The Smile

by Napoli, Donna Jo

Caterina puts her hand on Aunt Nanina’s forearm. “Is that wise? A noble girl in the streets right now?”

  “Wear your shift,” says Aunt Nanina. “Stay right behind Carlo, as if you were helping him. And bring that goat.”

  And so Uccio and I follow Carlo to the nearby candle maker’s. Uccio frolicks, happy to be rid of the kitchen rope. His joyous energy enters me and makes me hopeful. Giuliano will return safe and sound. He has to.

  Now we head to the cobbler’s, halfway across town. And the real purpose of my outing is realized, for the very air screams at a high pitch from every corner. People speak ill of Piero openly, not in harsh whispers like those men at the tournament on the morning of my party. They lean out windows and make proclamations to friends in the street. They don’t care who hears. They say the city is decaying under Piero’s leadership. He should be ousted. But how? He has no official post to oust him from. I think of Piero explaining to me the genius of the Medici.

  On the way home we pass a piazza where a crowd has gathered. Carlo looks at me, then stops.

  Savonarola’s diminutive figure stands on a high, makeshift pulpit and he stares down that huge, hooked nose, and shouts that he is the mouthpiece of God. His voice extends to everyone’s ears as they go about their daily tasks whether they want to hear him or not.

  He talks of the same thing I heard him talk of last Saturday with Giuliano: moral decay and the damnation of Florence. He says the French army will rape our young women, and he puts the blame on Piero. He says he has always known this—alas, if Piero had only followed the pious ways that Savonarola has followed, none of this would have come to pass. The air reeks of his self-righteousness. Giuliano smelled it from the start. I am repulsed, for I get the feeling that Savonarola is gladdened by this imbroglio with the French. Gladdened that war may come. He cares more about being proven right than about what happens to Florence.

  The crowd listens as though the monk is God’s messenger, as though the Lord on high actually wants to preserve the business affairs of Florence. They pat their money purses, and quote Savonarola. They talk of closing their daughters and wives away in convents if the French should come. The chant of the day becomes “get rid of Piero.” They seem convinced that without Piero, Florence will get around this mess between France and Naples and the world will go on beautifully and the rich can stay rich.

  “Can we go now, Carlo?” I whisper.

  We walk on. I don’t care what happens to Piero. Let him get ousted somehow. So long as there is no war. So long as Giuliano comes back to me. When we get home, Caterina and Aunt Nanina and I stand in a huddle in a corner, and I tell all I’ve heard—in whispers, though there is no one around to overhear.

  On Thursday afternoon, Uccio and I follow Carlo, who pushes a cart today. He’s getting oil for the lamps and wood for the stove.

  We pass another piazza where Savonarola stands preaching. Why, he must change piazzas every day. The whole city must be bombarded by that monk. Carlo looks at me, but I shake my head and we don’t stop. I don’t want to hear—the monk never says anything new, anyway.

  But the people hanging out of windows and shouting to friends on the street, or standing together outside shops, they say new things. Today names besides Piero’s are on people’s lips. At first I don’t know why. Then I overhear someone talk about them as Piero’s staunch supporters in the government. People say they should be kicked out of office. That should slash Piero’s influence overnight. I recognize one of the men I overhear. He’s the one I saw meet Papà on Sunday morning.

  When we get home, I go to my room and pace. Now I know why Papà won’t talk to us. It is not that foolish thing he said in front of the men that night—about how women shouldn’t know about politics. He’s silent because he cannot speak his mind in front of Aunt Nanina, for Uncle Bernardo is one of Piero’s staunchest supporters.

  I dig my fingers in my hair and grip my scalp. It’s all so absurd. How can people argue over money when war is at stake?

  The next morning the news comes early: Piero has forged a peace with the King of France, after all. But in his efforts to appease the king, he has turned over to France the fortresses of Pisa, Sarzana, Pietrasanta, and Livorno. Papà is livid with fury. He storms out of the house.

  I beg Aunt Nanina to let me accompany a servant on morning errands; I cannot bear to wait till afternoon. Caterina says she’ll play with Bartolomeo in my stead, for the boy has been staying here with us. And so Uccio and I head off behind Enrico this time. Public reaction is heard on every corner, in every piazza— immediate and fierce: Piero’s acts are madness. These four cities are the sum total of the strongholds of the Republic of Florence. Piero had no right to give them away without permission from the government. Who does he think he is, negotiating as though he’s king? Florence has no king! Florence is a republic. He needs countersignatures.

  And, on top of giving away those cities, Piero has promised the French king a vast sum of money. The merchants of Florence say they cannot possibly raise such a sum. “Get rid of Piero!” come the furious shouts.

  I listen to hear where Piero is now. But I learn nothing. Nothing that might tell me where Giuliano is.

  “Pack your bags,” says Papà that night. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

  “No!” I yelp.

  He looks at me with apologetic eyes. “Now is not the time for happy announcements.”

  I’m taken by surprise. What happy announcements? But I shake my head. “Can’t I stay with Aunt Nanina? Please, Papà.”

  “I need you at home.”

  “Silvia can do anything I can do.”

  Papà shakes his head. “Leave you in Florence alone?”

  Caterina reaches out and puts her hand over mine. “She’ll be safe here, Antonio. Please don’t force her to leave Bartolomeo.”

  “We can take the child to Villa Vignamaggio with us.”

  “I already asked Francesco,” says Caterina. “He won’t allow it. He won’t be separated from his son right now. Let Elisabetta stay, so she can pass the day with him. They’re so attached. Besides, Aunt Nanina will welcome her company.”

  Aunt Nanina has been gazing down into her soup. But now she looks up. “I need the girl.”

  “But . . .”

  “I need the girl.” Aunt Nanina is resolute.

  I don’t know what’s happening. It seems the women have formed a unit against Papà. But we haven’t planned it. It’s a tacit pact. What’s more, Caterina’s words may be entirely wrong. Staying in the home of a supporter of Piero’s—one of the grandest palaces of Florence—may lead to finding myself in the middle of more trouble. Indeed, Bartolomeo probably shouldn’t spend his days here. He’s better off at his father’s palace. Francesco is not so closely aligned with the Medici family to be in much danger. Yes, I will visit the child at his home from now on, rather than having him come here.

  I say nothing of these doubts, though. Whether I understand what Caterina and Aunt Nanina are doing or not, I’m grateful. I must be here when Giuliano returns.

  Papà hesitates, but what can a man do in the face of female unity, especially when one of those females is his young wife? I am left in this palace with Aunt Nanina, who promises she will retire with me to a convent if it becomes advisable.

  Papà and Caterina leave early in the morning on November first. It’s Saturday, only a week since my party, but so much has changed. I watch their coach disappear. Uncle Bernardo reappears moments later, as though he was waiting for Papà to leave before returning. He greets me as he rushes in. Not long after, he rushes out again.

  “Can I borrow a servant to accompany me over to Bartolomeo’s house?” I ask Aunt Nanina.

  She jerks her head at me like a startled bird. “You want to visit with him there, instead of him coming here?”

  “I think it’s better.”

  She purses her lips. “Gossip can pass so quickly.”

  “Gossip? About what?”

  “You in Francesco�
��s home. A servant isn’t a proper chaperone, you know.”

  I almost laugh. “Francesco’s bound to be out on business. Besides, I don’t think anyone cares about things like that right now.”

  “Everyone cares more now. More! Savonarola has turned neighbors into prudish spies.” Her face puckers nervously. “All right, go visit the boy, but wear your shift so you look like a servant. And come back immediately after the midday meal.”

  I spend the morning in Francesco’s palace, playing with Bartolomeo, who’s delighted by the change in routine. His only disappointment is that I didn’t bring Uccio, which I promise to do the next day.

  When I return, I go directly to Aunt Nanina to beg to be allowed to accompany a manservant on his errands. She holds up her hand in the halt signal before I can get out a word. “Take Carlo; he’s loyal and discreet. Tell him where you want to go, and he’ll find an excuse if anyone should ask. And take Uccio; he makes you appear harmless.” She grabs my wrist and squeezes hard. “Bring back news, no matter how wretched.”

  But, though I keep eyes and ears open, the outing proves fruitless. I hear only the same outrage as the day before.

  That night, Uncle Bernardo says, “Francesco found out you went to his house.”

  “Found out? You say it as though I tried to keep it secret. I merely visited my nephew.”

  “Don’t. Francesco doesn’t want you on the streets. With the present situation, women should stay inside. That’s what your father would want, too.”

  “What is the present situation?” I ask, for I want to know how he sees it.

  “Beyond your understanding. Good night, Elisabetta.”

  I lie awake thinking of Bartolomeo and Giuliano and Caterina and Papà—and, yes, yes, Silvia, too—all the people I love. When will I next see any of them?

  Sunday morning Aunt Nanina says she’s not feeling well enough to go to the Mass. She wants me to stay by her side. She doesn’t look me in the eye when she speaks. Uncle Bernardo must have forbidden even the short walk to church.

  He has friends over throughout the day, and I try to eavesdrop. But they shut the doors behind them every time.

  That night, after Aunt Nanina has gone to bed, I catch Uncle Bernardo in the library, alone at last. “Uncle, can you tell me where Giuliano is?”

  “Giuliano?” He looks at me vaguely. Then he frowns. “Which Giuliano?”

  “Giuliano de’ Medici, of course.”

  He blinks. “I wouldn’t know.” His eyes grow suspicious. “Why?”

  “He’s my friend.”

  Uncle Bernardo shakes his head and waves me away.

  My uncle doesn’t trust me. That means he fears for Giuliano’s safety. I wince.

  Monday morning, as soon as Uncle Bernardo leaves, Aunt Nanina says, “Carlo is ready. Make sure to get home before supper, before Bernardo returns.”

  Dressed in my shift, I wander with Uccio and Carlo. Through street gossip I learn that the central tribunal in the building adjacent to the Palazzo Vecchio, the seat of justice, has become a forum for public opinion. I head directly there, of course, but I’m not permitted to enter. Men go in but not women. So Carlo and I sit under an open window beside a huddle of women, all straining to hear.

  People talk in angry rants. They say Savonarola is right about moral decay, right about the future of Florence, right about everything. Piero must be stopped.

  No one sees Savonarola for the bully that he is. That’s what Giuliano called him, and I know now that it’s true.

  But at the same time, Savonarola may be right about Piero. My understanding of politics is limited. But my understanding of business is not. A person who makes decisions when he has no right to, and whose decisions are costly to everyone around him—such a person will bring a business down.

  But Piero isn’t Giuliano. No one says a word against Giuliano.

  That night I sleep restlessly.

  The next two days are repeats, the only difference being that the litany of wrongs people claim Piero has committed doubles.

  Wednesday night a bell bongs. I jump from bed. A second bong comes. This is not an ordinary church bell, tolling the hour. I go into the hall and meet Aunt Nanina rushing along. “The bell of the Signoria,” she says. “Get dressed. Hurry.”

  The government bell in Palazzo Vecchio. I’ve never heard it before, but everyone knows about it: it rings only for a crisis. A call to arms? I throw on a dress. That’s when I realize the bell is now silent. It should have kept ringing to wake the whole city.

  We meet at the main door: Aunt Nanina and her slave girl and the two men servants, Carlo and Enrico, and me. We race to the piazza, along with half the population of Florence, many carrying swords and knives, some even carrying firearms. Anxiety to hear everything hushes the crowd. But the Palazzo Vecchio is dark.

  Whoever rang that bell had something to announce. Something urgent that couldn’t wait till morning. And he was stopped after only two rings. This feels more ominous than any news could be. Aunt Nanina hooks her bird-thin arm through mine and draws me close as we rush home.

  The next morning we expect the worst. The mystery of the bell leaves us skittish, jumping at noises, glancing over shoulders. Aunt Nanina tells me to stay in today. She takes over the kitchen, saying it’s been years since she made a meal. She throws chunks of old bread and pieces of aged pecorino into chicken broth, talking the whole time in coddling tones, the way she talks to Bartolomeo. The guileless attempt to take care of me, the need to protect someone in this crazy moment, makes her seem like egg-shells—easy to break. Her eyes have sunk into her skull. When was the last time she slept?

  Finally, on Friday, the seventh of November, Uncle Bernardo tells us Piero is returning to Florence. All this time he has been with the King of France. He says nothing more—and we know not to question him further.

  If Piero returns, Giuliano must show himself, too.

  I can’t stay still; I mend a pillowcase and help knead bread and walk in circles while Aunt Nanina plays the pianoforte. That night I can’t sleep.

  On the eighth, I make Carlo accompany me to the Palazzo Vecchio. I’m sure Piero will go there first. But he doesn’t show up. No one knows where he is.

  When I return to Aunt Nanina’s, a man awaits me. It’s Alberto from Villa Vignamaggio. Papà sent him to accompany me home in the morning. When I object, Aunt Nanina says I must go, for Uncle Bernardo insists I obey Papà.

  Women’s unity has collapsed.

  I grit my teeth as I pack. Giuliano could well be preparing to enter the city just as I am preparing to leave. Another sleepless night.

  But in the morning, it turns out the gates of the city have all been closed. No one can leave. I have a reprieve. And, though it’s Sunday, ordinary church services are suspended. So I’m back in the piazza outside the Palazzo Vecchio, this time with Alberto, still dressed in my shift, but without Uccio. News comes that Piero is approaching the city gates with five hundred men on horseback.

  One of them must be Giuliano.

  But why five hundred men? The town won’t open the gates. How could he expect they would, coming with a private army? Then the government, or what there is left of it, decrees that Piero can come inside the gates only if he comes alone.

  The crowd in the piazza buzzes with energy at the news. Will Piero’s army storm the gates? There’s an edge to everyone’s words. We’re just people standing together, unarmed civilians, but I feel surrounded by swords; blood is about to flow.

  A moment later Piero appears on horseback. He smiles. I’m shocked; his face shows no effect of suffering, while the rest of us are wrecked. Is the man entirely impervious? He scans the crowd, and I duck behind Alberto.

  Piero’s not wholly alone, despite the decree—a band of foot-men precedes him and a few men on horseback flank him. I search their faces. No Giuliano. The crowds part as the procession rides up to the Palazzo Vecchio.

  Piero is refused entrance. If he wants to go into the seat of governm
ent, he must enter alone, and not through the front, but through the small side door. Such humiliation is beyond comprehension. The crowd comes alive at the realization that Piero has truly fallen from power. The unoustable has been ousted. They jeer and throw stones.

  Piero turns in a circle on his horse, looking every which way. The bravura of before is gone; his face is drawn and hard. He gallops with his men up the road in the direction of the Duomo, toward the Medici palace. Of course: he’s going home.

  We run after him. A surging mob, flowing like a torrent through the road. I’m carried along from behind. I couldn’t get out of this current if I tried. Alberto has disappeared. There is nothing to do but hold myself high and run.

  A cry rises, “Popolo e libertà—‘Long live the people. Long live liberty.’” It’s taken up by the mob. “Long live the people. Long live liberty.”

  Shopkeepers frantically run to protect their stores against an unpredictable mob. The bell of the Palazzo Vecchio rings. It’s a call to arms now if ever there was one. It rings and rings. More people rush into the street with random and antique weapons.

  By the time I get to the Medici palace, Piero has already remounted his horse and left. The mob goes wild. Some enter the palace. Some flow out over Florence, like a flood. People hurry to barricade their homes against it.

  I press my back to the wall across the road from the Medici palace. Through the rest of the day people sack the palace, the cellars, the gardens. They steal furniture, glassware, chandeliers, statues, vases, anything that can be carted away. The palace bleeds a stream of gold, silver, and bronze. A man carries away the Botticelli that so entranced Leonardo da Vinci the first time I set foot in the Medici palace. I’m grateful Leonardo is in Milan, so he cannot see the undoing in a single day of a treasury of art that took five generations to amass.

  Despite the sweat and grime, I recognize many looters, though I couldn’t say names. Some of them talked with Papà the night Giuliano disappeared. Some are friends of Uncle Bernardo, or they pretended to be. Important men—respectable men. Even elite members of the government. Looting.