The Sublime Seven

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  Later that evening, she gathered her courage to approach her father, who was downstairs, tending to customers. She waited until she heard the jingling of the bell above the door, indicating the last patron of the day had left. She traipsed down the staircase, drawings in hand. When she rounded the corner, taking a deep breath to prepare herself, she stopped in her tracks at the sight before her eyes. The final customer of the day had not left. He was, in fact, chatting with her father, whose countenance exuded pure elation.

  “Bambina, I have just received some wonderful news,” Father said, clapping Rizzo on the shoulder in a familiar manner. The despicable man turned to face her, regaling her with a venomous smirk. “The Signor has offered you marriage. The nuptials will not take place for two more years,” he added hastily. “But I know you will be pleased to be wed to such a prosperous, respected man. And he will be happy to replace his late wife. Youthful laughter will be most welcome in his house, he says.”

  Julietta feared she might vomit.

  Her father saw the expression on her face and stepped in front of the man to block his view of her. “My daughter is overwhelmed by this exciting development. Come, let me walk you out. We shall discuss the details later. I know your word is as sound as any legal document. Nevertheless, I prefer the contract be signed by both parties as soon as possible. I’ll have it drawn up tomorrow, if that’s agreeable to you.”

  “Sì, certo,” the man replied, allowing himself to be shown to the door. Just as he was stepping out into the evening twilight, he turned in Julietta’s direction and gave her a sly wink.

  She rushed up the stairs and emptied the contents of her stomach into the water basin next to her bed. Moments later, as she sat on the mattress, tears sliding down her cheeks, she heard her father’s footsteps on the other side of her closed door.

  His tremulous voice penetrated the cracks. “Bambina, I know he is older than you would like, but in all other ways, he is an excellent choice. You will be well taken care of. He is the most prosperous man in Vinci.”

  She scrambled off the bed and flung open the bedroom door. “You think it appropriate to marry your daughter off to a man thirty years her elder? He’s older than you! How could you do this to me?”

  Tears sprang into her father’s eyes. She was unmoved by them.

  “Be reasonable. You must have a husband, and we can no longer be choosy, thanks to your clumsiness.”

  The words felt like a slap, which was what she needed at that moment. She knew what must be done, and she would do it before any binding document could be signed.

  With narrowed eyes, she gazed at her father. “Very well,” she said, shutting the door in his face.

  She listened, pressing her ear against the rough wood, then sighed with relief when he shuffled away.

  Her gaze took in the details of her tiny space now: grandmother’s patchwork quilt tucked neatly around the edges of her bed; a dented brass oil lamp flickering on a hand-me-down table, entirely too cheerful for her mood; a satin box stacked in a corner along with her sewing and embroidery implements. She took three quick steps, then lifted the lid. Golden lamplight reflected off the metal shears.

  Their familiar weight took on a new significance.

  ***

  Julietta didn’t need to see her reflection in her mother’s polished metal vanity to know how frightful she looked. Corto’s expression said it all. He was sitting next to a row of medicinal plants. She lowered herself carefully – the wounds on her face would bleed if she moved too vigorously – until she sat cross-legged beside him on the ground.

  “Mio dio! What has happened to your beautiful face? What have you done?”

  She was afraid he might weep. She couldn’t bear it if he did. No tears from him. Not from her Corto.

  “I have freed myself,” she said. The words gave her courage.

  She told him the story of how she had further mutilated herself after Rizzo presented a marriage offer. Told him how furious her father was and how she had covered her grin when he tore up the freshly drafted contract before her eyes. Signor Rizzo will tolerate a missing tooth, but not the nightmare that is now my daughter’s face. His own had been crimson with anger.

  “So it worked,” Corto whispered.

  “It did.”

  “Was it worth it? Your freedom? Your independence?”

  “I don’t think I can answer that. Not yet.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’ll begin sewing Signora Moretti’s gown.”

  And that is what Julietta did. For the next two years, she labored long days with little sleep. Her back and arms ached constantly, and her fingers grew calloused and rough. But her face healed well, despite the extensive damage she had wrought. Still, the village children and even some of the adults had begun to call her the Dreadful Seamstress of Vinci. It was a moniker she detested, but instead of fighting it, she incorporated it into a professional mystique. She had taken to cloistering herself in her room to avoid being seen. When she ventured out to deliver orders or purchase fabrics, she wore a hood and tied a silken scarf over her face so that only her sapphire eyes showed. Rumors circulated that she dabbled in the black arts, so inexplicably beautiful were her gowns. Thus her success was further propelled.

  All the fashionable ladies wanted dresses created by the Dreadful Seamstress.

  Her father had stayed angry for months, but as the money trickled in, then flowed like a rain-swollen river, he relented. She thought she now detected traces of admiration when he looked at her.

  He could never look at her long, though.

  She was sitting in her room, working on a new commission, when she heard the shop bell ring below, then Corto’s voice calling up the stairs.

  “Julietta! Are you up there?”

  He was no longer the short, odd boy she had befriended years ago. He was now a tall, gangly, odd young man with facial hair sprouting in irregular patches punctuated by a smattering of pimples. He would never be handsome, her Corto, but he didn’t need to be. He possessed a gift from God. She realized with a sinking feeling why he was here now.

  She opened her door and called him in.

  “This is where you do it? It seems such a humble setting for such a famous – or is it infamous? – personage,” he said, drawing her in for a quick hug.

  “Yes, this is my lair where all manner of sorcery conjures the beautiful clothing worn by all the stylish ladies. In addition to a lot of hard work. Look at my fingers!”

  “They’re appalling. Perhaps they’ll distract from your face.”

  Her scars had become a joke between them. The teasing was a game, but it held therapeutic benefits as well. She no longer cringed when she gazed upon her reflection.

  “I know why you’re here,” she said. “You’re leaving for Florence. It’s time for your apprenticeship with Andrea del Verracchio, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I admit I’m excited. I leave in the morning, and I wanted to tell you goodbye. I will miss you so. You are my best friend.”

  “And you are mine.”

  “Will you come visit me? Florence is only fifty kilometers away. You can easily make the trek in two days.”

  She nodded. “If father will allow it. He’s so happy with the windfall my business has brought to our household, I doubt he would deny me anything.”

  “You have achieved your goal of autonomy.”

  “As much as is possible for a fifteen-year-old female.”

  “Be at peace, Julietta. You have gained much these past two years. Your future is under your control.”

  “I have lost much as well.”

  “Do you regret it?” he said softly, touching her face affectionately with his long, elegant fingers.

  Her smiles were small and tight these days, a result of the painful months of healing as well as knowing how macabre she looked. But when she grinned now at her friend’s question, it was broad and sincere.

  “No regrets. Not even the smallest one. Farewell, Co
rto. I shall miss you terribly.”

  “Farewell, my dear friend, the Dreadful Seamstress of Vinci!”

  ***

  Milan, Italy 1497 – Thirty years later...

  “How was your journey, Julietta? Milan is much farther than you’re used to traveling for our visits.” Corto glanced up at her in the doorway. Typical Corto. She hadn’t seen him in five years, and he couldn’t be bothered to stop dabbling with his paints and brushes long enough to embrace her.

  “It was arduous, to say the least. I have news!”

  “Exciting news? Salai, fetch us refreshments,” he said to the dark-haired boy who had answered the door and who gave his master a withering glance before scurrying off.

  “Salai? Why do you call him that?”

  “Because he is a dirty little devil who vexes me on a daily basis.”

  “Those curls are adorable. Is he a servant or apprentice?”

  Corto sighed. “Both, I suppose. The imp has some skill.” He set his brush down and walked toward her. His beard was grayer and longer than it had been five years ago.

  Finally, she got her hug. Peering over his shoulder, she noticed the painting he was working on and gasped.

  “Per l'amor di Dio! Is that a depiction of Jesus and his disciples? It is magnificent!”

  Corto released her and nodded. “It’s called The Last Supper. I’m rather proud of it. The final rendition will be depicted on a wall in the Santa Maria delle Grazie. It’s a commision for Sforza.”

  “The Duke of Milan?”

  “The very one. That version will be much larger, of course.”

  She nodded. Her childhood friend was now the premier artist in all of Italy and beyond. While apprenticing with Verraccio all those years ago, his talent had quickly been recognized. During Corto’s tenure, Verraccio himself had felt so overshadowed by his pupil that it was said he gave up his own career.

  “Let us sit outside. It’s smells like farts in here. I blame the imp,” he said, guiding her out the studio’s doorway, through the sprawling tapestry-laden apartments to a small urban garden. Spring had arrived in Milan, but the fragrant flowers and budding trees did little to quell the city’s stench. The garden was nothing compared to that of Signora Moretti’s country villa, she thought, then felt a wave of sadness. Her friend and mentor had passed several years ago at the impressive age of sixty-seven. Francesca became the largest property owner in Vinci and was still unwed at the time of her death, stubbornly independent to the end.

  Julietta almost wished she could make the same claim.

  “So what is your exciting news?” Corto asked, sipping at the wine Salai had served before disappearing again. The vintage was excellent, a testament to the lucrative nature of Corto’s brilliance. He cherished his fine wines almost as much as his creations.

  She grinned. “I’m married.” Even to her own ears she sounded like a silly schoolgirl.

  “I don’t believe you. After all these years of liberty and all the sacrifices you made to achieve it? Who is he? What is he? Why?”

  She laughed. “One question at a time, my curious friend. Do you remember the man my father first had selected for me?”

  “When we were thirteen? Yes, yes. The middle Cavelli son.”

  “Lorenzo,” she smiled again.

  “You are smitten! Not only are you married, a circumstance I never expected to see, you are also in love with your husband.”

  “I am. Think about the irony. If I hadn’t been so determined to win my independence all those years ago, my appearance would be normal now, and I would have likely lived a happy life. Lorenzo is a wonderful man, kind and devoted. He relishes being the husband of the Dreadful Seamstress, and he admires my accomplishments. He says I am the most extraordinary woman he has ever known. Also,” she said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, “he says he can see past my scars to the beautiful woman within. He loves that I am not vain in my looks, nor boastful of my success. I think that’s rather remarkable for a man.”

  “I love all those things about you, too, Julietta. And I loved you first!” he added, clearly happy for her, but also a little jealous.

  “I know. Oh, Corto. I have the best of all worlds. Lorenzo doesn’t meddle in my business affairs, nor does he expect me to perform menial domestic tasks.”

  “No pewter polishing? No rearranging of the linens?”

  “None of that. I have been content with my decisions, and I am profoundly so with this one, too.”

  He stood and kissed her cheek. The scars had faded after all this time, resembling the faint veins of an oak leaf held against the sun – a subtle tribute to her resolve.

  “Words ellude me.” He was overcome with emotion.

  She kissed the cheek above the graying beard. “I know, Corto. I know.”

  “If you hadn’t done those things...to your tooth and to your face...you would never have become the exceptional woman you are today. And you have achieved humility, something I struggle with on a daily basis.”

  “It’s easy to be humble when you’re not the most brilliant person in Italy.”

  “That reminds me, I have something to show you. Salai! Fetch my charcoals. The ones of the flying machine!”

  The In Between

  Julietta awoke in a black void. She constructed a mouth, then whispered, “I’m back in the In Between.”

  The memories of her most recent life flood into her consciousness. She remembered how this part worked and created a comfortable setting for the inevitable discussion with Sarah.

  She closed her eyes and imagined the enchanting garden of Signora Moretti’s villa – the feathery leaves of the cypress trees; the nearby bubbling fountain; the fragrant, warm air on her skin. When she opened her eyes again, the void had been delegated to the perimeter, and she sat in a chair beneath those soft branches. She glanced down where her lap should be and saw only the wooden slats of the seat. She concentrated, remembering her recent appearance, then watched her legs emerge, covered in her favorite azure brocade. When sewing only for herself the last few years, she had created one of her most stunning gowns from the expensive fabric. Self-indulgent, yes, but after a lifetime of making others feel beautiful, it had been her turn at the end.

  The empty space in the chair next to her gradually became denser. She knew what was happening and closed her eyes again, anticipating the form Sarah would choose.

  When she opened them, her beloved childhood friend sat beside her.

  “Hello, Corto-Sarah.” Julietta felt the tug of her scars when she smiled at her Spiritual Guide. Or angel. Or whatever she was.

  “Hello, Julietta. It’s lovely seeing you again. How did it go? Did you learn about Creativity and Humility?” It was Sarah’s voice coming from Corto’s mouth. Under different circumstances, the effect might have been unsettling. Here, it felt normal.

  “I believe I did.”

  “Tell me all about it.”

  “I learned about Creativity through my dressmaking and also through Corto’s example. I think the juxtaposition of our two talents – mine small, his enormous – was particularly effective. One doesn’t have to be Leonardo da Vinci to be creative. There are many smaller ways to express it as well.”

  “What else?”

  Julietta thought for several moments. “I learned about Humility when I transitioned from pretty to ugly. Being an unattractive female wasn’t easy in a time when women were prized for their beauty and little else. I would see the expressions on the faces of the villagers when I ventured out, before I began covering my scars.”

  “What did those expressions reveal?”

  “Disgust. Revulsion. Hatred, even. Before my disfigurement, everyone was pleased to see the pretty little Julietta scamper by. After, my ugliness almost seemed like an affront to them...as if my very existence offended them.”

  “Sadly, that reaction is not rare, especially within the less enlightened segment of humankind.”

  “I think I got a bonus on this one, too.” The
notion had occurred to her just before her spiritual guide had fully materialized.

  “How interesting. Please explain.”

  “In my quest to learn Humility, I also learned about Independence and Personal Liberty. Living during the Renaissance, I was exposed to a wealth of creative genius. Many of the world’s greatest painters and sculptors were producing masterpieces practically every week, and there was an explosion of scientific advancement as well, which is another form of Creativity, yes? You were wise to propose this time period. Despite all that imagination and ingenuity, it was a horribly oppressive time during which to be a female. Male privilege existed at every level of society, from peasants to kings. It was the female’s burden to acquiesce to her husband, her father, her brother or uncle, merely because she wasn’t born with a penis. How clever to suggest incarnating as a woman this time. I would never have experienced all that I did if I had been a man.”

  Corto-Sarah smiled as she transitioned back into the original Sarah. But now, instead of the lavender track suit, she wore one of Julietta’s most spectacular gowns, the very one which had sheathed Francesca Moretti during that dear lady’s burial.

  “I love it when a bonus lesson happens. In my line of work, that’s one of the most thrilling perks,” Sarah said.

  “Do you think I can go forward, then? Did I get everything right?”

  “Do you think you got everything right?”

  Julietta leaned back in the chair. She brushed her fingertips against the soft cypress leaves; took in a deep lungful of air that smelled of rich soil, herbs, and wildflowers; gazed at the wispy clouds scuttling in the blue sky between the tree limbs; thought about the seventy-one years she had recently spent on Earth.

  “Yes. I think I got everything right.”

  “Very well. What will you tackle next?”

  “Let’s do Responsibility and Accountability with a Moral Restraint Rider.”

  “Excellent. I have some ideas on that one,” Sarah added.