O, Juliet (8 page)

“Signorinas,” our old chaperone snapped in an aggravated tone, “I am seeing a lack of decorum here. Raised voices. Flushed cheeks.” She addressed Lucrezia: “Your mother and your husband-to-be would be most displeased if they learned of this public display. Now come and have your meal quietly and begin acting like the gentlewomen you are.”

“Yes, signora,” Lucrezia said.

“My humble apologies,” I added, and we followed her back to the blanket.

In the end, I realized, I had promised Lucrezia nothing.

H
ere I lie in the arms of Love red robe trailing down O sweet God of Love lift me high let me fall let me drown in your sea in your sighs whispered now whispered soft as I die . . .
I awoke from the rushing river of verse to the sound of muted thumping. I opened my eyes but saw nothing save moonlight streaming in through my balcony window. Another thump . . . on that door.

I rose, pulling a light robe over my shift, and padded across the cool stone. The screech of the handle and hinge was loud in the silent night. The air that struck my face and breast was very soft, very mild.

With my first footfall outside I stepped on a fig. Saw half a dozen at the base of the door, fallen from an ancient tree whose several muscular limbs hung languorously over my loggia. The thumps had been figs falling on the door. The thought of that fruit made me crave one. A nearby branch was groaning with it, and I reached out.

A sudden darting hand snatched my wrist and held it tight.

I shrieked in fright.

“Juliet! Do not fear.”

I knew the voice at once. I looked into the shadow of the leafy limb and there lay Romeo, all spread along the length of it. He released his grip. I stepped back.

“You’ve been lying in wait,” I accused, regaining my composure. “Throwing figs at my door.”

“Guilty.”

I was lost for words, an unusual state of affairs.

“Are you angry?” he said.

“No . . . perhaps worried you are deranged.”

He laughed at that.

“Keep your voice down.”

“Sorry.”

“Should I ask why you’re here?”

“Do you need to ask?”

I nodded.

“I find it useless trying to sleep,” he answered. “I’m kept awake by thoughts of you.”

I suddenly felt myself naked and pulled the robe around my thin shift. His eyes were on me, unrelenting.

“You look like a wood nymph,” I said. “Come down from there.” I backed away and let him jump to the balcony. He was graceful as a cat. Now we were face-to-face. But there was no Medici ball up a flight of stairs here, nor a church full of Florentines surrounding us. We were alone.

“So my missiles woke you?”

I was unsure how to act. I felt I should be indignant at his overbold visit, embarrassed at my state of undress.

Alarmingly, I was neither.

“I was dreaming a love poem when you woke me,” I admitted.

“
Dreaming
a poem?”

“Have you never done that?”

“No. Verse comes hard to my mind.” The moonlight was cool, but his gaze was searing. “Tell me your poem.”

“I cannot. It was an endless stream of words.” Then I remembered. “But the God of Love was holding me in his arms. I wore a trailing red gown.”

“Like the sketch—chapter three!” he cried, then recited,
“ ‘In his arms there lay a figure asleep and naked except for a crimson cloth loosely wrapping it.’ ”

“Oh dear, I seem to plagiarize, even in my sleep.”

But Romeo did not smile. “Did the God of Love also bid you eat my burning heart?”

My breath erupted in a sharp gasp. “You leap very handily from Dante and his beloved to you and me,” I said.

“Should I not?”

“You should slow down.”

He looked chastised and backed away. Sat on the balcony wall. “What should I say, my lady?” he asked with courtesy.

“Tell me what Don Cosimo said when you talked to him about peace.”

“He spoke of history,” Romeo said, remembering. “Bad blood between the Guelf and Ghibelline factions all those years ago. What a senseless conflict that was—country folk who followed the emperor, city folk who gave allegiance to the pope. Meaningless hatred. Centuries of feuding.”

I nodded for Romeo to go on.

“That war was done a hundred years ago, but when Cosimo came to power, the hatred flared again. Two camps formed, jealous ghosts of the Ghibellines and Guelfs: those who rallied round the city-bound Medici—your father is one of these—and others, like my family, who lived outside the walls, hating Don Cosimo and all his friends and retainers. But he says more fault is rightly laid at my family’s doorstep.”

“Is that true?”

He looked downcast. “I fear it is.”

“What did he tell you to do?”

“If I manage to cool tempers enough—my father, my uncles, the other anti-Medicians—Don Cosimo will bring them to his table, broker a peace.”

“Did he say how this could be done? Was any sage advice given?”

“It might have been forthcoming, but I was chased from the room before I could hear it.” He grinned now. “And thank you, Lady Juliet, for helping my escape.”

I smiled flirtatiously. “How could I allow those ruffians to injure a peacemaker?”

His laugh was rueful. “Some peacemaker . . .”

Gently I said, “You spoke to your father?”

“And was threatened with disownment if I uttered another word.” He looked down at his feet, mortified. “And yes, he did sink your father’s cargo.”

“Oh, Romeo!” No words could have wrenched my heart more.

“Never mind,” he said. “Let us talk of pleasanter things. You are a
poet
. That amazes me.”

“It should not. Women own brains, and fingers to hold a quill. Have you never heard of Christine de Pisan?”

“Of course. We studied her at university.”

“Was she not a woman?”

“She was, and a great writer. A contentious writer. A poet. But Christine de Pisan was a widow,” said Romeo, “who only began writing to support her children. Even she believed a woman’s place was in the home—that public discourse was a male domain.”

“She thought her life ‘a mutation of Fortune,’ ” I agreed. “She claims she became ‘an honorary man.’ ”

Romeo moved closer to me. Without invitation he threaded his fingers through my hair. “Is that what you wish for yourself?”

Something melted inside me. “I have no wish to be a man,” I said, “honorary or otherwise. I only wish to write.”

“Do you wish to love?” he whispered.

He was so bold. Yet I nodded.

“Close your eyes, Juliet.”

Without thought or fear I did as he asked. I believed I would soon feel his lips on mine. But instead he lifted my hand and, with infinite delicacy, pushed back the sleeve of my gown. Then I felt warm breath on the tenderest inside of my forearm.

“I believe in the senses,” he murmured, sending tiny waves of air across my skin. “Here is touch.”

I shivered with delight. “Give me another,” I demanded.

“This one is mine,” he said, releasing my hand and moving away, but in the next moment he was behind me, his face buried in my hair at the back of my neck. He inhaled deeply. “Aaahh,” he sighed. “The natural perfume of Juliet.”

I tilted back my head to lean upon his and there we remained, still and breathing. Did he know that I wished his hands to circle my waist, slide across the naked skin of my breasts?

“Listen,” he said softly into the shell of my ear.

I did, my eyes still closed. “It is the nightingale,” I said. Its trilling notes in the darkness had never sounded so sweet to me. How was it that all at once I heard magic in that song?

I felt his arms on my shoulders, turning me a half-turn. Then with both hands enclosing my head, he tilted it skyward. “Open your eyes.”

I did as I was told. There before me at what seemed as close as arm’s length was the full moon, a dark brace of clouds skittering across its bright and shadowed surface.

“Touch. Smell. Sound. Sight,” he uttered. “All so easily gratified.”

“What of taste?” I said, pressing him.

“Ah, now you become greedy.”

I turned to face him. “It
is
one of the senses.”

“True.”

Again, I thought that he would kiss me, to this way prove the fifth sensation. Instead he turned and, searching the fruit-heavy branch, snapped from it a fat ripe fig. When he faced me again, he held in his hands its two halves.

“Were there more light,” he said, “we would see the luscious . . . pink . . . flesh.” His voice caressed the words.Then holding my eyes with his, he took a half in his palm and brought it to his mouth. I grew suddenly alarmed as he buried his lips in the soft fig’s center and closed his eyes, ecstatic.

“My lord!” I cried, breaking the spell.

His eyes sprang open and he gazed without apology into mine. “I think I should go. I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“No, no.”

But he had leapt to the balcony wall and swung his body up into the tree. Hanging loose from the branch by one arm, he leaned down and held out his hand to me. The fig’s other half was cupped in his palm. “For you, my lady—the final sense.”

I took it, words failing me once again.

“When you taste it,” he said, “think of me.”

Then he was gone, all rustling leaves and shadows.

I stood stupidly, staring at the half fruit, and, smiling, brought it to my lips.

I
t was the custom that all women friends of a bride should keep her company during the first meal at the house of the bridegroom. In the case of Chaterina Valenti, this was the house of her bridegroom’s father, where the couple had taken up residence.

It was a run-down house, dark and badly furnished, the faint smell of mold and rot pervading all. As we silently ate our meal at the long wooden table, Chaterina’s father-in-law, grunting as he chewed, threw bits of meat and whole bones to two mange-ridden dogs lounging in the straw at his feet. Her husband, Antonio, who had clearly learned manners from his loutish father, smiled at the poor girl with bits of food stuck between his teeth.

His mother, Mona Ginetta, to which neither man paid the slightest attention, was a grim harridan who regarded all her guests with equal disdain. Her house was poor and her men coarse, and I guessed she wished that they were not so embarrassingly on display to the gentlewomen of Florence.

Making the occasion bleaker still was the dour priest who had been invited to share the meal—another custom recently popular—as though a man of religion at a family’s table made them pious. This cleric, after he had spoken the blessing, never said another word. He did not bother to hide his boredom, nor had he bothered to wash. He was rank with perspiration and smelled as though he had stepped in excrement in the street.

Chaterina was much relieved when Antonio and his father, trailed by the dogs and the priest, left the table with barely a “
Buona sera
,” but I watched her face crumple with disappointment when her mother-in-law stayed firm in her chair. The sour-faced woman had, for the first time, been given leave to assert her dominion in the household. Chaterina was, from this moment on, the dominated.

“Has everyone had enough to eat?” our friend asked us, the first words she had spoken the whole meal through, and reached for a slice of bread. In a flash her hand was slapped away by Mona Ginetta, who fixed the girl with a withering glare, silencing all of us before we could answer.

“You’ve had two pieces already,” she accused. “And a double portion of macaroni. My son will not look kindly on a wife going to fat.” Then she looked around the table, wondering, I supposed, if she dared insult any of the rest of us.

“Sorry, Mona Ginetta, sorry,” the daughter-in-law said. “I’ll be more attentive to what I eat.”

“It’s funny,” I said lightly but pointedly, “Chaterina is always the one we worry is too thin.”

“That is true,” Lucrezia piped in with an encouraging smile at our beleaguered friend. “She’s got the tiniest waist. We’re all jealous of her.”

As everyone else chimed in with their agreement, Mona Ginetta began to seethe.

“I have a gift for you,” Elena Rinaldi said, drawing the conversation onto pleasanter ground and pushing a small wrapped box toward her hostess. When the rest of us began speaking excitedly, Mona Ginetta pushed back her chair with a decisive scrape and stood. To Chaterina she said, “I will leave you to your guests.” In a moment she was thankfully gone, but her leave had not purged the room of darkness. We were horribly aware that this shrew stood at the center of Chaterina’s future.

And all I could think of was Allessandra Strozzi.

“Dare we ask about the wedding night?” Maria piped in, keeping her voice low. Antonio might come from a boorish family, but he was half the age of Maria’s betrothed.

I did not think Chaterina’s face could fall any further, but I was wrong. She pushed her lips tight together to keep from crying, but tears still sprang to her eyes. “Awful,” she managed.

Lucrezia reached out and placed a hand on Chaterina’s.

“I was afraid,” she went on, “and I told him so . . . expecting that he would . . . be gentle.” She hid her face in her cupped hands. “He was not. He pounded hard. Went on and on. It seemed like forever.”

It pained me to hear her continue, for I knew I had no bright banter to buoy her, no advice to share.

“It hurt. Terribly,” she said, her voice cracking. “Then he . . .” She hesitated. “. . . pulled away. Out. He was angry. Disgusted. Told me I was ‘dry.’ Told me I had hurt
him
.”

Chaterina went silent then, and we were all still, battered by her account.

“I have just the thing,” Constanza Marello suddenly said.