The Smile (25 page)

Exile. To live somewhere other than these exquisite hills, far from the church cemetery where Mamma lies. To see Papà and Caterina and Silvia only on visits. To raise children of my own in a foreign land. Deprivations that shatter the soul.

But it is a life with Giuliano. And though in so many ways, I hardly know this person, he has entered my heart permanently. In these seven weeks, he has been with me in spirit. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I am reasoning with him inside my head. I come across a fox den, and I want Giuliano to see the kits. I witness one of Bartolomeo's funny ways, and I want Giuliano to laugh with me. I want him to taste everything sublime that I taste, to smell everything I smell. When I cook, I'm cooking for him. He lives within me.

And now that we are here in more than spirit—now that we are two bodies with flesh and blood and bones—I want much more; I hunger for him.

I step toward him with decision. “I will always choose you.”

He lets out a deep sigh, as though he's been holding his breath. “Hazelnuts are not the only thing I brought from Venice.” Giuliano opens a pouch and hands me a small box made of paper all folded intricately into a perfect pentagon.

I open it and feel through the straw. Four spindly legs, a tail with a tassel at the end, a long long neck. “A glass giraffe?”

“The one we used to own, that we talked about at my father's funeral.”

“How perfect.”

“Far from it. I went to the finest glassblower of Murano. I had to draw him a picture because he'd never seen one, and my drawing skills are poor. But, still, the creature is rendered gracefully. You'll see in daylight.”

“I treasure it already.”

“When we are established again, I'll get you a real giraffe.” Giuliano laughs happily. “I'll get you any animal you want.” He strokes my hair, from my forehead, over the top, and down my neck. Like one might stroke a cat.

I dare to stroke him back. His forehead. His sparsely haired cheeks. My fingers run the line from between his brows, down his nose, to the valley in his top lip. This is the man I have pledged to marry. The love of my life.

Giuliano takes my hand and pulls me down. Fresh sweet hay covers the ground. Someone prepared it for us. Its pungent smell makes me woozy. And there's a heavy wool blanket to pull over us.

I set the box on the ground and carefully stand the tiny glass giraffe upright in it. “I stink of goat,” I say quietly. “I had to carry Uccio down the stairs.”

He gives a little laugh. “The turns of your conversation dizzy me. All right, till we meet again, you can remember hazelnuts and I'll remember goat.”

We kiss slow and somehow sure. This is no dream. This is as true as mortality.

CHAPTER Twenty-one

My eyes shoot open. It's dawn. Giuliano sits up straight like a bolt of lightning.

Papà towers over us in shock that turns quickly to rage. “What have you done!” His eyes that have been so tired for so long now would pop from his head. “Get up!”

But we're already up and putting ourselves in order.

“Scoundrel!” He lunges at Giuliano.

I throw myself between them. “Please, Papà. Listen. This is Giuliano . . .”

“I know exactly who he is.” Papà grabs a shovel, the only thing within hand's reach. He throws me aside. I fall to my knees but quickly turn and clasp him around the legs. He swings that shovel and Giuliano ducks—slam!—it comes down on his back.

“Don't!” I scream.

Slam!

“No, Papà! No!”

Again and again.

“Stop, Antonio! You'll kill him!” Caterina pulls on Papà's arm and I hang from his legs, sobbing.

Papà swings again. Giuliano grabs the shovel blade and goes to butt Papà in the stomach with the handle, but he stops and stares, bent over and panting. Blood drips from his right temple. He uses the shovel like a cane to push himself upright. Then he throws it against the rear wall and staggers over to his boots and coat.

Papà lifts a weathered hand and sweeps it sideways with a grimace, as if to rid himself of something revolting. “Get out of here.”

Giuliano pulls on his boots. He buttons his coat slowly. “We need to talk, Ser Antonio.”

“Never. Get out of here now.”

“I love her.”

“You piece of filth. Not a one of you is worth anything.”

Giuliano limps to the door. “I'll be back for her,” he says. “Know this.”

“I'll know nothing of the sort. You leave my family alone.”

“She's my family, too. We are betrothed.”

“Elisabetta is already betrothed.”

“Already betrothed?” Giuliano looks at me, dazed.

“What are you talking about, Papà?”

“Go!” growls Papà at Giuliano. “Never let me set eyes on you again.”

Giuliano leaves.

I run after him. But Papà clutches me around the waist from behind. He holds me while I kick. And I've been here before. Exactly in this position. Exactly as desperate. When Mamma died. But I won't lose Giuliano like I lost Mamma. I won't, I won't. I'll never stop kicking. “Let me go!”

“How?” shouts Papà, so loudly I think my head will split. “How could you do this?”

“I love him.”

He claps his hand over my mouth. “Not another word! Tracks in the snow—we followed tracks in the snow. We thought some silly girlish whim had made you take that infernal goat out to this shed. And then this. Never, never in a million years did I expect this.” He pushes me away so violently, I'm thrown to the ground again.

I jump to my feet and race for the door, but he blocks it. “You're coming to the house. You'll get dressed properly. We're going to Florence.”

“I'm going after Giuliano.”

“Don't speak that name around me.”

“Giuliano Giuliano Giuliano.”

He slaps me across the face.

I hug myself, stunned.

His face is as stunned as my own must be. Then it crumples. “My beloved daughter. How did such a thing happen? How did I ever allow this to happen?”

“You can't allow or disallow love.”

“Love? Oh, little Betta, you've been too sheltered. This has nothing to do with love. You are never to see him again!”

“I don't have to do what you say. I'm betrothed. And he doesn't want a dowry, so it doesn't matter what you think. I'm betrothed.”

“Indeed you are, my daughter. You are betrothed to Francesco del Giocondo.”

“Who? Have you gone mad?”

“No. And I won't allow you to go mad. Have you no idea how dangerous the times are? You cannot have anything to do with a Medici.”

“Politics don't rule my life the way they do yours. Can't you think for one moment of my happiness?”

“What?” Papà shakes his head dazedly. “Your happiness is all we've ever wanted.”

“Francesco makes a good match.” Caterina has been watching, clutching the folds of her bodice with both hands. Now she comes to Papà's side. She speaks softly, reasonably. “Please, Elisabetta. Think. You can take my dear departed sister's place. You can raise her son. You already love Bartolomeo. And he loves you.”

“How can you say such a thing? You can't just dream up some crazy scheme on the spur of the moment.”

“It's not spur of the moment at all,” says Caterina. “We were going to announce it at your party in October.”

“Announce it? Announce it?” And I'm screaming now. “How could you do that? Without consulting me?”

“We thought you had accepted the idea, embraced it.” Caterina shakes her head helplessly.

“You knew I went to the kick ball game with Giuliano.”

“The kick ball game? Yes, of course, I remember that. But Giuliano, well, he's just a boy still. I never guessed . . . And Francesco so clearly needs a wife. How could you not know that's what we all wanted? What we all thought you wanted? It was obvious. It went without saying.”

“No, no no no! Nothing goes without saying. A woman's consent is required. I cannot believe this. I will not believe this. I never consented.”

“In a way, you did,” says Papà quietly. “Who do you think paid for all that splendor at your party? You know I don't have that kind of money.”

I stare at him, stupid.

“Francesco di Bartolomeo di Zanobi del Giocondo.”

I feel like I've been punched in the very center of my being. I see a halo around every object. “A never-ending name. He announced himself like that to me at Mamma's funeral. As some important thing. The pompous nitwit.”

“Hush!” Caterina's hand goes to her throat. “Don't speak like that about Camilla's widower.”

And I do feel mean to have said it, for Francesco is not a bad man. But right now that doesn't matter. I lower my voice. “Don't, Papà. Don't keep talking about him.”

“Francesco,” says Papà. “After all his generosity, you go and do this?”

“Giuliano,” I say firmly. “Giuliano is my betrothed.”

Papà's eyes flash. Pain distorts his face. He raises his hand as though to slap me again, but Caterina stays his wrist. “That's enough, Antonio. You cannot beat her into submission.”

Papà looks at her. Then he pulls away and buries his hands in his pockets. “Francesco has agreed to a modest dowry,” he says in a tired monotone. “One hundred and seventy gold florins and a small stretch of farmland. Now he'll ask for more, if he'll even take you at all.”

“There's no reason he has to know,” says Caterina.

I look at Caterina in fury. “Have you no backbone? You know this is wrong. I hate you!” Caterina winces. I have wounded her hideously, but I don't care. I whip around to face Papà. “I won't marry Francesco. I'll run away with Giuliano.”

“To what? His family has nothing now. Not even access to whatever sums might be in the banks—if there are any at this point, which I doubt. He can't take care of you.”

“We'll take care of each other.”

“He's ruined, my Betta. And gone. He knows that himself, or he would have stayed and fought for you.”

“He didn't fight because you're old. If he had slammed you with the shovel like you slammed him, you'd be dead.”

“Look more closely, Betta. He's a coward. He slunk off with his tail between his legs. Good riddance to the lot of them.” Papà brushes dust from his sleeves and straightens his clothing. His eyes meet mine and I see raw pity there. “You will marry Francesco. It's a move up in the world for you. More than I ever hoped for.”

“No.”

“It's my right to marry you off. And it's already agreed upon.”

“No and no and no.”

“It's what your mother would have wanted.”

This is much worse than a slap. This is a staggering blow. I will die.

“He's a silk merchant,” says Caterina gently.

I will die.

“Just like your father. You know the business already—the most honorable and successful business of Florence. It will feel like home right away. With a child to love from the very start.”

I will die.

“You'll be happy.”

CHAPTER Twenty-two

I AM THERE,
on 12 December 1494, in the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, when Savonarola mounts the pulpit and makes his proclamation. Papà stands on one side of me, Caterina on the other. They press against me to hold me upright. I am their prisoner.

And I witness all of Florence become prisoner of rabid Savonarola. Oh, his words this morning are not insane. They are treacherously reasonable, even to me, whose mind can hardly focus, for it was just hours ago that Papà drove Giuliano away. My Giuliano.

Savonarola presents an outline of the government Florence should adopt. He must have been working on it for months, maybe years, for it is watertight. He says we should have a Grand Council, like that of the Republic of Venice. The will of the people should prevail, not that of the tyrant—the tyrant Piero, and the tyrant Lorenzo before him.

The church is packed. A rank smell rises from communal worry. Not a soul speaks against the monk. They sense their fate: already it is too dangerous. Already Savonarola has taken the role of tyrant as his own. He's been hell-bent from the start.

Leonardo da Vinci knew it. The first time I heard him speak about Savonarola, he talked of sanctimony. And Giuliano knew it. My heart turns to lead. The news of this town meeting was heralded all over the Republic. Giuliano must have foreseen what today would mean. He knew all of us would be locked away by this monk.

Could it be that the reason he came last night was to say good-bye to me before the key was turned in the lock? No. I won't believe that. That's the sort of thing Papà wants me to believe. He says Giuliano is done with me; it's over. But it can't be. Giuliano will return for me. Or he will send for me. We belong together.

Ten days pass, and we are still in the city. Guests of Francesco, to whom I do not speak. It turns me inside out that we should receive his generosity yet again. I play with Bartolomeo, but I will not even look at Francesco.

Aunt Nanina and Uncle Bernardo have left the shelter of Francesco's palace and returned to their own, even as workers repair it. That must be uncomfortable—but probably the idea of being in Papà's company was more uncomfortable. I'm sorry not to see Aunt Nanina; she loves Giuliano.

I am never left alone. If Papà is not by my side, Caterina is. And they always know where the other one is, so they can quickly pass me between them if they need to go off somewhere else. Even in bed I am not alone. Little Bartolomeo, confused but overjoyed by our presence in his father's home, insists on climbing in with me.