The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  Passion is like lightning. A chain of reaction. The flame ignited by the kiss rages through our two bodies and down to the nether regions. I feel the hardness of his member and I long to be possessed. Taken over. Taken away. Another groan. “No, Grazia.”

  “Yes,” I insist. And so we consummate the moment. And when that act has been performed we fall into a dreamless sleep.

  The bargello’s men arrived at our door before the light. At the first sound of their pikes against the portal, I jumped up out of bed, leaving Asher, a sound sleeper, safe in Morpheus’ arms.

  On my way down the stairs, I heard the sergeant giving orders to his men to fetch the battering rain. “No need for that, good sir,” I shouted through the door. “I will gladly give you entrance just as soon as I unbolt this door.”

  It was a disappointed face that leered at me when, a few seconds later, I managed to disengage the bolt and open the door to him.

  “Good morning, sir,” I greeted him. “Please come in. We will be gone as soon as our horses arrive.”

  “And when will that be?” he growled.

  “Any moment now. But pray begin. The courtyard is cleared. And the stables.”

  “We begin at the top,” he blustered. “Those are my orders.”

  “Very well then,” I replied. “We will conclude our packing with utmost speed. It will take but a moment.”

  The more accommodating I was, the more irritable he became. I daresay he resented being cheated of the use of his battering ram. “It will take whatever time I grant you, lady,” he snarled. “Up the stairs . . .” He gave me the barest shove. “I will come along to make certain you do not tarry.”

  You cannot imagine Asher’s face when he saw the uniformed sergeant glaring down at him, a pike held aloft like the devil’s pitchfork. For a moment my poor cousin must have thought he had died and gone to hell.

  “This gentleman is the representative of the bargello, Asher,” I informed him. “He has come to help us pack.”

  “I have come to escort you out, lady,” the irate sergeant sputtered. “And you too, whoever you are.”

  “This is my cousin, Ser Asher dei Rossi,” I offered politely, as if we were all at a ball, after which neither of the two men had much choice but to salute each other, which they did with equal truculence.

  I reached down to the floor where Asher’s garments lay in a little puddle and handed them to him. “I am certain the sergeant will be patient while you say your prayers, cousin,” I advised him. “Is that not so, sergeant?” It was hard to say which of the two was more ill at ease, Asher in his nakedness or the sergeant in his frustration.

  “And what is to become of this bed, eh?” The sergeant poked my arm. “You can hardly carry it out on your back.”

  What a time for a grand gesture! I could hear myself saying, “You can keep the damn bed. Or give it to the poor. Or burn the cursed thing for all I care.” But alas, deep down, I am a pragmatist and so I answered him that Ser Davide Finzi’s men would be along shortly to take the bed away. And in fact, the Finzi wagon and our horses arrived together a few moments later.

  In no time at all Asher and I were mounted and out the stable gate. I looked back only once, just in time to see the first thrust of the battering ram against the facade of the house. The last sound I heard in the Via San Simone was the clatter of a hundred bricks falling.

  38

  I slept in Asher’s arms all the way from Mantova to Borgoforte, where we stopped to transfer to the barque that would carry us along the Po to Ferrara. It was there that I vowed to forgo the easy refuge offered me by my cousin’s affectionate embrace.

  “Here begins a new life,” I told him as we waited our turn to board the craft. “We must leave the past behind us in Mantova and go on with our lives.”

  “I have been thinking the same thought, cousin,” he answered. “You are a married woman, much as I might wish it otherwise.”

  “Shh!” I stopped him. “We must not even speak of the matter. Let us go back to the way we were before Papa’s funeral. Brother and sister.”

  “No use, Grazia,” he replied dolefully. “That night is emblazoned in my memory as if branded there. I will never forget it.”

  “Oh yes you will,” I assured him, with a confidence I did not feel. For I knew the hopelessness of trying to expunge memories of love. “Once I am gone from Ferrara it will be easier.”

  “Easier for you. Because you are blameless in this business. But I took advantage of you in your moment of distress.”

  “No. It was I, Asher. I led you on.”

  “Do not try to lighten my guilt, Grazia. I know what I have done.” Oh, he was contrite. No doubt of it. And guilt-ridden. But beneath his self-castigation, I sensed a deep current of pride and realized that I must give up my share of guilt in the cause of his manliness.

  If ever I had imagined my grandparents’ house as a refuge in my bereavement, I was quickly disabused of that illusion. My first sight of the portal sent a message to my brain that something was not right. But fatigued as I was, and nervy and drowned in sorrow, my mind could not capture the precise cause of my unease. That only became apparent after we had entered the house and been greeted by my brothers. As I clasped Gershom to my bosom my eyes focused on his little waistcoat. It was robin’s-egg blue, not black. And his calze were parti-colored. Now it came to me what I had missed outside! Where was the swag of black which announced to the world that this was a house of mourning?

  They have not heard of Papa’s death, I thought. The messenger we sent ahead has not arrived. But Dorotea’s first words dispelled that thought. “My sympathies, Grazia. We were all grieved more than I can tell you by the news.” She made as if to kiss my cheek but I managed to sidestep her embrace.

  “Where is your widow’s veil, Dorotea?” I asked. “And why are not the boys dressed in black?”

  “The rabbi tells us that my honored husband’s house is the mourning place,” she answered.

  “But that house is half destroyed by now. And there is no one in it to light the candles or say the prayers.”

  “Then we are excused.” She shrugged. “It is an act of God.”

  “Excused!” I shrieked. “Excused from paying respect to my father? Well, perhaps you are excused, madame. But I am not. Nor my brothers. Call the servants. I want black cloths placed on these windows. And over the door.”

  “But you cannot,” she wailed. “Rabbi Abramo says —”

  “To hell with the rabbi!” Dorotea gasped. “And to hell with you as well. For hell is where you will certainly be sent for this sacrilege. Now call the servants.”

  “I cannot call the servants.” She was shaking now, edging herself out of the room. “This is not my house. Nor is it your house. It is your honored grandfather’s house. And you can speak to him yourself.”

  With that she rushed out, followed by a smirking Ricca and leaving me with my brothers and Asher.

  “You must go with her, cousin,” I counseled him.

  “I must do no such thing, cousin,” he replied, bristling. “I must go with you to our grandfather and complain about this outrage. And the boys as well. We must all go. Come along, Jehiel. Gershom.” And out they marched into the courtyard, leaving me to follow behind like a docile female.

  What a change had come over my timid cousin in four days. I can only conclude that sex holds much more magic for men than it does for us women. For I have never seen a virgin bride transformed into a virago by having her hymen broken.

  Across the courtyard and into the banco trod the little procession. Straight up the staircase to the strong room. In all this perambulating we saw no sign of La Nonna or of my old enemy, Giorgio. But I knew we would soon have the pleasure of seeing them. For Dorotea could be counted on to deliver an instant report of my rash words.

  And sure enough, we had barely had time to greet
my grandfather in his counting room when in rushed La Nonna — eyes smaller and more squinty than ever — followed by her minion. The years had not been kind to Giorgio. Bent over now with a back hump, his feet bandaged from gout, he shuffled rather than strode and would have presented an altogether pathetic sight had I not remembered the misery he inflicted on me in the days when he was strong. Such memories corrode the wellspring of pity even in the softhearted. I glared at him and uttered no word of greeting.

  “Still making trouble, Grazia?” was my grandmother’s greeting.

  “More than ever, Grandmother,” was my reply.

  Obviously my father’s death had changed nothing between us.

  “Now, what is all this fuss about black curtains?” she demanded.

  “I and my brothers are in mourning for our father, who died five days ago at Mantova. You and his father ought to be in mourning too. He was your son,” I answered.

  “Are you presuming to tell us our duty?” she demanded.

  “It appears that someone must.” To my surprise my voice emerged from my throat without a quaver. “All I ask is that you pay the proper respect to my father while I am in this house. When the month is up I will return to Firenze with my brothers and you can dance naked in the sala for all I care.”

  It was an unnecessary crudity. But I was mad with rage.

  Now my grandfather spoke up. “Rabbi Abramo has counseled us on this matter.”

  “So I heard,” I retorted.

  “Do you presume to put yourself above a rabbi in interpreting the Holy Words?”

  “When the interpreter is a bought toady, a virtual catamite, I do indeed put myself far above him. Had I not more important things to do with my time, I would initiate proceedings against him with the Wad Kellilah. I still may ask my honorable husband to do so when he returns from Napoli. For I believe that what this scurvy priest has agreed to here is sacrilege.”

  “And so do I,” Asher added. Bless him.

  “And I,” echoed Gershom.

  But not a word from Jehiel. The poor boy stood silent in the center of the room, uneasily turning his head from side to side.

  “This house must go into deep mourning for one month,” I announced firmly. “Out of respect for the loss of the eldest son. I will not see my father’s memory shamed by anything less.”

  “And if we do not agree?” my grandfather inquired, icy and hostile.

  “I will return to Firenze at once with my brothers and trumpet your sacrilege the length and breadth of this peninsula.”

  “Unfortunately, your reputation precedes you, granddaughter,” La Nonna spat back. “Who will believe the word of a known catecumena, a girl who ran off with a Christian, who denied her religion and disgraced us all?”

  “Perhaps they will not believe me, Grandmother,” I answered, for indeed she had a point. “But what Jew in this peninsula would doubt the word of Judah del Medigo? Or in Constantinople or Cairo or even Jerusalem for that matter? Remember, my honored husband is known, respected, and trusted throughout the Jewish world. And I assure you he will be horrified by this disrespect to me and to himself.”

  “We meant no disrespect,” my grandfather muttered.

  “Certainly not to Messer Judah,” my grandmother added, careful not to include me in her admission.

  “If that is so, then have the humility to change your stance. Cover the windows of this house. Hang the crepe over the door. Close up the banco.”

  “Not the banco! That is impossible.”

  The banco. Money. Profit. Greed. That was what lay at the bottom of their intransigence. Now I understood. But understanding only made me more implacable.

  “Either the banco will be closed or I will call Judah away from his service to the French,” I announced. “But remember this: If you are excommunicated the dei Rossi bank may be closed forever, since no other Jew will do business with you.”

  “The girl is a witch,” my grandmother muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

  “No, Grandmother. Not a witch. Only a loving child who insists that proper respect be paid to her parent.”

  In the end they capitulated. They had no choice. All my threats were backed with truth. Judah, a stickler for observances, would have been hugely offended. He certainly would have taken the matter up with the great rabbis of the large cities where he was so well known. And excommunication was a very real possibility.

  That night, Asher was sent to me with their counterproposal. They would close up the banco and rent a stall in the marketplace in which to conduct dei Rossi business.

  Only on condition that no blood member of our family worked in that stall, I rejoined, and sent Asher back to them with my condition.

  After a pause of some time he returned. They had agreed.

  The skirmish was over. I had won. But I knew the battle would go on. And so it did. For the entire month, the house was a theater of war: Gershom, Asher, and I against the rest, with Jehiel hovering uncertainly between the opposing forces. It was surely the most unpleasant month of my life. Only the thought that I would soon be able to leave, and leave with honor, sustained me.

  But before that happy escape, there was the will to be attended to. I had given it over to the family lawyer for safekeeping with instructions that the seals not be broken until the thirty days of our mourning were done. Until then I had refused to discuss the matter. But sure enough, on the thirty-first day after my father’s death — the very day that the banco reopened and the curtains came down — La Nonna summoned the lawyer and ordered all of us into the sala for the reading of Papa’s will.

  The document began with expressions of love and regard for his family and a wish to be pardoned for any wrongs he had done any of us; not an endless palaver of ethical platitudes like the introductions to some wills, but a clear straightforward message from the heart — very much in Papa’s style.

  Then came the bequests. As the old lawyer began to read in his sententious voice, everyone in that room leaned forward, each face a picture: Gershom, confusion; Jehiel, apprehension; Dorotea, avarice; Ricca, a smug satisfaction that I could not read.

  “To my firstborn son, Jehiel, I leave my astrolabe . . .” Jehiel clapped his hands together in undisguised glee. “And my share of cargo in the good ship Helena bound this year of 1496 for the Occident. Should she return safe to harbor in Venezia, he will be a rich man. Should she founder at sea, he must depend for his future upon his own wits and whatever patrimony comes to him upon the death of his grandfather, head of the house of dei Rossi.”

  At once all eyes turned toward my grandfather. But he simply nodded and kept his own counsel.

  The lawyer continued. “To my beloved daughter, Grazia, wife of Judah del Medigo, I leave all my books and I urge her to share this treasure with her brothers at such time as either shows an inclination toward scholarship.” I thought of that small library now residing in Finzi’s warehouse, not more than twenty volumes in all but each beautifully made. The illuminated Maimonides I vowed to send for at once and to keep by my bedside so that I might read a little of the wisdom of that great sage each morning of my life in Papa’s honor. For he valued Maimonides above all the wise men of Israel.

  Lost in these lofty thoughts, I almost missed the second part of my bequest. “Also to Grazia, I bequeath my house in the Via Sagnola where she lived her early years. And I instruct her to share it with her brothers should they ever need a roof, an instruction I know to be unnecessary because of the great love these three children of mine bear for each other.”

  “You did well to worm the house out of him,” Dorotea whispered sharply in my ear.

  “What house?” My question was genuine.

  “What house indeed! My house, that Daniele promised to me, as if you did not know it. Shame on you, taking advantage of a man too sick and weak to resist your pleas.”

  Th
is time she forgot to whisper. And even my grandfather seemed distressed by her show of temper. “Control yourself, Dorotea,” he cautioned. And to forestall any further outbursts, to the lawyer: “Continue, maestro. And speak up, please.”

  “I speak as loud as I am able.” The lawyer sniffed twice through his thin, pointed nose and continued. “To my widow, Dorotea, and to her children, Asher and Ricca, I leave my present house on the Via San Simone and all the furnishings thereof —”

  “But that house is condemned,” Dorotea interrupted. “It is being torn down by order of the Gonzagas.”

  “My uncle could not have known that at the time he drew this will,” Asher answered her evenly.

  “Then we must have the other house in its place,” she announced, rising to her feet. “Is that not a fair interpretation of my uncle’s will, maestro, since he meant us to have the better house?”

  “I doubt that the law would see it that way, madonna,” he answered quietly.

  “But this arrangement goes against Uncle Daniele’s wish.” No triumph now on Ricca’s face, only undisguised rage. “Uncle did not intend to see me and my mother on the street. He meant for us to have a fine house. Besides, Grazia does not need a house, do you, Grazia? You will give us the little house, will you not, Grazia?” she wheedled.

  “How Madonna Grazia disposes of her inheritance is not the issue here, little lady,” the lawyer cut in, somewhat testy now. “The terms of the will are clear. The house in the Via Sagnola is hers. And the house in the Via San Simone is yours. And if there is no longer a house in Via San Simone, that is God’s will and you had best accept it.”

  Whereupon Dorotea shrieked, “Dio, You have made me a homeless widow and my children two homeless orphans. Why me? Why me?”

  I could have told her, but even I had not the gall to pretend to interpret God’s intentions. I simply sat silent, eyes lowered, and waited for the next bombarde from the lawyer. But before he could begin, my grandfather rose from his seat and, in a gesture of compassion unprecedented for him, placed his hand on Dorotea’s head and patted it once or twice. “Do not weep, daughter,” he said. “You will always have a home here with us. You and your children are dear to us. And remember, Daniele’s is not the only patrimony in this family. I cannot live forever.”