The Smile (21 page)

My betrothal. Caterina is completely sure there will be one forthcoming. She takes it on faith—in me—in my worthiness. She doesn't even know yet that it's really true. I can't wait to see the delight on her face when Giuliano makes his intentions known.

A moment later, Bartolomeo runs in. “Zi-Bi,” he calls. He sees me and stops. His mouth is a giant circle. “Aaaaa,” he says appreciatively. “Pretty. Pretty Zi-Bi.”

I kiss my sweet nephew and he places his shabby toy goat in my lap and reaches up his hands toward my hair, then stops. “Go ahead,” I say. “You can touch.” He bounces his palms under the tips of my two long curls.

Caterina beams from the doorway. You'd think he was her son, she's so happy. “But Zi-Bi can't play with you now, Bartolomeo,” she says gently. “Remember, I told you. She's having a big party. That's why she's so pretty. You'll get to see all the guests before you go to bed.”

“I'll spend tomorrow morning with you, though. I promise.”

Bartolomeo takes the toy goat and rests his cheek on my knee just a moment. He's such a strange little dear. With one finger I trace the edge of his ear. Then Caterina whisks him back to the servant girl.

The rest of the day goes as Aunt Nanina and Caterina have planned. The dance hall is a heavenly vision of flowers in baskets hanging from the walls. Caterina whispers in my ear that the orchids were brought all the way from the Gargano peninsula. I think of the wonderful orchids that Cristiano found in the hills near Villa Vignamaggio, the kind that now grow in our garden in the midst of the Muse statues, and I feel a pang of sadness. He's never sent word home— Silvia has no idea where her brother is.

But I mustn't think about Silvia now. I don't want to be sad.

I walk around the dance hall marveling. Everyone has gone to so much trouble and expense just for me. I'm swimming through a wonderland. It's almost as though they know tonight will result in the best announcement. Could Papà and Caterina possibly have guessed at Giuliano's and my attachment? But I'm sure not. Even I didn't know the strength of it until this morning.

As evening breaks, servant girls scatter flower petals on the floor, forming a hush-hush carpet of white and yellow and pink and purple. Guests arrive in droves. Music swirls through everything. The food is so varied and abundant I don't recognize half the dishes. Some surprise me: crunchy pig ears, stewed calf trotters, venison sausage with a green herb inside I've never tasted before, and a salad with chicken livers, bacon, and poached egg. Some give off odd odors that make my nostrils prickle inside. I hear a woman murmur with approval that this is French food— and I blanch; Papà must not find out or he'll be furious with Aunt Nanina. It's best to keep him tipsy. Regularly I send over a servant girl to top off his wineglass. It's easy; we are awash in Trebbiano and Greek wines.

Piero is here. He drapes himself over the prettiest young women in the most offensive way. He laughs loud and shows no wear and tear from the tournaments this morning. His wife Alfonsina watches him hawklike, already giving a hint of what she'll look like in old age. Can anyone still believe they might be happy? Though they already have been blessed with two children, I am sorry for them.

Cardinal Giovanni is here, too. I knew he had returned from Rome, of course—Giuliano told me. And I've listened to noble girls making fun of him. His nickname is Tardi, for late to bed and late to rise. Tonight he eats until there's a pile of sucked-empty snail shells that rises practically to his nose. When he finally finishes, he stands in the middle of a fawning group like a round cupola in the middle of clouds.

But I can't really think much on him or anyone else, anyone other than Giuliano. He came to my side immediately as the dancing began.

People are noticing. Girls try to catch my eye, with inquiring glances, and Piccarda, naturally, with a painfully disappointed face. I would be sorry for her—after all, she recognized the inherent virtues of Giuliano. But I'm too happy to dwell on her right now. I look away, refusing to reveal the news yet. Papà and Caterina should be the first to know. But they're engrossed in conversation. And from the look on Papà's face, I'm guessing it's politics they're discussing. So he and Caterina haven't noticed that Giuliano and I are a couple. Maybe even if they watched us dancing together, though, they wouldn't guess; they'd think it too implausible. Even I can hardly believe it. Giuliano and I—a couple.

And what a couple. Our bodies move in perfect synchrony. Our eyes reach for each other. We separate only when someone snatches one or the other of us away.

That happens often, unfortunately. All the men seem to feel the obligation to talk with me, and most to dance, as well. Young and old alike. They recognize the intention of this party is to find me a husband, though none of the men seems astute enough to realize a husband has already been found.

Francesco arrives and comes directly to me, asking forgiveness for being late. He talks about Bartolomeo and tells me how much it means to him that I act so affectionate with the boy. I remember the first time I met him, at Mamma's funeral. He was the proud new father. Now he's doubly sad, widowed twice. And both times by childbirth. He must feel doomed. The poor man. Bartolomeo is the one light of his life. I have the urge to console him.

“I don't act affectionate with Bartolomeo,” I say, interrupting his long stream of words.

He looks momentarily taken aback.

“I love him. Sincerely. He is the dearest child in the world.”

Francesco's eyes melt with gratitude. And he seems to take this as a signal, for he talks again, talks and talks, ever faster, to the point where I begin to regret my little outburst.

Finally, another widower asks for a dance. He holds me too tight and won't let go of my hand between dances. Then a very old man with hardly a hair left on his pate leads me around the dance floor. At last Giuliano comes to me again.

“Happy, Monna Lisa?”

“I can't believe it. It's like a wedding feast.”

“Not a Medici wedding,” says Giuliano. “Ours will be extravagant.” He smiles and gives me a knowing look. “Sumptuous.”

I remember his words at Contessina's wedding: a sumptuous wedding feast portends a fecund marriage. Giuliano is one of seven children. He must want many of his own. My mother had one child, as did her mother. Lord, please let me be different.

“I bow to your wisdom,” I say.

“The day your spirit bows to anyone—now that will be a day I'll have to see.” Giuliano laughs. “I have asked your father if we may talk in private. We will do that at the end of this dance.” He briefly touches above his lip.

Is that from nervousness? It is absurd that a Medici man should be intimidated by anyone. And it is enormously attractive, as well. This man enchants me.

Giuliano bows to me. We take our places on the floor, in a giant circle of couples for a pavan. We are dancing when the soldier comes. He barges in, sweating and dirty and out of breath. He goes straight to Piero.

The musicians stop playing. People turn, instantly alerted, almost as though they've been waiting for news. This is a messenger, clearly. Giuliano leaves my side and goes to Piero, as do Cardinal Giovanni and several other men. Faces pinch with fear. Men rush together and talk. Girls cluster and cling to one another.

Soon enough the news passes from mouth to mouth: King Charles VIII of France's march against Naples has come our way. His army is about to pass into the western part of the Republic of Florence.

Everyone knows what that means. Piero has maintained his stance as Naples's ally. He has denied the French army free passage through the Republic of Florence. So the King of France will have to march against Florence on his inexorable path to Naples.

And the French army is known for monstrous savagery.

CHAPTER Seventeen

DON'T.
Please, Giuliano. Don't go.”

“I have to.”

We are pressed against the outside of the garden wall of the palace, hidden under an overhanging wisteria. A peacock struts along the top of the wall, pecking at the long-dried blossoms. Another calls to it from inside the garden, a raucous cry that vibrates through my chest and at once frightens and enthralls. Men rush by along the road, gesticulating as they talk. Arms fly wildly. Fear energizes the very air.

I look at the spot on Giuliano's neck that pulses so visibly. “Where?”

“Wherever Piero goes.”

“What if you don't come back?”

“I'll come back.”

I put my finger on that spot. I feel the pulse. I need that pulse. “War, Giuliano.”

“Look at me, Lisa.” He lifts my chin. “It won't come to war. We'll work it out. My father kept the peace. Piero will keep the peace.”

“Your father was a master statesman. Piero is not.”

“Even if there is war, and there won't be, war amounts to soldiers shooting in the air. Hardly anyone gets hurt.”

“The French army is bestial.”

“Don't believe everything you hear.”

“They cut off heads.”

“Stop it, Lisa.”

“But some people do get hurt in a war. I heard people talking about it at the games this morning. Oh, Giuliano, some people must get hurt.”

“Why should it be me?”

“Why shouldn't it?”

“It won't.” His arms pull me close. Chest to chest. We kiss. His hair smells sweet as Malvasia wine. His taste intoxicates me. Our tears mingle in urgency. This has to last.

I pull myself away and tighten my hands into fists in front of my throat. “This morning you said you'd take care of me. But, Giuliano, we'll take care of each other. You want to start a business. Whatever business it is, I'll be by your side. The two years since Mamma died have been perfect preparation for this. You have no idea.”

His hands close around my fists. “I believe you. I have never met anyone who speaks with me as you do, who stirs me as you do. I need you. I love you.”

“As I love you.” I bend my head and press his knuckles to my cheek. “You're only fifteen. There's nothing you can do to help now. Stay. Let others go.”

“I'm my brother's right hand. He needs my counsel.”

“You said he doesn't listen to Cardinal Giovanni. Why should he listen to you?”

“I'll talk sense.”

“What is sense?”

“Peace.”

“Peace.” It sounds so right, so simple. “So you'll tell Piero to let the French pass through our republic unimpeded.”

“I don't know. Naples is our ally.”

“Everyone's against Naples. Everyone's for France. That's what people said this morning.”

“That sounds like treachery.”

“You and your loyalty. Oh, Giuliano, is loyalty worth going to war with France over?”

“There won't be a war, Lisa.”

“You can't know that.”

“I believe that. I have to.”

The peacock cries again, repeatedly, loud and harsh and shocking.

“Why, Giuliano? Oh, why does it have to happen now? Why do you have to be pulled from me now, just when we've come to love each other?”

“We've loved each other all along, Lisa.” And he's right. Of course he's right.

“I'll be back.”

He kisses me again, and I'm falling into this kiss, falling and falling. He stops for breath and I kiss his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his eyebrows, his forehead. I cannot kiss enough of him.

He pulls away. “I'll be back.”

CHAPTER Eighteen

PIERO RODE OFF
with others. I don't know who. Their names mean nothing to me anyway. All I care about is that he took Giuliano with him. My Giuliano.

Papà stays up late talking with a circle of men in the library. I want them to stop and go away so I can have Papà to myself. I want to tell him about Giuliano and me. I want him to reassure me that Giuliano will come back, that everything will be all right.

But the men talk on and on. I ask if I can listen. I'm told women shouldn't know about politics, and I'm sent to my room.

Women shouldn't know about whether or not we're going to war? What on earth could Papà mean? He's always talked about politics freely—to Mamma, to Caterina—and always in front of me. I hide in the hall and listen and want to scream. They talk deep into the night, but their arguments go in circles. No one knows anything. Everyone makes stupid, panicked suggestions. What do their suggestions matter, anyway, with Piero and the heads of government not here to listen?

I go to bed at last. What would war with the French mean? I open and close my fists. I stare into the black. I poke and prod Uccio, who responds with a
naaaa
and a lick. I open the window, even though it's chilly, just in case I might overhear something in the streets.

Why does Piero have to be so stubborn? Everyone in Florence detests the King of Naples. That's what the man said at the tournaments this morning. And everyone here loves the French—or, rather, they love the money they make through business with the French—though they fear that army in the most ferocious way. Public opinion has to be worth something. This is a republic, after all. No one wants war with France.

War.

Giuliano.

I touch my lips. This is where he kissed me. And here and here and here. I hug myself till sleep finally comes.

The next day, the twenty-sixth of October, is Sunday. Uncle Bernardo and Papà run off early. I watch them leave from my window—separately. Uncle Bernardo slips off first, all alone. He must have come in very late last night, for he wasn't home yet when I went to bed. A few minutes later Papà meets with a man who's clearly waiting for him, and they head the other way. We women—Aunt Nanina and Caterina and I—go off to the holy Mass. The church is full of women, all of us praying for peace. That night Uncle Bernardo doesn't return, but Papà shows up at dusk in time for the evening meal.