The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  “Come on. Let’s stop prattling and go out and shop before everything closes. I’m in a hurry to celebrate my freedom with some little act of madness.”

  Lorena laughed at the sight of Cateruccia’s horrified face, but she did not allow herself to be intimidated by her complaints and warnings. She had spent far too much time cloistered in her room and an idea had been taking shape in her mind in the last few days.

  After visiting the shop they had taken refuge in during the Pazzi conspiracy and reminiscing with the apothecary about the strange goings-on of that extraordinary day, Lorena revealed the bold idea which she had been toying with in her imagination.

  “Why don’t we go into that shop across the street?” asked Lorena innocently.

  “The one belonging to Lucrecia? You can imagine what your parents think of that place.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go in. It looks so pretty from outside … ”

  “Don’t play so dumb, young lady,” scolded Cateruccia. “You know why it is not suitable for the likes of you. There is no counter separating the shopkeeper from clients. The fruit and vegetables are scattered pell-mell on the tables and over the floor. They not only sell food, but also clogs, stocking, belts … It’s all set out so that men and women can wander around touching and brushing past each other brazenly. That’s why there are always so many people there. In an establishment like this, it is easy to find a pretext to talk to complete strangers. Since being widowed, Lucrecia has lost all shame, if she ever had any.”

  Lorena knew that when Cateruccia went shopping she did not hesitate from going to these and other places that were even less recommendable. She had told her all about it on more than one occasion. Therefore, without giving her a chance to react, she crossed the street and went straight to Lucrecia’s shop. As in the very best emporiums of the city, it was located on the ground floor of a house. The storey above was also the property of Lucrecia, who had inherited the house on the death of her husband Giuseppe. The gossips claimed that she was far more cheerful now than when the well-meaning Giuseppe was still alive.

  The great wooden central door was open and the establishment was overflowing with people. Once she had crossed the threshold, Cateruccia could do little else but accompany her without protesting. Any other course of action would have provoked a major scandal.

  “If you continue acting like this I am going to refuse to come out with you, unless we are accompanied by a bodyguard,” muttered Cateruccia in a low voice.

  “I promise that after this we’ll go home without any fuss,” Lorena reassured her as she eyed up some wooden shoes hanging from a beam on the wall.

  An attractive young man appeared next to her, taking a pair of gentlemen’s shoes that were hanging from some hooks on the wood. They were green velvet trimmed with silk and silver-tipped toecaps. Lorena wondered what strange chance had brought these shoes to Lucrecia’s store, as all the rest on display seemed much plainer.

  “Try them on if you like them, love,” the shopkeeper encouraged him saucily.

  Lorena observed the man out of the corner of her eye. He was about twenty years old. His straight black hair, cut short across his brow, hung down to his shoulders. His full lips were sensual and his prominent Adam’s apple denoted masculinity. In contrast, his delicate wavy eyebrows were arched in an almost feminine way. His huge blue eyes evoked the deep blue sea. His large, well-proportioned nose seemed to create a harmonious balance between the upper and lower part of his face. His immaculately shaved chin suggested he was a well-groomed type, a frequent visitor to the barber.

  “My feet feel as if they are wearing gloves, not shoes,” exclaimed the young man after trying them on.

  That one sentence was enough for Lorena to know three things about this man: he was a foreigner, honest and unaccustomed to bargaining. His accent was not Italian, although he spoke it fluently. And the way he expressed himself showed him to be a hopeless negotiator. In a city of such fluctuating prices as Florence, there was nothing worse than taking a great interest in something you wished to buy.

  “They are exclusive,” Lucrecia announced dramatically. “You won’t find a pair like them in the whole of Florence. They are yours for two gold florins.”

  “Two florins for a pair of shoes!” exclaimed the youth in a shocked voice.

  “They are as comfortable as they are elegant and the trimmings are of the very best quality silver,” added Lucrecia, “but I have taken a liking to you and I would not want you to leave Florence with the impression that we are not hospitable. I’ll make you an unbeatable offer. One gold florin for them. I cannot go down any more, otherwise I’d be losing money.”

  The foreigner seemed convinced. Lorena decided to intervene. This was sheer robbery.

  “These shoes are indeed beautiful, but my father bought some very similar ones for less than half that price. And of course he did not pay gold florins, but silver lira, the only currency that we Florentines use when shopping.”

  “My name is Mauricio,” said the young man, “and my accent gives me away as a foreigner, though I would like to be treated as a Florentine as my intention is to live here for many years to come.”

  “Ah, but you should have said that before,” replied Lucrecia promptly. “Florentine prices for the residents of Florence. Four piccioli lira for the shoes, that’s the equivalent of half a florin,” she smiled mischievously, winking at him. “Forgive my mistake. It’s merely a question of business. Foreigners come and go. You, on the other hand, I hope to see often. Accept this as a gift to heal the misunderstanding,” she added as she offered him a couple of peaches that she took from a basket.

  “What a shameless woman,” thought Lorena. And then immediately reflected on her own behavior. Had she not broken into the conversation because the stranger radiated an unusual blend of sincerity, vitality, and physical attraction? Cateruccia’s look was unequivocally reproachful, but she would hardly say anything to Lorena’s parents. Were she to betray Lorena, she ran the risk of her forays as a companion coming to an end. The fact was that Cateruccia loved street life as much as Lorena did. Her thoughts were interrupted when young Mauricio addressed her.

  “I now see why so many artists flourish in this city. With muses like you, they can hardly plead a lack of inspiration. My most heartfelt thanks for your intervention.”

  “The pleasure was mine,” said Lorena feeling her cheeks blush. “I hope you enjoy life in our city. You must tell me how you fare should we ever meet again. Please be welcome.”

  Mauricio bowed his head courteously and Lorena turned her back on him as she walked toward the door. She had already gone too far in the first conversation and it was not suitable to continue talking to a stranger.

  Nevertheless, as she crossed the threshold of the shop, she made sure that Cateruccia was looking away toward the street before letting a perfumed, pink handkerchief drop to the ground.

  12

  As he did every night before going to bed, Mauricio prayed fervently for his father’s soul. If he was being tormented in purgatory, the prayers would bring him nearer to the gates of heaven. If he was already in paradise, he would watch over him and protect him from on high. However, his unexpected confession of having been the first family member to have betrayed the Jewish faith filled Mauricio with bitterness.

  Much to his sorrow, he had to admit he had been living a lie ever since the very beginning of his childhood. How was it possible to be unaware of the real feelings of one’s loved ones, the people one had grown up with sharing joys, sorrows, and misfortune? Was love perhaps so dazzling that it blinded with its intensity? Perhaps the answer lay there. His family had deceived him, yes, but not without certain consent on his part. His father had been right when he warned him from the prison that his passion for books also constituted a refuge, a way of escaping from a reality that did not measure up to his desires. The time for dreaming was over.

  Just as certain laws exist that are difficult to fulfill, there are un
spoken rules of conduct no one discusses or even questions. The former are imposed by the power of authority, while the latter are obeyed unbeknown. This is what had happened in his home, where silences acted like invisible walls. Mauricio had to admit that he had never even attempted to penetrate these thick walls of emptiness, nor ever try to understand certain attitudes instead of just listening to what was being said.

  Had he only dared break the rules he had imposed in his own mind, it would not have been difficult for him to guess the truth.

  His uncles on his father’s side attended mass nearly every day, but their grim expressions showed more respect than passion, more attention than devotion. It also suddenly came to him that he had rarely seen them do anything whatsoever on a Saturday unless it was absolutely necessary. How had he not been aware of the fact that there were false converts in his very own family?

  His paternal grandparents, who had died prematurely, must have also been secretly practicing Jews, even though they had been given a Christian burial. How could he assimilate the fact that he stemmed from people who had lived a life of deceit and which had culminated in the profanation of being buried in consecrated ground? He now saw the relationship with his uncles in a new light. Although his father usually talked affectionately about his siblings, the truth is there was always a certain atmosphere of polite coolness between them whenever they were together. Mauricio had attributed this reserve to the unequal distribution of the inheritance in which his father, being first-born, had received the greater part. Nevertheless, there were quite obviously other motives …

  Falsehood resided in the very roots of the tree from which he had stemmed. This knowledge produced in him the sensation of walking on a thick bed of dead leaves under which lay putrefying larvae. A dark, gaping abyss seemed to be opening below his feet, but what most filled him with anguish was his father’s affirmation that his painful end could have been the consequence of the revengeful punishment decreed by a distant rabbi dead many centuries before. Mauricio prayed that such a statement only reflected a brief moment of desperation, however much his father’s luminous features now appeared to him marked by dark shadows. He had always been convinced that his father had never remarried because of the love he professed toward his wife, who had died giving birth to Mauricio. He now wondered if there were possibly other motives, such as the fear of being discovered practicing Jewish rights in secret by his new consort.

  Mauricio discarded such thoughts. His father worked on Saturdays, ate pork, went daily to mass, and prayed fervently, probably, he thought, with the vehemence of new converts hiding an intimate fear of doubting their new faith.

  When he finally managed to get to sleep he dreamed of a sky filled with enormous rocks instead of stars. The rocks multiplied until they formed an impenetrable layer that slowly descended upon him, crushing him under its weight. As he felt the slow asphyxiation of death, a glowing shaft of light exploded in his head. The threatening rocks disappeared and a loving golden light enveloped him, filling him with a peace he had never felt before. Lorena’s green eyes looked down upon him from the firmament with a love that transcended time. Mauricio awoke, rose as if in a trance, and walked toward the desk. Reaching for his quill, he dipped it in ink and wrote his most beautiful sonnet like a man riding the crest of a wave.

  13

  Luca Albizzi received the two gentlemen who had requested to see him at his villa in Pian di Mugnone on the outskirts of Florence. He invited them to partake in an excellent Chianti from his own vineyards, together with some sweetmeats, and asked them the motive of their visit.

  As he listened to them, he felt a chill penetrating his soul. In short, they were offering money and other favors in exchange for him keeping them informed of Lorenzo’s movements. What most interested them, as far as he could deduce, was the magnificent jewel set in the ring that Lorenzo was wearing the day that the Pazzi had tried to assassinate him.

  Luca observed them closely. The taller of the two, by the way he spoke, was undoubtedly Roman. The other was almost certainly from the Low Countries. Throughout his life, Luca had dealt with all manner of merchants and he prided himself on distinguishing their accents. Their clothes of silk and velvet, their belts with bronze buckles encrusted with pearls and amethysts, their way of speaking and innate self-confidence in their bearing, all indicated that these were men of importance. Nonetheless, they could also be paid spies, charlatans with the sole intention of unmasking Il Magnifico’s hidden enemies so as to deliver them to the hangman.

  “Forgive me, but I am not interested in that sort of business,” said Luca, rising to indicate the meeting had concluded.

  “Pray, wait a moment,” insisted Domenico Leoni, the Roman. “The Albizzi were powerful in Florence until Cosimo, Lorenzo’s grandfather, expelled them. If the Medici allow you to live in Florence today it is only as a token of their magnanimity, rewarding your homage to them. Fundamentally, you are a public reminder that all those who submit to the power of the Medici can enjoy a quiet life, while those who dare oppose them are treated with an iron fist. In other words, you are being used merely as an element of propaganda. Does not the whole city know that the descendants of Rinaldo Albizzi cannot even set foot in Florence? You have been granted a special dispensation by not being a direct descendant from any of them and for publicly acknowledging Lorenzo’s preeminence. In exchange, you enjoy the beauty of the city and can weave a network of contacts that you hope will one day enable you to elevate the Albizzi name once again. We could help you achieve such a noble end.”

  Luca pondered upon Leoni’s words. Indeed, his father had been the son of one of Rinaldo Albizzi’s cousins. Lorenzo had considered there to be sufficient distance to warrant a gesture of goodwill and to permit Luca to establish himself in Florence. Even so, how he would love to be the stiletto blade that would avenge the family honor! How many times had he dreamed of regaining the prestige that his family name had possessed in Florence many years ago!

  To put an end to the Medici … This was not entirely a personal issue but a moral one, for he was convinced that they had sold their soul to Satan. How else, if not through a pact with the devil, could there be an explanation for how the Medici had progressed from being small moneylenders to becoming respected and influential bankers and virtual masters of the city? Why, if not, would they have sent messengers around the world to find the lost books of Hermes Trismegistus, Plato, and other idolaters from antiquity, and have them translated from the Greek, that ancient language sunken into oblivion? If they encouraged and protected so many artists and men of letters it was for some ignominious reason: to promote revolutionary, pagan ideas contrary to the true faith. They also tolerated homosexuality and even the assassins of Christ! Lorenzo himself had protected young Leonardo da Vinci from accusations of sodomy and had encouraged Jews to settle in Florence by offering them his protection.

  “There is no love lost between you two,” Leoni continued, “merely the good manners that hypocritically conceal the common interests that link you. Lorenzo has not sent us to draw you into a trap. Had he wanted to arrest you, he would have already done so with a false accusation. In spite of this, we do understand your refusal to collaborate with us. Perhaps time might make you change your opinion. In that case, do not hesitate to come and visit us.”

  Luca examined the document Domenico Leoni had handed him. The goblet of red wine that he drank afterward did nothing to warm the cold that froze his very soul.

  14

  Mauricio could hear, as if from afar, the nearby voice of the barber telling him the latest gossip from the city. Since he had been lodging in the Medici Palace, he had acquired the custom of shaving twice a week, following the example of the rest of the Florentine notables. As he watched the sharp razor close to his face in the mirror, he reflected once more on the thin line between the magnificence of life and sudden death. One brusque movement from the barber could slash his throat instead of leaving his face as smooth as a young boy’s. By t
he same token, any day could dawn and herald the news of his downfall.

  If Lorenzo de Medici were to fall it would precipitate his own ruin. Reports were not exactly encouraging. Lorenzo and the whole government had been excommunicated by Pope Sixtus. Accused of being “sons of iniquity,” they were denied access to the sacraments of the church and Christians were ordered not to have any social dealings with them. In Rome, Florentine merchants had been briefly jailed and, although subsequently freed, were forbidden to leave the city or send their produce and money deposited there anywhere else. The pope played his trump card by offering full remission of sins to anyone taking up arms against Florence. In a diplomatic move in conjunction with King Ferrante of Naples, Florence was threatened with total annihilation if its citizens did not expel Lorenzo from its midst. The message was clear: the war was against Lorenzo, not against Florence. “Keep him in power if you want to shed tears. Depose him and your problems will come to an end” was the message sent to the Florentines. What would be the outcome? The pontifical and Neapolitan troops were determined to resort to the sword if words were not enough.

  When Paolo, the barber, enthusiastically recommended the services of a harlot working in a nearby brothel, Mauricio did not even pay attention to him. He was sufficiently worried about the salvation of his soul without committing such a flagrant sin. And suppose the prohibition of giving the sacraments extended to Lorenzo’s collaborators? If this were the case, and he were to sin, there would be no pardon through confession. And if he died, he would burn in hell for the rest of eternity. He was already running enough of a risk by disobeying the pope and maintaining cordial relations with Lorenzo. He had never used the services of a woman of easy virtue and by no means was he disposed to start doing so now.