Chiara – Revenge and Triumph (13 page)

The old woman’s hands several times brushed over the next sequence of six cards. She shook her head. "This is very puzzling. I have never seen the likes of it," she muttered and again searched my eyes. Although the urge was great, I resisted lowering my gaze to escape the fire in hers.

"The literal interpretation is that great riches wait to be uncovered and its secret is revealed in writing … no, not writing, with this card it means in poems."

She looked up, just as my mind replayed an echo of Niccolo’s words: "And now that we even have that little book, the treasure will be ours." My shock must have shown.

"And I think Chiara knows what I am talking about."

I hesitated to answer, but my natural scepticism got the upper hand. This was just another of those coincidences of which life is made up. I could think of no riches that awaited me. My father was not rich, just comfortably off, and I would not inherit it, unless I returned to him, and that I was not ready to do and wondered whether I ever would. So there were no riches, except that mysterious treasure, but there is no treasure, I told myself. My upright and guileless father could not be the holder of such a secret.

"I cannot imagine any riches awaiting me. The only time I heard of riches or, to be more precise, of a treasure is when my father showed me a little book of Latin poems and called it his treasure, and I’m sure he only meant the beauty of the poems and its exquisite illustrations."

Antonia looked at me for a while before saying softly: "Child, the cards may be telling you something more. I would not dismiss it lightly."

That night I mulled over her reading of the cards. They had told me little that I did not already know or could guess myself. My short time with the players had raised my self-confidence. I wanted new challenges and knew I would master them. I did expect that one day I would meet a man I would love and hopefully bear his children. And death? Wasn’t it a constant companion of us all? It could strike at any time, either myself, my aging father, or somebody near me. It had struck my brother before his time, before he could even embark on his dream of becoming a valiant knight like my father, and had I not been the instrument of the robber’s death? As to the treasure, I knew many of the poems in that little book by heart and fully agreed with my father that the book was a priceless treasure. Why had I taken and lost it? For the hundredth time I wished that it were not so, that it would still adorn the shelves of my father’s library. Maybe I could find an equally beautiful copy in Florence and arrange for it to be brought to him. I was still awake when the hours of midnight rang from the nearby church tower.

Pisa, the first big city I saw, had impressed me by its size, its big buildings and its many churches. I had loved the quaintness and the compactness of Lucca, but I was overwhelmed by the opulence of Florence, its many splendid palaces with marble entrances, and its huge churches, some of them still with façades or bell towers unfinished. I got my first taste of art, the paintings and frescos by the famous Florentine masters Cimabue and his pupils, Giotto and Duccio. I was enchanted by Lorenzetti’s Annunciation and began to understand that men and women would be drawn to pray below the beatific vision portrayed in the pictures of the Madonna. I have never spent more hours in churches as then. Selva, I look eagerly forward to revisit these masterpieces with you when you are old enough to appreciate their beauty.

In fact, Florence is the largest city I have ever seen and on that first visit it was a hive of activity. So many people — I was told more than one hundred thousand. And with so many people, I also saw a lot of misery and I was shocked and saddened watching the hundreds of young girls and not so young women touting for business, selling their bodies for a few denari. I shuddered again at the thought that this could well have been my fate had I not been taken in by I Magnifici.

Florence was so good to us that we became vain. Why be satisfied with conquering Florence? Was it not ordained that our true fame would reach its pinnacle in Venice, the pearl of the Adriatic, the Serenissima? So off we went in search of that dream, but how often does it happen that, when you think your goal is within reach, it slips from your grasp?

On our way to Venice, I discovered another thing about myself, namely that I was the true daughter of a knight, that all my father’s stories about skirmishes and battles which had filled many an evening had left their mark. When road bandits threatened us on a pass over the Apennines, I dragged my reluctant fellow players into setting a trap, and the bandits ran right into it. Only later did I learn that their slain leader — Antonia’s prediction coming true — was one of the infamous Baglione who had been the terror in these passes, like his ancestors before him. It was something that was going to haunt me in the future.

* * *
 

Chiara had finished her translation of
Phormio
and read it aloud to the players. Carlo alone laughed disparagingly a few times, whereas all the others applauded it. Lorenzo wanted to try it out. Since Chiara was the only one who could read fluently, it fell on her to rehearse the lines with each actor.

While they played their comic skits with masks, except for the two lovers, Lorenzo felt that to be fully effective, the audience needed to see the actors’ facial expressions. It was a new experience for those used to hide behind a mask. Chiara’s role was to be the prompter.

Lorenzo was pleased with the result and now waited for the right audience to perform it. He did not have to wait long. Not wanting to be outshone by Casa Strozzi, other noble and illustrious merchant houses requested private shows by I Magnifici, and they gave their first performance of
Phormio
to an appreciative assembly of illustrious dignitaries and nobles in the palazzo of the Medici banking house.

Chiara was awed by the splendor of the hall, the gold-plated columns, the rich scarlet drapes hanging from the ceiling to the white marble floor, the delicate, upholstered chairs, the sumptuousness of the many courses of the banquet, silver platters of trout, smoked eel, duck, quail, and pigeons, decorated with truffles, black olives, fried figs, honeyed carrots and chestnuts, and roasted almonds, wooden boards with whole legs of boar and lamb, washed down with Lacrima Christi and other delicate drops from Tuscany’s finest vineyards, followed by sweet grapes, fresh figs and pears, walnuts and honey cakes, topped off by liqueurs and cinnamon water. The scent of rose petals, jasmine, lavender and other herbs strewn on the floor filled the air as the servants crushed them when they moved about. And the guests, dressed in velvet and lustrous taffeta gowns, fur-lined and fluted, jeweled girdles and belts, the women’s bulging breasts adorned with gold and pearls — never had Chiara imagined such luxury, not even in her dreams when she still lived on Elba in that house that then she thought of as a pleasing little castle. And what a contrast it was with the common people in the streets, most of whom were dressed in rough woollen garments. She was though disappointed that the conversation between the guests was not more sophisticated, more clever and refined than at the functions where she had been the lady of the castle. In fact, some of the comments she overheard were vulgar and much dealt with boring matters of commerce and petty scandals.

The evening was such a success that Casa Medici asked for a repeat. Chiara’s position in the troupe was now firmly established and even Anna, although not completely able to hide her envy, sought out her company. They moved into a fashionable taverna, eating meat or fish every day and drinking expensive wine. Lorenzo bought more elaborate costumes.

Chiara scoured all book makers and sellers in the city for a copy of that little book. All she could find was one without illustrations. She bought it anyway, but did not try to send it to her father. A careful line by line reading of the poems revealed nothing that hinted at a hidden treasure. She bought other books too, including a rare copy of a Greek tragedy,
Electra
by Sophocles, translated into Latin, as well as her own copy of
La Comedia
by Dante.

* * * 

One of the duties that she had volunteered to do was cleaning and oiling Pepe’s knives, particularly after he sharpened the points. They were perfectly balanced with straight, thin, but dull double-edged blades, only useful for stabbing. After finishing the job one morning, she took one of them — in fact it was one of the spare ones — and balanced it in her hand the way she had seen Pepe do. She had always wondered how it would feel to throw one. The wooden board was leaning against a wall in the courtyard, stored there after the show the previous day. The temptation was too great. She retreated a few paces and then threw it. It tumbled through the air, bounced off the board and hit the cobble stones with a metallic ring. She looked around guiltily, but there was nobody about. As was in her nature, failure always spurred her on to even greater effort. She did not let herself be defeated easily. So, after retrieving the knife, she closed her eyes and replayed Pepe’s movements in her mind. Then she threw the knife a second time and almost cried out in joy when she saw the handle vibrate on the board.

"Not bad, Chiara."

Startled, she turned around to face Pepe, feeling her cheeks go red hot.

"I’m sorry, Pepe. Please forgive me," she stuttered, and seeing his smile she added: "I just couldn’t resist."

"Would you like me to teach you?"

"Oh, Pepe, would you really? Only for fun!"

It was the first of many lessons. In time, her accuracy improved, although it was only a shadow of Pepe’s. However, at one time Pepe threw her a knife and she caught it by the handle.

"You have sharp reactions, girl."

An idea flashed through her mind. Would it be possible to do this as an act? Before she realized, she had asked the question. Pepe, looked at her puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"Throwing knives to each other, catching them and then throw them back. Like juggling between two people."

He pondered this for a while. "It may be possible with a lot of practice and if we throw them both at the same time, it might be quite impressive. But wouldn’t you be afraid?"

"A bit, but that’s the thrill of it, to master something you’re afraid of."

He shook his head in disbelief. "Girl, have you ever been afraid of something?"

"Oh yes, many times. When you caught me throwing your knife, I was very much afraid."

"Of what? That I might scold you?"

"Yes, or even spank me like a little girl for ruining one of your precious knives."

"But I would never spank you."

"Why?"

He looked at her smiling. "Several reasons. With you, one never knows. I could end up with a bloody nose and being the laughing stock of the troupe … and I would never hear the end of it from Alda … and I love you, you are like a daughter to us."

"You loved your own daughter, didn’t you?" He nodded. "And did you never spank her?"

"Yes, I did when she was naughty."

"So?"

"Oh, I should know better by now than expect to win an argument with you. Why do I even try?"

She ran to him and hugged him. "I love you too, Pepino."

He patted her back. "Don’t call me that in front of Alda. It’s her special name for me."

"Pepe, she may call you Pepino … But what are you two up to? Trying to seduce my husband, Chiara?"

Pepe let go of her.

"Oh Alda, I love him very much, but don’t tease the poor man. He’s such a lovable bear." And she hugged him again.

"Didn’t you claim that you seduced a priest?"

Pepe was getting agitated and tried to free himself from Chiara’s hug. "Alda, I swear by God, it’s all innocent."

She joined them in their hug, exclaiming: "He’s really a lovable bear, Chiara. Oh, Pepino, I love you. Don’t you see that we’re teasing you?"

"I swear to God, I’ll never understand women," he moaned.

For the next week they practiced every morning juggling knives between them for an hour or so. They got to the point where the knives went flying back in the same movement that caught them.

"Why don’t we use four knives, rather than two, so there is no waiting between knives?" Chiara suggested.

"You’re going to be the death of me," groaned Pepe.

They tried it and after some initial bungling, quickly got the hang of it.

"Pepe, let’s show it to Lorenzo and the others."

"You think we’re ready for that?"

"As ready as we’ll ever be."

After watching them, Lorenzo insisted that they perform that act at that night’s private function.

"We could make it a continuation of Pepe’s knife throwing act. I pluck four knives from the board, throw two to Pepe and then we start. It will be more impressive if the spectators see that we use the same knives."

And that is what they did. After an initial brief wave of terror, the spectators went wild and the applause went on and on. Only after Chiara skipped up to Pepe, kissed him on both cheeks to a renewed burst of cheers, and led him out of the hall did the clapping finally end. The play following their act was an anticlimax.

Back in their inn, Lorenzo showed them the purse he had received. It was twice the usual amount.

* * * 

End of October came and went and they were still in Florence. Some of the players wanted to stay there over the winter, often a period of real hardship for them. Only when Lorenzo suggested that
Il Spettacolo Magnifico
was surely good enough to find favor in the city where the canals are lined in gold, Venice, the Serenissima, did they agree to leave. He said that if they left early November they should be able to cross the mountains to Bologna before the first snows, particularly now that they could use the horse to help pull their carts over the mountain passes.