The Girl in the Glass (36 page)

Sofia wanted to bring a fresh bouquet of flowers to Renata, so at nine thirty we headed down to the street and her favorite outdoor
mercato
. She bought a fat bunch of daisies, a little net bag of blood oranges, and a loaf of bread that was still steaming. I found a few leather items to bring home: a billfold for Geoffrey and a folio that I added to my purchase of a tin of Illy coffee for Gabe. The market was noisy and busy, and it would’ve been impossible to have much of a conversation with Sofia, which suited me fine.

We walked back to the flat and dropped off the gifts I had bought and the bread and oranges. Then we rang the bell at Lorenzo and Renata’s.

Renata, dressed in a long gauzy gown of peacock blue, opened the door, and we were immediately enveloped by the aroma of cheese and garlic and
spinach. She pecked us each on the cheek, and Sofia handed her the bouquet. She said something in Italian and Sofia smiled wide.

Lorenzo called out a hello to us from behind the kitchen counter. He was wearing a black apron and arranging melon slices and strawberries on a cobalt-blue platter.

“Good morning,
principesse
!” He strode over to us, kissing Sofia on both cheeks and then me. He smelled like spice and the ocean. “I have a frittata in the oven. She’s almost done. And I have melon and strawberries, some Greek yogurt, and lovely figs. And coffee!”

“We are eating out on the balcony,” Renata said. “I’ll just get these flowers into some water and take them outside.”

Renata in her flowing dress floated into the kitchen and Sofia followed, both of them easing into their native tongue.

“Help me take the fruit and yogurt outside, cara?” Lorenzo was now extending a bowl of creamy white yogurt toward me. I took it and he grabbed the platter of fruit. I followed him out to the balcony where a carafe of coffee and painted stoneware dishes waited on the table between the padded chairs and sofa.

“Did Renata tell you everything?” I said in as low a voice as I could.

“She did.” He set the platter down and did not look at me.

“And?”

“And what needs to happen needs to happen, cara. It’s not up to us.”

“But we’re part of the problem,” I whispered.

Now he looked up at me and caught my gaze. “But we are not part of the solution.”

“I don’t want to ruin everything for her,” I murmured, but my voice was urgent.

His face was close to mine, and he touched my cheek with his hand. “She is already broken. We just didn’t know.”

“You never minded the talking statues before,” I said softly.

“There was never a reason to mind. Now we have several. Here she comes.”

Several minutes later we were eating Lorenzo’s savory frittata, drinking coffee, and enjoying a lovely meal on a sunny balcony. When the plates were empty, our small talk drifted toward books. Sofia asked a question about Renata and Lorenzo’s upcoming book on destination weddings, which Lorenzo answered. And then Sofia turned to me and said she was having such an easy time writing the additional chapters; she thought she would be done well before July. She asked me when Beatriz and Geoffrey would decide if what she had was good enough.

I remembered what Gabe said about being truthful. I turned to Renata for a silent vote of confidence, which she gave to me with a nod. Sofia had given us a perfect segue into a conversation about where we stood on the book and how we had gotten there. I could sense that the three of us knew it.

“Actually, Sofia, it’s not a question about whether or not you’re a good enough writer. You’re a great writer. The problem we’re having is proving your premise.”

“My premise?”

“Right now, one of the primary selling points of your book is that you maintain you are directly descended from the Medici family. It’s what would set your book apart from any other book on Florence that’s out there, including Renata and Lorenzo’s book. And it’s not looking like we can prove it. It’s a flimsy premise if we can’t prove it.”

Sofia looked from me to Lorenzo to Renata, and I could tell she understood Renata and Lorenzo were in on this. They were part of the “we.” This seemed to surprise her.

“But we only just started looking,” she said. “Just because my father
wasn’t able to help us, that doesn’t mean there aren’t records out there somewhere.”

“Yes, but it’s not just that we are going to have trouble finding the records. It’s more like there are no records.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean, there are no records? If we haven’t looked for them, how do we know they aren’t there?”

“Because …” I didn’t know where to begin. “Well, you said you were descended from Gian Gastone de’ Medici; but there’s nothing recorded to suggest he fathered a child or was even, you know, interested in women. And besides all that, it’s quite likely that …”

My voice fell away, and I turned to Renata.

“Sofia, when Meg told me she needed to verify your ancestry to be able to publish your book, I called Emilio to ask him.”

“You called Emilio?”

I heard dread in Sofia’s voice.

“It was totally my idea. Meg had nothing to do with it. I thought if he knew where any of the family records were, then it would help you both.”

“You called Emilio? About this?”

“He’s your uncle, Sofia. If you’re a Medici, then he’s a Medici. So yes, I called him.”

Sofia repositioned herself in her chair, restless. “And?”

Renata shook her head sympathetically. “Your great-great-uncle was the one who started telling everyone your family was related to the Medicis. He didn’t have any proof; it was just something he said. But—”

“That’s not true!”

Renata continued as if Sofia hadn’t interrupted. “And your father and Emilio were little when they first heard it, so it felt more real to them. And it was kind of fun to pretend.”

“My father told me,” Sofia began, carefully enunciating each word,
“that we are direct descendants of Gian Gastone de’ Medici. He told me there were eight generations between Gian Gastone and him. He told me—”

This time Renata cut in. “Gian Gastone preferred other men, Sofia! It was just a fun story your father told.”

Sofia blinked back glistening tears. “It was not just a
fun
story! This is who I am.”

All this time Lorenzo had sat next to me on the sofa, quietly staring at his coffee cup. He leaned forward now and put his hand on Renata’s arm to gently quiet her.

“This is not between you and Sofia. This thing with the book is between Sofia and Meg,” he said.

“Did you tell Emilio I was writing a book?” Sofia asked Renata, her tone incredulous.

“You never told me it was a secret,” Renata said defensively.

“You never asked!”

Renata pursed her lips together, obviously ready to say more but swallowing back her words.

Lorenzo said something under his breath in Italian. I didn’t think Sofia heard him. She turned to me.

“Are you saying you will not publish the book because of what Emilio said?”

“It’s not so much what he said as what we cannot prove. I am thinking we may need to change the focus of the book from your being a Medici to your having this wonderful relationship with your father that makes Florence come alive. And maybe you can write that he told you that you were a Medici when you were little and how it affected you growing up and how it bound you to Florence. It could still be a really good book. We just can’t … We can’t have you saying you’re a Medici who hears … who hears …”

“A dead Medici talking to her.” She finished the sentence in a cynical tone I had not yet heard her use. “So that’s what this is about. You think I am crazy? Is that what you think?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I don’t. But it doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what people who might buy your book will think.”

“I don’t care what people think!” Sofia exclaimed.

“Of course you care,” Renata said, matching Sofia decibel for decibel. “If you didn’t care what people thought, you wouldn’t be writing a book.”

Lorenzo cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to the situation at hand, yes? You need to tell her the rest.”

Surely Lorenzo didn’t mean
all
the rest.

“The rest? The rest of what?” Sofia said.

Renata looked out over the rooftops. “He’s coming here today.”

Sofia said nothing. It seemed as though she hadn’t heard. But I knew she had.

Renata turned to her.
“Emilio viene qui oggi.”

Sofia blinked slowly.
“Perché viene qui?”

When Renata didn’t answer, Sofia said it again louder.
“Perché viene qui?
”

“It’s none of our business why he is coming,” Lorenzo said softly, bringing the conversation back to English. “We have already said and done too much. It’s none of our business why he is coming. But he is coming.”

“Is it because of the book?” Sofia said evenly.

“The book is between you and me, Sofia,” I said. “If we can get it to the point where it is publishable, then we will publish it; I promise you. He doesn’t have a say in it.”

This didn’t seem to satisfy her.

“Why is he coming, Renata?” Sofia’s eyes flashed anger.

Renata jumped up, grabbed the stack of dishes, and pushed her way past us. “Ask him yourself. He will be here in half an hour.”

Renata went into the flat, leaving Lorenzo, Sofia, and me sitting in the brilliant sunshine. After a moment, Sofia stood calmly and slowly. “Meg, I would like privacy when I speak to my uncle. Perhaps you could stay here with Lorenzo for a while until after Emilio arrives and he and I are finished? I will come for you.”

“I am so sorry about all of this,” I said, but she was already past me, and she didn’t look back.

Sofia walked back into the living room without a word, opened the front door, and then closed it quietly behind her.

I turned to Lorenzo. “I feel terrible.”

“It’s not your fault, cara. She wanted to publish this book. This thing about her not being a Medici was bound to come out. If she had approached a different publisher, it was still bound to come out. She opened herself up to this when she decided to write a book that she wanted to see published. It’s not your fault.”

“I still feel terrible.” My voice caught in my throat.

He smiled, opened his arms to me, and I slid into his embrace.

Sometime later that day, when I was still nine, I overheard two courtiers talking about why my father never sent for Virginio and me after our mother died. One said to the other that it was because he did not think we were truly his children because of my mother’s indiscretions with Troilo Orsini. Again I went to Nurse, and again she told me not to pay heed to people who’ve nothing better to do than talk about matters that aren’t their own.

“They are saying I am not his daughter,” I said. And I remember my voice breaking into pieces as I said this. I didn’t know exactly what this might mean, but it felt like it meant I was no one.

She took me to the looking glass in my room and stood me in front of it. “You see that girl in the glass?” she said to me. “You are the one who will say who she is, Nora. You decide who she will be and whose daughter she is and the kind of parents she has. You are the girl in the glass.”

29

The breakfast dishes were done, Renata was at the dining room table with her laptop, and Lorenzo was showing me the photos he had taken at a vineyard wedding when we heard voices on the other side of their front door.

The three of us looked up.

I heard a man’s voice. And then Sofia’s. A door closed. All was quiet again.

“Is it Emilio?” I asked. Lorenzo nodded.

For several minutes none of us moved.

Renata said something in Italian and got up from the table.

I turned to Lorenzo.

“She said she wonders if Sofia has her kitchen window open,” he translated.

Renata opened the balcony doors and stepped outside. I followed her. And a second later, Lorenzo did too.

The noise of the city crowded in all around us, but we could hear faintly two voices from a nearby window. There was a flat in between Lorenzo and Renata’s place and Sofia’s, and an L-shaped wall. Both made it difficult to hear. Renata moved as close as she could to the railing.