Primavera

by Mary Jane Beaufrand

  She had just been entertaining our company with a song. Her voice was weak, but her face was fair so our male guests seemed willing to overlook her one tepid quality.

  “Charming singing,” I said. “I liked the one about the coy shepherdess. It made me want to go out and frolic.”

  “At least you can frolic,” she said. “I grow tired of being pinched and petted like a piece of livestock. If Signor Turnabuoni pats my rear affectionately one more time I swear I’ll slap him clear to Milan.”

  “Oh! Let me!” I said. “I’ll slap him!”

  Domenica smiled in spite of herself. “Sister, once I am safely married, you may slap whoever you wish. But for now, I need you to give this note to Captain Umberto.”

  She reached into a pocket and drew out a folded letter, sealed and scented so heavily I thought I might gag.

  She waved it in front of me. I was not fast enough to take it. “Quickly now,” she said. “Before someone sees.”

  I did as she said. “I don’t like this,” I whispered. “Captain Umberto is a good man. It’s not right to be trifling with him like this.”

  Domenica laughed a tight laugh. “You sound like such a contadina, Flora. I am not trifling with him. Lots of married women have lovers. I don’t see why I should be any different.”

  It is not fair, I thought as I walked away. She has a banquet of love. Might not a little crumb be spared for me?

  Captain Umberto was out front, escorting our guests in and out of carriages. Mamma liked his to be the first face our guests saw, since he was so handsome. He was not in his first youth — experience lined his eyes and face, making them seem carved as though from Carrera marble. And those eyes, Madonna! They were warm and lively as firelight. Some days I could hardly bear to look upon him, knowing as I did that he was not for someone like me.

  He took the note, unfolded it in front of me, and his features dissolved into a soft smile. “I heard your sister singing earlier,” he said. “I wished I could be above stairs with her on nights such as these. Young girls are not livestock to be paraded about so. How fares she?”

  I thought: I’d never heard anyone say Domenica couldn’t sing in quite so polite a manner.

  I told him: “I think you would find yourself in her favor if you could cause Signor Turnabuoni to fall into the muck as you deliver him to his carriage.”

  Captain Umberto smiled. “That shouldn’t be too hard. The man is a drunkard. Ciao, Flora. See you tomorrow.”

  Later that night, after our guests left, I punished myself by leaning over the railing outside my third-floor room to see the two of them embracing by the fountain in the courtyard below. The moon lit up the scene below as plain as day. The garden was scented with jasmine that I had trained around the columns that lined the cloistered walk. What I wouldn’t have given to have a moment like that myself, sitting in a moonlit garden on a warm spring night with a handsome man whispering to me, cupping my face in his hands tenderly, admiring me as though I were a work of art.

  “Our sister plays a dangerous game,” I heard a voice call.

  Andrea was also about. He stood on the corner opposite me, holding a goblet of wine from which he sipped. His face had a heavy look to it, as though it might topple forward. My leaning tower of a brother.

  “Andrea? Why are you still awake?”

  “I could ask the same,” he said. “Something on your mind?”

  I came close then to telling him everything about the diamonds. But I didn’t. Domenica’s secret rendezvous was an open secret; I didn’t want mine to be the same.

  “Change in weather,” I said instead. “Too balmy for me to sleep.”

  My brother nodded and inhaled deeply. “Tell our sister she should be careful. We can’t have the workers whispering about her and Captain Umberto.”

  “Why? Domenica says lots of married women have lovers.”

  “Lots of women aren’t prospective Medici brides. Lucrezia de Medici misses nothing. Domenica must appear to be more than a girl — she must be perfect in everything she does every minute of the day.”

  I thought that sounded like a terrible existence. Never getting your hands dirty? Never eating too much? If I had possessed my sister’s beauty I would have given up long ago and said I didn’t need a Medici. A groom with a smaller fortune would do — preferably one I’d already met and liked.

  “If you’re so worried,” I asked, “why are you up here and not down there breaking them up?”

  Andrea sighed. “I know Captain Umberto. He will kiss. He will whisper. Nothing more. Domenica will be clean.”

  I didn’t know exactly what clean meant but knew that it had something to do with the wedding night. It sounded like an ordeal to me, but Andrea used to say it was only an ordeal if you made it so.

  “Besides,” Andrea continued now. “We all need our little freedoms. Don’t we, Flora?”

  The night was light enough for me to catch his penetrating glance. He knew. He was waiting for me to confess. And I almost did: a secret of one was just a secret; a secret of two was a conspiracy. And although I liked the idea of having a co-conspirator, in the end I did what I always did: I turned the conversation back to him.

  “And you, Andrea? What are your little freedoms?”

  Andrea drained the dregs of his wine in one mighty gulp. “Mine have already come and gone, Flora. These days I live to serve.”

  If Andrea meant to speak with conviction he failed miserably. His words were empty as his jeweled goblet. We were alike, my brother and I, each yearning for something other than what we had. But whereas I still held out hope, he had none.

  I drew closer and placed a hand on his arm. “Listen,” I said. “In the morning I’ll ask Captain Umberto to find us a cannon ball. Then tomorrow night we’ll come back here and drop it and you can show me how it falls at the same rate as a feather.”

  Andrea smiled at me, a rare bud in a city overgrown with tradition.

  “I spoke in haste, cara mia,” he said, kissing me on the forehead; “as long as I have you I will always be free.”

  After Andrea and I said goodnight I went back into the room I shared with Domenica. I withdrew a black velvet pouch from my pillow. Guided by candlelight, I dumped the contents on my bed. Then I put a hand up my sleeve and took out the small diamond I’d taken from the bank today.

  Fourteen small diamonds, one for each year of my life. It was enough to get me to Venice. But would it be enough to book passage on a ship to the Holy Land? I reminded myself to ask Andrea about the cost of working on one of Papa’s merchant vessels. Subtly, of course.

  I brought each stone up to the candlelight, examining every crack and bubble. Andrea said diamonds were worthless unless they were perfect, but I found perfection boring. It was the flaws that made them beautiful to me, made me long to possess them.

  I put the diamonds back in their pouch and replaced the pouch under my pillow. As I did so I counted all the things that my sister had that I would never have: beauty, marriage, the love of a good man, the approval of Mamma and Papa. I pushed my bare toes underneath cold sheets and snuffed out my candle. Then I closed my eyes, tight and still tighter. When I closed them tight enough, I saw the sparkle of sunlight on waves and heard the roar of the sea.

  Chapter Four

  I spent the next three days in the courtyard preparing the garden for spring. I trained the climbing roses around columns and scrubbed the scum from the fountain. It was filthy work, but I loved it.

  At sunset I went to my third-floor balcony, grasped a dip in the roof, and swung myself up. I scrabbled up the steep pitch of the red tiles and situated myself at the zenith, facing north and east. Below, carnival revelers were reeling through the streets clutching their wineskins. There were to be horse races in the Piazza Santa Croce — not as elaborate as the ones in Sienna — but enough to draw a crowd. From where I sat, the people making their way to Santa Croce looked like water pouring through narrow funnels. One man caught sight of me and offered m
e a necklace of glass beads if I’d show him my breasts. His companion, a man equally drunk, whispered something in his ear. “Sorry, Flora! I thought you were a wench,” the first man called. The second man waved. “Tell your nonna we’ll see her tomorrow! Ciao!” With that, the two of them lumbered off, laughing at some joke.

  I told myself I was just trying to get a glimpse of the horse races. It didn’t occur to me that I was spying for Emilio, who came the third morning after he left during a moment I wasn’t spying for him.

  I was in the courtyard on my hands and knees, weeding around stepping stones. I heard a bang! as the door to the piano nobile was thrust open. Papa came out adjusting his strawberry mazzochio, followed by Renato, whose fingers jangled with heavy golden rings, and then Andrea. They didn’t linger in the courtyard but went straight to the front of the palazzo.

  Then Mamma emerged followed by Domenica. Mamma fussed at my sister and drew a veil over her face. They never did that unless they went outside the palazzo.

  “What’s going on, Mamma?”

  “Flora, dear, you’re wanted in the kitchen,” she said coldly, still fussing with Domenica’s veil.

  “I didn’t hear Nonna call me,” I said. “If you don’t mind I’d rather not waste sunlight.” I went back to my plants.

  Mamma sighed and turned to face me. “Nothing for it but to pretend you’re a waif. If anyone asks, we hired you to weed the yard. While Riorio is here call me Signora Pazzi.” She drew a veil over her face, and she and my sister joined my father in the front.

  Riorio. Emilio must be back, then. I looked at my reflection in the fountain. Waif was right. I had my hair in a wrap, but the few strands I could see were clumpy with grease. My face was smeared with dirt, and my hands — Madonna! I looked like a contadina.

  I splashed some water on my face and tried to do something with my hair. I wanted to see our visitors.

  I arrived in front in time to see a procession arriving with Emilio in the lead. Behind him were half a dozen men on horseback and one gilded carriage. Emilio himself dismounted and tethered his horse to one of the iron rings we’d drilled into the walls for just this use. The poverino looked even more ghostly than before he left. His hands were shaking so hard, he hid them behind his back, awaiting orders that didn’t come — the rest of my family was too busy with the man in the carriage, who I assumed was Count Riorio, nephew of the pope.

  As my father greeted our guest, I slipped Emilio a freshly picked orange.

  “Please, signorina,” he said, his eyes flicking to my brothers. “Not now.”

  “If you’re worried about eating in front of them, just stand behind me. They won’t notice,” I whispered.

  “I’m a soldier, signorina,” he said, holding his chin high. “I don’t hide behind anyone’s skirts.”

  But I kept holding the orange out to him, and finally he grabbed it and got behind me.

  Meanwhile, I took a good look at our visitors. I did not like what I saw.

  To begin with, they were all in black from head to toe. Black boots, black leggings, black tunics, black cloaks. One of them drew his dagger and used it to dig at his nose. He brought away a concoction of nose grit and blood, which he wiped off the blade with his fingers and flicked onto the street.

  And their master? I found it hard to believe he was anyone’s nephew. His hair under his brown mazzochio was already graying. But it wasn’t his age so much that struck me as his complete and total pomposity. He had the air of a man who answered to no one. He too wore black: black head wrap, black velvet tunic, heavy gold cross. My father clasped his hand, and I could see that he was half the height of the rest of us. He grasped my father’s arm and whispered in his ear . . . fratello mio. My brother. He had a smile like slow poison.

  Behind me was much tearing and squirting. I craned my neck around to see Emilio finish the last of the orange, peel and all. Nothing was left over. Juice dribbled down his chin and he lapped it up with his tongue and fingers.

  “How long since you’ve last eaten?” I asked, horrified.

  “How long since I left?”

  He swayed on his feet, and I gripped his hand to steady him. Madonna! Between my father and his new snaky friend, they were conspiring to kill this poor wretch. “Swallow your pride,” I said. “Andrea!”

  Mamma looked my direction and shook her veiled head from side to side. I was supposed to be incognito. Too bad; this was more important. At least I wasn’t an embarrassment to my favorite brother, who excused himself and came over.

  “What is it, Flora?” he asked in a clipped merchantlike tone.

  “With your permission I will take this youth to the kitchen. He has had a long journey.”

  He shot me a what should I care? look.

  “From Forli? It isn’t but two days’ ride.”

  Then he saw Emilio’s state, and his expression changed. “A short ride but a hard one. You have executed your duties well and with due haste. Go now and rest with the knowledge that we are pleased.” He nodded slightly and went back to the welcoming party.

  I took Emilio through the courtyard but didn’t get a chance to ask him about the roads because Nonna came out of the kitchen and offered him her arm. He practically collapsed on her. He didn’t even protest or try to maintain appearances. With me he was a soldier; with her, a little boy.

  That night at dinner, Andrea called me aside. “I told Captain Umberto that your new swain has done well. The Captain assures me he will take the young man under his wing and that he will make a fine soldier.”

  “Thank you, Andrea,” I said.

  We glanced at the dinner party around the U-shaped table. Most finished eating and now Domenica sat in the middle serenading everyone with some tune about love and loss. There were pearls woven into her fair hair that cast subtle rainbows in the firelight.

  Riorio’s men stood in a group aside from the rest. I was used to men with guarded faces, but these men made even the Medici look open and friendly.

  Andrea must have had the same thought. “Look at them,” he said. “They are on us like a pestilence.”

  “I saw that one pick at his nose with his squarcato earlier,” I said, pointing.

  Andrea didn’t appear surprised. “Keep your eyes open, Flora. You are in a position to hear more than either Renato or I. Riorio is openly appealing to Papa’s vanity. I fear what he will urge our father to do.”

  “Bene. I shall do so. And Andrea: that boy is not my swain. Too scrawny.”

  Andrea smiled. “Not for long. Did you see the way he tucked into his capon tonight?”

  The next morning Riorio dealt me my first blow.

  When I came downstairs at dawn to labor in my garden, his shadowy men were in the courtyard, moving statues and digging up flowers and herbs.

  One great big oaf of a man crouched over a rosemary bush, yanking at it like a rotten tooth. “What are you doing?” I yelled.

  A different man, the one with the nose grit, was moving a potted orange tree into the cloister walk, away from the sun. He brought his fingers up to his chin and flicked them in my direction. Get lost.

  I grabbed the orange tree from him. “Answer me, blockhead. What are you doing?”

  The word blockhead got his attention. He did not like to be insulted. Nor, it seemed, did he like having to explain himself to girls. “We have orders, signorina.” He spat the last word at me.

  “Whose orders?” I asked.

  “Your father’s, of course.”

  Around me everyone kept yanking and cutting everything I’d worked so hard to arrange. I felt each blow to these plants in my own shins. I was being torn up.

  My father? Order this? I didn’t think so.

  At this point Captain Umberto came in from the front, shadowed by Emilio, who was looking a bit more robust this morning, although at the moment I didn’t care.

  “Did you know about this?” I asked the captain. I was not polite.

  “Si,” he said, ashamed. “Your father say
s that we are soldiers and we’ve grown fat. He thinks we need a place to practice war. I had no idea it would be this bad.”

  “Fine. You want to be a warrior? Make them stop. They’re not listening to me. You,” I called to the giant still whacking the roots of a rosemary bush. “Leave that alone. I need that one.”

  He also made a rude gesture.

  I seized his arm. “I said stop!”

  He tried to jerk his arm away, but I wouldn’t let him. With one hand he pushed me in the chest. I was off balance but grabbed hold of his forearm — the one holding the ax — and sank my teeth into flesh. It tasted like sweat and dirt and ale and stupidity. He yelped and palmed me hard in the nose. I skidded across the sea of moss.

  Here is a secret I do not like to share. I was bruised and shaken, but I liked it. I liked the exhilaration of my skin being scraped raw. I would get up and do it again, because part of my secret wish was coming true: I was having an adventure. I was battling the infidel.

  My progress stopped when I collided with someone’s legs.

  At the same time, Emilio let loose a wild cry and, his head low, plowed into the man who had pushed me. He sent them both flying into a marble statue of Venus. Crash! All three tumbled to the ground. For a skinny guy, Emilio did pretty well.

  I rose to my feet, my skin draped with dirt and moss and blood. A hand was offered to me, and I took it.

  “Grazie,” I said. The one who had offered me his hand was a little barrel of a man — short and round. His skin was pale and smooth but for little rays of wrinkles around his eyes. He must have been in his thirties. His clothes were vibrant: a bright purple tunic over verdant leggings. There was a feather in his velvet cap. He had sandy blond hair and his eyes seemed to absorb everything around him. Where had he come from? He clearly wasn’t a goon.