The Food Taster

by Peter Elbling

  'Muffle it with a cough,' Septivus repeated.

  *

  As the wedding drew closer, Federico rose early and checked on the progress of the fresco or watched the laborers replacing the marble. He inspected the costumes for the pageant and wanted to know which desserts Tommaso was planning for the banquets.

  I prayed Tommaso would accept the marriage, but his eyes became haunted and he started biting his nails again. When I tried to talk to him, he turned away. He hated me as much as he hated Federico, but as long as he kept away from Miranda I did not care.

  In the midst of the preparations, I heard that my father was dying. Duke Federico gave me permission to visit him, which I did one morning after breakfast. It was a relief to be out of the city riding through the long grass, smelling the flowers, the trees, and the freshness of spring.

  When I was a child my father's house was as tall as a tower, but every time I had returned it appeared smaller to me. Now it was but a rude bump on the landscape that would soon be ground into the earth again. My father, who had also stood tall and proud, now lay on a bed of soiled straw, blind, barely able to move, crippled with pain, and covered in sores. A racking cough tore from his ribs and the smell of death was everywhere.

  All my anger disappeared and I knelt beside his bed and took his hands in mine. 'Papa,' I whispered, wishing that, if only for a moment, I could do something to relieve his agony. His mouth trembled, and his foul stinking breath covered my face.

  'Vittore?' he whispered.

  Vittore! Christ! Would he never think of anyone else? But when had he ever? When the flock died because Vittore had not taken care of it, my father blamed it on a neighbor. When Vittore was accused of rape, my father said the girl lied because he would not marry her. When Vittore became a bandit and stalked the highways, my father pretended he was a courier. When he fled to Spain, my father said he was a general in the army. My father worked in pouring rain, in burning heat, in swarms of mosquitoes, when he was well and when he was sick. He was robbed by his neighbors and deceived by those he served. Vittore avoided work, cheated, robbed, and raped, and my father loved him for it. What should I tell him?

  'He prospers,' I said.

  My father raised his head a little from the bed. Parting his thin lips that revealed two sorry black stubs against the pale pink inside of his mouth, he croaked, 'I knew, I knew.' Then he sank back into silence.

  'He asks about Vittore every day,' the villagers told me, bringing me a bowl of minestra and some bread. They stared at me while I ate, feeling my clothing, especially my new hat with the feather. They wanted to know about my life in the palace. 'Are the women as beautiful as they say?' the men asked. 'Do you have your own bed? How many sleep in a room?'

  'Do not let my clothes mislead you; I am no better off than you are.'

  A man said loudly to another, 'It is not enough that he leads a better life, but he lies about it, too.'

  So I told them the beds were cool in summer and warm in winter. 'Not only can we eat as much as we like, but we drink wine with every meal,' I boasted.

  'I knew it!' the man said.

  I told them Federico gave jewels to his favorite servants at Easter and that I only worked enough to keep the blood moving. I bragged that Federico often asked my opinion on different matters. I made up stories about princes from India and strange animals from Africa. 'We have a unicorn which is both male and female.'

  When they had brought the minestra to me, the muscles in my neck had tensed and my throat narrowed as it always did when I ate. But I became so swept up in my lies that it was not till I had eaten half the broth of grains, broccoli, fennel, and basil — the same broth my mother had fed me when I was young, the same broth which had left a gnawing in my stomach — that I sighed with satisfaction. When I realized that the sigh had come from my own lips, I burst into tears. The villagers, who had been staring in amazement, now looked at me with bewilderment, and the woman who had made the broth protested that she had made it with love; if I was crying it was not her fault.

  My father coughed and I turned to him, my cheeks wet with memories, my heart overflowing with forgiveness. 'Papa,' I cried, thinking perhaps that we might even now become friends and be kind to one another as all families should be, but he did not see me. He was staring past the empty nests tucked into the ceiling beams, past the cracks in the roof, to a paradise in the sky.

  Ever since the wedding was announced I had desired to bring my father to the palace so that he might see how Vittore was awaiting death while I was giving my daughter in marriage. But God did not grant me that wish. My father withheld his eyes from me and this time they remained so forever.

  I sobbed as I dug his grave. Despite the day's warmth my body was frozen as if my soul was already in that ice reserved for traitors. My father was dead and I had triumphed over Vittore, but my victories were small and I even smaller for thinking them victories. How many days, weeks, months, years had I wasted in hatred.

  After I poured the last of the earth onto my father's body I rode back to the palace weeping until there were no tears left inside me. It was only then that I saw how great was God's infinite mercy. At last I understood why He had given Helene to me only to take her from me again. Had I never met Helene, then my mother's words — those who carry a grudge will be buried beneath it — would have come true. But now a millstone had been lifted from my neck. Since my anger for my father and brother was all spent, I was cleansed. From now on I could be inspired not by hatred, but by love, my love for Helene. Even as Dante had been inspired by Beatrice, Helene would be my inspiration. I would lead my life so that I might be worthy of her. Tears of joy replaced my sorrow and I dismounted and, kneeling in the sweet-smelling grass, praised God for showing me the way.

  As soon as I returned I went to Miranda's room intending to tell her of my father's death and of the miracle that had happened to me. Her friends were there talking excitedly. One of the girls told me breathlessly that the actors from Padua had arrived that afternoon and Federico had told the leader that Miranda was to sing with them.

  The leader had laughed and said, 'The bride? It has never been done. People will talk.'

  'That is why I want it!' Federico said, poking a fat finger into his chest.

  Miranda was seated on the bed in the midst of all this merry-making, smiling and laughing with the others, but I could tell from the way she was biting her lip that something had frightened her. Until now, bewitched by all the gifts and attention, she had thought it was all a game she could stop whenever she wanted. Even after the marriage was announced she was so flattered that she was to become a princess, and Federico had been so nice to her, that she had not considered it could be any other way. But now I suspected she was not so sure.

  Suddenly, I remembered things about her I wanted to tell Federico. She had been raised without a mother. Although she laughed easily she was often scared. True, she was wise beyond her years, but she was still a girl. I wanted to silence the silly laughter that surrounded her. I wanted time to march backward. To when she first started bleeding. To when her hands were as plump as her cheeks. To when I told her stories of her mother. To when she sang to the sun and played with the goats. To when I carried her on my shoulders and wiped the sleep from her eyes. To when she was no bigger than a loaf of bread and could fit into both of my hands. I wanted to cross the room to her bedside and hold her in my arms and tell her that I would always care for her, but the way had become so crowded with our ambition that I could not get through.

  That night I dreamed that Miranda and I and Helene were living in Arraggio; the rain was falling and the sheep were grazing on the hillside. When I awoke in the morning I saw I was still in Corsoli and my pillow was soaked with tears. I rose, dressed, and knocked on Miranda's door. It was open as it always was between us, and there, sitting on her bed, was Tommaso! He did not even stand up when I came in. "What are you doing here?' I said to him.

  Miranda sprang out of bed and pushed
Tommaso out the door.

  'Do you want to get us all killed?' I hissed.

  She said, 'How could you betroth me to Tommaso without telling me?'

  'Miranda, that was five years ago. We had just arrived in the palace. I was trying to protect you. I—'

  'What else have you been keeping from me?'

  'Nothing.'

  'You told Federico I was a virgin.'

  'Yes, of course.'

  'And when were you going to tell me Federico has the pox?'

  'Who told you that? That fool Tommaso?'

  'Vittore told him.'

  'And you believe Vittore?'

  'Tommaso is willing to lay down his life for me!'

  As if I had not! 'Miranda, you encouraged Federico—'

  'You should have stopped me. You should have spoken for me.'

  Oi me! Now I was being blamed? A banging interrupted us.

  All day long Corsoli echoed with the sound of workmen sealing the marriage contract. They have finished the arches by the Main Gate, the Piazza Del Vedura, the Palazzo Ascati, and the last one leading to the entrance of the Palazzo Fizzi. They have decked statues of Diana with olive branches and doves. Every building, no matter how small, has been cleaned and decorated with banners. The fountains are being filled with wine.

  And then, just as a soldier collapses with weariness once the battle is over, so did Miranda fall into my arms, weeping, 'I cannot marry Duke Federico. I cannot. I love Tommaso. I have always loved him. I will always love him.'

  My heart tore into pieces, each breath coming like fire. The moment I had long dreaded was upon me and I was no more prepared for it than when Federico had asked me, 'What do you say, Ugo?'

  I bathed Miranda's head with water, pressed a sponge dipped in mandrake root boiled in wine with crushed poppy seeds against her nose, and held her in my arms.

  'What shall I do?' she wailed. 'What will become of me?'

  She sobbed until she fell asleep. What could I do? How could I tell Federico, five days before the wedding, when hundreds of animals are being slaughtered, music composed, actors rehearsed, poems written, and frescoes completed? When thousands of yards of cloth have been made into gowns and jackets, pantaloons, hats, and dresses? When princes are traveling for days with their retainers and servants, cavaliers and footmen? When an emissary of the pope is expected, and the lion has been starved to make him more savage and Federico has spent every penny so that the rest of Italy, if only for one week, will sit up and take notice of him? If I were to tell Federico now that Miranda does not wish to marry him, he would behead her, burn her body, cut her into pieces, and parade the parts around the city. I remembered the new poem Federico had ordered Septivus to finish:

  Your voice so soft so filled with pain

  Your looks so wounding to my eyes

  Your heart it breathes a thousand sighs

  Your soul —

  He knows — the words screamed in my head — he knows about Miranda and Tommaso.

  'You must be careful,' I pleaded with Miranda.

  But the next day I found Tommaso in Miranda's room again. I was so incensed at his boldness that I drew my knife, but Miranda said, 'Federico ordered him to be here.'

  'It is true,' Tommaso smiled. 'He suspects Miranda has a secret lover so I am to guard her.'

  'You fools! It's a trick.'

  'I will tell him we are in love,' Tommaso said boldly.

  'You will not say a word!' I said, and forced him out the door.

  Now I have caught up with my story, for this happened this very same evening. I have been sitting in my room ever since. Just now a star shot across the sky. It is a favorable omen. But for whom? Federico? Miranda? Tommaso? Me? Alas, it streaked with so much speed that I did not see a name attached to it. I will drink some mandrake juice. It helps me sleep and I must sleep to think clearly about what must be done. Not only that, but the guests began arriving two days ago, for tomorrow is the first day of the wedding.

  CHAPTER 29

  The first day.

  The first day is over but there are still six more! Thank God for henbane, although it plays tricks on me, for I can only hope that what I recall did happen and is not what I wanted to happen, because, if that is so, then I do not know what happened, and my life, which is already confusing, will become even more so.

  Even though my eyes were weary after I had finished writing last night, they refused to close and so I wandered around the darkened palace. All day long, laborers and servants had been making sure that every detail had been attended to, but now all was silent except for the snoring and farting of those same weary servants sleeping in the shadows.

  The kitchen was empty, the fires glowing softly. Pots and cauldrons were lined up like soldiers' helmets. Vegetables were piled in every corner along with mounds of cheese, vats of milk, oil from Lucca, wine from Orvieto, Sienna, and Firenze, all of them waiting, like everything else in the palace — indeed in all of Corsoli — for the wedding to begin. From the kitchen I entered the inner courtyard. On three sides the marbled, white columns gleamed in the moonlight and facing me was the hillside which had been transformed into the Hanging Gardens. O blessed saints, as long as men can speak they will talk of it. For two months, fifty men stripped the hillside of its weeds and scrubs and planted flowers and bushes, trusting to God that He would smile on their plans. In His infinite mercy He heard their prayers and now the hillside is a flowered tapestry of blue, yellow, white, red — a painting sprung to life. 'We have improved on nature herself,' Grazzari said.

  Oh, Helene, how I wish you could see this. I asked Duke Federico to invite the archbishop of Nimes, but he refused, saying that he did not like Frenchmen. Where are you, Helene? Does your blood run faster at the thought of me as mine does of yours? Do you stretch your hand out at night hoping I might be by your side?

  I walked through the palace to the Piazza Fizzi and the last of the four matrimonial arches. What a wonder! It stands three times the height of a man and is flanked on either side by statues carrying garlands of flowers. The figures of Virtuosa and Fortuna look so real it is a wonder they do not spring to life.

  From there it was but a short walk down the Weeping Steps to Corsoli. Like the palace, the town was silent except for the lazy flapping of red and white banners from the rooftops. Even the most decrepit house has been cleaned and repaired and the Piazza San Giulio is so changed with trees and bushes and flowers that it is hard to believe that during the plague you could not see the ground for dead bodies. It is from here that we will watch the pageant and the caccia.

  Truly love, Federico's love for Miranda, has changed him. On our return from Milano, he wanted to build statues and sculptures of himself. Now he sees the beauty of a sunset, he wrestles with poetry, he appreciates Tommaso's artistry in the kitchen. The thought of Tommaso pierced me like an arrow and, whereas a moment before I had wanted to bang on every door and shout in every window, 'This is all for my daughter, Miranda!' now I hurried back to the palace to be certain Tommaso was asleep in his bed and Miranda was in hers.

  Tommaso lay on his side, his mouth open, his face frowning slightly. He murmured something and stretched his head forward as if trying to reach someone lying next to him. I hurried to Miranda's room. She was also asleep, lying on her side, her face pale against her black hair, her lips parted, and her hand pressed against her breast as if she was holding someone's hand there. Anger rose in me because of the foolish way their love refused to be cowed. I could have cut off their offending hands but what good would it have done? Their passion mocks every obstacle between them. I returned to my room and, exhausted by the heaviness of my heart, fell into a restless sleep.

  This morning, Duke Federico was sitting on the side of his bed — his feet in a bowl of vinegar, his gout had returned unexpectedly — yelling at Bernardo, 'But what does it mean?'

  Bernardo looked at me sharply, as if my entrance had disturbed him, when we both knew that he was grateful for it. 'Miranda is running a
way,' Bernardo said slowly, 'and she wishes you to pursue her even as the hunter pursues the game.'

  Federico must have been dreaming again. 'But whenever I caught her,' Federico said, 'she slipped through my hands.'

  'If I may interrupt, Your Excellency, it means that her spirit can never be captured. Everyone knows that just as dreams are not real, the people in them are only spirits.' As I had no idea what I was saying, I went on quickly, 'I have apples and figs with honey for your breakfast, My Lord.'

  'Her spirit cannot be captured,' Federico repeated to himself.

  Relieved that he was off the hook, Bernardo hurried from the room. I shifted the cushions behind Federico. He lay back and asked, 'How is Miranda this morning?'

  'Resting,' I said, and carefully lifted his gouty foot onto the bed. I reached for the bowl of figs and honey. Federico's head was turned away from me, looking out at the Hanging Gardens. His eyes darted toward me, then turned away again. I thought perhaps he wished to be alone, but he waved his paw and said, 'Resta!'

  Once more he looked out at the gardens and back at me. His mouth opened, words formed, but he did not speak. His eyes were wounded, not from the fiery pain of gout, but from a deeper, more powerful ache.

  I had never seen Federico weep; indeed, until then I did not think he was capable of weeping, but I swore I could see tears in his eyes. Then, as if I had spied upon the sacred ark itself, a veil descended and he sat up, dipped a fig in honey, and ate it. 'The night before a battle,' he licked his lips, 'my senses are sharper than my sword. I can see in the dark. I can hear grasshoppers screwing in the next field. I can smell the fear of the enemy.'

  I waited, certain he would ask about Miranda, but he did not. Instead he asked, 'Has Princess Marguerite of Rimini arrived?'

  'She is expected this morning.'

  He nodded. Gritting his teeth, he threw the covers off the bed and lurched his full weight onto his good leg and the rest onto my shoulder. Sweat formed on his brow, but as in Milano, he would not admit he was in pain. 'The Hanging Gardens are beautiful,' he grunted.