The Smile (19 page)

“Only of relief. I thought some stupid boys had done something to Uccio.”

“Boys?” Giuliano's face immediately tightens. “Boys here in the street? A gang?”

“I suppose.”

“What did they do to you?”

“Do to me? Nothing more than insults I won't repeat. I was only worried about Uccio. I wasn't scared for myself. Not really, anyway. Not much.”

“You should have been. Three days ago there was a gang war outside the Duomo. They threw stones at each other. A boy was killed. Don't walk the streets alone again—especially not at dawn or after dusk—not when there aren't plenty of people around.”

“A boy was killed?” I stand still, stunned.

“Stay away from empty streets.”

“Giuliano, a boy was killed? Here? I know people are afraid of the streets in Naples and Rome and Genoa and Milan and so many other places. But no one's afraid of the streets in Florence. Not our Florence.”

“Things have changed. And there's worse than that.”

“What could be worse?”

“It's not to talk about in polite conversation.”

What a formal thing to say. “Is this polite conversation?”

“You'll know when it's not.” His eyes linger on my mouth.

I look down, flustered.

“Listen to me, Monna Lisa, there are reasons why girls should have proper chaperones, not goats. Stay away from empty streets.” He stresses each word.

I look down at the line of grime the boy left on me when he stole the fig. I rub it away and fold that hand inside the other and press them to my chest.

“Please,” he insists.

“I will. Rest assured, I will.”

He takes a deep breath and I see his Adam's apple rise and fall in a swallow.

“Let's get you back to Aunt Nanina's, so you can dress up.”

“Dress up?” I say, in a daze.

A slow smile crosses his face. “Of all the girls I've met, only you wouldn't care about public image. I bet you don't ever show off. And you're right, for your gentility glows through your face, no matter what you wear. Well, then, Monna Lisa, to the games.” He offers the crook of his elbow.

I look at it stupidly, realizing I'm a fool. I should dress up. It was my simple clothing that led to those boys treating me so crudely. It's prudent to make one's social status known. But now that Giuliano's expressed admiration for my choice, I can hardly change my mind.

“If you're worried about the others, you can calm yourself. Caterina already agreed.”

“Caterina is allowing me to go somewhere with you unchaperoned?”

He nods with a smile. “Once she found out Aunt Nanina and I had discussed this before you even arrived in town, she had little choice. I just have to have you back by midday. Caterina said to tell you Francesco is coming.” His voice rises at the end in a question.

I shrug. “I can't think why she would have said that. Maybe she just meant that Bartolomeo will be here. My little nephew. That must be it. Francesco is his father.”

“Ah, that Francesco. Well, shall we go, Monna Lisa, my lady?”

I take Giuliano's arm and walk unsteadily, Uccio at my heels. The incident with those boys, followed so closely by the news Giuliano brought, has left me reeling. In all Papà's fretting about Florence, nothing he's said prepared me for such things: a boy was killed by a gang. In the streets of Florence. Who ever heard of anything so vile?

And Giuliano said there's been worse.

Has the world gone mad?

I hold Giuliano's arm tight.

CHAPTER Fifteen

FLORENCE
is not the center of heaven,” calls a voice.

People have gathered around an unnaturally small man with a huge nose standing on an outdoor pulpit in the Piazza Santo Spirito. His right hand is raised high with two fingers extended as though pointing to heaven and blessing the crowd in one action, like in paintings of Jesus Christ. The sleeve of his monk's habit falls to reveal a very white and skinny arm. That arm and the fact that the habit hangs loose from his shoulders give the impression that this man is nothing but skin and bones draped over a firm spirit.

I linger, slowing Giuliano. “Is that him? Savonarola?”

Giuliano works us around the edge of the crowd. “He keeps building himself outdoor pulpits and inciting everyone.”

“No, not the center of heaven,” belts out Savonarola. “Nor is Florence the center of the world. No, fellow citizens, children of the Lord. Florence is not these things.”

“I want to listen, Giuliano.”

“It's best to ignore him.” He pulls me along.

“But if we allow tyrannical governments,” shrieks Savonarola, “if we allow evil, as in the likes of Piero de' Medici, then Florence will be the center of hell. Floods, plague, war, swarms of locusts—all manner of pestilence will rain down upon us.”

“Outrageous,” Giuliano mutters to me.

“You're right,” calls a voice loudly.

“You're right,” calls another.

And the air is full of voices agreeing with Savonarola.

“That's it.” Giuliano stops. “Stay here and wait for me.” He pushes his way through the throng to the pulpit. “Go back to your monastery at San Marco! Go, or I'll report this to my brother and he'll have you swept away like so much trash.”

“Ah, it's Giuliano de' Medici! Little Giuliano. The most trivial of the Medici boys. The one who never dares to make a ripple in the pool of decadence he swims. Did you hear his tinny squawk, children of the Lord? Did you listen? And you, Giuliano, did you even listen to yourself? Are you hare-brained? You're saying your big brother would sweep me away simply for criticizing him. That's the behavior of a tyrant if ever there was one.”

The crowd responds to Savonarola's point. Shouts come: “Let him talk!”

I'm bristling at the way the monk's remarks are so personal. It hardly matters if he has a point—he's mean and I instinctively hate him.

Savonarola puts up both hands to quiet everyone. “Ah, my cowardly young friend, Ser Giuliano, hear how the children of the Lord respond. You would do well to heed their concerns.”

“Cowardly?” Giuliano's voice cracks; his wound is apparent. “I'm here confronting you as a warrior for free thought!”

“Bah. You're squawking. Squawk squawk. Go back to your hiding place behind your gluttonous, degenerate brother. His absurd red velvet cape can cover the both of you.”

“So you can go back to your lies? Nothing you say has truth to it. Anyone can see that, you decrepit fearmonger!”

Savonarola turns his palms toward heaven in a questioning gesture. “In that case, what harm can there be in letting an impoverished, decrepit monk talk, little rich boy?”

“Indeed!” shouts a man. “Let the pious monk talk.”

A chorus rises: “Let him talk, let him talk.”

Giuliano's face goes white with rage. “Speak then! Spew your garbage. Anyone who stays to listen is a fool.” He stomps back through the crowd and takes my hand and yanks me away. We practically run for the next block.

“Can you slow down, please?” I say at last.

Giuliano looks at me in sudden embarrassment. “I'm sorry.” He slows to a walk. “I wish you hadn't heard that.”

“He's clever in turning your own words against you.”

“That's not what I meant. Yes, he is a clever orator, whereas I have no experience in public debate. I was impulsive to take him on like that.”

“It doesn't matter. Anyone can see he's mean-spirited and vindictive.”

“You think so? I wish that were true. He sets up his pulpit and says the Lord is on his side, and frightens the people into submission.” Giuliano walks faster again as his words come harder. “He's a bully. Shouting of fire and brimstone. As though Florence isn't the best city in the world.”

“But how can you say that, after what you just told me about the gangs?” I'm hurrying to keep up, speaking between pants. “Florence is dangerous.”

“Death in the street is awful. Horrifying. But whose fault is it? My brother has nothing to do with urchins on the street.”

“Not directly, no.”

“What does that mean?” His eyes flash anger.

“Surely the leadership of Florence affects everyone,” I say, mouthing the very words I've heard Papà say so often these past months, though he was talking about finances, not street violence. “If the leaders flag, well, there's danger for everyone.”

“That self-righteous monk is more of a danger than my brother could ever be. So what if he predicted my father's death? Everyone knew my father had been ill a long time. So what if he predicted the death of Pope Innocent VIII a few months later? The Pope was ancient. Savonarola has no direct line of communication with the Lord. He just wants people to think he does, so they will fear him, so he can control them.” Giuliano races as he talks. Uccio's hoofs clip-clop behind us on the cobblestones.

“Please slow down. Do you realize you have a penchant for running as you speak?”

“And do you realize you throw at me the very arguments Savonarola wants you to? You give in to the apparent. If you're not careful, you'll be his puppet, too.” Giuliano pulls me over against the wall of a building, so we're out of the way of passing carts and people. His glowering brow is a dark scar that cuts across his forehead. “Savonarola is a charlatan.”

I press my lips together. “I've never seen you angry before.”

“I've never heard you speak nonsense before!”

I want to turn around and run back to Aunt Nanina's. But what a crazy thought. If I really want to know this boy, this man, I have to stand up and talk frankly to him. Mamma did it; Caterina does it. I say the most terrible thing I've heard: “Did your father really steal money from a fund meant to pay the dowry of orphaned women? Did your brother do the same? Is that how Piero paid for Contessina's wedding?”

Giuliano's fingers play above his upper lip for a moment. “Listen, Lisa. All the festivals for the masses, all the entertaining in the streets, the feasts, everything—that costs money. And the people of Florence expect such largesse. My father gave it to them. So Piero has to.”

Giuliano walks to the other side of me, then back again. He seems like a wild animal caught in a small cage. I think of the lioness in the Medici palace pacing in front of us more than two years ago. I don't want to put Giuliano in a cage like this. But I also think of Mamma. “My mother was an orphan, Giuliano,” I say steadily. “Piero must repay the funds he stole.”

“How?” His face contorts and his hands rise to the heavens. “How can Piero possibly pay it back?”

I imagine gold flowing down the Arno, lost in the sea. “And so the banks really do stand on the edge of ruin?”

Giuliano makes just the slightest heart-weary
tsk
. He looks around at the passersby. “Please, may I take your hand?” His voice is hardly more than a whisper.

It's so strange for him to ask this gingerly when but half an hour ago he ordered me to wait while he argued with Savonarola. I offer my hand boldly. “Please take it.”

He leads me down a side street. Uccio clatters happily past us, nosing the gutter that runs along one side. I'm instantly jittery. We mustn't be seen. A noble girl cannot be alone with a man outside of the public thoroughfares.

Giuliano stops and stands me with my back to the wall of a home and paces in front of me again. “All right,” he says at last but still quietly, still gently, though I sense a tremendous force held at bay beneath the words. “Let's have it. Please. Do me the service of telling all your misgivings about me. Down to the most vile ones.” He takes a deep breath and looks into my eyes. The sadness in his is bottomless. “Please. Let us clear the air and see if we both still breathe.”

“My misgivings aren't about you.” I know that's true the moment I say it. “I have never known you to be anything but honest and worthy.”

Giuliano hesitates. “My brother lacks self-restraint.” He grits his teeth at this admission. “But he is my brother. I love him.” He takes my hands and turns them upward, cradling them in his own. He looks at them as if for answers. “Please, do not be fooled. There is a difference between stupid self-indulgence and real evil. Savonarola wants to control people's minds. If there ever was a true tyrant to fear it is Savonarola, not my brother.” His thumbs move lightly on my palms, then stop and dig in forcefully.

Quick and unexpected delight. My cheeks flash hot. I flinch.

“Forgive me.” He lets loose my hands. “I didn't mean to be impudent.” He blinks and turns toward the street we came from, clasping his hands behind his back. “Shall we continue our walk?”

I want to say no. I want us to stay here. I want back that delight that began so frighteningly sharp. “By all means.”

We go slowly now.

Uccio seems to catch the new air of decorum between us. He prances just a couple of meters ahead, as though leading a formal procession.

We cross a street and turn a corner at the same steady pace.

“I have been raised to put loyalty first,” says Giuliano at last. His tone is reflective, almost as though he's speaking to himself. “I'm in the fifth generation of Medici to govern this city.” His voice trembles just the slightest.

“Loyalty is a virtue,” I say.

“It is essential that I defend my immediate family to anyone outside it.”

“I understand,” I say.

“You are not in my immediate family.” He pauses. “Not yet.”