The Smile (12 page)

Papà and Caterina are having the ring ceremony in the public meeting hall in Greve instead of at her family's home in Florence. And, then, instead of her riding horseback through the streets of the city so everyone can admire her gown, she's taking a coach to Villa Vignamaggio for the feast, just like the guests. Papà told me that privately, in stentorious tones: “Caterina has chosen not to go horseback.” I believe he wanted me to think she's making a sacrifice for my sake. Because of how Mamma died. I hope he's wrong. I don't want her doing things for my sake.

I'm wearing my old yellow dress. The one I wore last year to Lorenzo de' Medici's funeral. A month ago Caterina said I should have a lovely new gown of green, all flowing silk. Did Papà tell her green was my favorite color? What a traitor, to give away parts of me like that. But if she came to green on her own, that was worse. Then she put a drawing in front of me—she'd taken the liberty of designing it—and she stood there, hands clutched, her face all hopeful. One glance and I knew the dress would be marvelous on me. I was furious. That ninny, who was about to slip into my papà's bed, thought she could seduce me so easily? I refused vehemently.

I look like a neglected waif in this dress. It pinches me now, it's so tight. And Giuliano will be at the wedding feast. He's part of Caterina's family, after all; his aunt Nanina is married to Caterina's uncle Bernardo. Giuliano will think this yellow dress is the only party dress I have. And it is—all because of me. I hate to have him see me like this. I hate not having a flowing green dress. I hate myself for not saying yes to Caterina. Spite made me stupid. What a thoroughly awful day.

I've been to Florence three times since Mamma's funeral. Twice over the Christmas holiday and once at the Easter holiday. And even though we stayed long each time, through the
carnevale
in winter and the passion plays in spring, I passed Giuliano only once. We were both on our way somewhere. We exchanged a couple of words about Uccio and he was gone.

But at least Giuliano laughed. And at least I smiled.

I'm starting to feel strange about my smile. It's been so long since I've smiled at anyone but Giuliano, it's as though my smile belongs to him. I wanted to smile at baby Bartolomeo the other day, but I stopped because it felt somehow disloyal to Giuliano.

When we get to the hall, Papà turns his back on me. He will stand beside the notary while the bride stands with her father on the other side of the notary. I am to stand with the bride's family, people I don't even know. Papa asked me if I'd prefer to stand with him, even though that goes against custom. I hate it that he keeps acting so solicitous, as though that will make me forget he's marrying too soon. I told him of course not. Still, as Papà walks off now, I want to call him back. I feel lost. I wish ring ceremonies were not limited to just the family—I wish Silvia stood with me.

The notary asks, “Does anyone here have reason to object to the marriage of these two people, Antonio Maria di Noldo Gherardini and Caterina di Mariotto Rucellai?”

No one speaks.

I want to shout: it's only eleven months since Mamma died.

I look at Caterina for the first time today.

She stands in a white silk dress with gold brocade. Who ever heard of a bride in white? It's dramatic, I'll say that for her. Her hair is woven with pearls. She smiles steadily at her sister, Camilla, and holds on to her uncle's arm. That's when I understand her father must be dead. I didn't know that. She's an orphan. Like Mamma. My arms and cheeks tingle.

But I won't feel sorry for her. Not her.

Her pink face is round, like her big cheeks and breasts and bulging waistline. Overall Caterina's as different from the slight, stooped Camilla as any sister could be. She'd make a fine peasant's wife, hale and hearty. Her eyes glisten. She's happy to be marrying Papà. I'd have to be an idiot not to see that. She's bursting with joy. Papà is right: this is the most important day of that girl's life. I swallow the lump in my throat.

The moment for objections passes.

The notary asks Papà, “Do you enter into marriage to Caterina di Mariotto Rucellai consensually, by your own will?”

“Indeed, I do,” says Papà. He looks at Caterina. “I give you my body in loyal matrimony.”

“And I receive it,” says Caterina in a breathy voice.

The notary asks Caterina, “Do you enter into marriage to Antonio Maria di Noldo Gherardini consensually, by your own will?”

“Oh, yes,” says Caterina. She looks at Papà. “I give you my body in loyal matrimony.”

“And I receive it,” says Papà.

The notary takes Papà by the hand and brings him to face Caterina. Papà puts a gold ring on Caterina's right hand, on the finger beside her pinky.

The notary steps back. “You are man and wife.”

I bow my head. A tear runs down my nose and dangles from the tip. It's done. I have never felt so alone.

We exit the hall to an unending line of waiting coaches. Why, the entire nobility of Florence has turned out. I should have expected it. A Rucellai wedding, after all.

I ride back to Villa Vignamaggio in the Strozzi family women's coach. It's the fanciest coach I've ever seen. Leather tooled with real gold lines the inside walls. Black velvet covers the seats. The lace of the curtains is intricate and delicate. I squeeze my arms in to my sides with my hands on my lap. I was harvesting the asparagus just yesterday. I wonder if I cleaned under my nails thoroughly enough.

The women chatter happily. They tell me how lucky I am to have such a sweet stepmother. One of the younger girls says it will be so much fun to get to know me now.

I nod and try to look agreeable. Nothing is as I thought it would be. Caterina hasn't stepped down in stature; rather, Papà has stepped up. And apparently pulled me with him. I should be happy at that. But all I feel is confused.

We arrive at Villa Vignamaggio and I make a dash for the front door, leaving behind those women and girls, who were all so nice to me. Papà and Caterina stay in their coach while everyone else heads for the house.

I enter my home and stop immediately. White silk drapes across the walls of the living room. Lilies and carnations and jasmine vines, all tied together in great white ribbons, sit in vases on small tables that dot the wall at regular intervals. They exude the sweetest perfume. I'm transfixed. White everywhere, dazzling in its purity.

A girl holds out a basket filled with shiny white paper doves. I take one and it sits perfectly and lightly in my palm. The little thing is entirely the product of tiny, precise folds; nothing cut, nothing glued. Papà's new wife is possessed with doves. Through the small hole in this dove's back where the edges of the paper come together I see gold inside. I put my eye closer. Teeny gold paper stars. How dare they be so darling! But I will not be taken in—I will not be enchanted. This is Caterina's doing—and there is nothing at all about her, nothing nothing nothing, that should enchant anyone.

I move to the side and watch everyone file in. I scrabble to remember names. Mamma would know all of them. But my head holds nothing. Until Giuliano enters. He's swept inside in a group of already rowdy young men, bumping into one another and joking like overgrown calves. And he's immediately lost to my eyes, somewhere on the other side of the room. He didn't look around—he isn't looking for me.

A shiver comes from nowhere. I quickly hug myself.

But now Silvia arrives, thank heavens. I invited her, of course, and Papà even managed to suppress a sigh as he consented. Her hair is done up on top of her head and she's got on my old green dress that doesn't look old on her at all. She's breathtaking.

The music starts. It's a single flute, played exquisitely well.

“I feel like crying,” I say to Silvia.

She pinches my side. Hard.

“Aiii!”

“Complain again and I'll pinch harder. You live with her now. So you got to kill that envy.”

“Envy? I don't envy her.”

“Ain't you the girl that was supposed to get betrothed a year ago? I'd wish all this celebrating was for me, too.” She shakes her head. “But it ain't. It ain't for either of us. It's for her. So just shut your mouth.”

Cheering breaks out as the bride and groom enter. Everyone rips open the charming little paper doves and sprinkles golden stars in the couple's hair as they walk through the crowd, greeting the guests.

The brilliance of adorning the room in white is now obvious to me. All the guests wear bright colors. But Caterina is in white, like the walls and flowers. Eyes are naturally drawn to her. This is her party, totally and absolutely hers.

People spill happily into the music room and the map room and the library.

“Let's go see,” says Silvia. And she pushes me ahead of her.

These other rooms have been transformed with flowers, too. But flowers of all colors now. Especially red geraniums.

A bell summons us to the dining room. Long narrow tables and benches have been set up. I don't see how we can all fit, but, oh, it turns out the organization has been perfect; we take our places with decorum. Rosemary and sage have been strewn down the center of the tablecloths. Pink rose petals circle the plates and glasses. The china itself is pink. I'm surprised at the bad taste; it's as though a child chose it. Good. Let everyone laugh at Caterina.

The meal has too many dishes to count, all set out at once, of course. We feast on chicken, duck, pork, venison, trout, veal stuffed with kidney, all these things surrounded by cardoons, baby artichokes, new peas, asparagus, leeks, even spinach, though I have no idea where they found spinach so early in the season. Sauces and stuffings are pungent with porcini,
ovoli
, morels, and, oh, the little white truffles that Mamma loved. A whole roasted peacock sits in the center of each table, with the feathers all placed back where they belong so carefully that they look like they're sleeping. Beyond that there are the cold dishes scattered everywhere: we eat tiny almond cakes and marzipan candies and goat cheese and dried fruits and all kinds of nuts, dipping our fingers in bowls of rose water as we move from one dish to another. I am seduced against my will, memorizing fantastic recipes nonstop.

The very best thing of all is the pasta. It's cut in the shape of doves that float in a light chicken broth with one raw egg yolk in each person's bowl. I cannot believe all the hours that went into making just this one dish. But it's worth it, oh my, yes. I can almost forget the bitterness of the occasion.

After many toasts with many wines, we move back to the living room, some half-stumbling from drink. Laughter drowns out the cooing of the caged doves. And soon the music prevails—an ensemble now of flute, drum, and lute—and people dance.

I wander, feeling like a stranger in my own home. Caterina has taken over so thoroughly that not even Mamma would recognize the place. Mamma. A shaft of grief immobilizes me. I retreat against a wall.

Silvia finds me. “Introduce me to someone,” she whispers in my ear.

“I can't,” I whisper back. “I've forgotten their names.”

“Pah! You're useless.” She sighs and slumps against the wall beside me. “It wouldn't help noways. Look at all them men who came up to me at your mother's funeral, and ain't none of them stayed once I opened my mouth. You were right; they hate how I talk. Maybe I should cut out my tongue.”

I shudder. “What a hideous thought.”

“Ain't it, now?” She gives a sharp little laugh. “Don't take it too serious. It was a joke.” She stands up straight. “All right, I'll stay right here and help you.”

“Help me what?”

“Look for him. That's what you're doing.”

“I am not. You're not always right, you know. Besides, you've never even met him. You couldn't pick him out. All you know about him is what I say.”

“And how you say it.”

“You're crazy.”

“You can tell me more lies later,” whispers Silvia. “You got a guest now.”

“Little Elisabetta.” A woman comes toward me. She grabs my wrist and smiles. There's gold jewelry up that arm, at her throat, in her hair. She was at the hall this morning for the ring ceremony, so she's clearly in Caterina's family. I curtsy.

She laughs and kisses me on both cheeks, then stands on my other side, hooking arms so that we look out on the wedding guests together. “You don't know who I am, do you? I'm Caterina's aunt Nanina. Your aunt Nanina now, too. Please call me that.”

The wife of Bernardo Rucellai. I am to call her Aunt Nanina. Is this a dream?

“Aunt Nanina,” says the voice I know so well. Giuliano comes up on my other side, from which Silvia has discreetly disappeared. He kisses his aunt. “May I steal this lovely young woman from you?”

“Enjoy yourselves. Be dancing fools.”

And so Giuliano takes my hand and the circle makes room for one more couple.

The dancing of the people around us is stiff. Men have recently taken to lacing their vests tightly and women to wearing corsets, so their torsos can hardly flex. And some of the men have ruffs around their necks, preventing them from turning their heads.

But Giuliano and I have no such entrapments. Giuliano's lack of participation in the latest styles surprises and delights me. Perhaps he enjoys freedom of movement as much as I do. We sway, cut, slide, stamp. The footwork is easy and all dancers do the same steps so, even though this dance is unfamiliar, I quickly catch on. His hands hold mine firmly when we swing each other. His arm guides my back securely when we move forward and backward. And his eyes meet mine every time we face each other. The patterns change from a giant circle to columns to smaller circles. The music and movement have gravity, but all I feel is a lightness, as though we're the thinnest filaments of silk practically floating in the air. This is so good. Let this last forever.