The Smile (4 page)

Long after dawn the last pristine white reel is finished. My fingers blister. My eyes smart. My neck and shoulders ache. And I'm young. Papà must feel half dead.

The chrysalises already stink. I leave the jar lid off so Valeria will discover them by the smell and tell her father, who will fry them. He considers them delicacies.

Papà throws his arm across my shoulders. “Home to eat, my amazing daughter.”

I yawn and shake my head. “Sleep first. I'm almost asleep right now.”

We go out to Papà's horse. The poor forgotten thing has been standing all night with her bridle on. I'll have to bring her a bucket of oats to make it up—but tomorrow. Right now I can barely manage to pet her. We mount, Papà in front, me behind. My shift rides up, exposing my legs. Mamma would blanch. My legs should always be covered and I should go only sidesaddle now. But who's to tell?

“We did it,” says Papà. He gives a little laugh. “You're going to make someone the best wife in the world. Did you know that, my little Betta?”

I rest my cheek happily on his wide back.

That's when we hear hoof beats at a gallop. The messenger pulls up alongside us. “Il Magnifico is dead.”

Papà shakes his head. “What? What are you saying?”

“Lorenzo de' Medici. Il Magnifico—he died!”

The leader of the most important noble family of Florence. And Papà's friend. One of his best customers.

Papà twists around to look at me. “This is awful.” His eyes glitter with fright.

My chest goes cold.

CHAPTER Four

WE STAND JAMMED TOGETHER
in the street in front of the Medici family palace. Everyone's talking confidently.

“I knew it would happen. I saw a comet that night.”

“I heard wolves howl. Did you hear it? Wolves.”

“The lions in the enclosure by the Palazzo Vecchio—they fought for no reason. Vicious attacks. One actually died.”

“The most beautiful one. I saw him myself.”

“And that thunderbolt! It destroyed the cupola lantern in the Santa Reparata church. Huge stones fell in the direction of the Medici palace. Exactly this direction.”

I hold Mamma's arm tighter. An eerie sensation goes around my ears, up my temples. Nothing feels familiar. Florence has changed from the bustling, happy city I've visited before to a town with secret ways that make my skin crawl. Faces contort in fear and grief. I nestle against Mamma. She reaches her hand across her chest to caress my cheek. “Everyone saw signs,” she whispers. “Everyone knew Lorenzo was dying—it's so easy to know . . .” She lowers her voice, till I can barely hear. “. . . after the fact.”

Ah. Thank heavens for a sensible mother, who can dismiss specters with the briefest words. Maybe nothing phantomlike happened. I straighten up and look around.

I was last here for the Christmas festivities. A visit of four thrilling days—not nearly long enough. Musicians, storytellers, and preachers posted themselves in the center of every piazza. The greatest spectacle was the nativity play that Lorenzo de' Medici himself wrote. His children acted in it. The costumes took my breath away.

And now he's dead. Lorenzo Il Magnifico—the magnificent one. Many people are called magnificent. But Lorenzo was truly worthy of the title. Papà keeps saying that as people exchange condolences. He died in his villa in Careggi—to the northeast. But the funeral is here, and all Florence has turned out. Most of the countryside, too.

A man climbs onto a box and recites a poem in Latin. His voice drags. Much of the crowd disperses. The rest of us do our best to look attentive.

I'm terrible at Latin. I used to have lessons from a visiting tutor, and I learned to read the tongue I speak. But Latin is tedious, with its case endings and strange verb forms. And Greek! My tutor once gave me a hint of the Greek lessons that were to follow when I would turn fourteen—enough to convince me that Greek is nothing short of cruel. I was glad when my tutor finally quit, declaring that students like me were the reason education is optional for noble girls.

Still, I recognize this Latin poem now, because I've heard it before. Another man delivered it at noon in the Medici Chapel of the church of San Lorenzo, where the great Lorenzo is buried beside his brother Giuliano, who was assassinated before I was born.

It's a lament. The famous Poliziano wrote it. A Flemish composer made the music for it. It's being recited all day long. And not just here. Funeral orations will be given throughout Italy all week, as the news of his death spreads—in the republics and kingdoms and princedoms, even in the papal states—Lorenzo was so important.

Papà explained to me what this ode says: poetry and music have fallen silent now that the fine poet Lorenzo, the greatest patron of the arts ever, is dead. The claim is patently false, given that the ode itself is an example of both poetry and music.

I abandon pretense and look around for anyone I know. Everyone is decked out, on display. Tables line the streets; feasting is part of the lamenting. And tournaments tomorrow, I've heard. This whole thing is like a party.

Oh, I know the people sincerely mourn Lorenzo. He held theatrical performances and circuses in the streets. He fed the crowds at long banquet tables, sometimes days in a row. Because of him, Florence is known as the city where people can come to enjoy themselves in peace and prosperity and stay to make a wonderful life. So the city truly grieves. But right now it just feels like a lot of people are showing off.

Mamma takes my hand. She always knows when I'm restless. It's ironic that only a few days ago I said she didn't understand anything.

The ode ends and now the young painter Michelangelo reads a poem he wrote. He's squat-nosed and surly, a thoroughly unappealing person.

“What an ugly boy,” I whisper to Papà.

“They say his paintings are marvelous,” Papà whispers back. “And his sculptures, they're even better. He's only seventeen and already he's a master.”

My cheeks burn in shame. After all, the artist can't help his appearance.

“Ser Antonio, it's you.” A middle-aged man appears at Papà's side. He pulls Papà out behind the crowd, far from the orator's box. Mamma and I follow.

The man tips back his hat and I see his face. Oh! Could it really be him?

“Ser Leonardo,” says Papà with joy.

I was right: It's Leonardo da Vinci, the son of the notary Ser Piero, one of Papà's important customers. Papà admires Leonardo in the most ferocious way, for the man makes inventions that amaze. I haven't seen his face since he moved to Milan a couple of years ago, but it's impossible to forget: straight nose, bold eyes, full lips, thick beard. He's fun; I remember how he used to make me laugh. I bounce on the balls of my feet in excitement.

Mamma flashes me a look of reproval. I stand still and try to appear composed. Papà and Leonardo hug, and Leonardo winks at me behind Papà's shoulder.

“But I thought you were far away, in Milan,” says Papà.

“I was visiting in Pisa when the news came.” Leonardo kisses Mamma's hand, then he gasps and pretends he's just seen me. He kisses my hand, as though I'm a grown-up. “Little Monna Betta, isn't that what your father calls you? What a stunning woman you're becoming.” He glances at Mamma. “Exactly what anyone should have expected, given your beautiful mother.”

Mamma looks down demurely.

“We should call you by the full title—Madonna Elisabetta— for you rival the Madonna.”

I'm blushing. I'm not foolish enough to believe such nonsense; men go to absurd lengths in flattering women. I blush only because this behavior is new to me. I've always been just a girl. I won't look down, though. I keep my eyes on this illustrious man, to let him know I'm not taken in, though I do appreciate his words.

“What do you make of it?” says Leonardo, turning to Papà. “Only forty-three years old. Brothers of the Medici family seem ill fated. But he wasn't assassinated, at least.”

“He was sick for months,” says Papà. “Everyone expected it. Especially after that Dominican monk predicted it.”

“Girolamo Savonarola.” Leonardo shakes his head in disgust. “I heard he said Lorenzo led Florence into debauchery. Such sanctimony.”

“He even criticized the Pope for his worldliness. He's a renegade, that one. He's predicted trouble ahead for Florence.”

They go on talking, and I'm confused. Papà speaks as though he discounts Savonarola. But last night he told Mamma that Savonarola's predictions worry him. He said Lorenzo called his three sons “the fool,” “the wise one,” and “the good one.” And the oldest, the heir to his father's position, is the fool. Trouble ahead, all right—that's what Papà said, though now he's guarding his opinion. That puts me on edge. What harm could there be in speaking plainly? Especially to Leonardo, a man we've known forever?

I recognize all three Medici sons by sight. Anyone in Florence does. When I was ten, I was actually introduced to the youngest. It was a chance meeting of our fathers in the street, with each of us in tow. Papà does business with them, after all. And a few times, when I was little, I played with the youngest Medici daughter. She's only a year and a half older than me, but she's been going to balls for a long time already. My own party, after my birthday, would have been the first real social event of my life. And now I don't even know whether we'll have it. Papà said you don't talk about celebrations in the middle of mourning.

“Madonna Elisabetta,” says Leonardo with a crisp nod to me.

I'm pulled from my reverie. I have no sense of what they've been talking about. My eyes question him.

“Let me take you as my companion for the rest of the day.” He turns to Papà. “With your permission, of course. I promise to keep her out of harm's way.”

“How could I refuse?” says Papà.

Mamma's eyes shine with hope and determination. I know why. Leonardo is the talk of the town. He was born the illegitimate son of a peasant mother and noble father in Anchiano, near Vinci. His family moved to Florence and his father—a champion of intellectual and artistic freedom himself—insisted the boy study with the best tutors. He was apprenticed to Verrocchio, the leading sculptor and painter, who, in turn, had been the student of the great Donatello. But Leonardo soon surpassed both. No one commands higher fees than him. I've heard Mamma say it's because his artistic talent is undeniable—she swoons over his drawings, while Papà admires his inventions. The man has something for everyone. But his physical self has to be part of his allure; he's handsome. With a wonderful physique. And he sings well, on top of everything else. He might be the finest artist, scientist, philosopher, anatomist, astronomer, engineer, inventor, who knows what all—like people say. But he's a man first—and even at forty, most women consider him one of the best bachelors Florence has to offer.

He paints for the wealthy, though he has a reputation for working years on a project and never finishing. He did a portrait of Ginevra de' Benci that everyone calls marvelous. And one of Cecilia Gallerani, the Duke's mistress. Every noblewoman wants him to paint her. That's why Mamma lets me go with him—so I can hobnob with the wealthy. His invitation rescues her plans to find me a noble husband soon.

Leonardo offers his arm. A fish swims in my belly—an anxious spirit. What do I say to him? But I won't be a scared rabbit, like little Valeria. With a swallow, I accept his arm and we're off, weaving in and out of horses, mules, wagons. I don't see Mamma and Papà anymore. I'm not even sure where I am. Florence is not entirely known to me.

I look down a side street by chance. A man defecates there. His shirt is rags, his breeches filthy. I turn away, praying that Leonardo has not seen or, if he has, is not aware that I have. There is misery all over. Everyone knows that. Even in Florence. The district of town where Papà brings our silk to be dyed is a hellhole. I heard Valeria's father say that. But why doesn't that man go over to the Franciscan church for help?

Fortunately, I'm not allowed to dwell on his plight. For Leonardo stops and introduces me again. And again. I nod to everyone, grateful that he repeats my name loudly and keeps exclaiming upon what a fine young lady I've become. Most of these people know my parents; the nobility of Florence is not so large a group. But it's good to impress my name into their minds beside the image of Leonardo.

The older men wear heavy, rich brocade; the young men, elegantly slim, wear tight hose and velvet overcoats trimmed with fur. The women's clothing rivals the men's in colors. We pass horses decked out as extravagantly as their owners. Gilded spurs. Gold thread interwoven into the silken sashes across their backs. Pride swells my chest. “Papà's responsible for the gaiety of much of the finery here,” I say to Leonardo.

“Indeed? And how is that?”

“Linen resists dye. Wool takes it grudgingly. But silk welcomes it.” And, because he stops and questions me, I talk at length about our business. Leonardo seems to want to know the process from start to finish. He listens attentively.

A woman catches my eye. “Look at the pearls in that woman's hair,” I say, clapping. “So marvelous and refined. Pearls like that make anyone beautiful.”

“Do I detect a wistful note?” Leonardo holds me out at arm's length, and looks me up and down. My dress is yellow silk, dyed with marigolds. It's a year old and tight in the bodice. It can't compare to the finery around us. I suddenly want to run away, back to Mamma. “You are a golden, flickering point of light. You scintillate. Especially when you bounce on the balls of your feet.” His eyes tease. “But there's something else in you. A practicality that gives you substance. Mysteries promise in those limpid eyes, as though you're watching and waiting. As though nothing will really surprise you. It's unsettling. Mark my words, Madonna Elisabetta, someday, when the right blend of experiences adds the final touch of perfection, I will be honored to paint your portrait.”