O, Juliet (13 page)

“Then suddenly my father, eyes blazing, leapt from the bed and like a whirlwind, swinging his arms and shouting curses at them all, demanded ‘privacy’ for himself and his bride. Everyone was stunned, scandalized. But he didn’t care. He herded them out, slammed the door, and locked it behind them. Mama says she laughed till she cried, unsure whether she had married a hero or a madman. My father went to the bed, gathered her in his arms, and proved to her, he likes to say, that he was both.

“So my parents were blessed with the rarest of all marriages—one of equal parts convenience and unbridled passion. She—like your mother, Juliet—was fertile and provided the Monticecco line with many healthy sons and daughters. And so to my brothers and sisters and me it was proven from the earliest age that there was such a thing as marital bliss. We saw the joy that true love could bring to a man and a woman, and how children—even those of the wildest spirit—could feather the warm nest of family.

“Mama, Papa, and my sisters and brothers were at peace in our home, in our vineyard and orchard. I spent fragrant summers climbing the gnarled silver-leafed old men, beating the olives from their branches with sticks. I learned from my father and grandfather the wisdom of seasons, signs of a coming storm, the cycles of the moon for growing, the smell and feel of Tuscan earth between my fingers.”

“What a sweet dream your life was,” I said.

“Until the plague struck Florence.” Romeo looked away. “It sought many sacrifices from our house. My mother’s father. Both my brothers.” He sighed. “Mama sickened, but blessedly did not die. Papa, fearing my death more than the loss of his last living son’s presence, sent me to live with his brothers at their vineyard outside Verona, where the plague had not come.

“I cried like an infant at the parting, my last sight of Mama. Her skin was still scarred with shadows of the buboes. Papa wept, hugging me to him as though he did not mean to release me. Finally he pretended courage. Promised me I would return to his house, see my mother again. Then he placed me in a cart with a driver and sent us on our way to Verona. My last sight of the olive grove sent me into fits of such weeping that the driver scolded me, telling me to thank God I was alive, as were my parents, and that Florence was not so far from Verona, and that one day I would return.

“But my uncles Vittorio and Vincenzo, they were as kind and loving as the year is long, and were glad for a strong nephew at their vineyard. They doted on me. Treated me like their own son. Had they not taken so seriously my father’s admonition to make a man of me, they would have spoiled me. They brought me a tutor who claimed my only passion in learning was for writing, and writing only so I might send letters to my mother. He’d been wrong about that, of course. For I fervently studied the art of growing things, whether vines or crops of beans or wheat, or orchards of pears or olives.

“I railed against the prospect of going to university. A waste of time, I’d complained. In truth it had been more my desire to remain on the land, and misery at separation from my kin once again. I had grown to love my uncles dearly. ‘You must become a man of the world,’ they insisted. ‘You must learn to keep ledgers, for even growing is a business, and what is a Florentine if not a good businessman?’

“So I went to Padua in the end and enjoyed it more than I had believed I would. I discovered poetry, and Dante, whose words were like living things to me, and whose verses of love brought memories of my mother and father, and promise of the woman whom I would one day marry and adore.” He turned to face me again. “I feel like I’ve been talking for an hour.”

“Very nearly,” I teased, though I truly was in heaven, listening to his voice, the story of his family.

“You now,” he said, turning on his side to face me. I found myself bemused. Never had someone attended my words and thoughts so closely.

“Do you remember three years ago, Signor Alberti’s poetry competition?” I asked Romeo. Leon Battista Alberti was one of the foremost influential men in all of Italy.

“I was in Padua,” Romeo said, “but I heard of it, of course. All contestants were to write in the Tuscan language, not Latin, on the theme of friendship. Am I remembering correctly?”

“You are.” I began to blush and smile. “I wrote a poem for it.”

“But you were”—Romeo silently calculated—“fifteen years old!”

“And very full of myself. I had just discovered my knack for verse, and I loved my friend Lucrezia very much. So I wrote about her and our friendship.”

“But the contest?”

“Well, some famous men had entered their poems—Altabianco, Dati. Of course I could not very well submit my own under my real name or sex. The competition itself was a very grand affair, held at the cathedral. Ten papal secretaries were sent all the way from Rome to judge it.”

Romeo’s eyes were wide and disbelieving. He shook his head in wonder.

I went on. “The crowd that came to watch the poets read their work out loud was huge and enthusiastic. It was not hard to convince my parents to take me, for all of Florence was there. It was less easy for me to ‘get lost in the crowd’ for a time before the contest began. I slipped to the front where contestants sat waiting for their turn at the podium and found the kindest-f aced man of all, and handed him a folio with my poem and a letter saying that my uncle, ‘Giuliano Beatricci,’ was too ill to attend, but would someone be so kind as to read his poem with the others.

“So it began with great pomposity, the poets all striving to capture ‘the hidden thing’ that was friendship. One evoked Prometheus to exemplify higher, purifying love. Another spoke of Circe and Medusa to prove that love, when fixed on the wrong object, can descend into the realm of beasts. I waited and waited, and still my poem was not read . . . until finally, when the last contestant had finished, Alberti himself arose and, holding my folio before him, announced that an amateur poet—Beatricci—had been too ill to attend and wished his work to be read. And with my heart beating so loudly I was certain my parents could hear it, I listened to my words spoken aloud to all of Florence.”

Romeo laughed delightedly. “You astound me.”

I laughed with him. “That day, I confess, I astonished myself.”

“But did the judges not, in the end, disappoint Alberti and all the contestants with their decision? I seem to remember . . .”

“You remember well. They refused to award the crown to anyone. Said the modern poets and the Tuscan language fell short of the ancient poets and of Latin.”

“What else would you expect of stuffy Roman judges?” he said.

“Well, Signor Alberti was mightily angered, but the poems were copied many times over and sent to princely libraries all over the world.”

“So your poem of friendship now resides in princely libraries?”

I smiled a triumphant assertion.

“I, too, was influenced by Alberti,” Romeo said. “When I was a boy, I attempted to replicate his most famous physical feat.”

“Jumping from a standing start over the head of a man standing next to him?”

“The very one.”

“And what happened?”

“I broke my leg.”

We laughed again.

“But come, Romeo, there is more of Alberti in you than that.”

“Perhaps.” He thought for a long moment. “He believed in discipline and self-cultivation, and that any individual could accomplish any feat, however difficult it might be. I was reminded of him at my homecoming, here, last year. I had left as a boy and returned as a man. I was happy to resume my work in the orchard, and I passed the nights by candlelight trying my hand at verse.

“But all was not well. My sisters had died having their babies. Mama had begun suffering in the grip of pain, more and more crippled with arthritis in her hands, and my grandfather’s death unearthed a malignant family feud. Now, for the first time, the Monticecco had an enemy. And my once-peaceful father”—Romeo shook his head sadly—“had become a vandal.” Romeo thought for a moment. “Maybe Alberti’s spirit was in me when I sought peace between our families.”

He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “And perhaps I learned my love of the senses from the man—though it never occurred to me before this moment. Alberti took great pleasure, he claimed, in seeing things that had ‘a certain beauty.’ He believed that a jewel or a flower or a lovely landscape could restore a sick man to health.” He gazed at me searchingly. “I think if I were dying, the sight of you could bring me back to life.”

The thought suddenly chilled me, and I dismissed it offhandedly. “I do not see you dying anytime soon,” I said.

“Unless I were to die of love.” He leaned down and sweetly pressed his lips against mine, but we were startled at a voice shouting from the end of the vineyard row.

“Juliet! Romeo! They are calling us to dinner!” It was Marco. “Come now,” he ordered us, “and look calm and unruffled, or I’ll impale you both on my new sword!”

Romeo helped me to my feet and called to Marco, “At your command, Captain!”

D
inner with the joined families was a delight. A table had been set beneath a broad-limbed walnut, settling dappled light on the white linen cloth we had brought the Monticecco as a gift. Roberto sat at the head with my father at his right hand, Sophia at the other end, my mother at hers. Romeo and I sat side by side across from Marco, who watched us, the jester with a new friend and a juicy secret.

Before the first course was brought out, we all sampled the Sangioveto, which was delicious—earthy, with a hint of spice. There was warm crusty bread that smelled of rosemary, great bowls of ripened olives, and in smaller ones whole heads of garlic baked soft and crushed, swimming in a sea of green oil.

Our mothers were tight as two beans in their pod.

Our fathers, while not yet fast friends, were loosened by wine, much goodwill surrounding them, and the perfection of a warm, leisurely afternoon.
If Don Cosimo could see them now
, I thought. What had begun by his stern orders was gently flowering into sincere camaraderie.

No detail was lost on me. Every smile, every smell, a walnut leaf that fluttered down to the bowl of oil as Romeo reached to dip his bread there. All of it I memorized. All of it would find its way into verse.

I was startled by his hand clutching mine under the table. He spoke, meanwhile, to Marco of a
calcio
match to which he wished to be invited. I realized with a start that his hand was slick with olive oil, and he kneaded my fingers one by one, all slippery and warm, never missing a word, pressing the webs between them, laughing with Marco as men do, and sliding his palm across my palm.

Strength and resolve,
I thought. He was testing mine.

“Juliet,” my mother said, “tell Mona Sophia of your
brigata
.”

“My
brigata
?” She spoke of the female confraternity of which I was a part. “Oh . . . ah . . . the girls have been friends since childhood. . . .” Romeo rubbed his thumb over my knuckles. “I . . . we meet . . .” His fingertips grazed the top of my hand. “. . . on every occasion . . .”

Mama grew impatient with my stammering answer. “They escort one another to confession, gather at banquets, talk of many matters—piety, womanly duties. Did you belong to a
brigata
?” she asked Sophia with sincere interest.

“In Rome, where I grew up, we had no such girl groups, though sometimes friendly women would go on pilgrimages together, meet for ritual purification. . . .”

I saw Papa look up sharply above my head. I turned and to my horror found Jacopo Strozzi towering over me. Romeo quickly and smoothly withdrew his hand from mine, and I prayed the movement had not been observed.

Clearly, Jacopo had had second thoughts about the seriousness of Romeo’s and my flirtation.

“Buon giorno,”
Jacopo said to Roberto. “Forgive my unexpected arrival. My own family gathering has been called off, and I thought your kind invitation might still stand.”

“Of course!” Sophia stood. “I will tell Filippo to set another place.” When she walked away, I noticed that she did move as if she was in pain.

Roberto looked less pleased than his wife, having only just learned comfort in my father’s presence. Jacopo, coming at this rude hour, with his grating voice, was most unwelcome, but hospitality must of course prevail.

Filippo appeared with another bench, and a maid with a plate, goblet, knife, and spoon. Jacopo took a seat next to Marco, who actually grimaced at me. The soup course was served.

“Have you heard the rumor,” Jacopo began, not looking up from his minestrone, “that England will now buy the lion’s share of its wine from Spain, not Italy?”

“I had not heard that, no,” said Roberto.

Sophia lowered her spoon. She looked distressed. “This is bad news. Much of the Monticecco wine is exported to King Henry.” She caught her husband’s eye.

“Not to worry,
cara
. It is only a rumor.” Despite Roberto’s confident words, I saw that the story upset him.

“Even if it is true, Mama,” Romeo said in a soothing tone, “we always have our oil.” Then he turned to Jacopo and, while retaining a pleasant smile, bored into the man with suspicious eyes. “Where did you hear this gossip, signor?”

Jacopo seemed to be brought up short by the question, but he quickly answered, “My brother now serves as a
signore.
” He turned to Mona Sophia. “But of course your husband is correct. It may not be true in the least.”

“Well, shall we refrain from gossipmongering, then?” my father said with a sharp edge in his voice. “We are having a pleasant afternoon here.”

“At least we were before you arrived,” said Romeo to Jacopo.

“Romeo!” Sophia cried. “Mind your manners. Signor Strozzi is our guest.”

“Yes, forgive me. I forgot myself.” Romeo’s voice bore no inflection, thus no real apology.