Primavera

by Mary Jane Beaufrand

  “Thanks,” I said mildly.

  “Come, Flora, don’t be that way,” he said, giving my arm a friendly shove. “I wasn’t insulting you, I was insulting her — my mamma. Nobody’s good enough for her. Other than Christ, that is. Mamma has bought me a bishopric. She says the family needs someone to look after both the goat and the cabbages. Meaning our fortune and our status with the Lord, I suppose. Someday she hopes I’ll be the first Medici pope.”

  “Will you be?”

  “Probably,” he said. “Pope Sixtus is heavily in debt to my family. It seems these days even the highest of holy offices can be bought.”

  I tried to act surprised.

  He looked back over the courtyard and drained his goblet.

  “Did I tell you I have a son?” he said. His tone was that of an old friend trying to catch me up on the latest news. Have I forgotten to mention what we ate last Tuesday? Have I forgotten to mention I fathered a child?

  “No.”

  “It’s true. He’s still a babe, but I think my boy the most handsome Medici ever. Nothing gives me greater joy than spending an hour with him in our garden, just watching him smile and coo and pass gas. It grieves me he will never carry my name.”

  I turned my head away. I didn’t want to hear any more revelations. I didn’t want to like him. But it was already too late.

  “Perhaps it’s for the best,” I said, not looking him in the eye.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “Maybe if he doesn’t have your name he won’t have your responsibilities. Maybe he’ll be free to make his own choices.”

  Giuliano regarded me openly. “Freedom, eh?” he said. “What a lovely thought.”

  I could only silently agree.

  Then his face clouded over and he took my hand in his. “Flora, I have enjoyed talking with you. Promise me you won’t think ill of me.”

  I thought of my family’s fortunes, which hinged on this man’s fancy. I thought of the words my mother used: Secure his alliance. Secure his regard. And I realized that of all the silly, devious things my family has plotted, trying to gain security through love was the most foolish.

  “I promise,” I said. “When are you leaving for your bishopric?”

  “I go directly after high mass tomorrow,” he said. “Why?”

  So you will be in a sanctuary when Riorio puts his plot into motion.

  “You’ll take a guard with you, naturally?” I said.

  “I usually do.”

  “I was just worried about highwaymen,” I muttered. “One of our couriers nearly got his throat cut on the road to Fiesole the other night.”

  He patted my hand congenially. “You’re a kind girl, Flora,” he said. “I know what it is to be cast in shadow by an older sibling. But I’ve also learned that just because my brother is fiendishly clever, that doesn’t mean I’m a dolt. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, but I didn’t. Not really.

  Seeing my confusion, he pressed on. “I just wanted to tell you that even though everyone thinks your sister the beautiful one, that doesn’t mean you’re ugly. There can be two beauties in your family just as there can be more than one man of business in mine.”

  He turned to go.

  “Hold fast to what you love, Flora. Don’t let anyone take it away from you. And don’t — and I mean don’t — let anyone sell you into the church.”

  He was joking. He was talking about himself. He knew nothing about my future at Our Lady of Fiesole, I was almost certain. All I could do was chuckle along with him. Then he bowed and kissed my hand with ease, a nobleman with natural grace. And I saw how manners, when properly used, didn’t need to be weapons. Sometimes they just put you at ease.

  When Giuliano opened the door to rejoin the party, my mother was standing there, staring right through me. The expression on her face was cold as marble.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Inside, the guests were already seated and munching contentedly. The plates of eels had already been cleared away and everyone was addressing their roasted pheasant with plums and goose gravy. Mamma pointed a bony finger to an open seat on the far end of the dais, away from the people who mattered. In the center, Il Magnifico was talking to Papa, covering Papa’s hand with his own.

  I found myself seated next to the head of the goldsmith’s guild, a man named Girolamo, who was apparently Signor Botticelli’s old master. Poverino. Signor Botticelli never stopped talking about how much he hated being apprenticed to the goldsmith, how he never felt he served his artistic vision in that smelly furnace. And yet this man seemed congenial. Most of him was red as though he’d been excessively scrubbed for the occasion, but his hands were black with soot. He regaled me with an appraisal of every necklace in the room, putting my own paltry countinghouse talents to shame.

  Count Riorio was seated even farther away from the center of things than I. He spoke to no one as he spooned soup to his mouth. His eyes darted around the room.

  And then the moment I dreaded arrived. A covered easel was brought in, and Signor Botticelli stood in front of us, resplendent in a velvet cloak lined with ermine. He did not smile, but his eyes twinkled with delight. This was his moment, and he was pleased.

  My father called the guests to silence and made a pretty speech. “We have had the honor of a master artist in our midst these past weeks. He has deigned to use my daughter Domenica as a model for his latest Madonna. We are humbled and pleased to present this painting to our city’s other great patron of the arts, Lucrezia de Medici.”

  Signor Botticelli stepped forward. He held himself erect, his piercing eyes meeting those of everyone seated on the dais. He also wore a smug smile, as though he were better than anyone else in the room and he knew it. He still spoke with distinction. “Signor Pazzi, Signora Pazzi,” he nodded. “I thank you for your hospitality. Your daughter is the loveliest young woman I have ever known. If I have captured only a fraction of her beauty, I will have done my work.”

  A dainty pheasant bone stuck in my throat.

  He clapped his hands twice, and the two assistants threw the cover off the easel.

  I dropped my knife and gaped openly.

  For there, for all of us to admire, was a Madonna lovelier than any painting I have ever seen. It even put Ghiberti’s gates of paradise to shame.

  There were three figures in the painting: the Madonna herself, a Christ child on her lap, and a curly-haired angel standing next to them. The virgin’s face was that of Domenica but the expression — ah! I remembered Signor Botticelli telling me that she was only beautiful when she was sad. And this was a very sad Madonna.

  Next to the Madonna, the angel offered her a plate of grapes and wheat. The same kind of grapes and wheat we used to make bread and wine. The same kind that must have been used to make Christ’s last meal.

  Surely, I thought, this has to be a symbol of the Eucharist.

  The Madonna reached out to accept the wheat. I realized: that’s what makes her so sad. She knows her child, this jolly baby on her lap, will have a last supper. She knows he’s going to die.

  I looked to Giuliano de Medici, father of a young son himself. His face registered shock, and I knew that I was right.

  Next to me, Maestro Orazio whispered. “Sandro was right to change careers. That’s as fine a painting as any I’ve ever seen. Look at the pathos.”

  Lucrezia de Medici stood up and inspected the canvas, a fake smile playing about her lips. “Signor Botticelli, you have outdone yourself. Look at the fine brushstrokes and the rich colors. Signor Pazzi, I accept your fine gift. I thank you and compliment you on your choice of artist and the beauty of your lovely daughter . . .”

  Mamma beamed. This was the moment she had been waiting for.

  “. . . who someday will make some lucky man a fine partner.”

  “Some man?” my mother said. The turn of her face was terrible. How she could scowl and still be smiling, I didn’t know.

  “Indeed,” Signora de Medici said.
“It is a pity we could not secure her for Giuliano, but my younger son has just announced his intention to go into the church. He will take high mass tomorrow in the duomo, then after that he leaves immediately for Siena. It is my fondest wish that upon his return he will be celebrating mass as well as receiving it.”

  Around us there was polite applause. Giuliano nodded in embarrassment.

  And Mamma? No amount of goat’s-milk paste could hide what she was feeling. “I see,” she said, keeping her voice steady as she stood up. “Pray excuse me. I must see to something in the kitchen.”

  With that, dinner was over. The rest of the guests stood up and pushed themselves closer to Signor Botticelli’s masterpiece.

  I was not able to see the canvas close up, and knew that when the last guest left tonight my opportunity would vanish forever. This art would not be hung in our gallery; it would not be hung in the piazza. It belonged to the Medici.

  Signor Botticelli stood apart, playing the part of successful artist. But at least some piece of him must belong to us, his comrades below stairs. It was that piece that I wanted to speak to. I pushed my way up to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” I whispered in his ear, then I ran away. I wanted him to know that at least one of us truly saw and appreciated his work.

  As I ran off, I thought I heard him call in a voice that wasn’t practiced. “Flora, wait, please . . .”

  But I had no more time to spare for him. Thanks to Signor Botticelli’s painting I knew what I had to do.

  The sad eyes of the virgin. The features were Domenica’s, but the expression was Nonna’s. At last I understood. All Nonna’s grisly warnings, the half secrets, the whacks upside the head. She behaved like a woman who knows her child is doomed. But she was not like Signor Botticelli’s Madonna, blandly accepting the grapes and the wheat. She was a fighter, that one. And she was fighting for me — for all of us.

  There was a war coming all right, but it wasn’t going to start in the Signoria. It was going to start in the kitchen. Mamma needed someone to blame for tonight’s catastrophe, and I knew exactly who it was going to be.

  I heard Mamma’s voice before I set foot over the kitchen threshold. She no longer wore good manners like delicate jewelry. She shouted and gestured, her hair loose from its plaits and her face looking like an avalanche — the white paste on her face melting off in globs.

  “I have had enough of you,” she yelled at Nonna, who sat quietly peeling an orange. “For years I’ve tolerated your presence. Changing orders. Undermining my rightful spot as mistress of this house. What did you think: that you could marry your own son?”

  Emilio stood behind Nonna like a guard.

  “From now on I give the orders,” Mamma said. “Do you understand? I plan the menus; I deal with the riffraff outside; I decide who goes where.”

  “What do you mean riffraff ?” I said. I brought myself between Mamma and Nonna.

  “Quiet, Flora,” Nonna hissed.

  “You,” Mamma said, looking right at me, her eyes narrow with hatred. And in that look I understood that I had been wrong about everything. I had been wrong to assume that if I worked hard enough she could be persuaded to love me. I had been wrong to think that, had Nonna not taken my part when I was an ugly babe, Mamma would have accepted me. Without Nonna I would have met my fate at the bottom of the Arno. Mamma would not have loved me if I looked more like Domenica; she would not have loved me if I added to the family fortune; she would not have loved me if I were a nun; she would not have loved me if I made a brilliant marriage.

  Even knowing this, all I could do was place myself between Mamma, whom I didn’t like, and Nonna, whom I loved ferociously.

  “The one night I expect you to behave and what do you do?” Mamma said. “You turn poor hapless Giuliano into a complete bumpkin. Tell me: what potion did you slip into his wine, you strega?”

  I balled my hands into fists at my sides. I looked her in the eye and didn’t blink.

  “She’s not the strega,” Emilio said, lurching forward. Nonna pushed him back.

  “So now the kitchen boy is giving orders?” Mamma said. “Don’t tell me this isn’t your fault as well, old woman. Surely you can see why I won’t allow this state of affairs to continue.”

  Then Mamma turned her attention to me. “My beloved Lorenza. Last child and comfort of my old age,” she said sarcastically. “It is clear to me I should have taken a firmer hand with you. As it stands, I see the work of the devil stamped on your flesh.”

  “That’s enough, Maddelena,” Nonna said, her voice even.

  “I don’t think you understand, old woman. You don’t get to say what’s enough around here anymore. It’s my turn. And now I’m telling you: enough. I’d kick you out if I could, but your son would never allow it.” She leaned in and stared Nonna in the face. “But you will be punished.

  “Flora,” Mamma said, without taking her eyes off Nonna. “Pack your things. Tomorrow you go straight away to Our Lady of Fiesole. I shall instruct the sisters to keep you in a dark cell and deal with you severely until the devil loosens his hold on you.”

  She smoothed her hair, and with a whisk of her skirts left our realm.

  For a moment all we could do was stare. Then Emilio broke the silence by hurling a dish at the spot where my mother just stood. It shattered to the floor.

  “Bestia,” he said.

  He sat down at the table by Nonna and buried his head in his hands.

  “Tranquillo, Emilio. She hasn’t had the last word. Nonna’s got something planned. Haven’t you, Nonna?”

  I looked at her and flicked my eyes toward her room, hoping she’d take my meaning. At that moment I could have administered poison with my own hands.

  Nonna did not seem to feel the same way. She shook her head. “No, Flora. We will not plan anything. Don’t you understand? She’s your mother. We can’t act upon her the way we act upon others.”

  “There’s got to be something,” Emilio said. “Please, Nonna. I’m not worried about you. One month with the household under that woman’s care and you’ll be back in charge. But this is the wrong thing for Flora and you know it.”

  Nonna looked up at him and shook her head. “Maddelena has made up her mind, son,” she said. “And tonight I haven’t the teeth for vengeance. You two shouldn’t, either.”

  I didn’t feel the same way. I had teeth enough for all of us. I wanted to tear into her raw flesh, carve the anger and entitlement right out of her face.

  “Allora,” Emilio said. “We have to do something.”

  “And what would you do? Would you have Flora stay here? Even if she stays it won’t be as it was before. No, Emilio. Don’t you understand? If you two do anything tonight you may win and get your way, but staying will turn Flora into one of them.”

  That shut us both up.

  “Look at her, Emilio. Look at her face. She is not the same girl she was this morning. It has already begun.”

  No, I thought. I’m not like them. I’ll never be like them. But I remembered the way I’d ordered Graziella back into the kitchen and I knew Nonna was right. It was time for me to leave. But to the convent? Was I really going to allow myself to be locked away? I didn’t see what else I could do. As Emilio said: freedom demands money. As of tonight I had none.

  “There comes a time when we all must grow up, Flora,” Nonna said. “Your time is now. We will not fight. We will pack. We will sleep. And tomorrow we will kiss each other goodbye.”

  She noticed the goblet on the table in front of her. “I think you need this more than I do. Ah, but it isn’t full enough. Let me top it off.”

  She hobbled into the pantry and emerged soon after, holding the goblet in front of her. “Drink,” she said, handing me the goblet. “It will make you feel better.”

  I didn’t want to drink it. I didn’t want to drink or eat anything. I was condemned, and I felt it keenly. I didn’t want to go to Our Lady of Fiesole. I would rather have been clapped in irons and divested o
f my nose.

  But Nonna urged the wine on me and, to oblige her, I drained the cup. All of it.

  I had never drunk this much wine so quickly before. It had the most extraordinary effect. I felt weary — so weary I could hardly keep my eyes open.

  “Tired?” Nonna said. “You’d better go upstairs.”

  I nodded and struggled to my feet. Emilio put a supportive hand on my elbow as though I were an old woman.

  “Help her up,” she said to Emilio. Then she stroked my hand and smiled a tired smile. “Rest easy, cara mia,” she said to me. “I will see you in the morning.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I was awakened by banging on the door. I looked around me. For a moment I didn’t know where I was — my sleep had been so deep I felt as though I were struggling through a fog. Gradually details registered: I was in my room; Domenica was gone; her bed had been slept in. The bells were tolling at Santa Maria del Fiore, summoning everyone to high mass. It was Easter Sunday and I had overslept.

  “Flora!” The banging continued. “Get up!”

  I opened the door and there was Emilio, his hands in fists ready to pound the door again.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  “Captain Umberto wants you,” he said. “Get dressed and come quickly. And Flora: a clean gown. We’re going to mass.”

  I had questions to ask him, but he slammed the door in my face, and all I could do was obey. I wondered what could be so urgent.

  When I was finished dressing, I followed Emilio downstairs. Captain Umberto stood in front of the palazzo surrounded by a half dozen guards. Where were the rest?

  “Grazie a Dio, there you are, Flora,” Captain Umberto said. “I have need of your services.”

  “You can have nothing for me to do. Today I have to go embroider underwear and grow old. Or had you not heard?”

  “Put that out of your mind for now. This task is of the utmost urgency.”