The result was gratifying. I cupped my hand over my mouth and dashed from the table; I didn’t make it out of the room in time. There, before my father and Francesco, I leaned against the wall and retched violently.
Even in my desperate state, I could hear the screech of a chair being pushed back quickly from the table. When, gasping, I was finally able to turn my swimming head to look, I saw my father standing, fists clenched, staring across the table at my future husband. This time, he did not try to hide his fury or his hate.
A servant came to clean the mess and wash my face; my father ordered the plates removed and the chamber aired. Once we were all reseated and I felt well enough, I said, “I don’t want to be married in June. I would prefer March.”
My father’s eyes darted up and to the side; he was calculating. And then his gaze lit upon Francesco and bored through to the man’s very soul. I fancied Francesco shuddered ever so slightly.
“The fifth of March,” my father said, his tone so ominous and unyielding that neither my betrothed nor I had anything further to say about it.
For a week, my father refused to leave us alone after supper—but soon after, he apparently reached an agreement with Francesco, for I was once again at the mercy of my intended.
Now that Francesco knew I was pregnant, the gifts stopped. Now he demanded I beg for the sexual act itself, since my condition was clearly the result of my wanton craving. I called myself terrible names: whore, harlot, slut.
I feared being broken. I looked on the fifth of March with dread.
It came all too soon, on a day that was damp and cool and uncommonly warmer than the rest of that bitter winter; fat clouds floated in a gray-blue sky. I could easily have ridden a white horse over the bridge to Francesco’s palazzo, but we had anticipated a cold day and so I, my father, and Zalumma rode in a carriage, with Uncle Lauro, his wife and children all riding in a wagon behind us.
My gown was of vivid bright blue velvet, with a broad belt of the same color brocade; because of my thickening waistline, I wore the belt just below my breasts. Zalumma insisted it looked as though it were meant to be worn that way. Francesco had given me a necklace of gold and sapphire, and a headdress so expensive, its presence made me nervous; it was a net of small diamonds woven into the finest gold thread. Every time I turned my head, the sun caught the diamonds, and in the corner of my eye I saw flashes of rainbow light. It was mid-morning. I was queasy and leaned out of the window to breathe in the chill air.
We left the Via Maggio and headed east on the Borgo Sant’Iacopo, leaving behind my neighborhood of Santo Spirito. From there, we rolled over the bustling Ponte Vecchio. Men and boys saw our carriage, draped in white satin, and called out, some jesting, some congratulatory, some lewd.
I had chosen the route. It would have been more convenient for the driver to cross the Ponte Santa Trinità, but it was hard enough for me to turn my face in its direction and gaze at the waters of the Arno, and think of how Giuliano had died.
We made our way into the city quarter of Santa Maria Novella, onto the Via Por Santa Maria, then east onto the Via Vacchereccia, home to the silk botteghe, including Francesco’s. The stalls stood in the shadow of the Arte della Seta’s, the Silk Guild’s, tower.
My husband’s palazzo lay on a side street behind black iron gates; it had been built expressly for him and his first bride. It was classically Roman, hewn from gray stone so pale it shone white in bright sun. Rectangular, strong, and starkly elegant, it rose four stories into the air, its face turned north, its back to my family home. This was the first time I had set eyes upon it.
As we approached the gates, I heard a shout. Francesco stood out in front, his palm thrust forward, fingers spread out, indicating that we should stop. Beside him, draped in dark mantelli, stood his stooped father and three middle-aged dark-haired men: his brothers.
I peered out the window at the road. A braided garland of satin ribbons, gleaming white and dark blue, lay upon the flagstones, stretching all the way from one edge of the street to the other.
There were no flowers to be had in March.
As his brothers cheered and catcalled, Francesco—smiling abashedly—went out and pulled a single strand. The garland was suddenly undone in the center, and as the men clapped, he hurried to pull the two halves far enough on either side to permit our carriage to pass through.
He was quite talented at it; after all, he had practiced it enough. I was his third spouse. The first had died in childbirth, the second of fever. I could certainly understand their eagerness to quit life.
The iron gate swung open. Francesco and his brothers emerged on horseback, followed by two wagons holding his family. Like those of my two predecessors, my nuptial carriage headed east, toward the looming vast brick-orange cupola of Santa Maria del Fiore. Once again, I leaned out the open window, grateful for the air, which had steadily cooled as the minutes passed. The sky was filling with heavy damp clouds.
My father repeated the old saying, “A wet bride is a happy bride.” A rainy wedding day supposedly brought luck.
At last we rolled into the great Piazza del Duomo and stopped. We waited a time while Francesco and his family preceded us into the Baptistery of San Giovanni, built upon an ancient temple dedicated to Mars. Here, all good Florentines were baptized as infants, wed as adults.
As my intended and the guests took their places inside, I waited an interminable time, fighting nerves and nausea; just when I was certain I would be ill, the signal was given, and I was forced to compose myself. Zalumma held my train as I stepped out. My father, haunted and loving, took my arm.
I walked with him past Ghiberti’s amazing doors. I had lived all my life in the city, yet had only once set foot inside that octagon of stone. I walked across marble floors adorned with images of gryphons and spirals, beheld golden walls, and stared up at the gilded cupola, the blazing candelabra.
The priest and Francesco—dignified, reverent, tender—stood waiting in front of the white marble altar.
The walk was a blur of sensations: the pull of the long velvet train behind me, the sparkle and flash of diamonds, the intense blue of my sleeve, the shimmering white of puffed gossamer silk. The glittering mosaics of Christ in blues and reds and brilliant saffron at the Last Judgment, of sinners cringing in Hell, tormented by devils.
My father held on to me tightly—so tightly—until the time came for him to give me away. As he handed me to Francesco, then stepped back, he wept.
An interminable Mass followed. I fumbled over prayers I had known since childhood, listened to the priest’s sermon without comprehending a word. The longer I stood, the more I feared I would faint; each time I knelt, I felt certain I would never again be able to stand.
“Will you?” the priest asked at last.
Francesco smelled of rosemary. I looked at him, at his deceptively gentle expression, and saw my bleak unhappy future. I saw my child being born, my father growing old. I saw Giuliano’s memory paling to a whisper.
“I will,” I said. My voice surprised me with its strength, its steadiness. I will, until my father dies. Until my father dies, and my child and I can escape.
A ring appeared—another plain and slender ring of gold—and caught the candles’ glow. This one was too tight, but Francesco used force to make it fit. I did not allow myself to flinch.
Francesco’s kiss was reserved, timid. There were other kisses, then, many kisses from many faces and many murmured words.
With my husband beside me, I stepped outside into the great piazza and drew in a breath. The afternoon was gray; mist hung in the air. Soft as steam rising from water, it settled on my face, but its touch was cold.
LIV
Afterward, our party returned to my new home. This time my carriage rumbled through the open black iron gates onto a circular drive of new flagstone that took us past a copse of young laurels. The entry doors, of intricately carved wood, were taller than any I had ever seen. To their east lay a large formal loggia fo
r receiving guests in better weather.
The carriage stopped, and Francesco helped me out while Zalumma worried with the great trail of fabric that followed me. Crouched upon high pedestals, a pair of majestic stone lions guarded the threshold. We walked between them and the doors opened for us as if by magic.
A servant led us to the room on our left: a vast hall, the walls pristine white, the floor gleaming pale marble with black inlay of classical design. Beyond, past an archway, was a dining chamber, the surface of its long table entirely obscured by platters heaped with food. The size of the rooms was better suited for a prince and his court than our small gathering. Indeed, the fire in the dining chamber could not quite dispel the chill. This was a cold, formal place.
My new husband was a very rich man.
I had lived my life in a house more than a century old, with an interior of bland walls and plain furniture. I was used to uneven stone floors, worn by the tread of generations, to stairs that dipped in the middle, to doors whose edges were darkened by the touch of countless hands.
This house had seen barely a decade of wear, with floors that were perfectly flat and smooth and shining, with unscarred doors that sported bolts and hinges of bright metal. I did not like it at all.
None of my father’s relatives had chosen to come from the country, but Francesco’s brothers had brought their wives and children with them. Once his family had followed us inside, along with Uncle Lauro’s brood, the building seemed less empty, though the chatter echoed off the walls. When the wine was poured, a great deal of laughter followed, some of it loud and raucous.
Custom dictated that I ride a white horse to my wedding, then return from it on foot to my father’s house, where I would spend the night, alone and chaste. The wedding was not to be consummated until the second night, following a day of feasting.
But I flouted custom for my first wedding and my second. I did not ride the white horse. Nor did I walk back to my father’s house, a decision that had been reached due to three factors: I had suffered from fever the week before and was still weak, the weather was inclement, and I was pregnant. This last was not discussed openly, but my waist had so thickened that it was obvious to most. It caused only a passing concern, for formal betrothals were considered as binding as marriage. Many a Florentine bride had to let out her wedding gown before riding to San Giovanni, and no one thought worse of her for it.
I greeted more guests, Lord Priors and Buonomini, Francesco’s peers. A wedding meal soon followed, one that Savonarola would have frowned on for its excesses: whole roast mutton, two whole roast pigs, three geese and a swan, countless pheasants, several rabbits and dozens of fish, soup and cakes and pretty candies, six different types of pasta in broth, cheeses, nuts, and dried fruits.
The smell of the food left me dangerously close to gagging. Yet I smiled until my cheeks ached. I was told a hundred times that I was the most beautiful bride ever seen in Florence. I answered mindlessly, always giving the proper, courteous reply while meaning none of it.
There were toasts, including a popular one for newlyweds, that I should become pregnant on my wedding night. I lifted my goblet to my lips but kept them pressed together; the smell of the wine so nauseated me that I held my breath.
I ate nothing but some bread and a small piece of cheese, though my plate was full. I maneuvered the food artfully so it would appear I had taken more.
After the food came dancing, with music from a quartet of players Francesco had hired. With the ritual and the meal behind me, I felt a temporary relief. I was exhausted, but I laughed and played and danced with my new nephews and nieces, and looked on them with newfound wistfulness.
I turned once to find my father watching me with the same emotion.
But when the sun began to set, the revelers left, and my father went home to his house, empty of family—even Zalumma had left him. And my bravado waned with the light.
I was numb as Francesco introduced me to some of his servants: his chambermaids, Isabella and Elena; his valet, Giorgio; the cook, Agrippina; a kitchen maid, Silvestra; and the driver, Claudio. Most of them slept across from the kitchen, on the ground floor in the southwest wing, which opened onto the back of the palazzo. I repeated the names aloud even as I knew I would not remember them long; my heart was beating too loudly for me to hear even myself clearly. There were others I did not meet—stablehands and the stablemaster, a second cook who had taken ill, an errand boy.
Elena, a sweet-faced woman with chestnut hair and the serene gaze of a Madonna, led Zalumma and me up the stairs to the third floor, past Francesco’s rooms on the second, to the vast chambers that now belonged to me. Holding a lamp aloft, she led me first to the nursery, with its forlorn cradle beneath a painting of a stiff Mary and her manlike child, and its empty nursemaid’s quarters; the room was so achingly cold I decided no fire had ever been built in its hearth.
We then toured my sitting room, which had chairs, a table bearing a lit lamp, a desk, and a shelf with books suited to a lady’s taste: love poetry, psalms in Latin, primers on classical languages, volumes of advice on how the mistress should run her household, how she should conduct herself in regard to her husband and guests, how she should treat common ailments. No fire burned here, either, but the room was warmer, given that it rested two floors above the dining room’s blazing hearth, and one floor above Francesco’s chambers.
The sitting room and nursery sat at the front of the house, with windows that faced north; Zalumma’s quarters (which she shared with Elena and Isabella) and mine sat at the back, facing south. Elena took us to the servants’ chambers and allowed me a swift, cursory glance inside; my own bedroom at home had not been as large or well appointed.
Then we crossed the corridor and Elena opened the door to the bridal chamber, my chamber.
The room was unabashedly feminine. The walls were of white, the floor of variegated cream, pink, and green marble, the mantel and hearth made from white granite that glittered in the light of a generous fire. Two delicate lady’s chairs, their padded seats covered in pale green brocade, faced the hearth; on the wall behind them was a large tapestry of a pair of women plucking oranges from a tree. The bed was covered by scattered dried rose petals and an embroidered tasseled throw of the same blue velvet as my gown. Matching curtains, trimmed with gold, hung from an ebony canopy; the inner curtains were made of armloads of sheer white chiffon, cunningly draped. French doors opened onto the south and, I assumed, a balcony.
On either side of the bed stood tables; one held a white basin, painted with flowers and filled with fragrant rosewater. Above it hung an oval mirror. The other table held a lamp, a silver plate of raisins, a flagon of wine, and a silver goblet.
The room’s appointments were so new, so clearly made expressly for me, that it was hard to believe I was not the first owner.
Elena showed me the iron chain hanging from the ceiling near the bed, which, if pulled, would sound a bell in the servants’ quarters across the hall.
“Thank you,” I said, by way of dismissing her. “I have everything I need. I will undress now.”
The small smile on her lips, which had never wavered during our tour, did not change. The lamp still in her hand, she curtsied, then left, closing the door behind her. I stood and listened to the scuffle of her slippers on the marble, to the sound of the door across the hall opening and shutting.
Zalumma unlaced my sleeves and my bodice. The cumbersome gown with its heavy train dropped to the floor and, clad only in the shimmering camicia, I stepped out of it with a low groan, exhausted.
I sat fidgeting at the foot of the bed and watched as Zalumma carefully folded the sleeves, the gown, and set them upon a shelf of the large wardrobe. She gently removed the diamond hairnet and put it in the trunk, along with my other jewelry. Then I took my place in front of the mirror and let her unloose my hair. I stared at my reflection and saw my mother, young and terrified and pregnant.
Zalumma saw her, too. She tenderly lifted th
e brush and brought it down, then smoothed the hair with her free hand. Each stroke of the brush was immediately followed by another stroke of her hand; she wanted to comfort me, and this was the only way she had.
At last, the brushing stopped. I turned to face Zalumma. Her expression now reflected my own: falsely brave, intent on cheering the other.
“If you need anything—” she began.
“I will be fine.”
“—I will be right by the door, waiting.”
“Will you come afterward?” I asked. Despite my dread, I had noticed that Francesco had ignored one of my requests: There was no cot here for Zalumma. While it was the fashion for servants to sleep apart from very wealthy masters, Zalumma had always slept on a cot near my mother’s bed, in case she suffered a fit. After my mother died, Zalumma’s presence was a comfort to me. And it would be my one comfort now, in this heartless house. “This room is too large, and this bed; I cannot bear to sleep alone.”
“I will come,” she said softly.
I nodded. “I will call for you.”
I turned away so that she could leave.
Francesco arrived a quarter of an hour later. His knock was hesitant, and when I did not come at once, he opened the door and called my name.
I was sitting on the stone hearth staring into the fire, my arm wound round my legs, my cheek resting on my bent knees, my bare feet pressed against the warm, rough granite. Had I been any closer, the heat would have burned my skin, but it could not dispel the cold that enveloped me.
I rose and walked toward him. Still dressed in his wine-colored wedding clothes, he smiled sweetly, shyly, as I stopped two arm’s lengths away. “The festivities went quite well. I think our guests were pleased, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you find your rooms satisfactory?”
I, Mona Lisa Page 32