The Smile (3 page)

I drop my arms in surrender. “All right, you win. What's there?”

“A den with eight—eight! —hare kits. Want to know now?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

“What will you give me if I tell you?”

“What do you want?”

“A kiss.”

I stare, dumbfounded. Then I turn and walk up the slope.

“I knew you'd be too stuck-up. Monna Nobility, that's your true name, all right.”

When I look back, Paco's the only one left. The dog regards me expectantly, his tail held straight and horizontal. He gives a single quick wag, then disappears after Cristiano. That's the most attention that dog has ever given me.

Tears roll down my cheeks. I didn't mean to hurt Cristiano. I've just never thought of him that way. He's right; I never could think of him that way. He is a country bumpkin. I wouldn't have put it in those crude words, but that's how he put it, and he's right. My coming party has made it obvious—to everyone but me.

My life is about to change. Radically. It's Mamma's wish. And Cristiano has no right to try to make me feel bad about it.

Monna Nobility—what a nasty thing to call me. Here Mamma thinks I don't act noble enough, and Cristiano thinks I act it too much. I can't please anyone.

I move quickly through the woods now. I have half a mind to toss the white truffle away. Instead, I tuck it into the tie at my waist. I might not be lucky enough to find another.

But I can find orchids on my own. And if Cristiano wasn't lying about those hare kits, my nose will lead me from the orchids to them. I head uphill. What I need is a ravine between peaks. That's where peat bogs lie; that's where orchids grow. I march.

CHAPTER Three

WHO, THEN?”
comes Papà's voice, in clear agitation.

Are they fighting? My stomach clenches. I hurry into the kitchen.

Mamma takes a seat on the bench. “Please sit, both of you.” Papà doesn't budge. He picks up a piece of bread and smears it with pork lard.

I blink. “Have you forgotten it's Sunday? If you eat, you can't take communion.”

“Your father has decided to ignore the Lord's day.” Mamma makes a
tsk
. “He's determined to get to the stables before the men so he can direct their every move.”

“Do you fault my behavior?” Papà plunks onto the bench and stuffs the entire piece of bread in his mouth. “You can't trust a single one to do it right. Besides, Giacomo and his son, Cristiano, are shifty. They'll make off with supplies.”

They're talking about the rebuilding of the stable roof. That day I spent in the woods searching fruitlessly for orchids and hare kits, a wind rose. By evening the heavens unleashed a fury of hail. In the morning, we found a chestnut tree had dropped on the stables. For the two days since, every man available has been working on the repair.

“You wouldn't have to watch over them if you gave them the Lord's day off.”

“We can't afford a rest day now. I have to go to Florence in two days. The stable must be finished before I leave. And the worms have been neglected too long. If someone doesn't feed them today, they'll die.” He slams a fist on the table. “There's no choice. I'll have to take one of the men off the stable job.”

“Is that all you're arguing about?” Relief loosens my whole body. I take a cup and pour myself some hot mint brew.

Mamma stays my arm. “You can't drink before the holy Mass.”

“I'm not going to Mass. I'm feeding the worms.”

“A lady always attends the Mass, even if a gentleman can skip. Sit down, Elisabetta, and don't be ridiculous.”

I grab an almond cake from the basket and sit. “It's not ridiculous.”

“Not at all!” Papà stands as I sit. Our eyes meet. “First you . . .”

“I've watched it done thousands of times. I know every step, Papà.”

Papà smiles. “Of course you do. It's settled then.”

“Don't let her do this, Antonio. Please. It's not proper for a noble girl.”

“Silk is our business. And business right now is bad. The Lord understands I revere Him. Anyone else who doesn't . . . you know where they can go.” He kisses the top of my head. “I'm counting on you, Betta.” He takes more bread and leaves.

Mamma turns to me with frightened eyes. “What if someone finds out?”

“About skipping church?”

She shudders. “About the nasty worms.” Her shoulders rise as she hugs herself.

She's sincere. I almost laugh. I take her hands in mine. “You always speak of piety and purity, Mamma. There's nothing impious or impure about decent work.” I go to the drawer where she stored the dress design and place the drawing on the table in front of her. “Those nasty worms will make this dress.”

Mamma lets out a noisy breath of concession. “We had plans for after church, if you'll remember. Shall I select the music for your party without you?”

“Please.” I grab a burlap bag and walk out the door in my shift, arms bare. It doesn't matter; I won't be outside long. And my arms should be bare for this work.

The brash morning sun promises a hot day. Blue haze rises off the hills as though it's summer rather than spring. The weather is so variable, and its effects are so dear. Poor Cristiano, repairing a stable instead of searching for orchids, as he'd planned. And Papà, I don't know what his plans were, but they got tossed away, too. I'm the only lucky one. I don't mind missing Mass. Latin peeves me. And, while I like music, I'm tone-deaf and sing like a crow. Let Mamma select the music. I'd rather work.

I go to a spreading mulberry tree and stuff leaves into the bag and sour berries into my mouth. Then I head for the silking building. It takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dimmer light inside the large room. Little Valeria enters behind me. She sneaks, thinking I haven't seen her. I walk to the closest tray, stick both hands down into slippery worms, and quickly turn, lifting them toward the girl. “Want a taste?”

“Aaaaa!” She runs out the door and I stifle a laugh.

Valeria is five, the youngest child in her family and the only girl. Her father works for Papà, so it isn't right that I tease her. And I don't want to anger her mother; she's going to make my party dress. But everything scares the girl; and with her big brothers coddling her, she'll wind up a spoiled coward if I don't teach her to develop pluck. That's what Mamma would call a poor excuse for bad behavior. I should be ashamed of myself. And I should have sympathy; I run from spiders, after all. Still, any girl who lives here should learn to appreciate silkworms. They're our livelihood.

“Need a hand?” Silvia appears out of nowhere.

“There's no pay in it for you.”

Silvia shrugs. “And who heard me ask for money?”

“Aren't you going to church?”

“I see you making the sacrifice of skipping Mass.” She grins and I know she's thinking about how we squirmed through last Sunday's service. “I'll just tell Mamma the master's daughter required my assistance.”

“But I haven't required anything.”

“You always need me.”

Her tone is ordinary, but the words needle me. “Do I?”

“Friends do. And that's the truth.”

Indeed. “All right. I haven't started yet. I was just tormenting Valeria.”

Silvia laughs. “That little rabbit.”

Oh, I am glad Silvia's here;
rabbit
is exactly the word for Valeria. Papà would chase Silvia away—he doesn't trust her any more than he trusts Cristiano. But the job will be more fun together. “Let's pretend we're sisters, like when we were little.” Of course, that would make Cristiano my brother. Well, that's good. Then he couldn't stay sweet on me. “We're working to save the family business.”

“Is this truly pretend? Not the sister part. One look and anyone can see we ain't. But the other part? About saving the family business?”

Has Silvia's father caught wind of Papà's problems? Well, I won't confirm it. This is more than a master's daughter can confide in a worker's daughter, regardless of friendship. “Dreaming of hardship makes the game more exciting.”

“Right. Let's get to work, sis. If not, them brothers of ours, the little snot noses, will starve. And starving's a cruel death.”

We rub olive oil over the trays so nothing sticks and it's easy to move the worms after they've fed. We move in harmony, spreading mulberry leaves a thumb deep. Then we gather the mess that covers most of the old tray where the worms squiggle—the frass. It's worm excrement and it smells, but not bad. Mamma uses it for flower fertilizer. We drop it in jars. My mind jumps ahead two months: I want flowers at my party. Lots.

The thought of flowers brings Cristiano back to mind. Does Silvia bubble inside with the same resentments as he does? I look at her sideways. She works with a contented face. And nothing she's said today, nothing in her tone or manner, rings false.

“Dinner, little gluttons,” I croon as we transfer the worms to the clean tray. They tickle our hands. These were the size of pinheads when they hatched ten days ago. Now they're half as long as a finger. In another ten days they'll be double this length. Papà says no creature in the world increases its mass as fast as silkworms.

I look away when Silvia sneaks some into her hair. Who cares about a few dozen worms? Each moth lays hundreds of eggs. We have thousands and thousands of worms in this room. And it's not stealing, because she's working. So the worms are payment.

Silvia's smart. It's hard to transport moths; they die easy. But she can carry these worms home in her hair with no problem. I wish I could tell her how clever I think she is. But if I said anything now, she'd feel caught. Mortified.

The worms munch noisily, and Silvia and I fall silent in response. The sound is like a hillside stream cascading over rocks. I could fall asleep to it.

“Look, these are starting to make silk.” Silvia stands by a tray of older worms.

I rush over. She's right; they're ready to form cocoons. If they're left in the leaves and frass, the silk will adhere to the trays and be ruined. “Quick!” We oil fresh trays and set little wooden cylinders upright on them, packed close. We drop three fat worms into each cylinder. In a few days, they'll spin cocoons, hanging on the insides.

Silvia moves her shoulders in a funny, stiff way. How does it feel to have worms in your hair? “I can finish up alone now.” I nudge her with my elbow. “You go on.”

A worm drops down her forehead. She bites her bottom lip.

I look away. “Thanks for helping.”

“See. You needed me.” And she's gone.

I wonder if she knows everything about our money troubles. She could have been pretending ignorance to spare me—like I pretended not to see the worms in her hair.

I finish and wander around the room. It's warm in here. The worms need it that way.

Papà appears. “I came to check on you. Thanks for taking over, my little Betta.” He walks up and down the aisles of tables, inspecting the work. “You're fast. I'm amazed you've done it all already. I expected half this.”

I could tell him Silvia helped. But he'd get annoyed. He'd suspect theft.

“What's this?” He's looking at a shelf of trays by the far wall. “These cocoons are complete. Who knows how long they've been here.” He rubs the back of his neck, and his face contorts. “We're going to lose this batch.”

And then maybe I'll lose my party. “No we won't. Let's get busy.”

“It's a day's work for two people. And the day's more than half gone.”

“We can do it.” I light the fire under the big pot. There's clean water in it, at least. Someone must have been planning on doing this when they got interrupted.

“We have to bake them first, to kill the chrysalises.”

“They'll die in the boiling water anyway.” I drop cocoons into the water as I talk.

Papà has been looking at me circumspect, but now he blinks as though waking to the idea. “The men can work alone. This is more important.” He rubs oil over the metal hoop on the pulley mounted above the pot. Now he cleans the reel beside the pot.

The gummy stuff that holds each cocoon together dissolves in the boiling water. I hope the chrysalises died quickly. I hope it wasn't cruel of me to skip the baking stage.

A cocoon turns fuzzy; the silk loosens. I take the hand broom and whisk around it. I whisk around a second and a third. They look fuzzier every minute. The filaments are so fine, they're hard to see. I pluck the end of one from each of the three cocoons. The steam burns my fingers. But it only took a second; I'm quick. I twist three filaments together and thread them through the hoop and over the pulley. Papà takes the end from me and wraps it around the reel. He pumps. The reel spins with a high-pitched creak.

This is the best part: the cocoons jump on the water. They're dangling from the filaments, of course, but the filaments disappear in the steam, so the cocoons seem alive. I suck on the tips of my burning fingers and watch, mesmerized.

Papà pumps hard. The threads are enormously long—one giant thread per cocoon. But already the cocoons turn transparent, showing the brown inside. “Stop!” Papà blinks at me. But he nods and stops pumping. I scoop out the thin shells with a wooden spoon, crack them open, and drop the little brown nuggets, all that remain of the chrysalises, into a jar. Papà pumps again and reels in the rest of the silk thread.

We begin over again with three more cocoons. We work all afternoon. All evening. All night. Mamma brings food and tries to feed us as we work, but we have no appetite. I feel distilled; in this moment I am a silk spinner—nothing more, nothing less. My hands and arms move on their own.