by Sarah Bower
“I did send for you, you know,” he said, kneading his forehead with his fingers, “but by the time I learned the ship carrying my letter had been wrecked off Corsica it was too late. You had already left. I have tried to tell her but I don’t know if she hears me.”
“I expect the Christians would say she does.” I stooped to kiss his cheek and tasted salt. Closing the door softly behind me, I left him to his tears.
CHAPTER 2
On the ship from Ostia, at first I did not mind being kept below decks in chains, because there was no choice. I was too tired for choice; I wanted nothing but to be relieved of the responsibility of thinking. I was, I suppose, content, though I do not know because I have never understood what contentment is, except an absence—of joy, or sorrow, or ambition, or imagination.
I met Donna Lucrezia only once before my baptism, when my father took me to the great Orsini palace at the foot of Saint Peter’s steps where she lived with her aunt, Adriana da Mila Orsini and Giulia Farnese, who was Donna Adriana’s daughter-in-law but also the pope’s favourite. I was secretly disappointed La Bella Giulia was not present at our meeting, for I was as curious to see her as I was to meet Donna Lucrezia. They said she was as beautiful as Helen of Troy.
We were received in the piano nobile, a room so vast that even a fire big enough to roast an ox, burning in a fireplace of Carrara marble, failed to penetrate its icy elegance. I watched my breath cloud in front of my face as a liveried slave noiselessly closed the double doors behind us and Adriana da Mila beckoned us forward.
She and Donna Lucrezia were seated either side of the fire in upholstered chairs. Donna Lucrezia’s baby son, Rodrigo of Bisceglie, who was then just over a year old, sat between them on a fur rug, playing with a set of wooden dolls dressed as janissaries; the turban of one was unravelling and the baby was chewing its loose end. A black slave girl stood behind Donna Lucrezia’s chair, so still I wondered if she was a statue. Her cheeks were marked with pounce work circles, though she was richly dressed in a proper gown of mulberry silk.
“Perhaps you would not mind waiting there, Ser Sarfati,” said Donna Adriana, waving a jewelled, liver-spotted hand at a bench set about halfway down the length of the room, “while we talk to your daughter.” My father bowed, gave me a little push in the small of my back, and seated himself on the bench. Its leather upholstery creaked; my new kidskin shoes, wet from the puddles in the palace courtyard, squelched softly as I approached the fireplace. I was so nervous I was beginning to sweat despite the cold, and kept my arms pressed tight to my sides and my teeth clenched to stop them chattering. You were so stiff you looked like a puppet, Donna Lucrezia would recall, years later, with a catch of laughter in her voice.
Her expression that morning was stern and rather tired, her high-bridged nose and large, grey eyes red-rimmed as though she had a cold or had been crying. The hand she extended towards me was plump and languid. I took it briefly in mine and bowed, as my father had told me was the custom among well-bred Christians. Her skin was so soft I could hardly feel it, and her extraordinarily white knuckles were dimpled, like a child’s. I then turned to curtsey to Donna Adriana, who inclined her coiffure in my direction with a soft clicking of pearls.
“Well,” said Donna Lucrezia, “but you really are fair, aren’t you. Tell me, is it entirely natural?”
“Yes, madonna.”
She sighed, touching a hand to her own hair, which was caught up in a green silk net scattered with tiny rubies. “Mine used to be that colour. Then it fell out in handfuls when I had Rodrigo, and grew back a shade darker. I have to spend hours with it spread out in the sun now. I have a splendid contraption like a sunhat without a crown, made of copper to speed up the bleaching process. Caterina Sforza gave me a recipe for a concoction of saffron, cinnabar, and sulphur she swears by, when she was Duke Valentino’s…guest last year, but it makes the head stink foul, as you can imagine. You may sit. Catherinella, a stool.”
I realised the slave was not an ornament as she turned to pick up a low firestool and placed it just behind me. The lining of my nose began to tingle. I fancied I could hear Mariam’s insistent whisper: “Sneeze, child, to ward off the devil.” I cannot sneeze in front of these ladies, I told myself. Better the devil than to be rejected by Donna Lucrezia and have to face my father’s disappointment. With a discreet sniff, I sat, folding my hands in my lap, fixing my gaze on them to avoid staring at the two women in their silks and furs and glittering jewels.
“Tell me how your instruction progresses,” Donna Lucrezia resumed. “I find it particularly gratifying when one of your race comes to Christ, for after all, He was a Jew.”
“I hope I am a good student, madonna. I have learned the Apostles’ Creed and the sacraments, and of course my…the Jews also have the commandments of Moses.”
“And can you recite Our Lord’s Prayer?”
“Yes, madonna. Pater noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…”
“Excellent. You have some Latin.”
“And also a little Greek, madonna.”
“And Spanish, I suppose?”
“I’m sorry, madonna. I was six years old when we left Spain. I no longer remember the language.” Though sometimes, still, I dream in it, in the Castilian of a six-year-old child, doubly distant from who I am today.
“I was born here, but we have always spoken our own language among ourselves. My family is of the Valencian nobility.”
A note of reproof in her voice made me feel the need to justify myself. “My father thought it important for us to practice our Italian, to blend into our new surroundings. And I do not think we would understand one another in Spanish anyway, madonna, for my family is from Toledo, so you are Catalan and we Castilian.”
“Is that so? I am afraid I am not very clear on the geography of the Spains, especially as they now seem to be everywhere, since the discoveries of Ser Colon.” Her tone was chilly. Donna Adriana’s pearls clicked. A slight creaking of the leather bench where my father sat told me I had overstepped the bounds of propriety, but though the thought made my heart beat faster, in my mind I did not care. I was there because my father wanted it, not for myself.
“You know the Romans call us marrano whenever we do something which displeases them? That is ironic, is it not, that we, the family of the Holy Father, should be branded secret Jews? Perhaps we might speak to one another in Hebrew, eh girl?”
There seemed to be no reply I could make that would not be offensive either to Donna Lucrezia’s family or my own. Then, suddenly, she smiled. Her smile transformed her; it seemed to light her from the inside rather than hang on her face like a picture put up to hide a crack in the wall. It made you believe in the goodness of her heart.
“Tell me,” she said. “Do you know Petrarch?”
From bad to worse. I did know Petrarch, a little, from the much-thumbed copies of some of his verses handed round in secret among the girls at Santa Clara, but with my father sitting behind me, I was wary of admitting it. On the other hand, if I failed to give the lady an honest reply, she would never consider me suitable for her household, and I would disappoint all my father’s plans for me.
“And Dante, of course.” That was a relief. Dante was far more worthy, if not to be recommended too soon before bed. I opened my mouth to reiterate one of my teachers’ comments on the religious symbolism of the poet’s love for Beatrice, but before I could speak, she continued, “‘Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate,’” with a tight little laugh which drew me to glance at her face. She intercepted my look as she raised her eyes to her aunt, who gave a little cough which sounded more like a warning than an obstruction of the throat. I felt my cheeks burn. My father’s disapproval seemed to bore into my back. On no account, he had told me, must you look so great a lady as Donna Lucrezia in the eye; it will be accounted the height of rudeness.
But as soon as Donna Lucrezia’s gaze met mine, I knew my impropriety did not matter. A spark kindled in her grey eyes. She smi
led. She liked me. I had given her no particular reason to, but she had obviously seen something in me, some like-mindedness to which she could respond.
Just then, the baby, bored by his dolls, started to grizzle. The slave, Catherinella, stepped forward, but Donna Lucrezia waved her away and took the child into her lap, where he grabbed happily at her necklace, gnawing on an emerald pendant the size of a duck egg.
“He has some teeth coming, at the back,” Donna Lucrezia told me.
“Madonna,” I said, emboldened by what I had seen in her eyes. Another cough from Donna Adriana. A sharp intake of breath from my father. I ploughed on. “May I ask you a question?”
“Shall we let this bold young woman ask us a question?” she asked her son. “Why not? Rodrigo says you may, Signorina Esther.”
“What are the duties of a lady-in-waiting, madonna?”
“Why, child, she waits, like any other woman. For a husband, for childbirth, for…”
“You will attend Donna Lucrezia at her will, girl, that is all,” interrupted Donna Adriana.
Believing our interview to be over, I waited to be dismissed, but before any more could be said, the double doors to the room were flung open, ushering in a blast of even colder air which set the flames dancing in the hearth. A messenger wearing a livery quartered in crimson velvet and gold satin strode down the length of the piano nobile as though he owned it. He bowed to the ladies, then handed Donna Lucrezia a parchment, folded and sealed. Her pale face flushed a delicate pink as she tore open the seal and read her letter.
“It is an invitation to dine this afternoon,” she said to her aunt, though her flushed cheeks and shining eyes made it seem like something more. “Of course, we accept,” she told the messenger, who bowed again, and retreated. On his back, as he turned, I saw the letters C E S A R emblazoned in gold thread.
Donna Lucrezia rose and handed her son to Catherinella. “Take him to the nursery. I must go and dress.”
I stood also and waited to be dismissed.
“Your father will hear from us,” Donna Adriana told me.
“No, wait.” Donna Lucrezia turned to me. She looked quite feverish. “Esther, when is your baptism to be?”
“I’m not sure yet, madonna.”
“Then I will have my secretary speak to the dean at Santa Maria del Popolo to set a date. You will receive instruction from my chaplain from now on, and I will stand godmother to you. I should like you to take the name…Donata. Donata Spagnola.”
“Yes, madonna. Thank you, madonna.” I made a deep curtsey, but she waved me away. As I rejoined my beaming father and we were escorted from the room, I heard Donna Lucrezia discussing gowns with her aunt.
***
I should be ashamed to admit this, but dress, rather than the condition of my soul, was the matter which most vexed me as the date set for my baptism grew closer.
Though I had not seen her since that first meeting a month previously, Donna Lucrezia was as good as her word. Her chaplain came daily to our house, edging his way through the courtyard door on the side farthest from the mezuzah, crossing himself and mumbling his prayers as he did so. Little Haim and I used to run up to the loggia on the roof to spy on these furtive arrivals, and my sides would still be aching with laughter when I was summoned to meet Fra Tommaso in the small sitting room where I received my instruction. He was a timid man, more afraid of the Almighty, it seemed, than joyful in His service. But I tried to be a good student, for my father’s sake, and because I could not forget that spark of understanding in Donna Lucrezia’s eyes when she looked at me.
The day before the service was due to take place, the black slave, Catherinella, arrived at our gate, attended by a footman carrying a parcel of yellow silk fastened with ribbons. I could not wait to see what was inside. As soon as the slave had gone, I opened it, there in the vestibule, spreading the silk wrapping over the polished stone floor. I took out a beautiful missal, bound in red leather with silver corners and filigree clasps, then a white lawn baptismal gown, its wide sleeves and hem decorated with gold embroidery a foot deep, its lace collar as fine as cobwebs. To go with the gown was a cloak of white velvet, lined with the fur of winter foxes and with a clasp set with pearls at the neck. Mariam, loitering out of curiosity after she had answered the knock at the gate, gasped at the richness of the gown as I lifted it clear of its wrapping and held it up to the light of the lamps in their bronze wall sconces.
“Be careful, miss. You don’t want to get smoke on it.”
What concerned me, however, was the way the lamplight shone right through the fine lawn. Whatever Donna Lucrezia’s reputation, surely she did not expect me to stand in the church, in full view of clergy and congregation, in a gown as transparent as one of Salome’s veils?
I took the cloak and gown up to my chamber and summoned Mariam to help me, for I had no regular maid of my own. After emptying out the press in which my shifts and underclothes were stored, scattering the rug at my bedside with powdery sprigs of rosemary and lavender so poor Mariam would have to give it an extra beating, I tried on every combination of undergarments I could devise, standing in front of a lamp with my arms stretched out to either side while Mariam scrutinised me for any evidence of the body beneath the clothes. Eventually we settled on two linen shifts and a wool underskirt. I looked rather bulky, but at least I would be warm and my modesty remain unimpeached.
For a long time after Mariam had left me, I remained in my room, studying the different images of myself I could achieve by holding my hand mirror at different angles. My father was right; I had grown like my mother. It was not that I could clearly remember her face after so many years, or the mannerisms my father identified as hers, a way of tugging my hair at the temple and winding it around my finger, or standing with my hands on my hips which Donna Lucrezia would no doubt school me out of. But when I took inventory of my features, my sharp cheekbones and small, straight nose, my jaw that was slightly square and my eyes which were round, though deep set so they did not give the same impression as my brothers’, who looked like a row of staring owls when they were all together, I saw my mother. No, saw is the wrong word. It was more that I recalled her. She hovered behind the reflection in the glass, mouthing words I could not quite read because my own expression of doubt and stubbornness veiled her.
Was Papa right to say she would have approved of what I was doing, or had he lied to convince me? Or perhaps never understood his wife? Well, it was too late now for such speculations. Tomorrow, at morning Mass, the daughter of the pope would take my bird-boned hand in her plump one and lead me into subjection to her father. Tomorrow, Donna Lucrezia would become my mother in the sight of God. I would be washed clean of my sins and the sins of my people; I would become a tabula rasa.
As I was about to begin changing, a gentle, almost shy knock came at my door.
“Who is it?”
“Papa.”
“Come in. I was just…getting changed,” I finished lamely, seeing his expression as he took in the sight of his daughter in her baptismal gown.
“I…er…,” he cleared his throat, “have to dine out this evening, with Fugger’s man. Something to do with rising port duties on pepper coming into Venice. Important, when you think how much pepper we consume. I shall be back late, I expect.”
“You can wake me.” We both knew it would be a long time until we saw one another again. He and my brothers could not come to the church tomorrow, nor could they make social calls to Santa Maria in Portico, and I had no idea how much time or liberty my new duties would leave me, if any.
“I’d rather not.” Coming towards me, he placed his great hands on my shoulders. “You’ll want to look your best tomorrow, no rings under your eyes.”
“It’s not…” my wedding, I almost said.
“It’s good that Donna Lucrezia favours you so. Good for your future. Your mother would be so proud,” he finished, all in a rush as though plunging into a cold bath or swallowing bitter medicine, and before I cou
ld reply he had turned on his heel and was gone, leaving nothing behind but a light scent of the ambergris he used to keep his beard glossy.
I took off my christening garments and laid them on top of the travel chest which would be carried in the morning to the palace of Santa Maria. It was a fine chest, new for the occasion, covered with red Spanish leather and bound with brass. It contained special, cedar-lined compartments for small linen, hair brushes, girdles and shoes, and two trays for gowns. Somewhere in this mix of practical planning and careful craftsmanship lay the soul of Donata Spagnola.
***
Christian baptism is a strange rite. We Jews place a great emphasis on food in the celebration of our faith. We eat our roast lamb with garlic and rosemary and matzoh cakes at Passover, our red eggs and saffron rice on the eve of Shabbat and—my favourite, these, because of their association with Queen Esther—the syrupy orejas de Haman at Purim, their sweetness almost unbearably intense after the three days of fasting. But we do know they are simply made of dough, rolled and curled to resemble a human ear; we do not believe they are somehow magically transformed into Haman’s ears as we eat them. How many ears can one man have, even if he is the most devious and scheming of courtiers who ever listened outside a king’s chamber?
Yet here I was, dizzy from the thick scent of incense and the sickly soprano voices of the boy choristers, washed, oiled, and salted as though ready for the spit. Garish, bleeding saints were everywhere, on walls and ceilings, atop plinths or looming from alcoves. Kneeling before the altar, flanked by Donna Lucrezia and a bishop whose name I cannot now remember, acting as proxy for my other sponsor, Donna Lucrezia’s brother-in-law, Cardinal Ippolito d’Este, I was now expected to consume bread and wine and believe they had been transformed into the body and blood of Christ by some sleight of hand of the priest. I, a Jewess, who had only ever consumed flesh from which all the blood had been washed, who was forbidden even to eat an egg which had blood spots in it. I prayed, not for the Holy Spirit, but that my throat would not contract and cause me to choke.
