“Extra work?” The man muttered to his neighbor. “As if the boy actually did any work in the first place.”
Mino whirled, dropping the other items. “I’m not your blackamoor!” he cried. “You just wait! When I inherit the workshop, you’ll be out on the streets!”
“Beniamino . . .” Sabato started.
But Mirelle rose from her seat and came into the workroom. “Mino, let’s go outside for a few minutes,” she said, taking his arm and ushering him toward the door.
“They hate me,” Mino said, pulling away and stalking out. “Shhh.” Mirelle followed him, glancing apologetically at the men.
Mino sat on the stoop next to the workshop, kicking his heels against the low stone wall. “They hate me,” he repeated. “I’m sick of it! I hate this place. I want to go home!”
Mirelle wasn’t sure what to say. He complained, day in and day out, often pretending to be ill to get out of work. It was a rare day that he didn’t have a headache, a backache, a sore throat.
“Never mind, darling,” Prudenzia would say, soothingly brushing his hair behind his ears. “Go to bed and Anna will bring you some breakfast. I’ll come up presently to read to you.”
As she sat next to him on the stoop, Mirelle recalled a conversation between Papa and Signor Morpurgo a couple of nights ago. The older man had counseled Papa to set aside a sum for Mirelle and Mama in case of his death.
“But why should I?” Papa asked. “When you plan to marry the girl.”
Mirelle kept sewing, head lowered.
“She hasn’t said yes yet. And even when we wed, that doesn’t absolve you of your responsibility to your family.”
“You’re right.” Papa sighed. “I will. But not yet.”
Mirelle wondered why not, but Signor Morpurgo seemed to understand. “The pain of Jacopo’s death will subside,” he said. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it now. It took me years to remember Sarella without sadness. But don’t delay too long. That boy is undependable. You should ride him harder, Simone.”
But as much as Papa tried to teach the boy, Mino was obstinate and, Mirelle feared, inherently lazy. Papa asked him to do no more than fetch supplies and observe the workings of the manufactory. It was a gentle enough form of apprenticeship. But when Mirelle questioned Mino to gauge what he had learned, he shrugged and turned away. And his whining grated on everyone’s nerves.
Right now, Mirelle wanted to slap him. How could anyone think he’d be a better owner of the workshop than she? She’d accepted that she’d never be allowed to manage it on her own, or even with a husband, but the thought of this horrid brat assuming Papa’s legacy appalled her. Why couldn’t she—or even her mother—inherit it? Why must it go to a man? Especially this spoiled monster? Fury bubbled up inside her.
“What is wrong with you?” She reached over, shaking him by the shoulders. “You should be proud of this place. It’s a family legacy—something my father and grandfather built from nothing into the most illustrious of its kind in the world. Aren’t you ashamed, complaining and dragging like a slug?”
Mino looked like he’d swallowed an untreated olive, the drupe twisting his mouth. “I don’t care!” He kicked at her shins. “Go away! I hate you!”
He jumped off the stoop and ran down the street. Mirelle sat limply, watching him go, wishing with a sharp pain that life could return to a time when her brother was alive, when everything was as it should be.
An hour later, her father returned. When he realized Mino wasn’t there, his face darkened. “Where is he this time?”
Mirelle explained what had happened.
Papa shook his head. “That’s all I need,” he muttered. “Now your aunt will yell at me this evening that we’re mistreating her beloved son again. That no one ever treated them like this in Rome.” He threw the sample copies of the ketubot on his desk and sat down with a thud. His face was flushed; he laid a hand gingerly on his injured side.
“What’s wrong, Papa? Are you in pain?”
“When don’t I have pain?” he grumbled. “But the doctor says he’s done what he can and only in time will I fully heal. If I ever do.”
“But becoming upset just makes things worse,” Mirelle said, rising and kissing his forehead. “Relax a moment. I’ll get you something to drink.”
“No, no, I’m fine.” Papa stared at the samples on his desk.
Sabato stuck his head into the office. “When will young Meyer come talk with us about his ketubah?” he asked. “Which did he like best? I’d like Yosef to work on this one—he hasn’t had a commission for a while and he’s growing tired of simply coloring in the other artists’ illuminations.”
“Meyer won’t be paying us a visit.” Papa frowned at the pile on his desk.
“But—the wedding is in a month! Did you explain how long we need to do the work?”
Papa sighed. “He’s not ordering his ketubah from us. He’s going to a shop in Rome.”
Mirelle stared at her father. It was almost unheard of that someone from Ancona would commission a ketubah anywhere but from her father. With a sinking feeling, she asked, “Is it the rabbi, Papa?”
Papa’s fingers fidgeted with the stack of documents. “It is, isn’t it?” Mirelle asked. Her hands started to shake. “We’ve been losing work for a while now. All because of me.”
Signor Narducci backed away. “I’ll be here if you need me, Simone.” Papa waited until his foreman left before lifting his head. “It’s been a slow few weeks, yes.”
“It’s not fair!” Mirelle burst out. “That wretched rabbi! Can’t he wait until you have Mino trained? All I’m trying to do is help while you do that.”
Papa sighed again. “And how long will that take? When the boy acts the way he does?” He cradled his face in his hands.
Tears crowded Mirelle’s throat but she pushed them back. “I can’t do this to the workshop. To the men. They don’t deserve this.”
“Mirelle—” “I’ll leave if you want me to,” she said slowly.
Papa turned away, his hand back at his side. Mirelle wrapped her cloak around her and started toward the door. She felt the men staring at her as she walked through the long row of worktables and wondered if they blamed her for the lost work. Sabato Narducci stood by the door and patted her on the shoulder as she stepped past. She bit back tears.
Standing in the shadowy ghetto street, Mirelle couldn’t decide what to do. She didn’t want to go home, to face her mother and aunt and her nasty brat of a cousin. If Dolce weren’t angry at her, she would seek refuge there. But as it was . . .
The thought of Dolce put another idea into her head. She turned toward the remnants of the ghetto gates and the Morpurgo mansion.
One of the footmen opened the door when Mirelle rang. “The mistress is out riding,” he told her.
Mirelle felt relieved that her erstwhile friend wasn’t there. “Is the master home?”
The servant didn’t blink. Everyone in the mansion knew that David Morpurgo had proposed to her. Perhaps the man thought she was here to accept him. Would Signor Morpurgo think the same? A flush rose to Mirelle’s cheeks. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. As long as he helps me.
Signor Morpurgo came rushing out of his office to greet her. “Mirelle, my dear! What an unexpected pleasure!”
Mirelle saw the hope in the man’s face and bit her lip. “Good morning, Signor Morpurgo,” she said. “Might I speak with you? I won’t keep you more than a few minutes.”
“You can keep me for an eternity, child, you know that,” Morpurgo replied gaily.
Mirelle said nothing, just followed his outstretched arm into his office. It was a large room, cluttered with desks, chairs, and paper-filled cubbyholes. As she entered, Dolce’s uncle rose from behind one of the desks.
“A pleasure to see you this morning,” he said, looking at her curiously.
“Zeke, can you give us a few minutes?” Signor Morpurgo asked.
“Certainly,” he replied, bowing himself ou
t of the room.
“Sit down, child.” Dolce’s father indicated a low sofa covered in silk brocade. “May I call for some refreshments?”
“No, thank you,” Mirelle faltered. “Truly, I won’t impose on you that long.”
David Morpurgo sat down opposite her and waited.
Mirelle wondered how to start. She stared at the man for a few minutes, thinking of all the times he had indulged both her and Dolce with fatherly treats—toys and sweets when they were children, dancing and music lessons, flowers, and books as they grew older. If only he’d remained the uncle she still thought him. She remembered how uncomfortable she’d felt when he’d presented her with her pearl necklace in Venice. Maybe this was a mistake.
But she was there, and he was waiting. She cleared her throat. “I have a favor to ask.”
“If I can grant it, consider it yours.” He reached out and stroked her hand.
She stopped herself from pulling away. “You know I’ve returned to work, just until Papa feels Beniamino is ready to take—to take Jacopo’s place.” She felt a pang, saying her brother’s name aloud, but forced herself to continue. “You were once kind enough to ask the rabbi to allow me to stay in the manufactory. He still opposes it, despite the changed circumstances. He threatened us back then with sanctions—now he’s encouraging grooms in our city to commission their ketubot elsewhere. Papa lost another customer just this morning because of his threats.”
“Indeed.” He didn’t sound surprised.
“You knew?”
Signor Morpurgo nodded. “It’s no secret that the rabbi opposes your working, Piccola. He visited me just this week, asked me why I permitted my betrothed—”
“But we’re not betrothed!” Mirelle blurted.
Signor Morpurgo smiled wryly. “No, not yet, anyway. And so I told him.”
Mirelle drew herself up. “I’m honored by your proposal, truly. But right now, all I can think about is helping my father, my family, through this difficult time. You tried to help me once—to no avail. Would you try again? Convince the rabbi to let me keep working—just until my cousin is ready to take . . . to take my brother’s place?”
Signor Morpurgo’s face creased with a benevolent smile. “And if I do, child, how long will you need to work? For the rabbi is right about one thing: it would not be fitting for my betrothed.”
Mirelle shook her head. “Please don’t misunderstand. Granting me this favor does not mean that I’ll accept your hand. I—I’m still thinking that over.”
Signor Morpurgo laughed. “I see. Well, I hope that it will, at least, make you think of me more kindly. Let me see what I can do.”
38
MARCH 10
Daniel and Christophe had put the press to bed around midnight. They’d printed Bonaparte’s military newspapers for a month now, reporting on the general’s actions throughout Italy and political events in Paris. Daniel marveled at how Bonaparte used the papers to make himself the hero of France. As both commander and ruler of Italy, he seemed unstoppable.
Daniel and Christophe had worked out a plan with Bourrienne the night before Bonaparte left for Rome. They’d requisitioned rooms in the town’s municipality and procured three machines, along with a tall cabinet for lead slugs and quads, two tables to load the chases, and stacks of newsprint. They used one room to dry the newly printed pages, replicating Alain’s arrangement of laundry lines in Paris. The soldiers working under them loaded paper, translated written copy into headlines and text, and pulled the levers. With so much help, and just one or two papers to print nightly, the work was more than manageable.
So Daniel, rising at noon, looked forward to an afternoon free of duty. He and Christophe had moved into barracks hastily erected by the harbor to house the garrison. It was pleasant to sleep under a roof again; Daniel’s army cot, lumpy though it was, was softer than a bedroll on the ground.
At the mess, he found Christophe sitting over the remains of his meal.
“I’m going to visit my cousins,” he said. “Do you want to come?”
Christophe kept his face carefully neutral. “No. I’m not inclined to court another man’s fiancée.”
“No one said anything about courting her.” Daniel took a bite of his pasta. “And she’s not betrothed yet. She’s still making up her mind.” The sudden flash in Christophe’s eyes made Daniel narrow his. “But if her mother has anything to say about it, she will accept him,” he continued. “So maybe you’re right to stay away.”
Christophe grimaced. “You don’t want me to come.”
Daniel realized with a start that his friend was right. He didn’t want him to come. “Your choice.” Daniel sopped his bread in the sauce on his plate. “We should have another edition from d’Angély later this afternoon. If I’m not back, you set it.”
“All right.” Christophe rose and walked away.
Mirelle met Daniel at the door when he arrived, ready in her walking dress, a parasol in one hand. “I saw you from the upstairs window,” she said. “Are you ready for our walk?”
He nodded. “Yes, but I’d like to say hello to your parents first.”
Mirelle reached back and shut the door behind her. “Papa is at work. He’ll be home when we return. Mama invites you to stay for dinner.”
“That’s kind, but I need to get back to the presses this evening.”
“We’ll dine early.” Mirelle put a hand on Daniel’s arm. “Shall we go?”
The day was warm for early March, despite the brisk wind. As they strolled along the harbor, Daniel smelled the salt rising off the churning water. The sun shone brightly, glistening on the waves, and Mirelle put up her parasol. Soldiers from the French garrison were drilling near the quay. Olive-skinned men off-loading a ship eyed the couple suspiciously. Mirelle appeared indifferent to their glares. Still, Daniel pulled her hand more tightly through his arm.
“They don’t like us much, your countrymen,” he said.
Mirelle nodded. “They never liked us Jews, either. If they had their way, I’d still be wearing a yellow kerchief and an armband.”
“In my case, it doesn’t matter—they’d hate me for being French or for being Jewish,” Daniel mused. “Or both. Of course, if your father were here, they’d still know him for a Jew—by his earlocks.”
“But not either of the Morpurgo brothers,” Mirelle said. “They’ve been dressing like Gentiles for years. Dolce’s father is encouraging my father to cut his earlocks and beard.”
Daniel smiled. “Because of the laws in France, all of my family is clean shaven, even Salomon. If you knew my brother, you’d realize how astonishing that is.”
“My father won’t do it,” Mirelle said. “Not because he’s so religious—he never asked Jacopo to grow earlocks—but his own father was devout, so it feels natural to him.” She hesitated a moment. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ve lost something in our rush to be like the Gentiles.”
“I suppose only our children and grandchildren will be able to judge.” Daniel thought back to his cousin Ethan’s essays, written before French Jews were given citizenship. Ethan had urged Jews to become more like their Gentile counterparts, to fit in better. Daniel had been swayed by those arguments, and doing so had made things easier for him in the army. But his parents and brother, like Mirelle’s father, still clung to tradition.
They strolled along the waterfront. Daniel smiled at the touch of Mirelle’s hand on his arm. He might miss the excitement of marching and fighting with his company, but there was something sweet about this quieter life. Mirelle was like the girls he’d grown up with—only better, somehow. If only he had been the one to rescue her in Venice, to catch her eye at the ghetto gates. But Christophe had beaten him to it, as always. Funny, Daniel thought, that had never bothered him before. And if she didn’t choose Christophe? Then it would be Morpurgo, the man her parents wanted her to marry for his wealth. Too slow and too poor—was it any wonder she’d never even considered him a suitor?
“Speaking o
f the Morpurgos,” he finally asked, to stop his thoughts from drifting into forbidden areas—after all, he could never double-cross his best friend, even if Mirelle were free—“what have you decided?”
Mirelle’s face fell. “My mother so clearly wants me to accept,” she muttered. “Now that my brother is dead, she says it’s my duty to the family to marry a rich man, to finance the workshop and provide for her. Signor Morpurgo is the richest man in our community. But he’s so old. I’ve known him my entire life, he’s like an uncle. The thought of it . . .” Her tone was bitter. “Dolce hasn’t spoken to me in weeks. Neither has your friend.”
“Christophe knows he can’t give you the life that Signor Morpurgo can.”
Mirelle stared. “But I thought—he told me—he loves me.”
The confession seemed forced from her lips. It stabbed at Daniel’s heart, and he searched for something comforting to say. “Doesn’t his leaving you alone prove that he does?”
Mirelle shook her head. “Did he think about asking me? Shouldn’t it be my choice?” Her footsteps dragged. “My aunt keeps needling me, saying I’ll have fine clothes, be able to travel, even move to Rome.” Mirelle sighed. “She’s desperate to return to Rome herself, but Papa says Mino must stay here. They argue about it all the time. I wish . . .”
Daniel desperately wanted to smooth away the sorrow from her face. “You can’t turn back time. Signor Morpurgo and I often cross paths in the early evenings at the municipality. He seems kind. He’d always treat you well, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose. And Dolce would grow accustomed. But I can’t pretend to love him. If I’m in love at all . . . But that’s just foolishness.”
“Christophe?” Daniel hoped he was wrong.
Mirelle pulled her arm from his. “Yes. Christophe.” She looked at the ground. “It’s crazy. He’s a Gentile. But I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“He’s a good fellow, but he’s a charmer.” Daniel was betraying his friend, but he couldn’t stop from blurting the truth. After all, he told himself uncomfortably, a match between them could only end in unhappiness. “He’s been with one Italian beauty or another in every town in Italy. He says he feels something different for you than the others, but that doesn’t stop him from flirting.”
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