The Smile (10 page)

Papà dips his fingers in the water bowl and rests his arms on the table, one on each side of his plate. “We've had sunshine two days in a row.” It sounds like a complaint.

“But that's good,” I say. “It's been such a rainy November so far. This sun feels like a gift.”

“If it's dry tomorrow, it's the right time to harvest the olives, because the rain could come back at any time.”

I nod. Olives should be picked perfectly dry. That way they won't rot before pressing. And they won't be so full of moisture that the oil comes out tasteless.

He sighs and drops his head.

“What's the matter, Papà?”

“I was planning on riding to Florence tonight. I made appointments for the next several days. And I told our workers here they could take short jobs with others till I get back.” He shakes his head. “I'm going to lose business if I'm not there—and I risk losing the harvest if I'm not here. Nothing works out.”

Papà goes to Florence often. These days the city has parties nonstop. Piero de' Medici loves them, and the rest of the nobles follow suit, for he has, indeed, taken over the role of his father; that wretched man rules Florence. Papà says there are so many parties, the street cleaners can't keep up. Garbage litters Florence.

All those parties are good for us, though, because they mean a greater demand for silk. Still, there are many silk merchants, all vying for the same customers. Papà has to keep up personal contacts, or he'll lose out.

His face is so tired. It's wearing him out, racing back and forth between the city and Villa Vignamaggio. I think that's what he wants, though—to be worn out so he can't think, so he can't miss her so badly. But he'll get sick if he keeps this up.

“I'll do it.”

He juts his chin forth and his eyes fasten on mine.

“It's children's work anyway,” I say.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it, then opens it again. “A noble girl shouldn't work outdoors in . . .”

“Don't say it.” He's just echoing what Mamma would have said anyway; he's always really liked having me around his work. “I've watched every harvest my whole life. I can oversee this one. Silvia will help me.”

He blanches. Well, that's so stupid. Silvia and I do everything together these days. Without her I'd have fallen to pieces—just like he would have without his trips to Florence. Why won't he accept that and treat her nicely?

He opens his mouth and I prepare to interrupt at the first bad word about her. I won't abide a single one.

“You're right. You're so capable, Betta. You always have been.” His voice cracks. “You know I treasure you, don't you?”

“Of course, Papà.” His voice is so sad, I am about to stand and rush to him.

But he's already on his feet and leaning across the table looking at me. “You can do it without the men. Put Cristiano in charge of the boys. He'll enjoy playing big shot. And he'll follow your orders. Especially if he doesn't realize I'm gone.” He goes to the corner and picks up a travel bag I didn't notice before.

“Why, you're already packed.” The realization makes something inside me quiver.

“I packed yesterday. I didn't think the sunshine would last.” He comes around the table and kisses my cheeks in parting and goes to the door. Then he stops and turns. “I won't let you work like this for long, Betta. You won't be one of those girls who nurses her father through old age. I promise you.” He leaves, shutting the door behind him.

I stare at the tiny quail bones on my plate. Tears threaten. It's not the harvest that bothers me. I'm glad to run the harvest. It's that Papà has addressed a fear I hadn't let myself recognize yet. Nothing is the same since Mamma died. There's no talk about my future anymore. No talk about a party or betrothing me. It's all we can do just to get from one day to the next without dissolving in our grief.

I don't want to be a spinster, at Papà's side till he dies, then withering slowly. But I do love him. I love him so much.

I open the door and let Uccio bound in. The dear goat butts me affectionately. I kiss him on the bony ridge above his eyes. “I'm so lucky I have you,” I murmur. He jumps up on the table and eats the remains right off Papà's plate. I stand back and watch with surprised gratitude. “We need a little naughtiness around here.”

 
 
 
The next morning Silvia and I string nets under the olive trees.

The team of boys follows us: Valeria's four big brothers, under the charge of Cristiano. The oldest brother is only eleven, so they listen as attentively to Cristiano as they would to a full-grown man. And Cristiano seems full-grown. It's as though he's matured into a man since that day we had our sad encounter in the woods. His chest is broad. His shoulders and arms bulge. When he sees me looking at him, I flush and turn away.

The boys beat the branches of the first tree with sticks, standing on ladders for the highest ones. Little Valeria runs around rescuing the olives that fly beyond the nets.

After the boys finish their part, Silvia and I climb high into that tree and inspect. A few olives cling here and there. Faithful little things. We wrest them off by hand, calling encouragement to each other as we go, for neither of us is fond of heights.

Uccio runs around the bottom of the tree.
Naaaa, naaaa.
The perfect little fool.

I glance around quickly. The boys are finishing off the second tree; no one is watching us. Well, I didn't want anyone to be watching. No, I certainly didn't. I don't care where Cristiano's eyes go. I know who he is; he knows who I am; there's nothing more to be said. We were born different. It's just annoying, annoying and rotten, that the one man interested in me is a peasant, so he doesn't count, he can't count.

I declare the first tree done. We climb down and Uccio butts me. I hug him tight and lift one of his long, soft ears, and whisper to him, “Giulianuccio.”

That's his full name: Giulianuccio—“sweet little Giuliano.” But I never call him that in front of anyone except Silvia. To the others he's just Uccio—just the ending that means sweet and little. No one else must find out I named him after Giuliano. I don't want people suspecting something stupid about my feelings, especially since I haven't heard a word from Giuliano since the funeral.

Silvia gives a quick, loving pat to Uccio and we climb the next tree. Uccio goes back to bleating piteously.

Paco comes gallumphing through the grove, drawn by Uccio's bleating, no doubt. The two have become unlikely friends. They play tug with rags that Paco steals from Valeria's laundry line.

Uccio disappears with Paco while Silvia and I go from tree to tree, working together. It would be faster to separate, so we can work two trees at once. But it cuts the fear to share it.

We break for the midday meal. I shoo little Valeria home and pull Silvia toward the house with me, to eat separate from the boys.

Cristiano watches us go. He nods to me. Just one quick nod. Then he takes a hunk of cheese out of a sack, cuts it toward his thumb with a small knife, puts the slice in his mouth, and chews large. The whole time his eyes are on me. I know, because I keep glancing back, even as I lead Silvia inside.

Silvia enters the kitchen warily. “Your father won't want to eat with me.”

I put cheese and bread on the table. “Papà's gone to Florence.”

Silvia visibly relaxes. “He left you on your own to oversee the whole olive harvest, then?”

“And why not? It's fun.”

She makes a face. “Ain't he the lucky one that you like to work so hard.” Her tone is an accusation.

“Papà works hard, too. That's all he does.”

Her face softens. “Sorry. I'd get mad at you, too, I would, if you said bad words about my pa.” She pulls two buns out of a hidden pouch. “I made these last night and saved a couple.”

I take a bite. It's stuffed with chopped rucola. A memory invades: Mamma's rucola-rich hands on my cheeks. Loss makes me instantly hot all over.

“Elisabetta?” Silvia furrows her brow. “What hurts?”

I shake my head and stare at the ceiling. “Sometimes, Silvia, sometimes I run upstairs and bury my face in the skirts of one of Mamma's dresses and stay there till my heart slows enough to allow me to stand without fainting.”

She puts her hands behind my head and pulls me to her. We stand a moment, forehead to forehead.

Then we sit and eat quietly, till we hear Uccio at the back door, bleating to high heaven. Paco must have ditched him to chase a rabbit or a squirrel, the poor little goat. I grab what's left of the food on the table and carry it outside to share with him.

We hunt down little Valeria and send her to round up the boys again. All together we empty nets into the two-wheeled cart. When the cart is full, we wheel it away and dump it into the wagon waiting near the road. Net after net. Cartload after cartload. Valeria and Silvia and I climb into the loaded wagon bed and pick out as many leaves and stems as we can. Uccio keeps jumping in, which means Paco jumps in, too, and we keep chasing both of them back out. I refuse to imagine what goat droppings might do to the taste of our oil.

Dark comes quickly. We're forced to stop. We cover the wagon bed with canvas. Tomorrow Cristiano will drive this wagon to Greve to have the olives pressed. I might go with him. I haven't decided yet.

Cristiano hardly talks to me since Mamma died, and when he does, it's respectfully. Still, he harbors feelings for me; that much is clear no matter whether he says it or not. His eyes don't hide it. But I can handle that; I handle it every day. My hesitancy at going with him in the wagon is due to something else entirely.

The question is the money. Papà pays the olive miller a tip to put us first in line. Would entrusting that tip to Cristiano tempt him to steal away a part for himself? I don't want to be the instrument of his moral decay. But there's the other side: he might rise to the occasion and be glad for the opportunity to prove himself.

I have to think this whole thing through.

Silvia stops by her home first, then she comes back and we eat together. We eat the cold strips of tripe I boiled this dawn with onions and parsley, and the mix of vegetables I lightly steamed and then seasoned with the end of last's year's oil. I chopped those vegetables so small, they're close to a mash. That way the flavors blend on the tongue.

Silvia makes appreciative murmurs as she eats. When Papà is away, her mother lets her take her dusk meal with me. We don't make a fuss over it. We sit at the counter and eat and talk and shriek now and then. The shrieking is because of Uccio. One of his favorite games is to nibble at our toes.

“This food is good, Elisabetta.”

“Your bun at lunch was good, too,” I say.

She laughs.

“What's funny?”

“You.” She pats the back of my hand. “To talk about a simple bun as though it's equal to such a fine meal. Tripe. It ain't the same as game, you know, something anyone can catch. The most tripe I ever tasted before now was when I rubbed a crust of bread in a dirty cooking pot your Sandra had set out to wash. You're very funny.” She picks something from between her teeth and looks at me thoughtfully. “It takes time to mince vegetables this small. You must have got up early to make all this.”

I did, and willingly. After last night's success with the quail, I can't wait to try more recipes. Maybe I'll even try some of Mamma's. In my head I see her beaming at that idea. “I love cooking.”

“It shows. But then you worked till dusk. You know, your day ain't so different from mine anymore.”

I almost say I love the work, too. It felt so good today—so good to be as capable as Papà believes I am. I ran the whole olive harvest, and it went without a hitch. Well, really, Silvia and Cristiano and I ran it. Still, I was in charge. But saying I love the work would erect a wall between us again. For Silvia doesn't love it. Why should she? Villa Vignamaggio isn't hers.

I clear things away, then we finish off with pomegranates and goat cheese.

“Mamma handed me a sack of chestnuts.” Silvia shrugs in apology. “I better go. I have to finish them tonight for her morning baking.”

“Where are they?”

“By the back door.”

“Fetch them,” I say. “I'll start the fire.”

“Don't be daft. You don't want to work all evening after working all day.”

“Neither do you.”

“I ain't got a choice.”

“You think I do?” I say. “You think I want you to get all the cakes?”

She laughs. “Glutton.”

I build a fire in the living room hearth and we set the chestnuts to roast on a reed bed beside it. Silvia and I sit on chairs with our legs tucked under so Uccio can't get at our toes. When the chestnut shells split, we husk them and grind the nutmeat into flour. Her mother will make cakes from it tomorrow. I used to think of chestnut cakes as peasant food. But Silvia has shared so many with me the past few months that now I simply think of them as good.

Food doesn't need to be fancy in order to be worth eating. It needs to be tasty. I have to remember that as I go about my cooking from now on. Not all my recipes have to be complicated, like the quail.

I toss two burned chestnuts to Uccio, who eats them whole, shell and all.

“How long's he gone for this time?” asks Silvia.

“I don't know. I suspect at least a couple of days.”

“Depending on how he's getting on with her, I guess.”

“What?” I stop grinding and hold the mortar firm in my sloping lap. “Getting on with who?”