“It stinks, right?” said Fillipio.
“Yes! No one ever talks about it so I just assumed I’d get used to it … eventually.”
“I am new here as well.” He had lovely tear shaped eyes that drooped a little at the corners of his face.
“Sorry to hear about your father,” I said.
“Oh … thanks,” he said, scratching at the cleft in his chin.
“Are you training to be an artist as well?”
“Yeah, I was training to be one under my father but he died, so my mother asked Botticelli if I could continue my apprenticeship with him,” he explained with a slight lisp.
“Did you move here?”
“Yes, about a week ago, but so far I don’t like the city very much.”
“Why?”
“It’s small.”
“Allora?”
“I was living in Spoleto, so I am used to lots of green and wide open fields. Here you are constantly surrounded, and like I said, the smell is awful,” he added.
“Viola, this is a cursed and unlucky ditch,” called Leonardo.
“What is?”
“The Arno,” he answered, slowing down his pace to walk beside me. “A year after I arrived in Florence, the river flooded the lower parts of the city. It got so bad that benches from Santa Croce floated around here. When the flood subsided it left a sewer of waste behind.”
“How lovely,” I said, looking at the river.
“Maybe you will have the same luck,” teased Sandro.
As we teetered a little closer to the bank of the river, I looked down to see makeshift piers made of tattered wood scraps. Women and men were pouring buckets of dyes and obscure compounds into the river. Garbage littered the surface and moved with the current of the river. Florence’s garbage lapped against the sides of the banks.
“That is so sad,” I said.
“Look at that, a much more pleasant sight for the eyes to rest upon,” proclaimed Sandro.
He was pointing to a stone bridge. The bridge’s elegant arch connected both sides of the riverbank. Its long passageway was lined with shops. They looked to be designed for more defensive purposes with their thick walls and tiny windows. As the sky darkened, lamps flickered across the skyline. We hurried across the bridge. The walls that surrounded the bridge provided shelter from the rain but little else.
Every shop owner had a sturdy wooden table upon which he displayed his goods. It was clear we were late by the sloppy second pickings left over. Several men haggled high prices for mediocre or poor meat. The bridge’s shops mostly sold meat except for the occasional secondhand clothes dealer. Leonardo found the vendor he was looking for.
While he browsed and negotiated prices with the vendor, a scarecrow of a man with a huge nose, the street began to quiet. Four men clothed in chest armor and stripes of blue and red marched across the bridge. As they approached voices hushed and breaths were held. The helmets that shielded their heads shone silver and plumage exploded from their tops. All four approached an elderly man’s stand on the opposite side of the bridge. When Leonardo realized something was happening, he beckoned me to get underneath the shelter. Sandro took Leonardo’s cue and used his body to block me from view.
“But I want to see what’s going on!” I protested.
“Hush!” said Leonardo.
“You are being—”
“Bossy, I know … now get down and tighten the shawl over your head.”
Bending down, I looked through the gaps their legs allotted. The shop owner was a kind looking man who had an uncanny resemblance to my only grandpa. His white mustache matched the finely cut hair that circled his bald spot. He had a face both round and sweet. His bottom lip was trembling with his hands clasped together. Cries of help followed as the guards unsheathed their long swords. The old man’s eyes widened as he grabbed for the few baskets of fish he had left on the table. The men began to mercilessly pound on the table. The shop owner fell back and the fish in his baskets flew in every direction.
My heart flooded with pity. Looking around at the merchants and market stragglers, I was shocked to see their hollow expressions—the same apathy I had seen the day of the execution. In an attempt to stop the flow of tears, I shut my eyes tight and covered my ears. The thrashing stopped.
When I stood up the guards were walking back in the direction they came from and the older man remained where he had fallen. His hands supported the weight of his head. He looked so alone. No one had to tell me this would not be fixed by buying a new table. Something serious had happened. The guards had broken more than his table.
“Viola! Don’t!” urged Leonardo as I rushed past him and over to the weeping man. The baskets of fish he had tried to save were overturned. Kneeling down next to him, I could feel his helplessness.
“Signore …”
“Leave me,” he gasped. It would have been impossible for me to leave him. Instead, I gently touched his shoulder.
He looked up at me, both surprised and distraught. Anger crossed his face briefly but shame followed.
“You have a face of an angel,” he whimpered.
“I can tell you have the soul of one,” I said. He tenderly grabbed the hands I offered him. His eyes were sapphires. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I am afraid not,” he said picking up a shard of the broken table. “I’m so ashamed I don’t think I can even stand up.”
Years of toiling under the Tuscan sun had darkened and thickened the flesh of his hands and face. He had the look of a man who had lost too much weight in too little time. As I held his hands, I could hear him quietly recounting his troubles to himself.
“How will I pay back the loan if I cannot sell my goods? What if I go to jail? Who will take care of my grandsons?” I tried hard to keep it together but with each plea my heart gave way to a new wave of sympathy. Leonardo, Sandro, and Fillipio had walked over and begun replacing the fish in the reed baskets.
“How much for the fish, sir?” asked Sandro. The man looked at Sandro as if he had just said a bad joke. “I mean it in earnest.”
“They are ruined.”
“Hardly … a bit of hot water will set them right.” Sandro left a chunk of coins beside the man. “There is extra there for the basket,” he said, picking up the basket.
“Sir, you have given me too much!” protested the old man.
“Nonsense, this is an excellent basket!”
“Sir, I would like to buy the other basket.” I insisted.
From my satchel, I grabbed the money Verrocchio had given me for the clothes. Leonardo bent beside me and handed me a few coins of his own. I took the old man’s hand and placed the coins in his palm. Sandro and Leonardo helped the elderly man to his feet.
“What is your name, dear child?”
“Viola.”
“You are a gift,” he said, kissing my hand. “My name is Alfredo Moroni. For the few years left in me, I am at your service.” I shook my head at this gratitude and bid him farewell.
We left the Ponte Vecchio with all of Signore Moroni’s fish in our arms. We parted ways with Sandro and Fillipio at the end of the bridge. Leonardo and I continued on to Zia’s house. The streets were slippery and I had to hold on tight to Leonardo’s arm. So many questions were buzzing around my head. I didn’t even know where to begin.
“Why did those armed men break Signore Moroni’s table?”
“He is bankrupt and has debt that is overdue … It’s a common practice,” he admitted as we turned left onto Via dei Benci.
“A debt with who? Who would do such a thing? It’s like Moroni said. How will he pay the debt if both his table and his pride are broken?” I raged.
“No need to tell me. You’re better off talking to your admirer about that.”
“What admirer?”
“Giuliano.”
“Why?”
“Well, I would bet money that our new friend’s debt is with the Medici bank. Has Zia not told you that they are the major bank of the city? You might even say the world. Even the Pope goes to the Medici for money.”
The dozens of burning wicks shining from Signora Rossi’s house illuminated the wedding wreath’s pastel blossoms. A duet of strings and whistles escaped from the cracks of the jubilant household.
“Will you be early again tomorrow?”
“Even earlier, so make sure to prepare extra breakfast,” he said, disappearing into the shadows.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marriage
A fire flickered beneath the stove top. A few tallow candles burned low. In an attempt to mask their beefy odor, Zia boiled cinnamon sticks in one of the pots that steamed above the flames. She came out of the pantry carrying mushrooms and flour. After placing the basket of fish on the top of the table, I removed the shawl from my head, and moved closer to the fire. The corners of my mouth burned from the cold, but it felt good to let the warm air wash over me.
“Dear child!” lamented Zia. “You get home later and later each day. I am going to have a talk with Leonardo … Look at the state you are in!” Once she had safely placed the ingredients on the counter, she felt my forehead. The back of her hand felt hot against my skin. “Your hair is damp … a sure sign you will catch a cold.” Zia began to search through the brass canisters that lined the shelves surrounding the oven. “Tonight, before the fire goes out, you will slip these stones into the fire. When they are nice and hot, carefully put them under your sheets,” she instructed. “Go put on that warm green thing you have.”
My feet felt heavy as I scaled the steps. Once I removed the first two layers of clothing, I slipped on my warm wool sweater. When I squeezed my braid, I could feel the dampness hiding within. Unweaving the braid, I let my hair frizz around my shoulders.
“What in Mary’s name are all these triglie doing here?” Zia cried from the kitchen.
“Sorry?” I called, descending the stairs.
“Fish!”
“Oh yeah! I was so tired that I forgot to tell you,” I admitted. After sitting down, I told her what had happened at the market except for the bit about why we were there in the first place. I explained how between the four of us we bought all of Signore Maroni’s fish. “Since Leonardo is a vegetarian, that means more fish for us.” I smiled. While I was telling her the story, she seemed upset, but by the time I got to the end her expression had softened.
Without saying a word she picked out four of the triglie she liked best and placed them on a nearby plate. Then she unlocked the door, took up the basket, and left. From the open door, I could see her waiting on the footsteps of the Signora Rossi’s house. When the door opened, music burst onto the street. The master of the house, a squat, chubby man, was all smiles at seeing Zia and her offering.
It was not until she was mixing the flour and eggs that she said, “Well, now there is no need to get them a wedding present.” For a brief moment, I thought I was safe from being lectured. “You’re a sweet soul, Viola, and I am happy that you were able to help someone else, but you worked hard for that money, and make no mistake we could put that money to good use,” she said kneading the dough.
I was annoyed. Although I saw sense in her words, I hated that I was being chastised for doing something kind. She had not been there to see his despair. While I recounted the long list of reasons to hold my tongue, I took a step back and realized that the person I was really mad at was Giuliano.
It was impossible to think of anything else. Olive oil and mushrooms sizzled and their savory scent drifted through the kitchen. Zia rolled out the dough to push out the air until it was paper-thin. Next, she cut long but wide vertical rectangles and slid the fresh paste into the boiling cinnamon pot. Soon after, we sat down to eat our supper of pappardelle, mushrooms, and fish. Zia held my hand and said a long prayer. Only after taking a generous bite of the pasta did I break the peace.
“Leonardo thinks that it was the Medici who broke Signore Maroni’s table,” I blurted.
She raised her eyebrows at the mention of the Medici. Every part of me wanted the slander to be contradicted and Giuliano’s guilt to magically disappear.
“Young Leonardo is most probably right,” she said, slurping on the fish head. “He is most probably indebted to the Medici.”
How could I allow myself to like someone who would do such a thing? Then again, it was really his family that was responsible. It would not be right to hold that against him. That would be like Juliet hating Romeo because he was a Montague. His family’s deeds were not necessarily his fault, right?
“The fault lies with Signore Maroni,” she added. “He bit off more than he could chew. That said, what that poor man has suffered is cruel and humiliating.” She looked at me with sympathy. “I wasn’t going to say anything unless the subject was brought up. Mostly because I, better than anyone, know the disaster that can come of meddling with the affection two people have for each other. I was hoping it would cool but that is obviously not the case.” She finished the few bites left on her plate before adding, “I say this because Verrocchio came by the house today.” Resolved not to fall for the silent trap again, I stuffed another mouthful of the wide noodles into my mouth. “He told me you had a visitor at the workshop today.”
Crossing my arms, I bit hard on my oily lips. “He came to pick up something he had ordered from the workshop,” I justified. The white scar on her cheek disappeared in the folds of her grimace.
“Surely, you saw the garland down the street?”
“Si.”
“Well that is a tradition in Florence. The day of the wedding the groom hangs a garland of flowers across the street of his bride,” she explained. “Although that is a lovely custom, here the tradition of marriage is far from the rosebuds that hang on its ribbon.” She stood up to grab a knife and two overripe apples. “We do it to bear children and to fulfill the holy sacrament. But it is also a contract,” she said, peeling the fruit’s wrinkly skin. “As you know, my late husband was a tailor. We lived well in that we never lacked for anything. Coming from humble origins, neither of us had valuable connections. Fortunately, we were able to start a dowry fund for our two girls.”
She poured herself a shallow glass of white wine. “One night, the Devil came and stole my oldest, Giovanna, while she was in my arms. Ginerva, only five years old at the time, accumulated a generous dowry upon her sister’s death … You see, she was our only child who made it past her ninth birthday. It was most important for us that she be well taken care of and above all secure.” She took a sip of wine and waited for the wave of emotion to pass.
“The boy’s name was Antonio. He and his family moved from Pisa to a house at the corner of the river. What a fair boy he was,” she added as the wrinkles on her forehead searched for ways to describe him. “He was more handsome than our young Giuliano and with a heart that was … true. I cannot remember where I last put my smelling salts but I remember the day Ginerva and Antonio first met. She was thirteen years old and he only three years her senior. We were walking to mass at Santa Croce when we ran into our new neighbors. I felt the electricity that closed the space between the two young hearts. Antonio saw Ginerva through the starry eyes that the young Medici looks through when he sees you.”
She took another sip of wine before scraping all the fish bones onto one plate. I held my breath fearing how the story would end. “Two years passed. They exchanged notes that spoke of love and dreams of a country life. I turned a blind eye to this because I couldn’t take away her happiness,” Zia reflected sadly. “That is how I like to remember her now, every day … It was not much longer before her father noticed. My husband liked and felt for Antonio, but that did not curb his
ambition. He was a good man but stubborn and determined that Ginerva would marry a young man from a wealthy Florentine family.” She took off the embroidered handkerchief that covered her grey hair, the strands wispy and fragile. “My husband revealed to Antonio his plan for Ginerva’s marriage to the Agolanti family.”
“Did Ginerva know?” I asked, hanging on Zia’s every syllable.
“No, Antonio told her.”
“What did she do?”
“Nothing.” Zia sighed, passing her fingers over the embroidery of her handkerchief.
“Nothing?”
“Needless to say I was very conflicted about my husband’s decision, so I delivered the notes that Antonio would slip into my basket before he headed to his wood shop. I watched her read the letter from Antonio about her father’s intentions. As she read, his words stole all the joy and zeal that once radiated from her. It was terrible to watch her disintegrate in front of me.” Zia’s chin shook. I wanted to tell her that she did not need to finish the story, but my anticipation would not let me.
“On the day we walked under her garland and up to the ceremony at San Giovanni, she looked like one of my nephew’s beautiful statues. Lovely to behold but cold as marble. It tore me apart. I pleaded with my husband, but he would not go back on his decision. Poor Antonio insisted on walking the whole procession despite my entreaties to go home and save himself the pain. I will never forget what he said to me that day. “The only soul I am meant to walk this life with is my fair Ginerva. But if it is not God’s will, it is my will to walk alone.”
Her chest heaved. “His words pierced straight through my flesh, bone, and heart. The marriage did not end well. It was an act of God.” It was when I got up to get her a glass of water that I realized the low light of the candles had hidden her tears. She took a long drink of water. “My dear, I don’t think I can finish telling you this story … at least not today,” she apologized. My curiosity would have to rely on imagination to piece the rest of the tale together. “Why was I telling you about Ginerva and Antonio?” she asked.
Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) Page 14