The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  “Lo zio?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “But he can hardly see and he can’t hear without his trumpet.”

  “He is good and kind and loves you as he loves himself,” Papa replied firmly.

  When the old man was told the plan, he jumped as if stung by a bee, clasped his hands to his breast, and cried, “Ferrara mia!” with such a mixture of joy and pathos that there was no way to tell whether he was happy or sad to be going to the place.

  When Papa brought out from the warehouse a monk’s habit and an ebony cross for him to wear as a foil against highwaymen, the old man donned it readily, twirled about daintily as if quite delighted with his new identity, and then suddenly clapped his hands to his breast and cried, “May God forgive me for my sin!”

  My protection against thieves and rapists was a boy’s outfit concocted out of odds and ends of Jehiel’s wardrobe. Although two years younger than I, he was a sturdy boy almost up to my height, so that his shirt and trunk hose fitted me without a pin. But I refused the generous offer of the red borzacchini which he had kept with him long after he outgrew them. Knowing his great affection for those elegant boots, I contented myself with a pair of rough clogs that some poor boy’s mother had left in pawn with us and never returned to claim.

  Thus disguised, Zio Zeta and I were mounted on a pair of mules one wintry morning bound for the southern terminus of the Reno canal. Lo zio jogged along the rutted road without a word of complaint. But when we reached the mooring dock at Corticella, he slid down off his mule, crawled onto the deck of the closest barge, and collapsed like a bag of bones, hugging the coal burner on the deck and refusing to eat, drink, even to relieve himself or move his bowels.

  In vain did the barge captain warn him that we still needed many souls to fill the craft and that we might be moored there all the balance of the day — or longer. “You had better take refuge at the inn with the other passengers, Signore Padre,” he advised Zio respectfully. “There is a warm fire at the inn.”

  But the old man refused to move. “No inns, for God’s sake,” he moaned, and curled himself up even tighter in his cassock.

  By a stroke of good fortune, this standoff was interrupted when a pair of those religious women called Poor Clares who follow the teachings of Saint Francis approached the barge seeking passage along the canal. Now, with them to augment the group of pilgrims waiting at the inn, we constituted a party sufficient to fill up the vessel to the captain’s satisfaction.

  Taking lo zio for a monk on account of his dress, these two nuns instantly dedicated themselves to the care of the old man, insisting that he share the soup they kept hot on a brazier and later covering him with one of their own blankets when the northern winds reached down into our bones.

  At the sluiceways, when we were all forced out of the barge so that it might be towed through the locks by a team of horses — there seemed to be several more of these than I remembered from the previous time — the two sisters carried old Zio up and down the banks, an act of compassion I remind myself of when I become outraged by the bigots and seducers who display the underside of Christian monasticism.

  There was no difficulty filling empty seats on the next lap of the journey. The slim barques that ply the shallow marshes cannot accommodate more than six on their two boards, and those are made sittable only by squeezing the passengers together like peas in a pod. Heedless of the shouts of the bargemaster, lo zio’s guardian angels bundled him aboard the sturdiest of the crafts and laid him down for a nap across the full horizontal expanse of one of the boards, leaving the other for themselves and me. Then, having said their beads, they wrapped their shawls around themselves and went off into a snooze, leaving the pilot furious but helpless to dislodge the old man from three paying seats and leaving me to my fancies.

  That Duke Ercole d’Este had remembered me kept intruding on my thoughts. If he remembered me, he must be kindly disposed toward me. If kindly disposed, he might be amenable to an entreaty . . .

  A plan began to take shape in my mind. I would contrive somehow to petition the Duke on Papa’s behalf. I would move his capricious heart and get him to force Papa’s reinstatement as he had mine. Quite taken with the role of Papa’s rescuer, I began to compose an oration that would capture the Duke’s attention with classical allusions and, at the same time, win his fickle heart with flattery as I had seen Papa do.

  I must compare him with gods and heroes. But which ones? Caesar? Pompey? Hercules? Of course. Ercole is our Italian transposition of Hercules. That god was his namesake. Now what I needed was an instance of the god’s clemency; better yet, a moment at which he set himself against the world to right a terrible wrong. But all I could dredge up was a printed image seen fleetingly in some marketplace or other of the nude god posed between two half-dressed women, making his choice between pleasure and duty. Hardly apt for my purpose.

  I never did find a suitable analogy. But the search through memory served to hold my attention for the journey through the bog, and before I knew it, we were being borne along the icy ruts of the road into Ferrara on a litter with runners — a sled.

  It had been a frigid journey, especially the least piece on the sled, but no chillier than the welcome that awaited us when we arrived at the Casa dei Rossi after almost three days of arduous travel. We were hungry and stiff with cold. But neither food nor a warmer were offered by La Nonna’s steward, Giorgio. Taking his cue from his mistress, old Giorgio would do his duty by us but nothing more. So I crawled under the silk coverlet racked by hunger pangs and flooded with pity for poor little Graziella, scorned by her family, cast off like a leper without even a crust of bread for her supper.

  Curling myself up into a tight ball, I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself to sleep. But before Morpheus responded to my summons I heard a rustle, then a soft pitter-patter, then a whispered shush, and there in bed beside me was a little girl I had never seen before.

  “I am your cousin Penina,” she introduced herself. “I have brought you something to cheer you. Courage must be rewarded.” Whereupon she held out a handful of sweetmeats, all of which she fed me without reserving even one for herself. Younger than I by two years, she had recently been adopted by my grandparents, she told me. “So now I am your cousin,” she informed me. “But, if you agree, we can also be friends.” And friends we became.

  She had heard horrific reports of the rigors of the journey through the Ferrarese marshes — told with relish, she informed me, by various members of the famiglia. “They do not wish you well, Grazia,” she reported sadly. “But you will have your day when you ride through Ferrara on that elephant and leave them on the ground gaping.”

  Elephant? Nowhere in the letter of invitation had there been mention of an elephant. But Penina assured me that the Jewish queen would indeed ride on one.

  “The Duke insisted upon it,” she explained. “Years ago the Jews of Ferrara contributed some biblical queen on an elephant to his wedding procession and he wants nothing less for his son. Your grandfather ordered the beast all the way from Constantinople, together with its keeper,” she added. Dio! What was I in for?

  Penina did not stay long with me that first time, but after that came to me every night, often carrying with her some tidbit from the kitchen. How she contrived to smuggle the stuff out I cannot imagine — La Nonna’s larder was better policed than the podesta’s prison. But Penina was full of spirit, and having picked me as a friend, stuck by me at great risk to her position in the famiglia. La Nonna, who had taken her in on a whim when her parents died, was quite capable of throwing her out if she did not suit the role of the grateful orphan.

  Between my grandmother and me the old war continued as before. This time what brought us into contention was my costume. La Nonna and her ladies had strong opinions on color, trimming, accessories, caps, hair arrangement, and every other aspect of female fashion. Just as it should be, since none of them had ever been seen in anythi
ng but black bombazine since the day she was married — a fashion experience which fitted them uniquely to select a costume for a queen.

  What they concocted was a shapeless, dowdy outfit in shiny gray satin which they thought to spice up by tacking onto it hundreds of little red satin bows. I knew that this mismatched creation would make me into a figure of fun. And when I asked to see myself in a mirror, my worst fears were confirmed. All that was needed to complete the picture of a fool was a cap and bells. And so I informed my grandmother.

  The aspersion on her taste sent her spine — never notably pliant — into a spasm of rigidity. “This is the garment you will wear, my dear,” she informed me in her most steely tone.

  “No, I will not, Grandmother,” I replied, equally obdurate. “For it is tasteless and vulgar and stupid and silly and makes me look more a fool than a queen.”

  There we stood, centurions of the sewing room, neither willing to give a cubit. Luckily, at that moment, a referee appeared, none other than Maestro Ambrogio, our old dancing master, who had been hired for the day to give me lessons in how to turn and make a low bow without tripping over my train. He took one look at me and erupted into a flourish of giggles, pointing at me as if I were a buffoon in a clown suit. I could not have coached him better for my purpose.

  “What is this apparition supposed to represent, Madonna Sarabella?” He inquired between hoots.

  “It is the Jewish queen, maestro,” La Nonna replied sternly, drawing herself up into her most regal attitude, the one where her ample breasts pointed straight out like twin bombarde.

  But the maestro had seen too many displays of female armamentaria to be intimidated. “This girl is supposed to be a queen, madonna, not Punchinello,” he admonished her.

  “But we thought the satin would do . . .” I had never seen my grandmother so out of countenance.

  “Well, you people can practice whatever foolish economies you wish.” The maestro dismissed her creation with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “But don’t be surprised if the Duke has you all on the rack for mocking him with this travesty. He expects something rich and regal from the Jews. Pearls, he said. And velvet. And jewels out of your strongboxes, fit for a queen.”

  A new costume was begun that very day, the most beautiful gown I had ever seen. Where they found the stuff to make it, I do not know. It was a velvet so thick that even the February cold did not penetrate its great heft. And the fur that lined my cloak was the most excellent miniver. They piled gold on me until I felt faint from the weight of it. And then finished by placing on my head a tiara so thickly studded with emeralds and carnelians that you could hardly see the gold mounting beneath.

  But all this splendor was laid upon me so coldly and with such disdain that had it not been for the warmth I drew from Penina, I think I would have perished from the frigidity of my surroundings in spite of my miniver cloak.

  Fortunately I had little time for hurt feelings. I had to learn how to walk in a train almost two meters long without tripping myself, how to curtsy to the floor in a very low-cut dress without exposing myself immodestly, and most important, how to mount and dismount an elephant.

  At our first meeting, the beast, whom Penina and I named Sarabello on account of his resemblance to my grandmother, proved no challenge to my courage. A special pen had been set aside for him just north of the city gates and there he sat on his huge haunches, his eyes closed as if in a stupor, refusing to budge. If elephants can be said to have moods, I would have said Sarabello was morose. Penina surmised that he missed his mother. Whatever the cause of it, Sarabello demonstrated a most peaceable nature that first day. His keeper, a strange little brown man in a huge white turban, had him already saddled in anticipation of my arrival. Now all I had to do was mount the beast, sit balanced on his back under a baldacchino for a few moments, then dismount.

  Eyes firmly shut, I ascended the ladder that my cousin Asher, appointed as my groom, balanced against the beast’s side. I was terrified. However, the ascent was accomplished without incident. Then began the effort to force the beast to stand up so that I might get the feel of riding him. In vain did his little keeper prod and poke him. No reaction from the beast. As a last resort, the keeper picked up a pail of water standing nearby and threw it full force into the elephant’s face. All it got him was a high toot and a blast of wind. The beast had made up his mind to stay put and no power on earth, it seemed, would make him move.

  With a shrug, the keeper beckoned me to descend. I did so thankfully. And no sooner had my feet touched the ground than Sarabello slowly but not ungracefully raised his great bulk into a standing position. Whereupon all those assembled applauded wildly and the elephant curtsied daintily. A charming performance but not one to bolster my hopes for the actual wedding procession two days hence.

  The day of the wedding dawned clear and very cold. As a concession to the weight of my costume, I was carried on a litter to my rendezvous with the elephant. My grandmother and her ladies and several of the parnassim walked behind me in a solemn procession. Every expression, every look in that morose group foretold disaster. I kept my spirits up by fastening my eyes on the shining countenance of my friend Penina, who had vowed to follow the procession on foot for its entire length.

  Finally we reached the appointed place. Once again my cousin Asher took hold of the ladder to balance it up against the side of the elephant so that I might mount. But this day, our beast was disinclined to make himself agreeable. With one tremendous throw of his huge body, he shunted the ladder to the ground. And then, as if to make his intention clear, he smote it into splintered sticks with one stamp of his great foot.

  I saw myself lying dead on the Ferrarese cobbles, thrown down by this ferocious jungle creature and trampled by him — just as the ladder had been — before anyone had a chance to drag me to safety . . . if, indeed, anyone made the effort, an unlikely possibility since all my famiglia wished me dead.

  I looked to Penina for reassurance. She cast a weak smile in my direction. Even she had lost faith in the enterprise.

  Meanwhile, Asher had been sent off for a new ladder, leaving me to saturate my eyes with the sight of the unruly beast and fill my ears with the raucous trumpeting that filled the air.

  Just then, my attention was arrested by the fast clip-clop of a horse approaching from the direction of the castello. Could this be a messenger from Duke Ercole canceling the appearance of the Jewish queen? Had God taken pity on me?

  When the rider rounded the corner and made straight for me, hope flooded my being. His velvet doublet and heavy golden chain marked him as someone more distinguished than a mere page. And the manner in which he dismounted and strode toward me, straight as a rod, marked him as some sort of knight. Despite my agitation, I also managed to observe that he was very young and that his legs and thighs were most beautifully formed.

  Now he stood before me, this knight, the Este colors streaming from a plaquette pinned to his berretta marked with the initials PG. Every inch the courtier, he thrust one elegantly shod foot forward and, sweeping his cloak behind him, bowed low.

  “Respects, ma’am,” he began. “The Duke sends his best wishes to the Jewish queen for a safe journey atop the beast. And the bride, Madonna Anna, begs her to accept these colors as a token of gratitude for the fine wedding offering.”

  Thereupon, he brought out from under the folds of his cloak a carved wooden box and opened it to reveal ribbons to match his own — one red, one purple, one black, held together by a small gold plaquette in the shape of an elephant.

  “May I?” The young cavalier held out the plaquette with the intention of pinning it to my breast. I had but to lean forward to receive the attention. Would that forward gesture make me appear bold and common to him? For a moment I stood poised on the decision. Then, I chanced to look up and found myself staring directly into his eyes. They were the color of cornflowers, clearer than the most perfect
sapphire stone.

  As they say of such encounters, the world stopped turning at that moment. God knows how long we would have stood there with our eyes locked in embrace had not Sarabello chosen that moment to relieve himself at our feet.

  Jarred into action, the young cavalier neatly sidestepped the cascade and, without waiting for my permission, fastened the colors over my shoulder and across my breast. He managed to avoid looking any longer into my eyes; he also managed to brush the tip of my breast with his hand. Oh, the touch!

  Then, before I had the chance to utter a word, he was off. I watched him stride across the square to remount his jennet and jump directly onto his horse from a standing start. The last impression I had of him was a black velvet berretta streaming ribbons among a shower of copper curls.

  My fears forgotten, I mounted the elephant lightly, as if wafted up by a zephyr, and proceeded to drift through the streets of Ferrara on the back of the beast, oblivious of the tumultuous crowd, the spectacular floats, the gorgeous costumes, and the decorations that transformed Ferrara into a garlanded fairyland. All I heard was the sound made by the beaded fringe of the canopy as it swayed from side to side — a soft repeated click — and all I saw before me was the remembered vision of a pair of cornflower-blue eyes, a slightly off-center nose, and a devil-take-it grin. I passed that ride in a dream of love.

  When the procession reached its destination at the Reggio, darkness was beginning to descend. There I said farewell to Sarabello and swept into the castello on Asher’s arm. Would my Knight of the Este Colors be at the feast? I wondered. Would he speak to me? Would he even recognize me?

  He seemed not to be present at the banquet, a sumptuous repast featuring tables piled with capons, fish, pies, and the most elegant pastries cunningly molded into figures and glazed with colored sugar to resemble polychromes. Nor did I find him in the audience for the masked dancers who entertained the gathering after supper nor among those who crowded the floor for the common dancing. I did, however, recognize the young princess, Isabella, come from Mantova for her brother’s nuptials and looking every inch a marchesana in black velvet — the better to display her infinite pearls. Her head swathed in a huge turban, her hair pulled tight back in the scortino style, she captivated me with her aura, a mixture of the majestic and the exotic.