The Orphan of Florence

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  Still, there had to be a catch. It scared me to believe that something so good could happen. I didn’t want to trust Ser Abramo. And I certainly didn’t want to care, because then God and the Devil would conspire to take him away from me.

  But there was magic in Abramo’s house, a magic deeper than any talisman or incantation. I didn’t understand it then, but it was beginning to stir inside of me.

  “Hello, Leo,” I murmured, and reached out to touch his soft velvet head.

  Four

  I woke from a dead sleep to sharp rapping, and opened my eyes to see Ser Abramo in my doorway with a lamp in hand, Leo at his side. When I’d returned to bed the previous night, I’d unintentionally left my bedchamber door open, thanks to exhaustion and the poppy’s effects.

  I sat up in the glorious feather bed, pulling the sheets and blanket up to my collarbone, and noted that, other than my knee, my body was unharmed, my virginity intact. The very real new talisman between my breasts was warm from my body heat. I ran a hand through my close-cropped hair, still amazed by how soft and clean it felt and by the aromas of rose and lavender wafting from it.

  My dreams had been so vivid that had I not been in the feather bed staring at Ser Abramo, I wouldn’t have believed he or his house existed. Leo and the open doors had been real, I decided, but the voices in the wall had definitely been the product of my opium-fueled imagination. Still, I felt a stirring of anger at the very thought that Lorenzo would abandon Florence for France.

  “Good morning,” Ser Abramo said. His voice held a warm lilt. He glanced at the open doorway then at me, and smiled in a way that hinted my supposed trust had touched him. He had no clue that I’d meant to bolt it again.

  “You slept through the bells,” he said. “I expect they must be deafening where you live. Get dressed and come down to the kitchen. You’ll hear footsteps; it’s just the chambermaid, using the back stairs to get to our rooms. She knows to stay out of our way, so don’t go looking for her. She’ll be off before we finish breakfast. Cook’s already been and gone.”

  He paused. “I’m glad you decided to come back last night,” he said knowingly.

  I made my expression as blank and innocent as possible.

  “The goblets over the fireplace. You switched them when you put them back.”

  I felt heat on my face. He was, after all, the dangerously powerful Magician, and if angered, God knows what punishment he could inflict.

  “I am sorry about the goblets,” I mumbled. “I’ll never steal from you again.”

  “See that you don’t,” he said, suddenly all business and brushing the topic away with faint impatience. “I’ll lead you back toward the city today until you learn your way. You have an hour and a half to see your friends and tell them you’ll be sleeping elsewhere. Then we’ll meet at the foot of the Old Bridge, on the east side of the Oltrarno shore. Don’t worry, I’ll find you.”

  * * *

  My best friend, Cecilia, lived in a room above the potter’s shop next door to the Porco Tavern on the Via de’ Calzaiuoli, in the center of town, right across the street from the infamous Fico. I’d tried to get her apprenticed to the potter when she moved in; he produced excellent maiolica—the tin-glazed pottery decorated in bright shades of cobalt, antimony yellow, and rust—and made a good living. Unfortunately, his wife was too jealous to permit it, though not jealous enough to refuse the rent money I paid her, even though she rightly suspected Cecilia of having plied the prostitute’s trade. She needn’t have worried, though; Cecilia would never have dreamed of seducing another woman’s husband. She was a shy girl, never one to run after boys.

  Cecilia looked like a painting of Venus or an angel—skin like pearl, huge blue eyes, pale golden hair that fell in loose curls past her waist, although when she became a mother, she wore it pinned up. She would have been impossibly beautiful if it hadn’t been for her small round button of a nose. She grew up, but that little nose never did keep pace. Even so, men still turned their heads to gape at her like fools.

  Girls like me, with plain long noses and heavy eyebrows and thin lips, we were the ones that people called “handsome” when they were feeling kind. We could get away with masquerading as young men. But then there were curvy goddesses like Cecilia, with her sweet feminine face, impressive bosom, and impossibly delicate hands. If she’d dressed like a lad, people would have laughed.

  Her landlord thought I was her boyfriend and kept asking her when I was going to propose.

  Because a decent woman couldn’t be seen traipsing the streets by herself, Tommaso and I accompanied her to Mass at the big domed cathedral, the Duomo, every Sunday, and she took to teaching him the sung responses in the liturgy, and how to cross himself.

  “Just because the nuns were awful to us,” she always said, “doesn’t mean there isn’t a loving God.”

  After Mass, when most of the people had cleared out, we would stay behind so Tommaso could stare up at the enormous cupola until his neck ached. You can’t believe it if you haven’t seen it; it’s the largest one in the whole world, too big to describe, and it rises to an impossible height. The architect must have used pure magic to keep it from caving in. I would stare up at it, too, and the shaft of light that filtered down from the opening at the very top. If ever I came close to believing in heaven, it was then.

  “And who designed the dome?” Cecilia always asked Tommaso.

  “Brunelleschi!” he’d crow.

  “And what else did Brunelleschi design?”

  “The orphanage!”

  Then we’d troop across the street to the Baptistery, because Tommaso loved to look at the different brass bas-relief panels on the three famous doors, each panel telling a different biblical story.

  “And who designed this door?” Cecilia would ask.

  “Ghiberti!” Tommaso would shout, depending on the door. Or: “Pisano!”

  Cecilia would point to the different panels and make Tommaso name them: John the Baptist baptizing Jesus. Salome dancing. Flagellation. Tommaso’s favorite panel was the one of the angel staying Abraham’s hand before he killed his son Isaac. It made him happy, he said, that Isaac didn’t die and went back to live with his father. My favorite panel was the one of Salome holding John the Baptist’s head on a dish. Cecilia said my choice showed a lot of anger toward men. Her favorite was the one of Jesus walking on the water, rescuing Saint Peter from drowning. I said her choice showed a lot of wishful thinking.

  The frames around the panels were decorated with vining designs and flowers, and the brass heads of men that projected right off the door. Tommaso always had to go to the north door and look down near the bottom for the fat balding head of Ghiberti, the man who designed the best doors. All the other heads wore solemn expressions and stared off into the distance, but old Ghiberti looked right at you with a sly little smirk. Most of the brass was still somewhat bright on the doors, but the top of Ghiberti’s round head was completely dull. Like everyone else in the city, Tommaso liked to rub it for luck.

  That’s the thing about Florence. Even the poorest of us are proud of our architecture and our art. Ask any street urchin, and he’ll take you on a grand tour, rattling off the names of the creators and explaining the symbolism as if he had built or painted it himself. Tommaso got excited and proud about learning all these things, and Cecilia was a good teacher.

  She was two years older than me; we grew up sharing a bed with four other girls. We joked we were sisters, although we couldn’t have been more different. I remember the first time (out of hundreds) that I went without supper for some cheeky remark. I must have been about five, and the abbess had said in front of all the other girls that I was wicked and bound for hell. I was banished to the big orphan’s chamber and standing defiantly on the bed while all of the other children were eating in the refectory. Cecilia left supper early, saying she felt sick, but she really left so that she could smuggle me some bread.

  I remember sitting on the bed across from her and eating it w
ith gusto when she said, in her quiet way, “You’re not wicked, and you’re not going to hell. Don’t ever listen to what Sister Maria Ignatia says. She doesn’t like you because she’s not very bright, and you are.”

  That was all it took for me to be loyal to Cecilia forever. Up to that point, I’d never realized I was smart. I’d just thought most grown-ups were dumb.

  But I was never smart enough to keep my mouth shut, especially when Sister Maria Ignatia’s nasty comments caused some of the girls to burst into tears. Stupid cow was one of her favorite expressions, and more than once I made the sobbing girl laugh by telling Sister Maria Ignatia to her face, Actually, we’re calves, which makes you sisters the cows. And you’re abbess, so you’re the biggest—

  I never got to finish the sentence without being slapped so hard I bit my tongue. Or punished in some other physical way that would have scandalized the educated Florentines who funded the orphanage. They considered beatings cruel and low class. So did I. I’d rather die than raise my hand against Tommaso, and he knows it, the little shite.

  Sister Maria Ignatia wasn’t swift enough to come up with a different phrase, and it got to the point where every time she uttered stupid cow, the girls would start to giggle, because they knew I wouldn’t let it rest. Over the years, Cecilia became the only thing standing between me and hunger. I stopped minding getting slapped, because I looked forward to Cecilia bringing me a bit of food, and most of all, to talking alone with her.

  One day, when we were alone and I was ranting bitterly against God for allowing children to go without parents, Cecilia said, “I think God makes orphans so we can choose our own families. When we finally leave this place, can I tell people you’re my little sister?”

  The day I left the orphanage, I dragged Tommaso with me to the first vacant alleyway, where I donned the boy’s clothing that I’d nicked and chopped off my hair with stolen scissors. Then straightaway, I went looking for Cecilia. I knew she had married an old baker when she left the orphanage, and I went from shop to shop asking where I could find her. Turned out the bastard had beaten her so badly that she ran away and wouldn’t go back. I finally found her on the Via de’ Calzaiuoli halfway between the Duomo and the Old Bridge, wearing her legally required little bells like a necklace and bracelets, tottering around in those dangerous high-heeled slippers. Her golden hair was scandalously uncovered and hung down her shoulders to show off those beautiful loose curls. I spotted her leaning back against the side wall of the Berteluccie tavern, fluttering her blond lashes at a wealthy, overfed man. The look on his face made me want to retch.

  We figured out that she was already pregnant the day I found her.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of her having to be a prostitute for another second, but at the time, I was broke with no place to stay. Tommaso and I bunked in tiny rat-infested little room for a few nights until I ran into Rafael on the street. I guess he was around seventeen or eighteen then. He tried to pick my pockets, but when he saw I didn’t have a single coin on me, he took pity and became my teacher. And …

  Back in the orphanage, I swore that I would never give my heart to another human being, because even my own parents didn’t love me enough to keep me. No one could be trusted. Then came Rafael, and I broke my own rule for him. I let myself care—and of course, he met a terrible, tragic end.

  Lesson taken: Love exists only to break your heart. Therefore, I do my best not to care.

  Loyalty, now, that’s another matter, one of personal honor. A heartless thief I may be, a heretic and a sinner, but I am loyal. Prove yourself to me, and I will never desert you. I’m stupid that way.

  So that morning, I walked into the crockery maker’s shop; he and his wife were working a well-off customer for a large sale and didn’t give me a glance. I walked up the stairs behind the counter and through the series of rooms that led back to Cecilia’s. I gave a rap on the door and Cecilia unbolted and flung open the door so fast, I knew she’d been hoping it was me.

  She’d wound a long scarf tightly around her head and pulled one end through the top opening, so that the rest of the scarf hung down her back. It wasn’t a flattering look, but it was popular among working-class wives, which is what Cecilia wanted to look like. She was still beautiful anyway, even in her overlarge gray kirtle, a used one I found for her at the clothier’s, and an underdress of old yellowed wool.

  “Don’t wake the baby,” she whispered out of habit, and then immediately cried out, “Oh thank God, Giuli, we were so worried!” She planted a kiss on both of my cheeks and hugged me so tightly I couldn’t breathe.

  Just when I thought I was going to faint for lack of air, she loosened her grip on me enough to call out, “Tommaso! Tommaso, look! It’s Giuli!”

  The baby started crying of course, and Tommaso flew at me like a stone loosed from a slingshot.

  “Giuliano!” he cried, happy and indignant at the same time. “Giuliano, you scared me!”

  We collided with such force that I staggered backward, nearly knocked off my feet. I couldn’t help but laugh. He wound his thin, surprisingly strong little arms around my waist and burrowed his face there, crying for a few seconds, and then he punched me square in the gut the way boys do when they’re mad. It was symbolic, not serious, and didn’t hurt that much. I held him at arm’s length by his shoulders while I squatted down to his level.

  “I got caught last night,” I said, growing serious. “You know I’d never stay away on purpose. I like to keep my word.”

  He hugged me again. I clicked my tongue in annoyance, but hugged him back anyway in order to keep my balance. He smelled like a little boy—that slightly sour smell of sweat that isn’t objectionable because it comes from a child. Thank God the room was warm enough, allowing Cecilia to coax him out of that flea-ridden old horse blanket he’d been wearing the night before.

  “I missed you,” Tommaso said, his voice taut as he struggled not to cry anymore.

  “I came as soon as I could,” I said. “The old man in front of the Buco caught me, and there was a cop, too, and they kept me. I couldn’t get away until this very minute.”

  “Did they hurt you?” he asked, his huge pale eyes brimming. I turned my face toward Cecilia, to prove to him that his tears would have no effect on me.

  “They didn’t put you in jail, did they?” Cecilia asked.

  I gave a nonchalant shrug. “No, they didn’t throw me in jail. I just sat in an office and they asked me a lot of questions. It was boring, actually.”

  “He was crying so hard last night,” Cecilia said softly, “and this morning, too.” I looked up at her to share the knowing gaze that grown-ups give each other when talking about their children. She’d picked up her baby, Ginevra, who wasn’t quite old enough to walk, and was jiggling her on one hip; Ginevra had hushed and stared at me solemnly with her pale eyes, her sparse golden brown hair brushed up into a single large ringlet that fell onto her forehead. Her hair was black when she was born, but it keeps getting lighter and lighter. If it keeps up, she’ll be as blond as her mother soon.

  “Hi, Ginevra,” I said softly and wiggled my fingers at her; she was still at that shy stage and hid her face in her mother’s hip. But she smiled first.

  “I told him you’d be back, but he didn’t believe me,” Cecilia went on. “I got some supper into him last night.”

  She pulled the door all the way open and I stood. “No, they didn’t hurt me,” I growled, in a pretend-bear voice. “They can’t hurt me! I’m too strong and too fast!”

  Tommaso finally grinned. He was too big for me to pick up, really, but I spun him about so that his back was pressed against my front, and I slipped my arms under his. With a bit of effort, I managed to lift his feet off the ground as we crossed the threshold; the action reminded me of my injured knee.

  Cecilia’s room was nothing to brag about, but she had a big blanket covering the straw mattress and a nice porcelain basin and pitcher I bought for her from the shop downstairs. She kept the place t
idy and there were hardly any rats at all. She had a slightly wobbly night table to set the basin on, a mirror, and two stools, which made the place seem a palace compared to the tiny hovel Tommaso and I shared. She’d used some of the money I gave her for food to buy a wooden crucifix that hung over the night table.

  Once we were inside and Cecilia shut the door, Tommaso sniffed my clothes.

  “You smell funny,” he said, his spirits lifted. “All sweet, like a whore.”

  “Tommaso!” Cecilia and I both snapped in unison, as I dropped him.

  “Don’t let me hear you use that word again,” I scolded. “It’s an ugly one, not one polite people use.” I took his shoulders so he would turn around and listen, and finally noticed that he’d lost one of his front teeth, one he’d been worrying with his tongue over the past few days. I felt an odd pang that I’d missed the event.

  “Are we polite people?” he asked innocently. “We’re thieves, after all.”

  “Well,” I said, recognizing an opening. “I’ve found an honest job. One that will make us rich, so that you and Cecilia will never have to work again. I’m going to buy us a house in a safe neighborhood, with a yard for a kitchen garden and chickens, and I’m going to get you a tutor.”

  Tommaso wrinkled his nose at the word tutor, while Cecilia clapped a hand to her mouth in astonishment.

  “Are you serious, Giuli?” she asked, drawing it away. “Where on earth would you find work that paid that well?”

  “Well…” I said, thinking fast. I wasn’t in the mood to argue, so I couldn’t tell them all the details. “The old man who caught me last night. Tommaso must have told you about him. Turns out that he’s rich as a Medici and as generous as one to the poor. He offered me a job that pays a florin a year.” I had meant to say a lot instead of florin, but I was too busy trying to concoct a suitable lie. I knew the instant I said it, it would lead to trouble.