The Smile (9 page)

He looks at me and waits.

I wave my arm around the garden. “See all those flowers in pots? They were supposed to be for my party. The one that was to follow my thirteenth birthday.”

“So?” says Giuliano softly.

“So, it's my fault Mamma died.”

He blinks. But he doesn't talk.

“We were going to Florence to prevail upon Papà's cousin to hold the party in his house. We'd have never been in that meadow if it weren't for me.”

“Stop it, Lisa. Don't think like that. You were just living. Doing ordinary things. If we take responsibility for the accidents that happen out of doing ordinary things, we'll all go mad.”

“But it wasn't ordinary. I insisted. Mamma wanted the party here. I was afraid that people would look down on a party in the country. I was afraid they might not even come.” I close my eyes. I feel like I'm in the confessional, only this time there's no one to give the penance that will make it all go away. I look at Giuliano. I have to tell him. “I used you to convince her. I said that if we had the party in the city, you would come.”

“What treachery,” says Giuliano in feigned horror.

“Don't make fun of me. I acted like a spoiled brat.”

“Then be sorry you acted badly. But don't take the guilt for your mother's death. It was bad luck, Lisa. Daughters—and sons—act spoiled all the time, and their mothers don't die because of it.”

“But I was thinking as we were riding across that meadow—I was thinking about religion. And I was questioning my own beliefs.”

“So God punished you for doubting? He looked at you and saw a spoiled, doubting brat. He tripped your mother's horse to teach you a lesson? Do you really believe God works in such a clumsy, brutish way?”

“How do we know how God works?”

“I can't answer that. But if He doesn't do better than what you've just said, He's a rather poor specimen of a god.”

I look down at my hands in my lap. My head feels so heavy, I think it will drop into them.

Giuliano stands.

I look up at him in dismay. “Are you going?”

“No. I just thought this would be the easiest way to make you look up. I have something for you.” He reaches inside his vest and takes out a thin sheaf of papers. He puts one on my lap.

It's a drawing of a horse. But not an ordinary drawing. The horse is skinless. “All those muscles,” I say slowly. I know about the bones under them. I saw the bones under them. Shattered. A spasm goes across my shoulders.

Giuliano sits beside me again and points. “And those are sinews. And those, tendons.”

A woman comes down the path. She's Franca someone. I can't remember. The wife of someone Papà has business with. She's already greeted me. I don't know why she's here, but I'm glad she's interrupting. I may scream if I keep looking at that horse.

“Oh, Monna Elisabetta, you're out here. And Ser Giuliano.” She smiles kindly. “I didn't mean to disturb. I just needed a breath of fresh air. I get nauseated easily these days.” She puts her hand to her abdomen and I realize she's telling us she's with child.

“Congratulations,” I say.

“Well, it's a secret yet. What's that?” She looks at the horse drawing and gasps. “How revolting.”

“It's not revolting at all,” says Giuliano.

“It's grotesque.” Franca covers her mouth.

“It is ugly,” I say firmly. I touch Franca's elbow. “Perhaps in your condition, it's better not to look.”

“Perhaps. Yes, I think I'll keep moving.” Franca wanders away.

“Do you really think it's ugly?”

“I wouldn't put it on my walls.”

“But look how perfectly this muscle wraps around the bone and . . .”

“When Mamma's horse fell, his rear leg broke, clear through the skin. I've seen enough of the inside of horses. Forever.”

“How thoughtless of me. Forgive me, please.” He slides it inside his vest. “But give me another chance. Look at this one.” Giuliano puts a second drawing on my lap.

In the middle of the paper is a dog paw. One half is covered with fur and the other half is skinless. To the top right is a dog, with skin and fur everywhere this time, a normal dog digging a hole. I feel Giuliano's eyes on me. Hopeful. He's persistent.

“Do you find this ugly, too?”

“Not so much, no.”

“Look closely. What do you think it's about?”

I study the drawing now. It's a dog, digging. And the insides of a paw. The digging. The paw. “I guess it's telling me what happens inside the dog when he digs.”

“Exactly,” says Giuliano. “Paws in motion. That's science. How can it be ugly?” He puts another drawing on top.

A dragonfly. Every marking on every wing shows. The precision catches me now. I can see the points of energy. “It's as though I'm holding it in my hand, not breathing lest it fly away.”

“Yes. That's it exactly. Do you like these last two?”

“The dog is instructive. I understand that, even if I don't find it beautiful. In fact, I think it's ingenious; the artist perceives the world in a more profound way than normal.” I shrug uneasily. “But if he intends these for people's walls, well, I'd have to suspect that he's showing off his cleverness. The dragonfly, though, that's something else. It's quite remarkable. Strikingly beautiful.”

“Leonardo da Vinci made these.”

“My goodness.” I pull my hands away from the paper. “What a fool you must think me, to have spoken so brashly and said all that rubbish.”

“To the contrary, every word you said makes sense. And the horse and dog paintings are studies Leonardo did for himself. You clearly appreciate his art for what it is. I'm so glad I asked him for them—to give to you.”

“To me? Papà says people will pay outrageous sums for anything by Leonardo, even doodles on a piece of paper. I can't accept these.”

“You have to. They're an early birthday present.”

“You knew my birthday was coming up?”

“If a Medici wants to find out something, he finds it out.”

I look again at these two drawings. The dog one intrigues me now. And, of course, the memory of the horse one is vivid. “It's so curious, how Leonardo draws things inside and out.”

“It's his philosophy. He says if you want to paint, you need to know how things work, how each limb moves. He cuts open cadavers and animal corpses.” Giuliano raises an eyebrow at me. “I helped him cut up a horse once. But not the horse in that drawing.” He laughs sheepishly. “And what I just said isn't even true. It was right after my mother died. Why on earth he trusted a seven-year-old boy to move a horse leg or hold back a muscle so he could peer under it, I don't know. I couldn't help anyone do anything really. I just said it to impress you. Like I took you to see the lions to impress you.” He shakes his head ruefully.

The queerest sensation goes across my cheeks and into my ears. Both Giuliano and I will always associate the inside of horse legs with our mothers' deaths. It is the strangest thing to have in common with someone.

Silently, Giuliano puts another drawing on the pile.

I jerk back in surprise. “But that's not an insect I recognize.”

“Look closer.”

“It isn't an insect at all, is it? It isn't alive. Is it some kind of child's toy?”

He laughs in delight. “You're so smart. It's a model of a flying boat. Leonardo is trying to convince the Duke of Milan to build it.”

“A flying boat? You mean, in the air? People up in the air?”

“Exactly.”

“High up?”

“Over the treetops.”

“I don't think I'd have the courage to go that high in the air. I would have made a very bad bird.”

Giuliano laughs. “So you like this drawing?”

“Leonardo has a quick mind. It lives in another world. Inventive, indeed,” I say. “But I like the drawings of animals better, with or without skin.”

“Really? You're not squeamish like that foolish woman?”

I shake my head.

“I thought not.”

“And, on second thought, I'll even accept the horse one. Is that all right?”

“Yes, of course. That's wonderful.” He looks satisfied. “And now, ta-da, I saved the best for last.” Giuliano puts the final drawing on my lap.

“What a funny goat.” I have the urge to touch it. But I don't want to do anything that might harm such a valuable drawing. “Floppy ears down to his knees. And look, his tail touches the ground. Leonardo must have been having a fantasy when he drew it.”

“Do you like him?”

“He's a darling.”

Giuliano jumps up. “Well, then, that's only half your present. Come with me.”

“First I must put these drawings someplace safe.”

“I'll keep them safe for now.” He carefully tucks them inside his vest again. Then he leads me around the outside of my home to the front.

I peek through the open doorway, to make sure Papà is all right. Guests stand in groups talking. A man walks across the floor looking at Silvia, and I can tell he's taken with her. She is stunning. In my green dress she seems almost regal with that long neck and almond-shaped eyes. I'd be jealous of her if she weren't my Silvia.

And there's Papà, listening to a plump young woman. She looks familiar. She's animated. It isn't right for her to be so animated at Mamma's funeral.

“Who are you looking for?” asks Giuliano.

“I was just checking on Papà.”

He looks past me into the room. “I see Caterina has already snared him.”

Snared? Giuliano is crazy. He can't possibly mean it in the way it sounded. Mamma is barely cold. “You know her?”

“Of course. That's Caterina di Mariotto Rucellai, the sister of Camilla—the one you were talking with before. I thought you knew. They're the nieces of my aunt's husband.”

“Do you call them cousins?”

“I could, I suppose. They are, distantly. By marriage, at least.” Giuliano offers the crook of his elbow. “Come. Please.”

I take his arm and we go to his coach. He opens the door.

Naaaa
. A little goat instantly butts his head against my chest.

“Why, he's the very goat of the picture.”

“Drawn just for you.”

“I can't believe he's real.” I pet his head and he pushes harder against me. “His ears are like silk.”

“Amazing praise from the daughter of a silk merchant.” Giuliano eases me aside and the little goat jumps out of the coach. “The Sultan of Egypt gave us lots of strange animals. But these goats are the only ones that thrived. He's yours, if you want him.” He looks at me hesitantly. “You said you love animals.”

A funny little billy goat. That's the oddest present ever. I watch him, and my heart goes tender. Someone new to love when I have just lost someone to love. My tears come again, but I smile through them. “Thank you.”

“You're smiling. Another smile from my dear Monna Lisa. Indeed, that makes it worth having ridden in the coach with those women, even though they scolded me the whole time because of the goat smell.”

I look at Giuliano's luminous eyes and sleek black hair that curls under. He's not handsome in the conventional sense. But his looks please me. Very much.

I should move, or do something else. But I stand here, too flustered to move.

CHAPTER Nine

PAPÀ LOOKS AT THE MEAL
with surprise. “So, you took a night off from cooking, did you? Well, you certainly deserve that. You work too hard as it is.” He puts the first bite of quail into his mouth. It's stuffed with juniper berries and glazed with Marsala. His eyes close briefly in appreciation. “Sandra still cooks well for such an old girl.”

“I made it.”

His eyes widen. Then he blinks. “You've learned a lot in the past few months.”

That's the truth. I cook all the meals, though until now I've made only simple things. I oversee Valeria's mother in laundry and mending and cleaning up. I check Old Sandra's storing of the pantry. I run the household. And I do it well. I do everything Mamma said a good wife should do; I honor her memory. And when I'm not busy with household duties, I work in the silking building. That's not for Mamma's sake, though—that's for my own peace of mind. Silk is the thread of continuity for me.

Papà gobbles his meal. “This is delicious, Betta. You amaze me repeatedly.”

I take a bite of the quail. Papà spoke true: it is just as good as Old Sandra's. I sit up proudly. Papà hums. A lightness enters me. I haven't felt light like this in so long. It helps to do things that make others happy. Maybe Mamma was right—maybe learning the culinary skills really will bring me joy.

We finish the meal without further talking. But it's not really silent. Uccio tramps back and forth in the hallway bleating—
naaaa
,
naaaa
. He used to be a quiet kid, but now he makes a ruckus whenever he can't come someplace with me; Papà doesn't allow him in the dining room. He says he should be in the pen with the other goats.

I wish Papà wouldn't shut him out like that. Not because of Uccio—he has an insistent happy energy that nothing can daunt. No, I worry the noise will bother Old Sandra and her husband, Vincenzo. They moved into the parlor behind the kitchen back in July, after the first time Papà stayed in Florence overnight.

I'm grateful. I hated that night I spent alone. I closed every shutter, even though it was horribly hot. And Uccio made it worse, because he sleeps with me, and his body pumps out heat like a stove. But even with Uccio right there beside me, I quivered at the night noises. Me. Me, who loves to wander in the woods alone. It was dark and I was scared. I didn't tell Papà such an absurd thing; I couldn't. He had asked me a dozen times if I was sure I'd be all right alone and, of course, I had said yes with disdain at the question. I'm lucky Old Sandra took one look at those closed shutters in the morning and put two and two together and told Papà. So he asked her to move in.