The Smile (16 page)

“All these squabbles. Every time I show my face at a social event, people want to interrogate me about what I know. It takes away the fun.”

“What squabbles?”

“About the troubles everyone predicts. Or, well, not everyone. Just that Savonarola. And now Giovanni's involved.”

“Cardinal Giovanni? Your brother?” I shake my head in confusion.

“You don't know anything about it, do you?” He turns me once neatly under his arm. “I like that. It's a relief. And, come to think of it, it's an opportunity, too. I want to hear your reaction. Let's talk after this dance.”

The music ends and we walk to a spot near the wall. “I wish we could speak in private,” says Giuliano, looking around at the guests. “But the streets are as crowded as this hall. We risk being overheard no matter where we go.”

“Speak under your breath. I'll listen hard.”

“Come.” Giuliano takes two chairs and pushes them close. We sit side by side and look out at the dancers with feigned interest.

Somehow being together but not on the dance floor feels more intimate. I become intensely aware of our physical selves. I look down and my eyes take in his hands. “Your fingers are studded with rubies,” I say in surprise.

“Contessina dressed me. Don't breathe too deeply or you'll swoon from the perfume in my shirt.”

I laugh, though I feel I could swoon regardless of the perfume.

“It's so good to hear laughter. And so rare.” Giuliano shakes his head. Then he whispers, “The banks falter briefly and everyone makes a commotion.”

“Falter?” The very idea shocks me. I am instantly alert. “Papà calls Florence's banks the foundation of modern society.”

“And so they are. These problems will pass, Monna Lisa. But in the meantime Savonarola exploits everyone's fears.”

“What can a monk, of all people, say about the banks?”

“Nonsense, that's what. He says the Italian states are going to ruin because the rich throw away money on extravagances.”

I view the dancers in front of me with new eyes. “This wedding is extravagant. Will the feast really go on for three days?”

“A Medici wedding must be like this.” Giuliano sits taller and from the corner of my eye I see his jaw clench. “The cooks prepared thousands of chickens, herds of calves. We are as grand as ever, and this wedding shows that.”

I can't stop myself from reproving: “At huge cost.”

“It's nothing compared to the past. My grandfather spent six thousand florins on his daughter's wedding.”

My head spins with how much that sum could do. I squeeze my folded hands tighter in my lap. “And you think Savonarola is wrong to decry extravagances?”

“A sumptuous wedding feast portends a fecund marriage. Even Savonarola can't be against that. What he rails about is Italian states spending money on foreign treats. He says other countries use Italian money to grow more powerful than us. Especially Florentine money. And, of course, he points his finger at my brother Piero.”

“Are other countries more powerful than us?”

“How could they be? Florence is the center of the civilized world. The nobility here are the richest anywhere. Piero easily found the money for this wedding in the banks. But Savonarola can't be reasoned with. He's even stirred up the Pope. So the Pope sent my brother Giovanni home from Rome to tell Piero how to fix things. As though the Pope understands the material world.”

“The Pope must understand money. Papà says no place is richer than the Vatican.”

He shakes his head at me, but his eyes are wide. “Monna Lisa, regardless of what the Pope knows, Florence isn't a papal state. He can't tell a republic how to behave. It's wrong.” His voice cracks. “And it's wrong to pitch brothers against each other.”

I turn my left hand, the hand closest to Giuliano, upward and extend it toward him instinctively. “You're caught between them, aren't you? Between your brothers. That must be awful.”

From the side, I see an older man approach. “Am I interrupting?” He looks pointedly at my extended hand, which I quickly drop, and—oh! —it's Leonardo da Vinci!

“Ser Leonardo!” Giuliano stands and embraces him. “You came from Milan. I'm so glad.”

I hurry to rise.

“No, no,” says Leonardo. “Please stay seated, Madonna Elisabetta. Put your hands like they were a moment ago.” He takes my hands and arranges them. “The right hand facing down, the left facing up—and your eyes looking toward that left hand.”

Did this artist's discerning eye catch the emotion in my gesture toward Giuliano? I shake my head and pull my hands away, hoping my cheeks are not as red as they are hot.

“Don't be shy with me. I need you as a model. Please. Just for a moment.” Leonardo takes my hands again and gently arranges them as before. “That's perfect.” He snaps his fingers. “That's what I've been looking for.”

“May I be so bold as to ask what you're talking about, Ser Leonardo?”

“Il Moro has asked me to do a special painting, and you have given me the idea for how to pose the central figure.”

“Who is Il Moro?”

“That's what they call the Duke of Milan,” says Giuliano.

“Maybe it's because of his dark Moorish skin or . . .” Leonardo lifts one corner of his mouth. “. . . his dark soul.” He bends toward me and talks softly. “I've done portraits of a handful of his mistresses.” He straightens up again. “Now I'm doing the last supper.”

The last supper? With Jesus and the apostles? How on earth could I have given Leonardo something to use in such a painting?

“But hasn't that already been done so many times?” asks Giuliano.

“The subject will never be exhausted.” Leonardo smiles. “And Milan needs it.”

“But the Milanesi come to Florence to see Fra Angelico's paintings. He's done three versions of it.”

“Mine will be better than traditional frescos,” says Leonardo. “I'm using tempera and oil on dry plaster. Jesus' wrath will shine forth more. After all, it's a moment of impending betrayal.”

“Betrayal, yes! That's what it's really about. I'm sure you'll make it extraordinary, as you do everything.” Giuliano looks around briefly. Then he steps closer to Leonardo. “Circulate, Ser Leonardo. Let everyone see you are here. Let them know that you don't play the artists' games of betrayal. Remind them that the best artist in the world is a friend of the Medici family.”

“I understand,” Leonardo says solemnly.

I don't.

But before I can ask, Leonardo turns from Giuliano to me. “May I have this dance, dear model?”

I let him lead me onto the dance floor, knowing Giuliano will find me again soon. We take our positions among the couples.

“You've saved me days of wandering, you know,” says Leonardo.

“I don't know that at all. What do you mean?”

“I search the streets of Milan looking for men whose visages and poses would be right in my painting. I spend hours at it every day. And there you were, perfectly posed. Thank you, Madonna Elisabetta. Returning to Florence feeds my soul.”

“If you miss Florence so much, why don't you stay?”

Leonardo narrows his eyes at me. “Little Madonna, what you don't know. The arts are slipping away here.”

“What an absurd thing to say. The school of art in the Medici gardens near San Marco is world famous.”

“And who works there now? Michelangelo has left. And Botticelli. And the della Robbia brothers.” His voice has a bitter edge. “They don't take secular commissions from the nobility of Florence anymore. From the likes of your friends—and mine. They've gone over to Savonarola's side. That's the betrayal Giuliano was talking about.”

“So they believe the nobles of Florence are decadent?”

“Sweet Madonna, I love your innocence. But beware ignorance—none of us can afford it these days. I remember you describing the silk business. You understand how things work. Art is a business, too. Those artists' defection is not about morality but money. Right now the church has it, and the nobility don't. And artists love to eat.”

I cannot tell if Leonardo is sad or angry, but I am distinctly uncomfortable. I don't know what to think about any of this.

We dance without further conversation. As the music ends, I look around for Giuliano, but another man comes up and asks me to dance. And at the end of that dance, another. There is no shortage of dancers tonight. But, though I scan the crowds constantly, both during a dance and afterward, the evening passes and Giuliano doesn't reappear. It's as though he's vanished.

In the morning, we vanish, too, for Papà announces we are skipping the rest of the wedding festivities. He won't relent, no matter how much I implore.

I can hardly sit still in the coach home. My mind races over the things Giuliano said. The fight between Savonarola and Piero worries me, yes—and I can just bet that some new rumor about the banks is behind Papà's whisking us away. He and I have shared enough hours poring over the financial ledgers of Villa Vignamaggio for me to understand how he views money matters. I can't say I don't agree with Papà; if the banks are faltering, the rich of Florence should tighten their belts. That's how we've kept Villa Vignamaggio from going into ruin, after all. And I hate it that the artists are somehow defecting. Florence's reputation as the center of culture relies on them.

But that's not what fills my head here in the coach. Giuliano said he'd been watching me. He said it was impossible not to. And he wanted my reaction to the present state of things. Mine.

I'm so distracted over the next few days that I can barely do my work properly. Caterina suggests I help her embroider things for Camilla's coming baby. I accept, to keep from losing my mind. She's so surprised, she squeals, actually squeals.

I sit now in my room embroidering the edges of a baby sheet. I'm working by daylight, which is a gift. The short days of winter have already passed. The extra hours of sun give my spirit a much needed lift, for the sight of this sheet is a bit discouraging. My skills with an embroidery needle are indeed limited. But the baby will know no better. And the little animal I have sewn for Bartolomeo, as a prize upon becoming a big brother, is decently done. It perches on the top of my wedding chest. I made him a goat stuffed with crushed chestnut husks. It's pliable and sturdy, and though it is certainly no paragon of sartorial mastery, I know he will love it, for he loves my Uccio.

But, oh, the day has gotten away from me. I rush downstairs and heat up the sauce I made this morning. It's oxtail ground up with so much rosemary you can't tell meat from herb. Vinegar and honey tease the tongue together. Camilla's cook, Jacobo, gave me the recipe when we were in Florence for the wedding. He's quite content in my appreciation of his skills, and that gets realized in his generous sharing. The smell is exquisite. I boil long, thick strands of pasta to serve it over. There will be only two dishes. The other is
biancomangiare
: pancreas and thymus in a chicken broth enriched with egg yolk, Vinsanto wine, almond paste, milk, cinnamon, coriander, nutmeg, and clove. I twirl around the kitchen, from one task to the next, quite content myself.

We all sit down to eat. I help myself to the pasta first, eager to see if the taste holds up to the smell. Caterina and Papà follow suit.

But Papà holds his fork above the plate and hesitates. Then he sets it down sharply and smells the air with loud sniffs. “Spanish rubbish.” He drums his fingers on the table. “I won't allow Spanish rubbish in this house. The odor taints the food.”

“What are you talking about?” asks Caterina, eyes wide.

“Tomatoes.”

Tomatoes sit in the center of the table as a decoration. Camilla put them there, and I think they're quite lovely. If they're giving off any odor, I can't smell it, and I'm the one with the best nose.

“Tomatoes are Spanish? You're quite wrong. They're the rage in Florence. You find them only in the very top stores. I brought these back after our visit to Camilla last week and they cost extremely dear.”

“Despite your education, Caterina, you are the one in the wrong.”

Caterina's naturally pink face goes red. “Explain yourself, please, Antonio.”

“Ever since Cristofero Colombo discovered the New World, Spain has been selling us things like this. Ridiculous things that we pay enormous sums for, and look what happens: Florence grows poor while Spain grows rich.” His speech gathers momentum as his anger mounts. “This, on top of the fact that Ferdinand of Aragon captured Granada, uniting Spain. One giant Spain now!” Papà shakes his finger at Caterina. “Mark my words: Spain is more powerful than the Republic of Florence.”

This is what Giuliano was talking about; Papà must be on Savonarola's side.

“I wasn't aware we were at war with Spain,” says Caterina archly.

“Wars aren't fought only with artillery, my dear. This is an economic war.”

“I seriously doubt that our enjoyment of a few tomatoes as a centerpiece will make the banks of Florence crash. And I certainly can't smell them over the wonderful aroma of this sauce.” Caterina puts a forkful of pasta into her mouth.

The act is so defiant, I'm at a loss for what to do.

Papà looks at her. She chews without looking back at him. And I see his anger deflate just like that. In its place is something worse: defeat. He puts his elbows on the table and props his forehead in his hands.

I cannot see his eyes. I tap Caterina's foot with mine under the table.