The Smile (18 page)

“Hush! I mean it. Aunt Nanina and Caterina and whoever else has been part of this decision—they're right. An October party should be in the city—then everyone's sure to come. It's your best chance.” Her hands fall limp to her sides.

“Silvia . . .”

“I don't want to hear it. Save your excuses for yourself. We both got hardly no choices of our own anyways. That's how it is. That's how it's always been. Ain't never going to change. But, hell, I'd sure trade my world for yours right now.” She turns and walks away.

And I'm left crying.

CHAPTER Fourteen

OVER THE NEXT TWO MONTHS
Silvia avoids me. It is impossible to do that entirely, of course, for we have the same habits now. We've come to recognize what chore needs to be done next, and so we wind up side by side without a word passing between us. But when that happens, she quickly turns to another task, abandoning me to work alone. Our eyes never meet. She's here but not here. I miss her far worse than if she had gone somewhere distant.

I turn again to little Bartolomeo for consolation. When he's here, which is often, he's my companion on any task that isn't delicate and doesn't present him dangers. And I grow used to Caterina's friendly words. I even come to count on her greeting whenever I come in from chores. She clearly enjoys the preparations for this party and her persistent cheeriness prevails; despite the gaping maw in my center left by Silvia's absence, I find myself more and more excited.

And so on the twenty-fourth day of October, I sleep at Aunt Nanina's city palace. It's the night before my party—the blessèd event, as Silvia called it. I remember her words and wince.

This is my first night in the city since Camilla's funeral. I expected us to stay with Bartolomeo at his father's home, like we used to do when we came to the city. But Caterina announced it was more proper for us to stay with Aunt Nanina, and it is a great pleasure to be in such an astonishing palace. I'm grateful Papà has still not found the funds to repair our own city house, otherwise we wouldn't have the excuse to stay here.

I open my eyes the next morning and Uccio jumps onto my bed immediately.

Naaaa
. He falls on his front knees and nuzzles my face insistently. I lift one of his long, soft ears and whisper to him, “Giulianuccio.”

If Aunt Nanina saw, she'd throw a fit. Uccio isn't even supposed to be in my room. He's supposed to be tied to the metal loop in the kitchen wall. Aunt Nanina had her slave girl install that loop just for this visit—like she installed a loop in the kitchen at her country home. But I sneaked the goat up last night.

A noise comes from the street. Noises start in this city before dawn and continue through half the night. It's so different from the dead quiet that can blanket Villa Vignamaggio.

Naaaa.
Uccio knocks his nose against my chin now. “You're in a rush to get outside and do your business,” I say, jumping up. “I understand. I'll hurry.” I take care of my needs and slip on my simple shift and give a quick glance at the green gown hanging ready for the party. Caterina and I designed it together, and I finally gave her the satisfaction of choosing green, which I suspect she has known all along is my favorite color. The waistline is high, with a wide belt and folds and folds of soft, flowing, fine silk. I can't wait to put it on. But I mustn't risk getting it dirty ahead of time. Guests won't start coming till late afternoon.

I grab my shoes and sneak Uccio down the stairs.

Caterina's by the bottom step. She sees Uccio and our eyes meet. She chews her bottom lip. Then she calls loudly, “Just stay where you are, Aunt Nanina. I'm coming.” She flags me out the door behind her as she rushes into the other room.

I let Uccio outside. “Wait there for me. One minute, okay?” And I run back inside to the kitchen and snatch a dried fig from the basket.

Aunt Nanina's cook takes hot bread out of the oven. Six round loaves. The smell itself tastes delicious. She cuts me a generous hunk. Then she looks over her shoulder furtively, and, secure in the knowledge that we're alone, she cuts a second one, wraps it in paper, and hands it to me. “For that little rascal,” she says. She likes Uccio. I kiss her cheek.

I pour olive oil and sprinkle salt on my piece of bread. And a pinch of rosemary, too. Then I grab another fig for Uccio and walk out the door eating.

Uccio's not there.

Uccio is a smart goat. At home he waits outside whenever I tell him to. But the city is full of surprises. I can't blame him for exploring. Besides, the weather is perfect. It's warm for so late in October. I don't even need a shawl.

I lace on my shoes and look around. It isn't right for me to go far; a girl shouldn't be in public alone—city life has such particular rules. But it's so early that shops aren't even open. No one is likely to see me. I walk along the street eating and calling to him. The crisp air invigorates me. This is going to be a wonderful day.

“Hey, beauty,” says a boy, coming around the corner. He's younger than me. With a filthy face and worn trousers.

A group of boys appears behind him. Five in all. Ruffians.

“What's a pretty gal like you doing wandering the streets so early?”

“Looking for someone?”

“A lovers' tryst, perhaps?”

“Ain't you the sassy trollop.”

I lift my chin and walk quickly past them. Boys that age can be such fools. “Uccio,” I call. There's trash down every street, so he could have gone anywhere. Everyplace must smell delectable to him. Papà's old continual grumble about too many parties for the street cleaners to keep up with is truer than ever.

I pass a man sleeping. Drool and who knows what else is crusted in his facial hair. His shirt lies in tatters on his back. I look down an alley that reeks of urine. Two men hunch there, one behind the other, both in blue silk doublets. Rich men, locked together. I turn my head away quickly, my heart thumping hard. I remember being at Lorenzo de' Medici's funeral and seeing that man defecating in the street. He was one lone man in the middle of a clean city. Now there are so many dirty homeless people in the middle of rubbish everywhere. And they are joined by rich people practicing ways people only speak about in whispers, all out in the open.

I hug myself. My eyes burn with unease; how vulnerable they are. Oh, I know too well that walls give but the illusion of safety, for Camilla died in her own bed. Still, how people can give up that illusion—that's beyond me, that makes me want to cry for them.

A rat scurries along the wall. I jump. Rats, in broad daylight?

“What's that in your hand, beauty?”

The boys have been following me! I move faster. They rush past to stand in front of me now. The one in the cap snatches the paper from me and I see that he's missing the last two fingers on that hand. He unwraps Uccio's hunk of bread slowly, so slowly I get the feeling he takes pleasure in making people try not to stare at his three-fingered hand. He looks at me, takes a big bite, then passes the bread around.

Another boy points at the fig in my other hand. It's just a fig— who cares? But before I can toss it to him, a third lunges at me and rips it away, leaving a line of grime that runs from my wrist down my palm. A spasm of disgust jerks my neck stiff. I turn to go the other way, but they immediately surround me. They give off a stink like old onions.

“Tasty, don't you agree, boys? This gal here, she's a tasty one.”

They laugh and close in on me. I can smell their breath now— rot. One of them has a leaky eye. All of them are skinny, but they look strong. I don't see a single weak link in the chain around me. My breath shortens. Panic threatens.

“She's going to be fun, all right.”

The one with the fig touches my neck. I slap his hand away.

“Let's start with a serenade, boys, what do you say? A serenade first? Remember them jolly words?”

And they're singing the most ribald lyrics. I'd be embarrassed if I were truly a city girl. But I heard cruder things than this from Cristiano and his friends when I was only ten. These boys are mistaken to think such words can make me cower.

But it's their closeness that feels menacing. And that finger on my neck made my skin crawl. Boys like this only feed on fear, though. I stand taller and will my face not to give me away.

Gangs, that's what Papà calls them. Boys gone wild. There's nothing to do but wait them out. It's daylight and we're on a public street, after all. People have got to pass this way soon. They've got to.

When they finish the song in their rough and ugly voices, the one with the cap and the claw hand, the leader, I suppose, puts his fists on his hips. “It's your turn now, beauty. A song deserves a prize. What have you got for us?”

My eyes flit to his hand, to the site of the missing finger, and away again.

“I don't have a purse on me. You can see that.”

Another boy whistles. “Yes, we can see what you've got. A body wrapped in cloth. Is that what you're peddling?” He steps forward with a puffed chest, knowing I cannot retreat without pressing against the boy behind me. He smirks. “Just as we guessed now, huh? You should put on something more revealing than that shift if you want to fetch a good price.” And he leers.

“I haven't insulted you,” I say in a steady voice. “You have no cause to insult me.”

One of them whistles. “Get that, boys? No more insulting the lady.” His tone is sarcastic.

And all at once I understand. Because I'm dressed so simple, they've taken me for a servant girl. I look straight at the leader and curtsy. “I'm Elisabetta di Antonio Maria di Noldo Gherardini.”

He grins, as though I've made some big joke. “All right, then, now that you've set us straight, Monna Elisabetta blah blah blah, what are you doing out here?”

“I'm looking for Uccio.”

“Uccio, Uccio,” calls one of them, mimicking me.

“Does Uccio by any chance have a long long tail?”

“And dangly ears?” The leader puts his hands by his ears and swings them, the claw hand looking particularly grotesque.

My stomach lurches. “What have you done with him?”

“You already owe us something for the song. Ain't that so, boys? Monna Whatever owes us. Now for this new information in addition, well, I suppose we'll need some florins.”

“Give me Uccio, and I'll give you florins.”

“Florins first.”

“Uccio first!”

Naaaa!
Uccio comes out the same street the boys did.

They race at him.

I'm racing, too. “Uccio!”

And Uccio charges. He butts the first boy in the groin.

The boy gets up, limping, and one of them says something about Uccio's long horns and all of them take off down the street.

I would laugh from relief if there weren't tears streaming down my face. “I didn't know you had it in you,” I say as Uccio nuzzles my fingers, looking for food. “Greedy. I bet your stomach's fit to burst, you've eaten so much garbage. Let's get home. Fast!”

“Monna Lisa, Monna Lisa, Monna Lisa,” comes a singing voice. But this one is anything but rough and ugly.

There is only one person anywhere who calls me Monna Lisa, and when he does, I feel different, as though the name itself transforms me. The whole incident with the boys is swept away in an instant, and I turn with a smile so big it hurts my cheeks. “Good morning, Ser Giuliano.”

Giuliano bows deep, then smiles back. He has grown noticeably taller since I danced with him at his sister's wedding, a half year ago. His hair curls around his ears in a playful way. His white shirt and breeches, trimmed in blue along the tops of the shoulders and down both sides, leave his hosed calves and bare forearms showing his strength. He's robust and glows with energy that seems to flow from him to me, because I find myself bouncing on the pads of my feet. My skin is all atingle.

“In the street with a goat,” he says. “Exactly what I was hoping.”

“And what on earth could you mean by such strange words, pray tell?”

“I stopped by Aunt Nanina's to find you, and your agreeable stepmother said you'd be in the rear garden. She added in whose company. When you weren't there, I hurried to find you. And here you are.” He grins. “Only you would take a goat as a chaperone in the streets of Florence.” He grabs hold of one of Uccio's horns and shakes it. “Want to come watch me play kick ball?”

That's why he's dressed like that. It's a sports outfit, of course. My heart falls. “I have a party to go to today. Haven't you heard?”

“I would never miss it. Nor will the rest of high society. You've become quite the talk of the town.”

A warm blush rises in my cheeks. “I repeat, what on earth could you mean by such strange words?”

He laughs. “I speak but the truth. You're the mysterious girl from the country. Everyone wants to know what you're like. Still, I wish it were not so—no no, everyone should not be talking of you. I don't want this particular treasure sought after by everyone.”

I blush hotter and deeper. Inside my chest tiny birds flap their wings.

“Anyway, gentle lady, the party isn't till much later. But the tournaments are now. Come with me.”

“Tournaments? What's the occasion?”

“Every day is an occasion. At least according to my brother. Florence is a continual festival. Piero says it's important, for the morale of the city. But this won't be in Piazza Santa Croce, like the annual kick-ball tournament. We're playing south of the river.” He touches my cheek and his face goes serious and gentle. “Lisa, are those streaks from dried tears?”