The Smile (14 page)

One day in midsummer, Caterina says, “Will you help me with a project, please, Elisabetta?”

This is a common question of hers; she has so many projects. I shake my head, expecting her to entreat like a child, as is her habit. She's clearly unused to being denied.

“Ah, and Camilla was so sure you'd want to be part of this.”

Camilla comes for short visits often. And she never stays more than a night. Despite the way she and Caterina giggle together, her visits would be bearable if she'd only bring her little son, Bartolomeo. But she comes alone. She says newlyweds shouldn't be imposed upon. I wonder if she considers me an imposition? I'm quite sure Camilla has no notion whatsoever of what I'd like to be a part of. I don't bother to respond.

“Well, then, I'll just have to rely on Uccio.”

“Uccio?” I yelp.

“Uccio and Cristiano, yes.” Caterina's eyes twinkle. “You'll see.”

She's got me and she knows it. I squirm against my curiosity.

That night, when the little goat romps up the stairs ahead of me to bed, Caterina comes out of her room. I expect her to give him a quick pet, like usual. Instead, she gives him a lingering hug, while her eyes look at me over his head, inviting me to ask.

I go into my room. Uccio pulls away from her and scampers in after me—good little goat.

The next morning a bleak drizzle turns the world gray. Brief cold spells in summer are always welcome in these hills, but I'm particularly grateful now, as I watch Caterina leave early in a wagon with Cristiano, for I know she's chilled. It feels more like March than July. She should have put off her little excursion a few days till the sun returned. Such determination would impress me if it were anyone but her.

I walk in the garden with Uccio, who promptly jumps into the fountain. He settles on his knees, immersed so only his head shows. He bathes here often, regardless of rain. And Caterina never complains; she seems to take delight in it. When Camilla visits, the two of them exchange stories—Camilla's are mostly about little Bartolomeo and Caterina's are mostly about Uccio. That, too, is annoying of her.

Paco comes racing through the vegetable terraces and plops into the fountain beside Uccio. That dog loves water. But he's a thief—he snatches Uccio away from me. Of course. The dog is lonely without Cristiano. Spinone dogs are loyal to their masters. So even when Paco plays, he wants to know where Cristiano is every moment.

I walk past the fountain and, oh, at the far corner of the garden Mamma's cherished muse statues have been gathered into a circle surrounding black roses, the very type I saw at the Greve flower show two springs ago, the type that grow in the Medici garden in Villa Careggi. Nestled among the muses are sprays of wild orchids. And I know these orchids, as well. They're the type Cristiano was going to enter into the flower fair at Foiano della Chiana that same spring.

Cristiano's been helping Caterina on this project. Somehow she discovered his passion for flowers. She's an observant one, insidiously so.

I feel left out, which is absurd; it's been my choice not to know about Caterina's doings. And it isn't right that she should take such liberties with Mamma's garden. Papà pampers her—like he used to pamper me. But more.

I turn around now and my eyes take in the whole garden. The various places where those statues used to stand are bare and the area around them seems bland now. That can't last; Caterina hates bland, so much so that our home has become a shock to the eye. Tablecloths and bed linens scream in the high-pitched voices of reds and oranges and yellows. She's hung violet tapestry in the dining room, too. She indulges herself terribly. Clearly, she is now about to indulge herself in redesigning the garden. With Cristiano's help. But what part does Uccio have in all of it?

The wagon returns at dusk, loaded with flowering plants. Just as I expected.

The next morning, however, there's a surprise: wagons come slowly up the road, burdened with heavy loads. Three men, arms bulging, appear at the rear door. I go off to my chores in the silking building with Silvia, but we sneak peeks, peering through the light but persistent rain.

By the end of the day, flowers circle so many statues, all of animals grouped according to some plan that only Caterina sees the logic of: dolphins and mermaids together here, a harmonious pair—but fawns and lion cubs there, a doomed pair. The only lone statue squats beside the fountain: the goat god Pan playing on his reed flute. I rest my hand on his head and wonder if Caterina thinks of that as Uccio's choice. In any case, even I can't deny that the total effect of all this profusion is quite disarming.

Before supper Caterina finds me in the kitchen. “I saw you in the garden. Don't you love it?”

It's Friday, a day of fasting from meat, so I'm making
cacciucco
, a fish stew. The traveling fish vendor from Livorno gave me the recipe just this morning. He took advantage of the cool weather to come inland to sell. He promised everything was as fresh as in winter. Conger eel, gobies, stargazer, dogfish, scorpion fish, sea toad, prawns, squid, and octopus—all lie cleaned and ready on the counter. I slice them into bite-size pieces without a word.

Caterina tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. Then she leans close and whispers almost sadly, “It looks like it's going to be a very fine stew.”

In the following week, Caterina's behavior toward me changes. Her invitations and questions cease, until she barely talks to me. Fine; I have no time for her nonsense. Papà still goes often to Florence for business deals, though he rarely spends more than one night there unless Caterina accompanies him. But I'm the one who makes sure that we meet the obligations he binds us to; I oversee the silk production. And I run this house, as well. Papà makes no further objections. And Caterina, well, she merely lives here. I really truly do not have time for her.

Besides, my work has, ironically, increased since Papà's ridiculous outburst. The three young men that Caterina hired to place the statues in the garden now live in the workers' cottages, for she convinced Papà to hire them even though money is still scarce and Papà had already let go other workers. Rocco and Tomà are peasants; they know the earth and livestock. But Alberto comes from a servant family in Florence. He found no work there; times are as hard in the city as in the country. He, of course, is a stranger to farmwork. And not a one of them knows about silk production. So it falls on Silvia and me to teach them. Every step must be done carefully and on time, or an entire batch of worms will be ruined. And these men are not used to the demand for precision. We must check on them regularly and give encouragement and correct errors before they become gross. I have no idea how Papà thought he could have managed all this without me.

Yes, I am far too busy to bother with Caterina.

Late in August Camilla arrives, for five days. This will be her first extended visit since the wedding, and she's bringing her son. Caterina is so excited, she waits out front for her, and I stand alongside—not to greet Camilla, of course, but to see little Bartolomeo. Caterina gets to see him every time she goes to Florence, but I never leave Villa Vignamaggio. I've missed the child, against my will.

Camilla literally leaps from her coach and promptly vomits.

Caterina throws her arms around her sister. “Elisabetta, go quickly. Ask Sandra to prepare a sick bed.”

“No, no.” Camilla laughs even as she wipes her mouth with a handkerchief. “Don't go anywhere, Elisabetta. No one's sick. That was simply my announcement.”

“Announcement?” Caterina opens her mouth wide in happy realization. “Oh! What better way to say another child grows within you! What a delight, Camilla.”

Camilla squeezes Caterina to her. “You're next, good sister. Do hurry, so our babies can grow up together.”

“Oh, let it be true!” Caterina turns to me with an excited laugh. “Elisabetta, could you make that sweet-crusted pie with hare meat and candied orange peel for tonight's meal, the one you do so fantastically well? Antonio loves hare.”

“Don't forget the parsley.” Camilla giggles.

“And rucola,” adds Caterina, giggling herself.

I remember Piero de' Medici talking about amorous prowess. Women discuss sex freely among themselves, for everyone needs to know the best times and positions for getting pregnant. But it's my papà they're talking about here. I have to get away before they say more. Fortunately, little Bartolomeo, abandoned and forgotten in the coach, calls me to lift him down. I hug him close and dance in a circle, then I take him to find Silvia, and the two of us entertain him until it's time for me to begin cooking.

A few weeks later, Caterina says to me, “Camilla's coming tomorrow. Could you take the day off from chores and help us again with Bartolomeo? You know, so it will be a special welcome.”

“I didn't take the day off last time. Bartolomeo simply accompanied Silvia and me in our work.”

“I've got a treat in mind,” says Caterina. “You can't work and do it at the same time.”

A treat for Bartolomeo? I'm tempted.

She comes closer. “Silvia's invited.”

So the next day when Bartolomeo arrives we lead him into the kitchen and all four of us girls spend the day making the boy jellies shaped as little men and animals. We let him add colors to each jelly—from saffron, sweet almond milk, and herb juices. We even make reddish-gold ones from the juice of tomato, a new fruit Camilla has brought. But those are just for show; you can't eat this kind of fruit.

And thus begins a ritual: every few weeks, Camilla returns with Bartolomeo. The toddler cannot get enough of Vi-Vi, as he calls Villa Vignamaggio, and of his doting aunts—Caterina and Silvia and me. Silvia, of course, is an honorary aunt. But I'm a real aunt; the wedding made me an aunt overnight. Dear Bartolomeo calls me Zi-Bi, for Zia Elisabetta. He rushes into my arms on arrival without fail. The warmth of it makes me happy.

Bartolomeo makes Old Sandra and her husband, Vincenzo, happy, too, both because he loves them (he loves everyone), and because when he visits, Caterina sings. She fancies herself quite a singer, in fact. She stands by an open window and belts out songs for whatever audience she can gather. Silvia has little patience for it, but I enjoy it actually, and Old Sandra and Vincenzo clap with enthusiasm, as does Camilla, the ever-insipid sister. The songs are well-known poems that Caterina sets to music. She reads Latin and Greek fluently, as well as our own Florentine tongue. She has the education only the wealthiest noble girls are offered, and even fewer decide to accept. Her books lie open on the library tables now.

And so the summer ends. The air turns cold. Christmas comes and goes. I make the slight concession of attending the festivities in Florence with Papà and Caterina. We stay in Camilla's house, with Bartolomeo and her husband. It's a very fine home, with an inventive cook who is surprised at my initial inquiries—noble ladies don't generally come into his kitchen seeking help—but then flattered enough to share secrets with me. But in the end, I wish I hadn't come, for, though I search tirelessly, I don't see Giuliano anywhere, and no amount of wonderful recipes can fill that hole.

On a dark afternoon in January, Silvia and I sit in the silking building after the workers have finished for the day. Her hands lie folded in her lap, a quiet pose unusual for her. “Cristiano's leaving.”

I jerk to attention. I've been making a list of winter projects— the outbuildings need repair—and I was planning on starting him on them soon. “For how long?”

“For good.” The shadows hide Silvia's face; still, I hear the tears in her voice.

I shake my head. “But he's so young.”

“He turned seventeen last month. He's almost as old as Alberto.”

Seventeen. Why should that surprise me? I'm but a half year from my fifteenth birthday. I put my hand over hers. “Where will he go?”

“He said he'll wander till he finds a place to work as beautiful as here.”

“If he thinks Villa Vignamaggio is so beautiful, why leave?”

“What else could he do?”

I won't ask what that means.

That night I lie in bed and wonder how we will manage without Cristiano. I've worked with him so closely for so long now. I rely on his intelligence and doggedness. He's a good model to the other men and he's a kind but firm leader to the younger boys. When he hugs me good-bye, should I try to dissuade him?

The next morning, I sit by the back door, pulling ice from the soft spot in the center of the underside of Uccio's hooves. The dumb little goat made the mistake of following Paco into the fountain basin on the coldest day so far this winter. Spinone dogs love frigid water, but a goat isn't made for it; the ice has cut into these fleshy spots and made him bleed. So Silvia took Paco away while I dragged Uccio home. Poor little limper. I'll have to lock him inside for the rest of the day.

Cristiano appears with a satchel over his shoulder. He stops in front of me. “Good-bye, Monna Elisabetta,” he says. So formal.

I push Uccio off my lap and stand to hug him, but Cristiano has already turned away. “Good-bye, Cristiano,” I call. He walks down the path to the road. I watch till he's out of sight. My arms hang empty.

Bark! Bark, bark, bark!
It's Paco, somewhere back behind the workers' cottages. He must be tied up, not to come running. I've never heard that dog bark before. It's as though he knows something is very wrong. Poor Paco. He'll be heartbroken once he realizes his master is gone. How can Cristiano leave him like that? But a dog would be a hindrance for certain kinds of work, and Cristiano needs to keep his options open. Cristiano has learned to harden his heart against impossibilities. I hate knowing that. I hate it, because it's what I'm struggling so hard to learn, as well. Paco barks all day.