with desperate eyes. “All right.”

Caterina puts her hand on Aunt Nanina's forearm. “Is that wise? A noble girl in the streets right now?”

“Wear your shift,” says Aunt Nanina. “Stay right behind Carlo, as if you were helping him. And bring that goat.”

And so Uccio and I follow Carlo to the nearby candle maker's. Uccio frolicks, happy to be rid of the kitchen rope. His joyous energy enters me and makes me hopeful. Giuliano will return safe and sound. He has to.

Now we head to the cobbler's, halfway across town. And the real purpose of my outing is realized, for the very air screams at a high pitch from every corner. People speak ill of Piero openly, not in harsh whispers like those men at the tournament on the morning of my party. They lean out windows and make proclamations to friends in the street. They don't care who hears. They say the city is decaying under Piero's leadership. He should be ousted. But how? He has no official post to oust him from. I think of Piero explaining to me the genius of the Medici.

On the way home we pass a piazza where a crowd has gathered. Carlo looks at me, then stops.

Savonarola's diminutive figure stands on a high, makeshift pulpit and he stares down that huge, hooked nose, and shouts that he is the mouthpiece of God. His voice extends to everyone's ears as they go about their daily tasks whether they want to hear him or not.

He talks of the same thing I heard him talk of last Saturday with Giuliano: moral decay and the damnation of Florence. He says the French army will rape our young women, and he puts the blame on Piero. He says he has always known this—alas, if Piero had only followed the pious ways that Savonarola has followed, none of this would have come to pass. The air reeks of his self-righteousness. Giuliano smelled it from the start. I am repulsed, for I get the feeling that Savonarola is gladdened by this imbroglio with the French. Gladdened that war may come. He cares more about being proven right than about what happens to Florence.

The crowd listens as though the monk is God's messenger, as though the Lord on high actually wants to preserve the business affairs of Florence. They pat their money purses, and quote Savonarola. They talk of closing their daughters and wives away in convents if the French should come. The chant of the day becomes “get rid of Piero.” They seem convinced that without Piero, Florence will get around this mess between France and Naples and the world will go on beautifully and the rich can stay rich.

“Can we go now, Carlo?” I whisper.

We walk on. I don't care what happens to Piero. Let him get ousted somehow. So long as there is no war. So long as Giuliano comes back to me. When we get home, Caterina and Aunt Nanina and I stand in a huddle in a corner, and I tell all I've heard—in whispers, though there is no one around to overhear.

On Thursday afternoon, Uccio and I follow Carlo, who pushes a cart today. He's getting oil for the lamps and wood for the stove.

We pass another piazza where Savonarola stands preaching. Why, he must change piazzas every day. The whole city must be bombarded by that monk. Carlo looks at me, but I shake my head and we don't stop. I don't want to hear—the monk never says anything new, anyway.

But the people hanging out of windows and shouting to friends on the street, or standing together outside shops, they say new things. Today names besides Piero's are on people's lips. At first I don't know why. Then I overhear someone talk about them as Piero's staunch supporters in the government. People say they should be kicked out of office. That should slash Piero's influence overnight. I recognize one of the men I overhear. He's the one I saw meet Papà on Sunday morning.

When we get home, I go to my room and pace. Now I know why Papà won't talk to us. It is not that foolish thing he said in front of the men that night—about how women shouldn't know about politics. He's silent because he cannot speak his mind in front of Aunt Nanina, for Uncle Bernardo is one of Piero's staunchest supporters.

I dig my fingers in my hair and grip my scalp. It's all so absurd. How can people argue over money when war is at stake?

The next morning the news comes early: Piero has forged a peace with the King of France, after all. But in his efforts to appease the king, he has turned over to France the fortresses of Pisa, Sarzana, Pietrasanta, and Livorno. Papà is livid with fury. He storms out of the house.

I beg Aunt Nanina to let me accompany a servant on morning errands; I cannot bear to wait till afternoon. Caterina says she'll play with Bartolomeo in my stead, for the boy has been staying here with us. And so Uccio and I head off behind Enrico this time. Public reaction is heard on every corner, in every piazza— immediate and fierce: Piero's acts are madness. These four cities are the sum total of the strongholds of the Republic of Florence. Piero had no right to give them away without permission from the government. Who does he think he is, negotiating as though he's king? Florence has no king! Florence is a republic. He needs countersignatures.

And, on top of giving away those cities, Piero has promised the French king a vast sum of money. The merchants of Florence say they cannot possibly raise such a sum. “Get rid of Piero!” come the furious shouts.

I listen to hear where Piero is now. But I learn nothing. Nothing that might tell me where Giuliano is.

“Pack your bags,” says Papà that night. “We're leaving in the morning.”

“No!” I yelp.

He looks at me with apologetic eyes. “Now is not the time for happy announcements.”

I'm taken by surprise. What happy announcements? But I shake my head. “Can't I stay with Aunt Nanina? Please, Papà.”

“I need you at home.”

“Silvia can do anything I can do.”

Papà shakes his head. “Leave you in Florence alone?”

Caterina reaches out and puts her hand over mine. “She'll be safe here, Antonio. Please don't force her to leave Bartolomeo.”

“We can take the child to Villa Vignamaggio with us.”

“I already asked Francesco,” says Caterina. “He won't allow it. He won't be separated from his son right now. Let Elisabetta stay, so she can pass the day with him. They're so attached. Besides, Aunt Nanina will welcome her company.”

Aunt Nanina has been gazing down into her soup. But now she looks up. “I need the girl.”

“But . . .”

“I need the girl.” Aunt Nanina is resolute.

I don't know what's happening. It seems the women have formed a unit against Papà. But we haven't planned it. It's a tacit pact. What's more, Caterina's words may be entirely wrong. Staying in the home of a supporter of Piero's—one of the grandest palaces of Florence—may lead to finding myself in the middle of more trouble. Indeed, Bartolomeo probably shouldn't spend his days here. He's better off at his father's palace. Francesco is not so closely aligned with the Medici family to be in much danger. Yes, I will visit the child at his home from now on, rather than having him come here.

I say nothing of these doubts, though. Whether I understand what Caterina and Aunt Nanina are doing or not, I'm grateful. I must be here when Giuliano returns.

Papà hesitates, but what can a man do in the face of female unity, especially when one of those females is his young wife? I am left in this palace with Aunt Nanina, who promises she will retire with me to a convent if it becomes advisable.

Papà and Caterina leave early in the morning on November first. It's Saturday, only a week since my party, but so much has changed. I watch their coach disappear. Uncle Bernardo reappears moments later, as though he was waiting for Papà to leave before returning. He greets me as he rushes in. Not long after, he rushes out again.

“Can I borrow a servant to accompany me over to Bartolomeo's house?” I ask Aunt Nanina.

She jerks her head at me like a startled bird. “You want to visit with him there, instead of him coming here?”

“I think it's better.”

She purses her lips. “Gossip can pass so quickly.”

“Gossip? About what?”

“You in Francesco's home. A servant isn't a proper chaperone, you know.”

I almost laugh. “Francesco's bound to be out on business. Besides, I don't think anyone cares about things like that right now.”

“Everyone cares more now. More! Savonarola has turned neighbors into prudish spies.” Her face puckers nervously. “All right, go visit the boy, but wear your shift so you look like a servant. And come back immediately after the midday meal.”

I spend the morning in Francesco's palace, playing with Bartolomeo, who's delighted by the change in routine. His only disappointment is that I didn't bring Uccio, which I promise to do the next day.

When I return, I go directly to Aunt Nanina to beg to be allowed to accompany a manservant on his errands. She holds up her hand in the halt signal before I can get out a word. “Take Carlo; he's loyal and discreet. Tell him where you want to go, and he'll find an excuse if anyone should ask. And take Uccio; he makes you appear harmless.” She grabs my wrist and squeezes hard. “Bring back news, no matter how wretched.”

But, though I keep eyes and ears open, the outing proves fruitless. I hear only the same outrage as the day before.

That night, Uncle Bernardo says, “Francesco found out you went to his house.”

“Found out? You say it as though I tried to keep it secret. I merely visited my nephew.”

“Don't. Francesco doesn't want you on the streets. With the present situation, women should stay inside. That's what your father would want, too.”

“What is the present situation?” I ask, for I want to know how he sees it.

“Beyond your understanding. Good night, Elisabetta.”

I lie awake thinking of Bartolomeo and Giuliano and Caterina and Papà—and, yes, yes, Silvia, too—all the people I love. When will I next see any of them?

Sunday morning Aunt Nanina says she's not feeling well enough to go to the Mass. She wants me to stay by her side. She doesn't look me in the eye when she speaks. Uncle Bernardo must have forbidden even the short walk to church.

He has friends over throughout the day, and I try to eavesdrop. But they shut the doors behind them every time.

That night, after Aunt Nanina has gone to bed, I catch Uncle Bernardo in the library, alone at last. “Uncle, can you tell me where Giuliano is?”

“Giuliano?” He looks at me vaguely. Then he frowns. “Which Giuliano?”

“Giuliano de' Medici, of course.”

He blinks. “I wouldn't know.” His eyes grow suspicious. “Why?”

“He's my friend.”

Uncle Bernardo shakes his head and waves me away.

My uncle doesn't trust me. That means he fears for Giuliano's safety. I wince.

Monday morning, as soon as Uncle Bernardo leaves, Aunt Nanina says, “Carlo is ready. Make sure to get home before supper, before Bernardo returns.”

Dressed in my shift, I wander with Uccio and Carlo. Through street gossip I learn that the central tribunal in the building adjacent to the Palazzo Vecchio, the seat of justice, has become a forum for public opinion. I head directly there, of course, but I'm not permitted to enter. Men go in but not women. So Carlo and I sit under an open window beside a huddle of women, all straining to hear.