The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  “Do you wish my boy to fetch your case, honored sir?” he sniveled, in what he doubtless took to be a courtly manner.

  “He will find it under the chair in the center of the table where I was sitting,” Judah replied graciously, showing no sign of impatience or disrespect. Then he turned to the boy. “It is black leather. With my initials stamped on it. J. del M.”

  “This gentleman is the eminent physician and philosopher Leone del Medigo, boy,” his master instructed him. “Bow to him at once.” Which the boy did. At once.

  “Look for the initials J. del M.,” Judah repeated for the boy’s benefit. Then to Portaleone he added, “The Christians may choose to call me Leone for their own ignorant reasons but I never refer to myself except by my Hebrew name, Judah. They must take me as what I am or not at all. It is the only policy to pursue with these Christian baptizers. Do you not agree, maestro?”

  During this dialogue he never for a moment ceased his gentle cleansing of my wounds, and with each soft stroke my pain lessened.

  Portaleone’s wounded pride had been assuaged. Now Dorotea made her entrance, dragging my father behind her. “I want that girl punished. Punished. We have been humiliated once again, mortified before our honored guest. Oh, Maestro Leone, I beg your indulgence.”

  “No indulgence necessary, signora.” Judah did not even deign to look at her as he spoke. “This girl is wounded. I am a physician. My duty is clear. Unless you, sir . . .” He turned his gaze on Papa and added sternly, “Unless you object to my ministrations.”

  The idea of anyone objecting to the attentions of Maestro Leone was too absurd to consider.

  “Now then, I wish to have brought to me a bowl of warmed water, straight from the well, and some fresh rose petals — a good handful,” he instructed Dorotea. “And a few drops of sweet oil. Do you have that in your housewife’s cabinet?”

  “Yes, Maestro Leone,” replied a newly compliant Dorotea.

  “Very good. Have it brought upstairs together with clean linen. The good physician Portaleone will assist me so the rest of you can get back to your dinner.”

  “But what of your dinner, maestro? I have prepared a beautiful pie with special birds brought from the Bosco Fontana.” Dorotea literally wrung her hands in her distress.

  “I will dine with my patient when the treatment is over,” Judah announced. “Plain broth. A pasta with good cheese. And a ripe melon. If one is not to be had, a few figs chopped fine and soaked in wine and sugar. Can that be prepared in your kitchen, madonna?”

  Oh, how she must have hated me at that moment. I had interrupted her dinner, stolen away her celebrated guest, and now she was being ordered around like a publican. But Judah’s authority being what it was, she dared not express her rage. She simply curtsied and went to the kitchen to transmit Judah’s orders while he lifted me like a baby and carried me up to a clean bed.

  The treatment, like many of Judah’s treatments, was simple but exceedingly painstaking. When he had settled me down, he explained what he was about to do. First, he would remove the stingers one by one with a fine needle and apply a special unguent to the punctures to relieve my distress and to close up the little wounds.

  “It will take time and it will hurt some,” he warned. “But not more than you can bear, I promise.”

  He took from his bag a strange-looking piece of glass, framed in silver. It would magnify the wounds and help him to guide his needle, he told me. Then he went about his work, with me peering up at him from between my swollen eyelids. It was difficult and somewhat painful to open them, but the look in his eyes — those deep-set orbs of weariness, wisdom, and pity — was something I could not get enough of.

  Occasionally the needle refused to do its work. When that happened, he would lay it aside, lean down, place his warm lips over the puncture, and suck the stinger out with his own breath.

  I found myself imagining that those kind eyes and that soft mouth were the eyes and mouth of my father and that he was the one caring for me, not the great physician. But this man was not my papa much as I might wish it so. This man was a stranger. How fortunate his children were, I remember thinking, to have such a man for a father.

  When the treatment was done dinner was brought. Judah fed me the soup himself, spoonful by spoonful with a smallish silver spoon he took from his bag. And then while I munched on the soft melon he had requested, we talked. To be accurate, he talked. He was in Mantova, he explained, at the invitation of the young Marchesana, who had requested him not for his talents as a physician but as a scholar.

  “She has a manuscript half Hebrew, half Greek, called The Sanidrin, which she believes to be very ancient, and she wishes me to verify it since she herself is not at home in Hebrew.”

  “But you are, sir?”

  “I was born in Greece and studied the ancient tongue as a child. Then in Padova the Latinists trained me in Latin and the rabbis in Hebrew,” he answered. “Aramaic, I taught myself. And I do not know a word of French. Now why does that make you look sad?”

  “Oh, I am not —” I stopped myself in the midst of the lie. He who had been so candid with me deserved the courtesy of a truthful reply. “I am envious, sir, of your opportunities and of your accomplishments. It is my heart’s desire to master these tongues that you speak of and to unlock the mysteries that I know reside in the great books.”

  “Not to mention the delights,” he added.

  “Those too,” I admitted. “But I do have enough Latin to read Virgil and” — here, I bent to whisper the forbidden tongue — “a little French, which I taught myself.”

  “You are a wicked girl,” he remarked, and it took a moment for me to note the twinkle in his eyes that gave away the rebuke as a jest.

  Made bold by his good humor, I ventured to ask, “If you do stay here to study the Marchesana’s manuscript, would you . . .” I felt bolder saying it than I had riding atop the elephant or during any of my less admirable exploits. “Would you teach me, sir? I do so long to learn.”

  His reply was not encouraging. Much as he would have enjoyed tutoring such an eager mind, he said, his work on the manuscript was almost finished. All that remained was to inform his client that her document was spurious and that there was no record of any Hebrew text named The Sanidrin. Even now he was making preparations to journey to Firenze, where he had been appointed a member of the Platonic Academy by the son of the late and most lamented Lorenzo dei Medici, known as il magnifico.

  “When the magnificent Lorenzo died, his son Piero dissolved the Platonic Academy,” he explained. “But now Piero has had second thoughts and is about to reconstitute the charmed circle in an effort to emulate his revered father.

  “Firenze is a place where I have been very happy,” he added, speaking to me all the while as if to an equal and not being in any way condescending. “Besides, after the Medici, I find the Gonzagas more than a little . . .”

  “Whimsical?” I inquired as he searched for a word. “Changeable? False?”

  “Exactly,” he agreed, smiling. “But then you know them at first hand, I hear.”

  “My true feeling, sir, is that they are a pack of pigs and whores wallowing in lusso and ready to sell themselves to the first corner with a handful of ducats in his pocket.”

  “They have disappointed you, then?” he asked lightly.

  That mild question unleashed a flood that carried everything with it, facts, fantasies, and feelings, all in a rush — my infatuation with Lord Pirro, my betrayal by him and Madonna Isabella, the casa dei catecumeni, Careruccia, the chess set, the Game of Ships, every detail except one. What caused me to lower the veil over the Bosco Fontana? Modesty? Shame? Or was it a subtle transformation of my feelings for the listener? As I led him pell-mell through my life and felt the warmth of his gaze and the soft pressure of his hand on my arm, he slowly became more and more a man to me and less a god. And I became less a
child and more a woman with a woman’s jealousy of her heart’s secrets.

  23

  Three days were all it took for Judah to cure me of the ill effects of my misadventure at the Gonzaga stud. The day after he extracted the stingers, he returned with a little pot of stuff to soothe and hide the blemishes as they healed. The day after that he came again to roust me out of bed and escort me on a stroll to the Pusterla Gate. A walk in the fresh air was the treatment that day — nothing more.

  “Invalids make their own diseases,” he explained as he conducted me homeward. “Bedsores, swellings, blood clots, and wheezing all come from recuperating in a prone position.” When he repeated this to Dorotea, she was not impressed.

  The following day he examined my little wounds with extreme care and announced me beyond his powers to help, since I was cured. The good news made me unaccountably sad, which I chose to attribute to fear of the punishment I was sure to suffer now that I was well enough to bear it.

  As if to confirm my fears, the afternoon of the day I was pronounced well, I received an instruction to wait upon my father in his studiolo.

  “Grazia . . . my dear little Grazia . . . I have been searching for you all the afternoon. Come in. Come in.”

  Too astonished by this reception even to think, I stepped in obediently and stood before him.

  “Sit down,” he invited me with a smile. A smile. Almost as if he approved of me. “Now then, tell me, what are your thoughts about marriage?”

  “Marriage?”

  “Marriage.”

  “Well I . . . I understand, honored padre, that I must banish all such thoughts from my mind since I have disgraced myself much too far ever to hope for —”

  “But let us suppose that, by some unexpected — astonishing — even miraculous intervention of God’s charity, you were forgiven your transgressions . . .”

  “I cannot imagine that, honored Signore Padre,” I replied.

  “Imagine it, Grazia,” he ordered me, quite stern now. “Imagine yourself forgiven.”

  “I cannot, Signore Padre.”

  “What do you want, girl? A note sent directly from heaven and signed by God Himself?”

  Before I could frame a suitable answer, he reconsidered the barb and returned to his earlier kindly tone. “You are forgiven, Grazia. Believe me. God has taken pity on you. He has given you more than a second chance. He has thrown your way a beneficence not vouchsafed many. He has sent you a husband.”

  “Who?”

  “A fine man. An honored Jew.”

  Dio! It was Rabbi Abramo, pressed into service by La Nonna to erase the stain on the family escutcheon.

  “No!” I cried.

  “No?” he shouted, giving way at last to anger. “You say no to such an honor? Even before you know who has made the offer? Ungrateful brat! God knows why he wants you,” he muttered, as much to himself as to me. Then, throwing his hands in the air, he ordered me to leave him and go at once to my stepmother. “She will explain. These matters are better left to women. Go now.” He rose and gave me a push toward the door. “And I would not be so quick to answer no, young lady,” he shouted after me as I scooted along the hall to the sala piccola. “You may never get such a fine offer again in your life. In fact, I’d be willing to bet on it.”

  In the kitchen I found a new Dorotea, solicitous, with a cup of spiced wine, “for you are shivering with cold, poor girl,” and the offer of her own shawl.

  Made bold by this welcome, I asked her straight out for the name of my suitor.

  “Did not your father tell you?” she asked. “Oh, that foolish man. They are all hopeless when it comes to affairs of the heart.” She nudged me conspiratorially.

  “Will you tell me, then?” I asked. “Is it Rabbi Abramo?”

  “Rabbi Abramo? Did your father give you that notion? Is it his idea of a joke?” She laughed. Then her face took on a look I cannot ever forget, a mixture of amazement and envy. “My dear, your hand has been requested by no less a personage than Leone del Medigo.”

  “Maestro Judah, the doctor?”

  “Physician, scholar, philosopher. He has the ear of the Medici and the support of powerful Christians. He was tutor to Lord Pico of Mirandola, who seeks his counsel to this day.”

  “Is he rich?” I asked, as if I cared.

  “He is rich in knowledge,” Dorotea answered self-righteously. “Mind you, he does not lack for ready cash either. His great skill fetches high fees.”

  “He wants to marry me?” I could not believe it.

  “He made his offer this morning. It seems he is about to leave for Firenze and he wishes to take you with him as his bride.”

  “Messer Judah wants to marry me?” I asked again, stupidly.

  “He is coming to ask you himself this evening, with our permission, of course.” Dorotea preened.

  “Is it decided, then?” I asked.

  “Why do you ask? Surely you do not intend to refuse the offer.”

  “He is not young . . .” I ventured.

  “He has just passed thirty. Young enough for any normal purposes.”

  “He is not married, then?”

  “Never had the time for it, he says, luckily for you. Do you have any comprehension what a blessing has fallen upon you? Your husband has an appointment in the Medici circle. You will accompany him to Firenze. It is a high honor. Do you not know anything about the world, girl?”

  Oh, I knew many things about the world. “Perhaps I cannot believe in my good fortune,” I answered truthfully.

  “Understandable. And suitably modest for a Jewish bride. I shall tell your father of your reaction. It is most appropriate.” Then she leaned down and whispered into my ear as I had seen her do with her own daughter so many times. “You have my permission to rub a little rouge into your cheeks. Just a little. Not enough to attract your father’s notice. But you could use a bit of brightening up, Grazia. No man likes a pale woman. And it wouldn’t hurt you to put on a bit of flesh around the bosom and the behind. From the side, you look quite like a boy.” Oh dear.

  “Don’t pout now. You will manage these things beautifully with my help. All it takes is diligence and brains and you have ample amounts of both. You will make a fine wife, Grazia.” It was the first compliment she had ever paid me.

  “Always stay at home. Do not stand by the portal. Never look out the window. If your eyes wander fasten them at once on your needlework.”

  “Remember to water your orange trees every day in summer or the Tuscan heat will burn them up.”

  “If you need ask your honored husband for a courtesy or favor, wait until after dinner when he is well fed and content. Offer him a cup of sweet malvasa wine (always keep a vessel of it handy for this purpose), seat yourself on a stool at his feet, and from that humble posture, making certain that your eyes express fully the reverence in which you hold him, make your request.”

  By the time Judah arrived that evening, I had mastered enough of Dorotea’s marriage catechism to pinch my cheeks until they turned rosy and to lower my gaze in reverence for my bridegroom.

  “Your face is flushed, Grazia. Let me feel your forehead.” Those were his first words to me when we were left alone, hardly what Dorotea had led me to expect.

  “Hmm. No fever. Why are you flushed?”

  “I am blushing, sir. I am shy.” Not entirely untrue.

  “But we know each other so well.”

  “Oh no, sir, if you will forgive me . . .” (“Never dispute your husband or deny him,” was one of Dorotea’s dicta.) “I do not mean to sound contentious, but everything is different now.”

  “That is where you are wrong,” he replied. “Everything is exactly the same. We are still friends, are we not?” I nodded my agreement. “Well then, let us dispense with this idea of wife for a moment and talk of friends, loving friends.” He took my ha
nd in his. “Companions in learning and in life. Partners. Confidants. Walking along the road of life side by side, through sun and rain, offering each other help over the rough patches. I will soothe you with unguents. You will succor me with soft words. And we will read together. But above all, we will be loving friends. That is my proposal.”

  I knew he was not young. But my memory of love, young and eager and laced with fire, was still fresh and I could not help but wonder, need marriage be so bland, so passionless as Judah made it sound? Even Dorotea’s diatribes held more promise of excitement.

  “If he gives you a slave, watch her like a hawk. Tartars, especially, are beasts. You cannot trust the house to them.”

  “Be sure always to seize the Sabbath bread firmly with both hands. Ill fortune will dog you all the week if each one of your ten fingers is not touching the loaf when it is blessed.”

  “Keep on the alert for fleas. Search them out every day in the linens, the garments, the heads of servants. Fleas can destroy your household and your happiness.”

  She fed me constantly, stuffing my mouth as conscientiously as she stuffed my head. My indoctrination did not cease until the day of my wedding. Occupied with feasts and fittings, I barely saw my groom after he made his proposal.

  The week of the wedding a huge contingent of well-wishers arrived from Ferrara to be entertained and fed. They proved a welcome distraction from the pangs of unease I had begun to suffer. It was not only the spirit of the proposal that troubled me but the fast-approaching wedding night itself. When that moment came, there would be no way to hide my lapse from virtue at the Bosco Fontana. Would a man whose vision of love was a mix of unguents, soft words, and reading ever understand? Forgive?

  It was not something I could discuss with my marriage mentor, Dorotea. Nor with any of the countless relations and friends who descended on us, arms laden with gifts and stomachs cursed by unappeasable hunger. They never stopped eating from the moment they arrived until the moment they departed. Fortunately, my grandparents had sent along sacks upon sacks of fresh fish, wagonfuls of capons, and enough sweetmeats to keep everyone happy.