The Smile (24 page)

“You're a girl.”

“Ain't that the truth. And that says it all for the both of us, don't it? Here.” Silvia takes the hoof trimmer from my hand and tosses it back into the tool pile. She passes me the clamp we use for castrating sheep and goats. “Make this one shine.”

I take it and rub in small circles. The caked-on blood gradually gives way. I dip the rag in oil and rub harder. I rub till my hands ache. “Another day,” I say softly. “Another day and no word.”

Silvia picks up a tool and holds it a moment. Then she drops it back on the pile with a loud clang. “He'll come,” she says, like a proclamation from God. It's the first time she's responded to any of my words about Giuliano.

“I hope so,” I whisper.

“Oh, he'll come, all right. That's why he sent the grand cardinal with that message.”

“But when?” I want to scream. “Piero's banished. Cardinal Giovanni's banished. But Giuliano isn't. He could come for me anytime. If he wanted to.”

Silvia shakes her head. “Ain't we the pair—all disappointment. Dragging ourselves around.” She grabs my wrist. “But you listen to me, Elisabetta. Listen hard. He's coming for you. There ain't nothing in the world I'm more sure of than that.”

I sniffle back tears. “Without you, Silvia, I'd be ashes.”

“Well, you ain't without me.”

“Oh, Silvia. I'm so glad to have you back again. I've missed you. I don't deserve a friend as true as you.”

“Well, then, you're lucky. 'Cause not much goes by who deserves it—and friendship ain't no exception.”

I give a sad laugh. “Want the news?”

“You're going to recite it no matter what I say. And that's the truth. Get on with it already.”

And so I tell Silvia what I've heard since our last installment. Several times a week a herald rides through the towns of the Republic of Florence announcing news. Papà goes to Greve on those occasions to learn everything. Then he comes home and tells us. And once every ten days or so Bartolomeo's father brings him out here for a night or two and fills us in on details the heralds leave out.

And I tell it to Silvia, leaving out nothing. It's become a ritual. Silvia says I'm really talking to myself and just forcing her to listen. And maybe that's true. It makes me feel less alone in this long wait for Giuliano. But I'm also hoping she'll pay attention and notice something I didn't recognize the importance of. Silvia figures things out.

So much has happened since the Medicis were banished from Florence. This is what I know; this is what I passed on to Silvia.

When the King of France heard Piero had been exiled, he feared Florence would back out of the agreement Piero had made with him, so he declared war. Florence quickly sent him a stream of obsequious ambassadors, and the king withdrew his declaration of war. The result was, when the French finally arrived, the city didn't know whether it was as enemy or friend.

So the people hung banners on buildings. They laid carpets in the roads. Church bells rang. But they also amassed weapons. Every city man had a firearm or sword close at hand. And the peasantry was ready, too, with bows and arrows and pitchforks. If the great bell should ring, more than thirty thousand armed men would rush to help.

Thirty thousand men were ready to fight!

Less than a week after I left Florence, King Charles VIII entered the city. The columns of infantry seemed never ending. Five thousand French and five thousand Swiss, with pikes and firearms and a train of artillery. Four thousand Breton archers, twenty thousand crossbowmen, three thousand armed cavalry. And, most spectacular of all, the king, in full armor under a richly decorated canopy carried by four knights, flanked by his marshalls and trailed by hundreds of French knights in splendid dresses and Swiss guards with plumed helmets.

I was told it in such detail that I felt I was seeing it myself. It made me cringe and shake. But King Charles VIII came in peace. The people cheered in relief.

After that wonderful news, Caterina and Old Sandra and Silvia and I prepared a feast for everyone who worked at Villa Vignamaggio.

The news didn't stay good, though. For eleven days the king negotiated with the heads of government. He wanted Florence to restore Piero de' Medici to power. But Florence wouldn't— Savonarola's preaching made sure of that. Men loyal to Piero were now outside the circle of power. Their homes had been sacked. Aunt Nanina and Uncle Bernardo had taken refuge in the house of Francesco—Bartolomeo's father.

In the end, the Florentine government paid the French a huge sum, and the king agreed to return the fortresses Piero had given him after his war with Naples. The King marched southward on his path to Naples. And Florence went back to figuring out what to do next. The government was a shambles.

But now it appears they have figured something out, finally. Under the guidance of Savonarola. Papà told Caterina and me about it last night. There will be a giant meeting in the city. Before dawn on the morrow, Papà and Caterina and I will travel to Florence. This is the news I give to Silvia now. She hears the name of Savonarola and squeezes my arm.

We separate for the midday meal, then come back together to attend to the worms. Rocco and Tomà work beside us, spinning the silk from the cocoons that are ready. The children in Valeria's family keep coming in with armloads of leaves. I set them to collecting whatever still clings to the mulberry trees. So there's no privacy anymore—no more talk between Silvia and me.

Evening comes. The supper meal is uneventful. I go to bed early and stare through the moonlight at the ceiling.

The eleventh of December. I haven't seen Giuliano for nearly seven weeks. I go over the words he said, the way his hands moved, the strength of his grip. How his hair curls at his temples and down his neck. How thick and soft his lips are. The smell of him. The sweetness. The pressure of his flesh. I curl into a ball and clamp my hands between my knees. I remember him as though he's here.

But then comes doubt, my regular companion now. I wonder if I'm remembering right. Or if each time I change something a little bit so that eventually all the little bits will accumulate and my memory will have nothing in common with what actually happened, nothing in common with the true man.

Sometimes I fear everything that happened between us was a fantasy, something my mind made up from wishes. Or a dream— a phantom of the night. No one knows we were on the verge of a marriage except Silvia, and she knows only because I told her. No one can offer independent confirmation of the events I keep telling myself I remember.

In the loneliest moments I am tempted to confide in Caterina. She treats me like a loved little sister now, and I love her back. But, despite her blood tie to Bernardo Rucellai, who stayed loyal to the Medici family till the bitter end, and despite her devotion to Aunt Nanina, her loyalty to Papà is even stronger. She sides with him. Together, they look forward to the new Florence.

I can't blame her. I side with Giuliano, now and forever, even though it means going against Papà. Love is more important than blood.

A smack comes from the shutter on my side window. I'm there in a flash. Could it be? I've been waiting so long for this. Please, let it be. I open wide the shutter and lean out into the chilling, glistening air. It has snowed. The rare snow—like on the day Cristiano left. The world is white as far as I can see. Uccio puts his front hooves on the sill and looks out with me.

Silvia waves from below. Finally.

I close the shutter and wrap myself in coat and boots. There's no way I can get Uccio to go down the stairs without a clatter. His hoofs simply can't be silenced. And I can't leave him in the room or he'll butt his head against the door till he wakes the dead.

I lift Uccio in my arms. It's no small feat; he's a mature billy. And he's going to make me stink of goat. But what else can I do? I trip off the bottom step. But I manage both not to fall and not to drop Uccio. And we're out the door, running across the snow.

Silvia takes my arm. Without a word we race, the three of us, to the old silk shed. We used to raise the worms here, before we built the new silking building. It has lain in disuse for years, serving only as storage space for old tools.

Silvia stops outside. “Go on, then.”

Is Giuliano really in there? But . . . “What about Uccio?”

Silvia wrinkles her nose, but she's smiling. “All right. I'll take your goat for the night. But he's a smelly billy. Mamma will be angry with me. So then you owe me double.”

“I'll owe you forever, anything you want.”

“Good. Because I want something important.”

“What?”

“Later.” Silvia runs off, calling to Uccio.

“Go on, boy,” I say. “Git.” I go inside the shed.

CHAPTER Twenty

IN AN INSTANT
Giuliano's arms enfold me. “You're here. At last.”

My cheek presses against the ridge of his collarbone. After all these weeks of knowing him only as a phantom memory, I can hardly believe the physicality of him. His torso is hard within his jerkin. My fingers count ribs. He's lost weight. His left arm stays on my back but his right hand now caresses my hair. I feel the slight pressure as his palm moves down and cups my jaw line. He wants to lift my head toward his. My lips toward his. An unexpected shyness keeps me clinging where I am.

Something brushes the very top of my hair. I tilt my head the smallest bit, to feel his chin on my forehead. But what I feel is hair. And I realize he has a beard. He used to be clean-shaven. “You're the one who's been gone. In Bologna, I hear.”

“Only briefly. We left there for Venice. Our grandfather, Cosimo, was exiled to Venice once. So Piero followed tradition. And the Venetians were good to us.”

“Good to you?” I can't stop the edge in my voice. “You were happy away from me?”

“You're angry.”

“Seven weeks, Giuliano.”

“I would have come sooner if I could have. I swear. Do you believe me?”

And I do. All anger disappears. “Yes.” Fragrant little clouds of warmth puff from his mouth in the chill of this shed. “You smell of hazelnuts.”

“They're abundant in the Republic of Venice. I brought a sack to eat as we traveled.”

“The last time we were this close together, you smelled of Malvasia wine. And the time before that, of apricot preserves.”

He laughs. “I'll have to think about what I eat before each time I'm with you.”

“I promised myself I'd eat apricots every day from then on. But I forgot. I haven't kept my promise at all.”

“And I promised you I'd talk with your father at the end of that pavan we danced. These are times that strain promises.”

“You're back now, Giuliano. Stay.”

“We will. As soon as possible, we'll return to Florence. Piero is determined.”

“Piero? Can he really? There's a decree.”

“Yes. We are banished.”

“No. Only your brothers, not you.”

“If my brothers are, then I am.”

“Loyalty again.” My voice breaks.

“Without loyalty, what is a man?”

A tiny sound of pain escapes me.

“Please, Lisa. Understand me. Please. Piero has to stay a certain distance away. The cardinal can come closer, but even he isn't allowed to enter the city. Lucca is outside the boundaries of the decree, though.”

“So that's where you're staying? Lucca?”

“Until Piero can organize a successful return.”

“Do you really think he ever can?”

“His wife Alfonsina has been allowed to remain with her family in the city. She's doing her best to arrange things from the inside.”

I pull away and look up at Giuliano's face. It's dark in here, but I can make out the fuzzy outline of a thin beard, the tip of his nose. “I don't think we can count on that.”

“Indeed. It's hard to count on anything from one day to the next.”

“You can count on me.”

“I know, Monna Lisa. What I don't know is if you can count on me.”

A shiver runs through me. “What do you mean?”

“At the moment I have nothing. Not even a home.”

“Oh, Giuliano, that doesn't matter. Wherever we go, that's home.” The words bubble out of me. “So long as we have each other, nothing can stop us.”

“I cannot see your mouth, but I see the whites of your eyes. You're smiling. That smile can make me believe anything. It can almost make me believe what you just said.”

“Almost?”

“You don't know what it's like—exile.”

“You're thin.”

He laughs. “That's not what I meant. We brothers haven't gone hungry. We could have stayed in Venice indefinitely if we wanted. The world is speckled with friends of the Medicis. And it's painted solid with people who may not be friends, but who owe us in one way or another. No, that's not it.” He touches above his lip, where a mustache now sprouts. “There's no solidity to this life I've been leading since August.”

“Is there solidity to any life?”

“You know there is, Lisa. There was a semblance of it at our palace on Via Lunga. There is an abundance of it here at Villa Vignamaggio.”

“But without you largely pointless.”

“I'd never rip you from your home unless I had something just as solid to offer.”

“You are enough to offer. You.”

“Exile, Lisa. Think about that. Please.”

I lean against the wall behind me. I cannot afford to lie to myself. Piero's exile could be permanent. And Giuliano would not live where Piero was not allowed.