The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  Almost at once I heard the jingle of keys. It was Dorotea come to open the great doors. How kind of her to arrange for my visit to the Reggio, I thought.

  Very soon, the creak of rusted hinges moaned in the damp air and slowly the old door swung open. Then a shout from the muleteer, a crack of his whip, and out we sailed, past the gate and into the Via San Simone.

  I leaned forward to try for a glimpse of something familiar — the old Baptistery or the Palace of Matilda of Toscana — but could see only ruts. Then just as I spotted the facade of San Andrea ahead, I heard a tremendous crack — a broken axle — and next thing I knew, I was tossed out of the back of the wagon with a great splatter of mud.

  There I sat in the middle of the Piazza San Andrea at nones. We were enjoying a January thaw, which turned the square into a stinking marsh. On either side of me ladies in fine attire, assisted by their maids, were carefully negotiating wide slabs of board laid across the square to protect them from the mud. Between these I sat, flat on my rear, facing the stream of worshippers emerging from the church. My chemise was wet and filthy. My bottom was one great mud cake. My face was spattered like a raisin tart. One of the worshippers, taking me for a beggar girl, flipped a coin my way. He had just attended mass. His Christian spirit was aroused.

  I sat in the mud, disdainful of his charity, and watched the coin sink slowly out of sight. With it went all my hopes for this wild adventure.

  “May I be of assistance?”

  I recognized the voice. It had a particular lilt, as if laughter was lurking around the edges of it.

  He bowed gracefully. “May I know what has brought a queen down so low?”

  As the longtime companion of a man of science and logic, I disdain magic in all its forms. But with a gambler for a father and an astrologer for a brother, I incline to a belief in spells, curses, signs, and auguries. Things do happen outside the bounds of reason. Against all reasonable expectations, my wild, imprudent adventure had landed me in the muddy center of the Piazza San Andrea looking up into the eyes of Pirro Gonzaga, my Knight of the Este Colors. It was, as the Jews say, beshert — foreordained.

  With one strong pull he had me on my feet.

  “May I conduct you to your house before you take a chill?” He offered his arm.

  “Oh no, sir, that will not do. For you see, sir, I am gone without permission and if my stepmother finds out . . .”

  “Say no more.” He nodded understandingly. “I have been in similar straits myself. Although, I must admit, such predicaments are more common to members of the male sex than —”

  “I know it is unseemly of me, sir. But I had no other way to deliver my message than to bring it to you myself.”

  “And was your message so important, then?” he asked.

  “It is about your chess set, the one you put in pawn, the one you love more than you love your own life.”

  “Ah yes, my chess set. I fear I have not yet scraped up the ducats to reclaim it.”

  “But you have no need of ducats,” I was happy to reassure him. “For I brought it with me from Bologna and the pieces reside at this very moment in a safe place unknown to anyone but myself and Fingebat . . . and now, you.”

  By then several passersby had stopped to stare and point at us. We must have made a strange pair, the young cavalier in his ermine and velvet and the shivering girl with the muddy behind.

  “I fear we are beginning to attract attention.” He held out his arm once again. “Not a wise move for either of us.”

  Whereupon he conducted me across a plank to the other side of the square and thence into a vicolo behind the shop that announced itself as the monte di pietà, the Christian loan bank.

  “What sort of jest is this, sir, to bring me here?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “No jest at all,” was his answer. “I would have taken you more readily to a Jewish loan bank, perhaps even to the dei Rossi banco. But from what you tell me, that would not be prudent. And we must find you a fresh garment, for you are shivering.”

  Then, seeing me still reluctant, he whispered into my ear most sweetly, “Surely a girl who could stand up to an elephant cannot fear to face an insignificant priest.”

  His whisper tickled my ear in a most delightful way. His grasp on my arm drew me close to him. We stepped in.

  Not surprisingly, the Christian loan bank presented almost a mirror image of our little banco in Bologna — same weighing scales, same green cloth, same cassone. One difference: in place of my cousin Asher there stood a thin young man in clerical garb. But as the bargaining began he proved even more aggressive than most Jews would have dared to be with a Christian nobleman.

  In the end I emerged in a decent plain back woolen giornea, acquired for one ducat, placed gently around my shoulders by my companion. No cloak of satin, or even miniver fur, could have seemed more luxurious.

  Unremarked now, we strolled through the Piazza delle Erbe past Virgil’s statue and thence around the back of the Reggio to a private gate where I was greeted with a perfect view of the majestic Castel San Giorgio and a heavy whiff of horse manure. Who but the Gonzagas would choose to stable their horses cheek by jowl with their residence?

  Leaving me with orders not to budge, my cavalier disappeared in the fragrant direction of the stables. He was not gone long. After a few moments, he emerged leading a handsome chestnut stallion.

  “This is Capotasso.” He patted the animal affectionately. “We have enjoyed many a campaign together. With his help, I plan to smuggle you past that stepmother of yours and safely home.”

  “Home?” The thought that we must part so soon filled me with dismay.

  “You do not wish to return?”

  “Of course I must. I know I must,” I answered, sad to say it.

  “But do I understand that there may be time for a brief detour?” His blue eyes crinkled ever so slightly.

  “A very brief detour,” I replied, hoping that my lowered gaze would hide my most unmaidenly readiness.

  In no time, we crossed the Ponte di Mulino and were in the countryside. Here frost had covered the earth with a white carpet. Looking down, I could see Capotasso’s hoofprints etched on the pale surface. But the air felt balmy against my cheek, perhaps because the sun, which almost never shines in Mantova in winter, came out for us while we rode, as if to emphasize Fortuna’s favor.

  When we came to stop at last in a forest glade, I fairly floated off Capotasso’s back into my lover’s waiting arms, as if my body had no weight at all.

  Without a word, he slipped the cloak off my shoulders and pressed my body to his. Then putting me from him a little ways, he looked deep into my eyes and very slowly began to kiss me — my forehead, my cheeks, my chin, my eyes, and finally, my mouth, which had been longing for his all through the weary months.

  Poets speak of the first kiss as sweet and dewy, dewy as a rose petal. Perhaps for some it is. For me, that first kiss was dark and moist and laced with fire. I felt myself sinking, drowning in sensation. Glorying in it.

  There was no seducer in that wintry glade and no victim caught in his wily toils; only two young bodies intoxicated with yearning. The penetration of my hymen gave me one short stab of pain, but ah, the reward. Waves of passion washing over me like a vast sea. I did not yield my body to him. I gave it over as willingly and as wantonly as he gave his to me. Touch for touch. Stroke for stroke. Bite for bite. Suck for suck.

  At length, I opened my eyes and became aware of the surroundings. We were in a large glade circled on all sides by waving aspens. Beside us there was a small stone basin — not more than eight of a man’s arms in diameter. At its center, a bubbling little spring. Somehow, I knew at once where we were. “This is the Bosco Fontana,” I cried. “The magic fountain.”

  “You have been here before?”

  “Never.”

  “Then what makes yo
u think —”

  “I do not think, sir. I know it. My heart tells me.”

  “What have we here? Another Cassandra?”

  “God forbid, sir. She is my least favorite character in all the ancient world. If there is anyone I would choose not to resemble, it is that cow.”

  “In that case, forgive the analogy. Would you like to know why I brought you here?”

  Delighted at the prospect of hearing something other than a jest or a gallantry from his lips, I cried out, “Indeed I would, sir.”

  “Very well, I shall tell you. But on one condition.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That from this moment you do not call me sir.”

  “But sir . . . what must I call you then?”

  “Anything you wish. Call me Capotasso if you like. But no more sirs.”

  “But I am a lowly Jewess and you are —”

  “Do not tell me who I am, lady. I know who I am. I am Pirro Vincenzo Gonzaga of Bozzuolo, the second son of Lord Luigi of the cadet branch of that illustrious family. And you . . .” He took my face into his gentle hands. “You are a brave, wild, beautiful young lady who has twice now risked life itself to come out with me.” Then, as if so much talk had used up his supply of words, he turned away from me to face the little spring.

  When next he spoke, the sound of his voice barely rose above the burble of the spring. “This fountain is said to be the remnant of an ancient temple dedicated to the goddess of love. They say that lovers who anoint themselves here will be under the special protection of Venus from that moment on. I brought you to this place because we are in need of all the protection we can enlist. We have entered upon a dangerous game this day, lady.”

  So saying, he dipped his hand into the icy water of the magic fountain and anointed my forehead. And I, in my turn, performed the same rite for him.

  Then he lifted me up to the saddle, hopped on in front of me, and after a shout of “Hold on!” carried me swiftly through the wood, back across the Mulino bridge, and finally through a series of tiny vicoli and garbage-strewn piazzette that brought us to the Via San Simone. There, some fifty steps from the doors of our stable yard, he put me down with the terse instruction “Stay here. When you next see me, these doors will open and I will come out, possibly followed by a stableboy or one of your relations. Then, a ruckus will ensue that will take everyone’s attention. When that happens, you must slide in unobserved and secrete yourself in one of the horse stalls. I will come to you there.”

  After he had seen me safely hidden in the shadow of the wall, he tethered his horse to one of the rings on the side of the building. Then, whistling happily as if he had no care in the world, he made for the front door of the banco.

  Faithful to my orders, I waited as I had been told to do. Some moments later the great doors did indeed swing open and he came out, followed by Sandro, the cross-eyed stableboy. Then all at once Capotasso began to rear and neigh and set up a most terrible clamor, causing much shouting and running about.

  During this diversion, faithful to my orders, I took the opportunity to slide into the yard through the open door and thence into the first horse stall. After some moments I was joined by Capotasso, meek as a lamb now. Then, following close behind the mount, his master.

  When I saw him standing there, framed by the arch in silhouette like an angel, my heart jumped with such force that I thought it would raise me from the ground. And as he approached me, his fingers to his mouth to warn me into silence, a most violent surge of heat suffused my body. Without a word, he pulled me gently to my feet and, as he slipped the cloak off my shoulders, pressed my body to his. It was dark and humid in that stall and heavy with the pungent odor of horse droppings. But I swear to you that when he pressed his lips against mine, the damp and stench fell away and I was transported to another place, warm and soft and smelling of jasmine. Truth to tell, I would happily have gone on to taste the ultimate bliss for a second time. But my gallant love showed more care for me than I did for myself.

  “You must go before you are missed,” he warned me. “Be off now, lady. We cannot have you missing your evening prayers — or being missed at them.”

  Still I tarried, reluctant to leave the warmth of his arms.

  “We must be strong, my love,” he admonished me gently, “so that we can be weak another day. How does next Wednesday suit you?”

  “I fear I cannot,” I replied sadly. “Today was a fortunate accident. Most times this place is locked and bolted like a jail.”

  “Then I must come and rescue you. I will come on Wednesday in the afternoon just after dinner,” he announced, quite matter-of-fact. “Let us meet here in this horse stall. It will be cozier than your stepmother’s sala, do you not agree?”

  I laughed. We kissed one last time. Wednesday was only a week away.

  16

  Fortune favors the bold. Although I was teased for having slid so clumsily into the mud in the yard, a much more consequential event happened the same afternoon that drew attention away from my mishap. It seems that a member of the Gonzaga clan had appeared at the banco just before evensong with a lame horse.

  “He came to me,” Asher reported, “and reminded me that we had met twice before — once at his kinsman’s wedding in Ferrara and once recently at the Reggio.”

  “You must have made a good impression, my son,” Dorotea remarked, her pigeon breast swelled with satisfaction.

  “He asked to be remembered to you as well, cousin Grazia.”

  I felt a kick under the table from Ricca’s direction. “What did the fellow want with us?” she inquired, all innocence.

  “There was some trouble with his horse, a loose shoe or some such thing,” Papa answered. “He wished to stable the animal with us until one of his grooms could be brought to tend it. Of course, we obliged. The animal is quartered in the first stall at this very moment. I myself saw to it — although I cannot for the life of me find anything wrong with his shoes,” he added with a puzzled look.

  “And what of the young prince?” Ricca asked.

  “He is no prince, daughter,” Papa corrected her. “This young fellow is merely the son of a lord . . . Luigi Gonzaga of Bozzuolo, who is uncle to our Marchese Francesco.”

  “Prince or lord, it’s all one to me.” She shrugged.

  “He’s still out there, fussing over his animal. Those Gonzagas are mad about horses, you know. We used to meet them in the old days, when we all rode in the park together. Do you remember, children?”

  It was still a fond memory to him.

  “I have been wondering if we could not take up that custom again, Papa,” I ventured.

  “Such habits are for little children and patricians with nothing but time on their hands,” Dorotea sniffed. The older Dorotea got, the more of a sniffer she became. Judah once explained to me that there is some organ behind the nose that can cause it to drip constantly, like a faulty pump. This was the malady to which he attributed Dorotea’s sniff. And he must have been right, for you could often see a small bubble of moisture forming at the tip of her nose just before she sniffed it up her nostril. Whatever the reason for it, the habit of sniffing gave her an air of perpetual disdain; and since she found much to be disdainful of, this ailing organ provided her with a gesture quite in keeping with her nature.

  While Dorotea sniffed, I pursued my cause. “Might we have our horses back, do you think, Papa?” I asked.

  “Out of the question,” Dorotea answered for him.

  “Then perhaps I could ride one of our regular horses,” I suggested. “As you point out, stepmother, I am a woman now, so I ought to be able to control the likes of Tamarindo.”

  The very mention of the name excited Asher’s concern — honest enough, however misguided. “Oh, do not ride that beast, I beg you, cousin,” he cried. “He is a terror, even to Sandro.”

  “I h
ave little doubt Grazia could handle the bay, my son,” Papa replied with, I think, a touch of pride. “The true questions are: Can Sandro be spared to care for the animal? And who is free to accompany Grazia on these daily rides?”

  “The groom has his hands full as it is,” Dorotea answered. And, as usual, Papa deferred to her judgment. But I did manage to establish my intention of getting to know Tamarindo — “as if he were a human being,” scoffed Ricca — and of taking over the task of grooming him, which she pronounced disgusting. To her, it was. But for me, that stall was redolent with memories, and Tamarindo a perfect confidant. Having no words, he mostly listened and occasionally neighed sympathetically. We had some fine conversations.

  “Did you notice the way Lord Pirro sits his mount, Tamarindo? Is he not made in the mold of Apollo?”

  A loud whinny from my horsey friend.

  “And his eyes. Are they not a blue to rival the vault of heaven?”

  Two neighs.

  “And am I not the most fortunate of girls to find such a gallant cavalier?”

  A resounding affirmative stamp of the hoof.

  Nights, I gathered up poor, patient Fingebat into my bed and pressed on him the same questions I had asked Tamarindo that day. And he, equally well suited to the role of confidant, never failed to respond with an appropriately affirmative yelp. So the week passed.

  By the following Wednesday, my daily presence in the stable was so much a part of the life of the household that I was able to make my way to the horse stalls unremarked. The cook even gave me a sweet bun on my way out “to share with Tamarindo.” Sandro the stable hand was another matter. A hulking, slow-moving brute of a fellow, he was further cursed with a defect of vision. His eyes, one blue, one brown, were completely crossed. When he “looked you in the eye,” so to speak, his left eye looked to the right, and his right eye to the left. Such people are often made sport of in the street. And indeed, they do present a comic spectacle. But they are also inscrutable, for one cannot tell whether one is being observed or not.