The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  “One month will be sufficient. Of that I am certain. Of course, should the evil spirits prove to be obdurate . . .” He paused a moment to allow the implications of this threat to sink into my mind. “But let us not dwell on failure when success is assured. I never yet have failed with an exorcism. We will begin this evening after sundown.” The tight set of his thin lips persuaded me that there was no appeal against his remedy.

  “Can I see my parents now?” I asked.

  “You will see no one save myself — and the surgeon and the apothecary — for a full revolution of the moon. For the moment, your honored parents prefer not to see you. Think of the humiliation you have caused them and of the danger into which you have led this family. Begin your penitence by putting their feelings ahead of your own. And spend every minute of this day and the days to come transforming yourself into a virtuous daughter they can be proud of.”

  Anger, which is a sin, is also an antidote to despair. The anger that rose up in me gave me the strength to resist, that and the knowledge that I had a bed waiting for me at the casa dei catecumeni and friends eager to welcome me there. To give myself reassurance, I took Madonna Isabella’s letter from its hiding place and read, “. . . wretched Lord Pirro is at risk of losing his head for love of you . . . he is falling apart like a snowflake that the sun has discovered.” And, just above, “. . . my sister, both my sisters-in-law, and myself will be mothers to you . . .”

  In those words I saw spelled out an entire new family — an adoring husband, a loving mother, loyal sisters. And, in time to come, children of my own, Gonzaga children, fair like their father and strong and fearless like him.

  That evening the rabbi came to me as he had promised and chanted his ritual prayers and offered me his purge, for which I thanked him humbly. I even sank to my knees at the bedside so that his last sight of me that night would be of a penitent girl praying to God to help her fight off her devils.

  “May the devil take you, Jehovah, you old whore,” I mumbled silently to myself, as I gazed reverently up to heaven. “May you fall into a pit with your prophets and your angels together. And may you drink piss for wine and eat cow’s dung for meat and may you choke on the shit sliding down your gullet as you descend into hell.”

  At midnight, the watchman passed beneath my window. “Ring, oh ring, the heavenly bell,” he chanted. “’Tis the sixth hour of darkness and all is well.”

  That chant was my signal. I must be packed and gone between now and the matins bell. Into my sack went Cicero’s Orations, Caesar’s Commentaries, and my “French lies.” I hesitated over my Virgil — an illuminated manuscript that I had borrowed from the warehouse — for I was determined to take nothing of value that might brand me as a thief. But in the end I threw it in the sack. I could not bear to part with it.

  I left no note. Instead I made a little pile on my pillow where it would be noticed, of my Hebrew grammar, Maimonides’ commentaries, and my velvet-bound prayer book. Then I laid upon this stack of rejections all the pieces of jewelry that Papa had given me over the years — my pearl necklace, my ruby pendant, and my little diamond ear clips.

  Down the corridor my brothers lay sleeping. Gershom’s even breathing was in no way disturbed when I touched my lips to his. But as I bent down to embrace Jehiel for the last time, his thick, sweeping lashes fluttered and his eyes slowly opened. He intuited in a glance the reason for my midnight visit.

  No cry escaped his lips. But his deep, dark eyes spoke their own language. He held out his arms, pleading to go with me. Reluctantly, I shook my head. Somehow he understood. Beckoning me back to his side, he reached up and, taking my face in his hands, drew me down to him and kissed me full on the mouth, as brothers and sisters are warned never to do. Then, he let me go.

  All that remained now was to recross the cortile, gather up Fingebat and my few possessions, and slide down to freedom. But my feet, unbidden by me, made their way to the room where Papa and Dorotea slept. I found them in each other’s arms tightly entwined, like twin snakes. That sight set my hesitant feet firmly and finally on their way.

  Releasing Fingebat from his bondage to the pillar was easy work. The heart of a champion was buried in the salt-and-pepper coat of that small fur ball. At first sight of me, he did give out with one delighted yip, but a single “Shh!” stilled his bark. Prohibited from barking, he made his pleasure known by covering my face with eager little licks as we climbed up the ladder to the loft. And he applauded my efforts to lift the trapdoor by jumping up and down in a frenzy of encouragement. The trapdoor was beyond my strength, but miraculously it slowly yielded to my muscles. One last hoist and it fell back with a clatter, revealing the vicolo below. I slung my sack over my shoulder, clasped Fingebat tight against my breast, and leapt to freedom.

  Any city assumes different guises according to the season and time of day, but none more so than Mantova. At sunup, the moisture that rises from the surrounding lakes burns off and reveals the place for what it is — a small, neat town of no particular distinction except for the Reggio (and the most distinguished thing about that collection of palaces and gardens and fortresses is the question of how so many of them can be crammed into a space not much bigger than Campo Marzio). That is Mantova by day.

  But in the hour before dawn, with only the occasional torchlight to penetrate the mist, a wavering diaphanous fog obscures the outlines of the buildings, and Mantova is a city out of one of Maestro Piero’s magic landscapes. As I walked through it, this landscape came to life before my eyes — a figure here, a rustle there, the unmistakable odor of a gutted animal wafting past my nostrils. Each of these small assaults upon my senses nudged the still life into action.

  My way to the casa dei catecumeni was strewn with memories. I passed the Via Peschiara, the fishmongers’ street, hard by the house we had lived in, in happier times. And the Street of the Jewish Goldsmiths, where I had seen the dancing bear on the day of Fra Bernardino’s sermon. And the Street of the Christian Goldsmiths, where I had seen the friar’s boys brandishing their knives. That day I had been running away from Christians. This time, I was rushing headlong into their embrace.

  The house set aside for converts was hidden away on a piazza between the Street of the Christian Goldsmiths and the Via Peschiara. It was not a formidable place, simply an ordinary two-story structure with a small cloister adjoining.

  I peered through the iron pickets of the fence. The cloister looked green and peaceful. As I watched, a cleric all in black walked round and round under the colonnade, counting his beads. His hood was up, so I could not see his face. But he certainly did not swagger like a bully or a torturer.

  I grabbed the bellpull and gave it three good tugs. The priest did not look up. But behind me, the main door opened and a voice inquired, “Can I be of service, signorina?”

  The voice was eerily familiar. I did not turn around to face its owner but waited until she should speak again.

  “Will it please you to state your business, signorina?” The words themselves fairly dripped sweetness but no amount of smearing with honey could disguise the rasping, guttural tone. I had heard that voice too often ever to forget it. “Listen to the saint,” it had droned into my ear. “Listen! Listen to the saint!” No mistake about it. That voice was the voice of our old slave Cateruccia.

  I ran from that place as if pursued by devils. Out into the piazza past the ancient Rotonda di San Lorenzo, smashing through the Piazza delle Erbe, heedless of the farmers who were just now beginning to set out their wares.

  I believe I would have continued to race all the way to the city gates had not my strength given out. As it was, I did not pause until I had covered the entire length of the Palazzo di Ragione. There, under Dante’s watchful eye, I ran out of breath in front of the old Mayor’s House.

  Once my pace slowed, so did the beating of my heart. The power of thought, which had deserted me in my panic, began to return. Cateru
ccia, the gatekeeper of my refuge! How could one explain her presence there but as a sign from God? The message was as clear as if He had come down from heaven and whispered in my ear. The casa dei catecumeni was the devil’s stronghold. I must return to my own people and to the true faith. I must humble myself before Rabbi Abramo. I must acknowledge my transgressions with a full and open heart. I must prepare to take my medicine both literally and figuratively and to live out my miserable life without any hope of redemption.

  I knew that I would never again find favor in my father’s house. Nor could I look forward to escape by marriage. Once the word of my disgrace got out, no decent boy would ever marry me. The best I could hope for was that God, who had cared enough to give me this unmistakable sign, would take further pity on me and cause me to die young. It was a dismal prospect after only thirteen years of life on this earth, but just the kind of invention you might expect from an imagination fed by French romances.

  I bowed my head in a prayerful pose and begged God for an early death, the sooner the better. Raising my eyes in supplication, I craned my neck upward toward heaven. But before my eyes reached the vault, they were arrested by a vision not of Jehovah, mind you, but of Virgil. There above me in his niche in the wall stood the great poet, no specter but a representation in glistening bronze, his arms resting on a stone lectern and a doctoral cap crowning his fine, shining head.

  “Vergilius Mantuanus Poeterum Classimus,” read the inscription. Virgil, son of Mantova, poet, seer, and sage.

  Fortuna had stepped in. Who else would have led me to the very spot where, when I raised my eyes to God, I met the pagan poet in his stead? Perhaps, I thought, the great sage has some wisdom for me, some message of hope.

  In my sack lay the precious manuscript I had snatched up at the last moment. Placing the volume in my lap, I riffled through the pages and let them fall open where they might, as I had seen Jehiel do when foretelling the future from the sacred book.

  “Be not appalled by fear,” I read. “Destiny will find a way for you. If you court her well, she will give you fair passage.” Juno’s advice to Aeneas. I read on.

  But for you Italy is still far into the future

  And lies at the end of a long voyage over uncharted waters.

  Your way will be blocked by Scylla on the right.

  And on the left, by the never-pacified Charybdis who,

  Thrice in the day, drinks down the sheer depth

  of her engulfing abyss.

  Like Dido, I too was caught between Scylla and Charybdis: the casa dei catecumeni on one hand, the Casa dei Rossi on the other.

  Scylla hides in a cavern and sucks ships down

  onto the rocks. Her upper half is as of a human

  in the shape of a maid. But her lower part

  is a monstrous whale.

  What a perfect image for Cateruccia, half maid, half monster. As for the never-pacified Charybdis, that had to be my relentless nemesis, Rabbi Abramo.

  And how did the goddess advise Aeneas to make his way between these twins of jeopardy? I turned the page, seeking confirmation of my memory. Yes. There it was, just as I remembered:

  It will be wiser not to hasten through the straight

  But rather to take a long and roundabout course.

  All doubt dispelled and all fear quelled, I picked up my sack and, holding Fingebat close, headed for the Reggio — making certain not to hasten and to take a roundabout course by way of the fish market.

  It is not customary to call uninvited on princes. In all my life, I had not heard of a Jew taking such a liberty. So it was with some fluttering of the heart that I presented myself at the sentry box outside the great portal of the Reggio to ask if I might see Lord Pirro Gonzaga.

  “And who shall I say is calling on the young lord so boldly this morning?” the guard inquired with a stern scowl.

  “Say it is the lady Grazia dei Rossi,” I replied in the strongest voice I could muster.

  To my astonishment, his cloudy countenance turned immediately sunny and he took my arm in a most gallant fashion. “Where have you been, lady?” he asked, letting me through the gate as he spoke. “The Marchesana has been expecting you.”

  “There must be a mistake.” I tugged myself free. “I am come to see Lord Pirro.”

  “Oh, there is no mistake, lady, unless you be not who you pretend to be.”

  “I am Grazia dei Rossi,” I assured him.

  “Grazia dei Rossi, the Jewess?” he asked.

  “The same.”

  “Then you are expected for an audience with the Marchesana. See here.” He pointed to a sheet of vellum pinned to the guardhouse wall. “These are the week’s arrangements.” And sure enough, written in bold letters below the name of Maestro Antonio, the goldsmith, and above that of Madonna Yseult Beau Tre, Princess of France, appeared the name of the lady Grazia, the Jewess.

  “Hurry along, now. A page will take you to the Marchesana.”

  Still I hesitated.

  “You are late, lady. The goldsmith and the French princess have long since been and gone.” He pushed me again, not so gently this time. “Leave the dog with me.”

  “No! Madonna Isabella has requested that Fingebat accompany me,” I heard myself say. “He is wanted at the audience.”

  And the gatekeeper gave way.

  Now the page boy grabbed my free hand and proceeded to whisk me through corridor after corridor — each grander than the one before — and up and down stairways and across cloisters and gardens. Finally we crossed over a drawbridge and entered Saint George’s castle, where the Marchese and his lady lived their private life.

  Here the Marchesana did not sit upon a raised dais beside the Marchese, but alone, in a plain chair by the stove, with her dwarfs seated nearby on child-size stools, and a small dog in her lap. The moment this pampered animal caught a whiff of Fingebat, he leapt off his perch and lunged at my boots, biting and scratching to get at what he perceived as an enemy. Fingebat in his turn set up as noisy a caterwaul as the other dog, wriggling and squirming to jump out of my arms and down to the floor in order to do battle with his adversary. And the young Marchesana clapped her hands with delight and ordered one of her attendants to bring a juicy bone to the little Jewish cur, as she called Fingebat.

  Then, turning her attention to me, she remarked, most pleasantly, “So you have brought your dog to the disputa, signorina ebrea?”

  What disputa? I had heard of no disputa.

  “Did you bring no documents to bolster your case?” she inquired. “I had hoped to see the dei Rossi volume of Josephus’s Jewish War, for I hear it is the least corrupted translation of that work in all of Italy.”

  Confounded by her questions, I remained silent.

  “Is there something amiss, lady?” she inquired, noticing my reticence at last. “Are you unwilling to engage in this disputa with me? Everything I know of you suggests that you would make a worthy adversary. And I do believe that for us women to stage such a battle of ideas would be most unusual and interesting. Do you not agree?”

  It was not possible for me to keep still any longer without leading her to believe that I was either dumb, obdurate, or cowardly.

  “I most humbly beg pardon for my ignorance, illustrissima,” I answered, “but I know nothing of this disputa.”

  “What brings you here then if not my invitation?” she inquired, not quite so friendly now.

  “I fear it was no invitation but rather desperation that brought me, illustrissima,” I replied. “I came to your portal to throw myself on your mercy and to beg your caritas.”

  “Caritas? Desperation? What has desperation to do with my disputa?” Suddenly the gracious lady was a petulant child. I had witnessed an identical display of capriciousness by the lady’s father the day Papa took us to Belriguardo. Papa had not lost countenance then and I must not allow myself
to lose it now.

  “Forgive me, illustrissima,” I pleaded. “Not for all the world would I disappoint you — you who have shone your light so graciously on me, who have honored me with your attention to my plight. There has been some mischief at work here. For I misread your invitation. That is the reason I am ill prepared to engage in this disputa. But I assure you that if I am given a second chance . . .”

  She was wavering. I could see the goodness and sweetness which is a genuine part of her nature doing battle with the petulance and quick temper which is also a part of her.

  Then, as if he had been coached in his part by a master, little Fingebat let out a thin, pathetic whine. Never was a sound better timed. The dwarfs seated around Madonna Isabella’s chair began to giggle. The little one called Crazy Catherine laughed so hard that she peed a stream upon the marble floor.

  That lapse and the merriment it occasioned tipped the balance in my favor. Unable to resist the laughter around her, the Marchesana joined in and ended up laughing as heartily as any of her attendants, albeit with more control than the female dwarf.

  At length, wiping the tears of glee from her eyes, she remarked, “The little Jewish cur is a fine performer. Perhaps we should include him in our revels at carnevale. For he is truly a most original clown.” And would you believe it the little Jewish cur actually had the wit to bark out a thank-you.

  Her temper softened by his tricks, Madonna Isabella agreed to postpone the disputa until the following day and allowed me to kiss her hand before I was excused. Courtiers who had looked down their noses at me when I entered now bowed me out with smiles. And the page who had conducted me to the audience with such ill grace now stepped along sprightly beside me, chatting me up as if I were a regular familiar of the court. In the circumstances, I had no hesitation in asking him to announce me to Lord Pirro. Nor did he display any hesitation in setting off to find that young gentleman for me. But first he insisted on settling me comfortably on a bench in the Guard’s Hall. For a time I diverted myself by gazing at the amazingly lifelike portraits of the Gonzagas’ favorite horses that decorated the walls above me. But the tumultuous events of the morning had worn me down and after a while I curled up on the bench with Fingebat in my arms and fell asleep.