The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (33 page)

The levee had now been in progress for two hours and, although others had been greeted and smiled at, I had not received so much as a glance of recognition from the Marchesana. Instead, I was forced to suffer through the inventory of Barbary stallions and the Queen of Spain’s raw throat. By the time they got to the final item in the horse dealer’s communiqué — the return of an Italian navigator in the employ of the Spanish crown from a voyage across the great western ocean — my mind was frayed. All I got from the report was a jumble of exotic snatches — parrots as big as falcons and red as pheasants, sandalwood free for the chopping, rivers that run with gold and men like Tartars with hair falling over their shoulders who eat human flesh and fatten other men as we do capons. The astonishing fact that a new world had been discovered by this Cristoforo Colombo escaped me completely.

“Now then, signorina
conversa
. . .” At long last the horse trader’s letter was done and Madonna Isabella acknowledged my presence. “We hear that you have completed your studies and are ready to join us in Christ’s sisterhood. Congratulations.”

Whereupon everyone applauded.

“I said that I would stand with you at the font, did I not?”

“You did,
illustrissima
.”

“Then we must set a date. June would be a good time. For I am just now bound to visit Venezia and after that my honored parents in Ferrara.”

“So long?”

“Ah, your eagerness is touching.” She smiled sweetly. “You cannot wait to embrace the faith. Have you given thought to what name you will take when you are reborn as a Christian?”

“With respect, madama, I hope to take the name of my betrothed, Lord Pirro Gonzaga.”

“Betrothed?” Her face took on a distracted air. “Well, I am afraid that is not to be, after all. My illustrious husband has made other plans for Lord Pirro.”

Her cool tone cut through my heart as smooth as a knife through butter. “He has arranged a match with a princess of Savoia. She has a dowry of thirty thousand ducats and lands inherited from her illustrious mother.”

I could feel myself trembling as I protested, “But I heard nothing . . .”

“Lord Pirro is prohibited from writing to you now that he is betrothed to another. His honor forbids it.”

“And his promises to me? His sworn word?”

“Lord Pirro has but one sworn word and that is to his liege lord, my illustrious husband, the Marchese. And, of course, to God . . .” She crossed herself reverently.

These princes know no shame. They command God to appear on their behalf and then banish Him the next minute as if He were their servant.

“It is God’s will, girl. Accept it. Come forward now,” she commanded me. “I have words for you.”

Even though my head was reeling and my gut in turmoil, I did step forward as I was bidden.

“Earthly delights are short-lived,” the lady announced solemnly. “Christ stays with us forever. Even if we two are not fated to be cousins in the world, we shall still be sisters in Christ.”

“No-o-o!” The long wail escaped my throat independent of my wish to utter it.

Abruptly the hand was withdrawn. Before me now stood a proud and angry woman.

“Does this mean you refuse baptism? Is my lord correct that this faith of yours was but a gambit to snag a fine husband? Are you refusing Christ, girl? Are you or are you not?”

Was I? I hardly knew, myself. A great weight was pressing upon me, urging me to sink. Christ, I prayed silently, take me from this place. Take me anywhere, even to hell, but take me from here . . .

“Perhaps I misunderstood you.” Her voice came to me as from a distant shore. “You need time to pray for understanding and acceptance. You are excused . . .”

Purely out of habit I made a deep curtsy and began to back out of her presence. But before I reached the door I was arrested by the majestic voice.

“Take this thought with you, signorina
ebrea
. I will pray every day for the purity of your intention. And no matter that you waver up to the last moment, I will come from wherever I am to stand beside you at the font, even if I have to ride for a day and a night to be there. For I am a woman of my word.”

The cloister was a bitter place for me that evening as I did my rounds with Cateruccia. No longer did I repeat my homily that the meek inherit the earth. I knew better.

As the darkness came down I continued to tramp around and around the tiny square, cursing God on the triangle and Jesus and Mary on the second turn. Dimly I heard the bells of San Andrea announce vespers. Then compline. Still I walked and cursed, chained to the motion of my own body like a galley slave to his oar. How long I might have stayed there I do not know. But sometime just after the prime bell I felt a gentle hand on my arm and looked up to see Fra Pietro’s face gazing down upon me like an angel. Then I did sink. I felt myself falling into blackness.

22

F
rom the days that followed my attack of tertian fever only a few fleeting impressions remain. A knife at my foot. Someone pressing cups upon my chest. The flickering lights of the little candles inside the cups. Darkness. Sleep. Dreams.

Then in the midst of a dream, the clear sight of a beloved face, the sound of a familiar voice. “Take a little of this
minestra
, sister.” A pair of steady young hands held the bowl to my lips.

My brother Jehiel came to me at the
casa dei catecumeni
every day of my illness. He braved the terrors of that place — of which he had heard the most frightening reports — to bring me chicken soup and love. It was he who coaxed me to leave there and who overcame my fears of the Casa dei Rossi with its alarming memories.

“Do they not hate me?” I asked. “Have they not disowned me?”

“Not at all. They are sad that you have left. Gershom and I pray every night for you to come back. And Papa sits in his
studiolo
but he does not study. He only stares and sighs. We need you, Grazia. Come home with me now.”

“This moment?”

“When better?” he asked with perfect logic.

“But my fever. The weakness in my limbs . . .”

“You can lean on me.”

Of our arrival at my father’s house I remember nothing. When I came to awareness, I was in my own bed. Above me loomed the pale, serious face of my little brother Gershom.

“Is she going to die?” I heard him whisper. “Is Grazia going to die like Mama?”

“No, brother.” Jehiel entered my field of vision. “She is not going to die. Not unless you smother her with those wet kisses. Leave off, baby . . .”

My brothers were my only friends in that house. The rest of the
famiglia
, including my father, kept me at a distance. It was not difficult to understand the reasons. The whole household heard them enumerated every night after we had retired, reiterated by Dorotea in a piercing wail that penetrated every room in the house.

“Oh, the shame! Oh, the mortification that she causes us to suffer! My poor Ricca! Who will marry her now that Grazia has brought disgrace on us all? My poor innocent virgin is doomed to spinsterhood. Oh, the shame that Grazia has brought upon this house! Oh, the injustice!” And so on far into the night.

She had reason to despair of her daughter’s chances. The Jews in Italy are small in number and ferocious in pursuit of gossip. The news of my near apostasy had surely spread north to Venezia and south to Napoli by now. And I daresay Ricca’s chances for hooking a really fine fish in the marriage pond were lessened considerably by her sisterhood with a girl of little faith and even fewer morals such as I was perceived to be — and, by their standards, was. Bad enough to be in disgrace with God and man alike; but to know myself guilty made my remorse doubly bitter.

In that state, even Virgil lost the power to carry me out of myself. But Jehiel, in whom Vittorino’s teachings were grounded, hit upon a true humanistic remedy for my lassitude and weakness.
In corpore sano, mens sana.
My body must be made healthy, he announced to me, before my spirit could be healed. In that cause, he set about on a campaign to get our morning rides reinstated. And he hectored Papa so effectively that ponies were ordered in spite of Dorotea’s opposition to the scheme.

Jehiel’s remedy proved efficacious. Galloping full tilt, my hair loose and flying, the horse’s mane flowing, the beat of his hooves pounding below, I felt strong again, young again. I came back to life on the back of a chestnut bay.

But with youthful zest comes youthful folly. Somehow Jehiel got it in his head that we must take a gallop in the Gonzaga park. “Just once,” he pleaded. “It will be like the old days when we were little . . . and happy.”

I knew I should not go riding in the Gonzagas’ park. My wounds at their hands were too raw to rub them with memories. But there was a part of me that also yearned to go back to that earthly paradise just one more time. I agreed.

As we galloped along the long, soft carpet of emerald green that led to the stables, memories of other rides began to flood my mind: the day I ran away and was carried home like a bride on Lord Pirro’s steed, the way-stop at the Bosco Fontana where we pledged our love, the excitement of my ride to Marmirolo to attend Madonna Isabella’s fete, and the ride back to the
casa dei catecumeni
after my dismal blunder in the Game of Ships. Then out of this sea of memory emerged a pair of riders, a lady and a gentleman coming toward us through the mist. As they approached I could see that the lady was wearing a hunting hat with a long plume that dipped in the breeze. When she turned her head, her sharp, pointed nose stood out in profile against the background of the sky. I did not recognize her.

But the other figure was only too familiar. I knew the tilt of that body in the saddle. I have never seen anyone ride quite the way Lord Pirro does — laid back like Triton astride his sea horse.

There were no byways leading off the tree-lined pathway. Approaching from opposite ends, we were like two knights riding into combat after the gauntlet has been thrown down. No avoiding the inescapable confrontation.

As the distance between us narrowed we all slowed our mounts to a polite pace as is customary for riders who must pass close. The lady was at hand. In spite of my inner turmoil a certain part of me observed when we came abreast that her skin had lost the bloom of youth.

Now came the real test. I took a deep breath to bolster my composure. Everything in me longed to cry out, to shriek betrayal, to wail my loss like a bereaved widow. What he felt, I do not know; for he bowed low just as we passed and his
berretta
covered his eyes.

Did I actually hear him murmur, “
Mi dispiace
,” as he bent low before me, or did I imagine it?

A moment later I was galloping wildly away from the scene headed I knew not where, with Jehiel at my heels shouting after me to hold up. Instead I threw the rein over my horse’s head, a most reckless act as you know, and let the animal fly as he might. All I wanted was to be carried away out of that long green trap and into the open fields.

Then suddenly a fence loomed up ahead and a tall iron gate, shut against riders. Too late now to regain the reins. I lowered my head, dug into the animal with my knees, and prayed.

We sailed over the gate without a mishap.

It took no more than a few seconds for me to feel the prick of the first nettle. Brambles as high as my waist dug into my flesh. On we galloped, the horse tossing his head wildly from side to side to ward off the pain of the thorns but both of us too stubborn to slow down.

Just ahead on the edge of the thicket, there rose into the air a great buzzing cloud. Louder and louder it buzzed, like a demented sackbut. Then needles, fire, flashes of pain. The horse and I went down screaming. I had taken him into the center of a swarm of bees.

The next thing I remember is the taste of mud and the feel of it seeping into my ears and my nose. And the sound of a country voice, not unkind but rough: “’Tis the best remedy for the bee sting, master. It draws the poison.” Then the pressure of a man’s arms lifting me and Jehiel’s voice saying my name over and over. “Grazia.
Povera
Grazia . . .”

I was awakened by the pain, a thousand little darts of it shooting through my head and face.

“The child is writhing in pain, Maestro Portaleone. Cannot something be done?” My father’s voice.

“Indeed it can and indeed it shall. We need only draw out the poison. I have already sent my boy off for the remedy.”

Let him come soon.

“As I told you, honored husband . . .” Dorotea’s voice. “There is nothing to concern yourself about. Her wounds will heal quickly, mark me. Now, dinner awaits. And our guests are arriving.”

I opened my lips to cry out for my father. But they were stuck together and the cry remained locked in my throat. In place of a gentle hand on my brow, I got the tip-tap of retreating footsteps.

Left alone, I tried to raise my eyelids. But narrow slits were all the swelling allowed and I saw little. I felt my nose. My ears. Fiery. Then I began to pry my lips apart with my fingers. They felt dry and puffy, like beached fish lying dead on the shore.