The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (38 page)

“Yes sir, quite alone,” I assured him.

When the full impact of my statement had sunk in he insisted that I could not possibly return home alone. Out of the question. I must come with him to his own house to recover from my ordeal in the streets, and later, after I had rested, he would have me accompanied across the river to my home. But now I must — must! — put myself under his protection.

Seeing no courteous way to resist this deaf and determined old man, I agreed.

The visit did not begin auspiciously. Madonna Regina, the old man’s wife, turned quite pale when he reported finding me alone in front of the fishmonger’s stall, and insisted on pouring into me cup after cup of borage tea to counteract whatever malady I might have contracted in such gamey surroundings. After that I was put to rest in her second-best bed to recover from my ordeal. (No amount of nay-saying from me could lessen her conviction that my adventure at the market had been an arduous trial.)

The old woman was full of apologies that her daughter-in-law Diamante was not there to receive me. “She is on her horse again.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Always bouncing her belly around on the back of that animal. Just like the Queen of Portugal. And you know what happened to her.”

With that enigmatic hint she was gone, taking my boots with her to be cleansed of whatever disgusting stuff they may have picked up in the market.

Next thing, the bouncing Diamante herself appeared at the door still dressed for hunting in a hat with a magnificent red plume. She was a true Diana. Tall. Long-necked. Golden-haired. Everything I longed to be and was not. Had you told me at that moment that we two were destined to become friends, I would have staked my entire fortune against it.

“Here.” She held out my boots to me. “You’ll need these to make your escape.”

When I failed to grasp her meaning she went on to explain. “If I were you I’d put the boots on before my mother-in-law finds another reason to take them away. Believe me, the old parties would like nothing better than to keep you locked up here on some pretext or other.”

“Locked up?” Surely she was joking.

“Not with a key and bars,” she explained. “With kindness. Because the streets are dangerous. And horses are dangerous. Very dangerous. And young women are reckless . . .”

“Like the Queen of Portugal?” I asked.

“Precisely. If you take my advice you will get going while my esteemed mother- and father-in-law are taking their rest. I will send your goods on with a lackey. Go now.”

It sounded like good advice. I donned my boots at once and with Diamante’s help slipped down the broad staircase and into the courtyard.

Then I belatedly remembered my manners. “I haven’t even said thank you —”

“Write them a note,” she cut in. “I hear you’re a practiced scribe.”

There was not much to do but thank her and be on my way. But although I knew myself to be well rescued from the strangling embrace of the senior Bonaventuras, I did suffer a pang of regret at leaving this bold Diana of the
banchieri
.

25

U
ntil his abrupt flight to Fiesole I had known Judah only as a dignified, slow-moving, deliberate sort of man — the soul of
gravitas
. The haste with which he made his departure to attend Count Pico astonished me. But even more of a surprise was the limping, bleary-eyed, disheveled Judah who staggered into our bedroom five nights later, barely able to croak out a greeting before he collapsed beside me in a deep sleep.

I concluded that he had not slept much these past five nights, and indeed, when he awoke, he confirmed my diagnosis. “Count Pico was in the grip of a raging fever and I could trust no one to care for him but myself,” he explained.

“Is he so important a personage, then, to require a body attendant?” I inquired.

“Important?” Judah pondered my question. “Who is to be the judge of a philosopher’s importance? He is much admired in the Medici circle. Yet he himself would be first to admit that he is no Plato.”

“Why then . . .”

“Why then what?”

“Why could you not trust a servant or another friend to spell you at his bedside?”

“He was my pupil in Padova, the most brilliant I ever had. I taught him to read and write Hebrew in the space of eight months, if you can believe it. And when he — somewhat rashly I thought — concocted his sixty-eight propositions for the papal Curia, he called upon me to assist him — me . . . Leone the Jew.”

“And did you assist him, even though you thought him rash?” I asked.

The reply I got was roundabout. “Pico della Mirandola has a touchingly innocent belief in the power of cabala, which I do not share.”

“Then he would get on with Jehiel, for Jehiel is always babbling about mystic numbers and seraphim and the like.” Judah’s countenance clouded over, as it often did at the mention of my brother.

“Surely you are not comparing Count Pico of Mirandola, famed in all countries where scholarship is valued, to your mischief-making brother,” he retorted.

“It was an ill-placed remark, honored husband,” I replied as coldly as he. “But I fear I still do not understand just what it is about this Pico that caused you to give up five consecutive nights of sleep for him and risk your own health.”

“He is my benefactor, my colleague, and my friend,” Judah answered. “When Lorenzo the Magnificent was alive Pico introduced me into his circle. Since then he has never ceased to bring me fortune and favor. Without his intercession we would not be living here now in this great city in this fine house as pensioners of Piero dei Medici.”

“And would that be such a tragedy?” I queried, as much to myself as to him.

“Are you not enjoying your life here in Firenze?” he asked quietly, then quickly added, “We must talk, Grazia. I have had a letter at Fiesole from Ser Bonaventura. Some reckless escapade in the marketplace.”

What was I to say?

“I am on my way back to Fiesole now. But I will return before vespers. Let us meet then in my
studiolo
. A proper setting for a serious conversation, do you not agree?”

I nodded my head but said nothing.

“Good. And tell Orlando to put out a tray of sweetmeats for us. And some spiced wine. A talk can be serious without being bitter, you know.”

As vespers approached I found myself digging furiously into a little bronze cask that Dorotea had given me on the eve of my marriage and that I had never yet opened. One by one I drew out the tools of the trade, assembled for a woman who felt herself no better than a wanton.

First the ambergris, which I slathered on my bosom with such abandon that the entire room smelled like a whorehouse. Then the white paste for the face. Then the kohl around the eyes. Then the rouge. Never forget the rouge. “They do not like us pale.” Dorotea’s words came back to me. “It is not the most . . . what shall I say . . . stimulating color.”

That night I went to meet Judah in his
studiolo
painted and rouged and smelling like a harlot. The sight so unnerved him that for several moments he was unable to utter a word. Instead, he poured himself a draft from a bottle he kept beside his lectern and swallowed it in one gulp. Even then he seemed not to know how to go on, but cleared his throat several times and lapsed into silence.

“Put him at his ease,” I heard Dorotea whisper in my ear. “Remove his shoes and let the blood flow through his limbs.”

I knelt down at his feet and began to pull off his boot.

To my astonishment he jerked his foot back.

“Why are you groveling down there, Grazia? Is this some jest?”

“Oh no, sir.” I bobbed up as quickly as I could.

“And why is your face so white today? Are you constipated? Come closer.” I edged toward him. “Surely it cannot be that damned pumice?” He rubbed at my cheek harshly. “Aha! Dye!”

“Does it displease you?” I asked.

“Displease me? Indeed it does. This stuff is poisonous. Next thing we will have you breaking out in little red spots. What possessed you to put it on?”

“I was told that by such means I could entice you to look favorably upon me,” I admitted.

“Do I not look favorably on you?” he asked, softer now.

“You rarely look on me at all, honored husband,” I replied truthfully.

“I see.” He paused. “Come here, little wife.” He indicated a small stool that I was to pull up at his side. “Here by me.” He leaned down and turned my face toward him. “Now then,” he began. “Perhaps you have forgotten that I am a physician trained to see not only what lies on the surface of the skin but also what lies under it. I am proof against your poor efforts at illusionism, child. What my eyes see is the true Grazia, the Grazia you have taken such pains to hide under the layers of powder and pigment. And I am distressed, because I love that little Grazia dearly. You need never poison yourself or whiten your face to seem beautiful to me. I find you beautiful just as you are.” He stroked my cheek gently. “Besides, if you begin now with paint and powder, you will be a crone by the time you are thirty. Look at the way your stepmother has ruined herself with her potions.”

“It was she who gave me the powder and the scent,” I admitted.

“You must be more discriminating in your choice of tutors. For the present I would suggest you make do with me, since I am at hand and willing. What say you to that?”

“Oh, I would be grateful, sir. For everyone knows you are the wisest of counselors. But I never knew you dealt in beauty remedies.”

“It is time you found out what I deal in, wife. I have kept you too far from my affairs, leaving you on your own here to while away your hours with potions and peeking. Oh yes, I know where you have been spending your afternoons.”

I hung my head.

“Now then, look up and let us agree on a new regimen. What is done is done. We have both been in error: you for acting like a fool, which you are not, and me for treating you like a settled old matron, which you also are not. On your feet, wife. Smile. Let us both thank God that there is time to make a fresh start.”

The next morning changes were begun that altered the pattern of my life. A dancing master was engaged and a new pair of slippers ordered. Judah himself conducted me up the street to the cobbler’s shop to be fitted for them and allowed me to pick the leather.

All my life I had wished for shiny black slippers with a red leather trim such as I had seen on the feet of Madonna Isabella at the Este wedding. But when I was told to make a choice, did I ask for them? No. With a deep sigh I pointed to a pebbled black leather made from the skin of a buffalo — heavy, mottled, serviceable.

“Those will last a good while,” I commented.

“But will they put wings on your feet, Grazia?” Judah asked.

“Wings?” I shook my head sadly. Those boots would not put wings on my feet.

“Then they will not do at all for dancing slippers. I expect to see you flying about the room like a beautiful bird.” He turned to the cobbler. “Have you something finer in a dancing slipper for my wife?”

“Shiny?” I added, encouraged now to voice my true sentiments. “And trimmed all around the ankle with a red leather ruffle.”

“Anything for a price,” the cobbler replied equably. “But the red will cost you something extra. And a ruffled trim . . . on shiny leather . . .” He shook his head dolefully in contemplation of the astronomical cost of such a creation.

“How much?” Judah demanded.

“Two gold forms,” the man answered.

“Sold!”

The new regimen did not stop with boots and dancing lessons. Just after dinner Orlando announced that a visitor was waiting in the
sala
. The only visitors we ever had were the friends and relations of sick people come to beg Judah to call on their ailing loved ones, only to be disappointed — for he had refused consistently to see patients since we came to Firenze. Excepting for Count Pico of Mirandola.

I naturally assumed that this caller was simply another suppliant whom Judah would end up turning away, and since I saw no purpose in remaining, excused myself. But Judah urged me to stay. “There is someone I want you to meet,” he whispered, as he conducted me into the
sala
.

My first sight of the young man who stood waiting for us told me that he was one of the mysterious people who lived at the bottom of our street near the river. His sallow skin and embroidered black cloak identified him unmistakably.

“Honored wife, meet my new apprentice, Medina de Cases. Medina, your mistress, Madonna Grazia.”

The boy was clad from head to toe in black with only the white of his linen for contrast. How different from the style of our Italian boys, who deck themselves out in four-colored hose and crimson jackets and plumes of all colors, their
berrettas
fastened, when the wearer can afford it, by jeweled plaquettes.

In response to the boy’s gallant bow I knelt low in my most graceful curtsy, wondering as I executed the movement what he was doing there. Judah had never expressed a need for an apprentice before. Why now? And why this wan exotic?

“How does he strike you, wife? Do you think he will make a good student?”