I, Mona Lisa (42 page)

I walked with him past Ghiberti’s amazing doors. I had lived all my life in the city, yet had only once set foot inside that octagon of stone. I walked across marble floors adorned with images of gryphons and spirals, beheld golden walls, and stared up at the gilded cupola, the blazing candelabra.

The priest and Francesco—dignified, reverent, tender—stood waiting in front of the white marble altar.

The walk was a blur of sensations: the pull of the long velvet train behind me, the sparkle and flash of diamonds, the intense blue of my sleeve, the shimmering white of puffed gossamer silk. The glittering mosaics of Christ in blues and reds and brilliant saffron at the Last Judgment, of sinners cringing in Hell, tormented by devils.

My father held on to me tightly—so tightly—until the time came for him to give me away. As he handed me to Francesco, then stepped back, he wept.

An interminable Mass followed. I fumbled over prayers I had known since childhood, listened to the priest’s sermon without comprehending a word. The longer I stood, the more I feared I would faint; each time I knelt, I felt certain I would never again be able to stand.

“Will you?” the priest asked at last.

Francesco smelled of rosemary. I looked at him, at his deceptively gentle expression, and saw my bleak unhappy future. I saw my child being born, my father growing old. I saw Giuliano’s memory paling to a whisper.

“I will,” I said. My voice surprised me with its strength, its steadiness. I will, until my father dies. Until my father dies, and my child and I can escape.

A ring appeared—another plain and slender ring of gold—and caught the candles’ glow. This one was too tight, but Francesco used force to make it fit. I did not allow myself to flinch.

Francesco’s kiss was reserved, timid. There were other kisses, then, many kisses from many faces and many murmured words.

With my husband beside me, I stepped outside into the great piazza and drew in a breath. The afternoon was gray; mist hung in the air. Soft as steam rising from water, it settled on my face, but its touch was cold.

A
fterward, our party returned to my new home. This time my carriage rumbled through the open black iron gates onto a circular drive of new flagstone that took us past a copse of young laurels. The entry doors, of intricately carved wood, were taller than any I had ever seen. To their east lay a large formal loggia for receiving guests in better weather.

The carriage stopped, and Francesco helped me out while Zalumma worried with the great trail of fabric that followed me. Crouched upon high pedestals, a pair of majestic stone lions guarded the threshold. We walked between them and the doors opened for us as if by magic.

A servant led us to the room on our left: a vast hall, the walls pristine white, the floor gleaming pale marble with black inlay of classical design. Beyond, past an archway, was a dining chamber, the surface of its long table entirely obscured by platters heaped with food. The size of the rooms was better suited for a prince and his court than our small gathering. Indeed, the fire in the dining chamber could not quite dispel the chill. This was a cold, formal place.

My new husband was a very rich man.

I had lived my life in a house more than a century old, with an interior of bland walls and plain furniture. I was used to uneven stone floors, worn by the tread of generations, to stairs that dipped in the middle, to doors whose edges were darkened by the touch of countless hands.

This house had seen barely a decade of wear, with floors that were perfectly flat and smooth and shining, with unscarred doors that sported bolts and hinges of bright metal. I did not like it at all.

None of my father’s relatives had chosen to come from the country, but Francesco’s brothers had brought their wives and children with them. Once his family had followed us inside, along with Uncle Lauro’s brood, the building seemed less empty, though the chatter echoed off the walls. When the wine was poured, a great deal of laughter followed, some of it loud and raucous.

Custom dictated that I ride a white horse to my wedding, then return from it on foot to my father’s house, where I would spend the night, alone and chaste. The wedding was not to be consummated until the second night, following a day of feasting.

But I flouted custom for my first wedding and my second. I did not ride the white horse. Nor did I walk back to my father’s house, a decision that had been reached due to three factors: I had suffered from fever the week before and was still weak, the weather was inclement, and I was pregnant. This last was not discussed openly, but my waist had so thickened that it was obvious to most. It caused only a passing concern, for formal betrothals were considered as binding as marriage. Many a Florentine bride had to let out her wedding gown before riding to San Giovanni, and no one thought worse of her for it.

I greeted more guests, Lord Priors and
Buonomini,
Francesco’s peers. A wedding meal soon followed, one that Savonarola would have frowned on for its excesses: whole roast mutton, two whole roast pigs, three geese and a swan, countless pheasants, several rabbits and dozens of fish, soup and cakes and pretty candies, six different types of pasta in broth, cheeses, nuts, and dried fruits.

The smell of the food left me dangerously close to gagging. Yet I smiled until my cheeks ached. I was told a hundred times that I was
the most beautiful bride ever seen in Florence. I answered mindlessly, always giving the proper, courteous reply while meaning none of it.

There were toasts, including a popular one for newlyweds, that I should become pregnant on my wedding night. I lifted my goblet to my lips but kept them pressed together; the smell of the wine so nauseated me that I held my breath.

I ate nothing but some bread and a small piece of cheese, though my plate was full. I maneuvered the food artfully so it would appear I had taken more.

After the food came dancing, with music from a quartet of players Francesco had hired. With the ritual and the meal behind me, I felt a temporary relief. I was exhausted, but I laughed and played and danced with my new nephews and nieces, and looked on them with newfound wistfulness.

I turned once to find my father watching me with the same emotion.

But when the sun began to set, the revelers left, and my father went home to his house, empty of family—even Zalumma had left him. And my bravado waned with the light.

I was numb as Francesco introduced me to some of his servants: his chambermaids, Isabella and Elena; his valet, Giorgio; the cook, Agrippina; a kitchen maid, Silvestra; and the driver, Claudio. Most of them slept across from the kitchen, on the ground floor in the southwest wing, which opened onto the back of the palazzo. I repeated the names aloud even as I knew I would not remember them long; my heart was beating too loudly for me to hear even myself clearly. There were others I did not meet—stablehands and the stablemaster, a second cook who had taken ill, an errand boy.

Elena, a sweet-faced woman with chestnut hair and the serene gaze of a Madonna, led Zalumma and me up the stairs to the third floor, past Francesco’s rooms on the second, to the vast chambers that now belonged to me. Holding a lamp aloft, she led me first to the nursery, with its forlorn cradle beneath a painting of a stiff Mary and her manlike child, and its empty nursemaid’s quarters; the room was so achingly cold I decided no fire had ever been built in its hearth.

We then toured my sitting room, which had chairs, a table bearing
a lit lamp, a desk, and a shelf with books suited to a lady’s taste: love poetry, psalms in Latin, primers on classical languages, volumes of advice on how the mistress should run her household, how she should conduct herself in regard to her husband and guests, how she should treat common ailments. No fire burned here, either, but the room was warmer, given that it rested two floors above the dining room’s blazing hearth, and one floor above Francesco’s chambers.

The sitting room and nursery sat at the front of the house, with windows that faced north; Zalumma’s quarters (which she shared with Elena and Isabella) and mine sat at the back, facing south. Elena took us to the servants’ chambers and allowed me a swift, cursory glance inside; my own bedroom at home had not been as large or well appointed.

Then we crossed the corridor and Elena opened the door to the bridal chamber, my chamber.

The room was unabashedly feminine. The walls were of white, the floor of variegated cream, pink, and green marble, the mantel and hearth made from white granite that glittered in the light of a generous fire. Two delicate lady’s chairs, their padded seats covered in pale green brocade, faced the hearth; on the wall behind them was a large tapestry of a pair of women plucking oranges from a tree. The bed was covered by scattered dried rose petals and an embroidered tasseled throw of the same blue velvet as my gown. Matching curtains, trimmed with gold, hung from an ebony canopy; the inner curtains were made of armloads of sheer white chiffon, cunningly draped. French doors opened onto the south and, I assumed, a balcony.

On either side of the bed stood tables; one held a white basin, painted with flowers and filled with fragrant rosewater. Above it hung an oval mirror. The other table held a lamp, a silver plate of raisins, a flagon of wine, and a silver goblet.

The room’s appointments were so new, so clearly made expressly for me, that it was hard to believe I was not the first owner.

Elena showed me the iron chain hanging from the ceiling near the bed, which, if pulled, would sound a bell in the servants’ quarters across the hall.

“Thank you,” I said, by way of dismissing her. “I have everything I need. I will undress now.”

The small smile on her lips, which had never wavered during our tour, did not change. The lamp still in her hand, she curtsied, then left, closing the door behind her. I stood and listened to the scuffle of her slippers on the marble, to the sound of the door across the hall opening and shutting.

Zalumma unlaced my sleeves and my bodice. The cumbersome gown with its heavy train dropped to the floor and, clad only in the shimmering
camicia,
I stepped out of it with a low groan, exhausted.

I sat fidgeting at the foot of the bed and watched as Zalumma carefully folded the sleeves, the gown, and set them upon a shelf of the large wardrobe. She gently removed the diamond hairnet and put it in the trunk, along with my other jewelry. Then I took my place in front of the mirror and let her unloose my hair. I stared at my reflection and saw my mother, young and terrified and pregnant.

Zalumma saw her, too. She tenderly lifted the brush and brought it down, then smoothed the hair with her free hand. Each stroke of the brush was immediately followed by another stroke of her hand; she wanted to comfort me, and this was the only way she had.

At last, the brushing stopped. I turned to face Zalumma. Her expression now reflected my own: falsely brave, intent on cheering the other.

“If you need anything—” she began.

“I will be fine.”

“—I will be right by the door, waiting.”

“Will you come afterward?” I asked. Despite my dread, I had noticed that Francesco had ignored one of my requests: There was no cot here for Zalumma. While it was the fashion for servants to sleep apart from very wealthy masters, Zalumma had always slept on a cot near my mother’s bed, in case she suffered a fit. After my mother died, Zalumma’s presence was a comfort to me. And it would be my one comfort now, in this heartless house. “This room is too large, and this bed; I cannot bear to sleep alone.”

“I will come,” she said softly.

I nodded. “I will call for you.”

I turned away so that she could leave.

Francesco arrived a quarter of an hour later. His knock was hesitant, and when I did not come at once, he opened the door and called my name.

I was sitting on the stone hearth staring into the fire, my arm wound round my legs, my cheek resting on my bent knees, my bare feet pressed against the warm, rough granite. Had I been any closer, the heat would have burned my skin, but it could not dispel the cold that enveloped me.

I rose and walked toward him. Still dressed in his wine-colored wedding clothes, he smiled sweetly, shyly, as I stopped two arm’s lengths away. “The festivities went quite well. I think our guests were pleased, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Do you find your rooms satisfactory?”

“They are beyond my expectations.”

“Good.” He paused. “I have a gift for you.” He drew a silk pouch from his pocket.

I reached for it, took it. I fumbled with the drawstring, my fingers clumsy, numb, as if I had been swimming in icy water. Francesco laughed softly and loosened the drawstring for me; the contents spilled into my hand.

It was a lady’s brooch. A large one, made of an acorn-sized garnet surrounded by seed pearls and set in silver.

“It’s . . . a family tradition,” Francesco said, suddenly uncomfortable. He folded his hands behind his back. “It was my mother’s . . . and my grandmother’s.”

The stone was clouded, dull, the piece unremarkable, except for the fact that it was very old. Black tarnish stubbornly surrounded each pearl, despite the fact that the brooch had recently been polished.

A tradition,
I thought.
For all of his brides.

“Thank you,” I said stiffly, bracing myself for the cruelty that would certainly follow.

But something entirely impossible and remarkable occurred; Francesco’s expression remained mild, almost bored. He stifled a yawn.

“You’re certainly welcome,” he said, his manner diffident. “Well, then.” He glanced around awkwardly, then smiled again at me. “It has been an exhausting day for you, I am sure. I’ll see you come morning. Good night.”

I stared up at him in disbelief. He was uncomfortable, anxious, eager to be done with me. “Good night,” I said.

He left. I quickly set the brooch down, put my ear to my closed door, and listened to him move down the hall and descend the steps. Once I was sure he had gone, I opened my door to call Zalumma—and started to find her already there.