The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  Even in the bloom of her youth Madonna Isabella was never truly beautiful. The Sforza bride had a longer neck than she and a smaller waist. But our Madama far outshone the pallid bride, waxen with fatigue after the long day’s exertions, who approached each step with a deep sigh. By contrast, Madonna Isabella had plainly thrived on the events of the day. The Estes are relentless processionists. Any one of them, even the fat cardinal, is capable of riding a caparisoned horse for leagues on end, tossing out sweetmeats or coins and smiling, always smiling.

  Like most of the Ferrarese who were invited, Asher and I did not presume to dance but only stood by and watched. And at last, I did catch a glimpse of the young knight who had brought me the colors that morning. Seeing him whirl by with this great lady or that, I did not expect him to notice me. But I would have eagerly given ten years of my life — no, twenty — for just one turn around the floor in his arms.

  Beside me, Asher jiggled his foot impatiently. The gaiety and music that fed my fantasy gave him vertigo. Could we not, he pleaded, make our bows to the Duke and go home? The tinge of green that tinted his cheeks spoke eloquently in his cause. I agreed.

  Without much difficulty we found the Duke seated in a robing room, his gouty foot propped up on a stool.

  “Sir . . .” I greeted him with the curtsy I had practiced.

  “Ah, the little Jewess . . . Grazia, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir. And this is my cousin Asher dei Rossi.” Asher managed an unsteady bow.

  “You have done your people proud today, Grazia. You made a courageous queen.” He reached out and patted my head. This was the time to plead for my father. I would never have a better opportunity.

  “Excellency, is it appropriate for me to beg a great favor of you on this happy day?” I asked in my humblest manner.

  “Ask away.”

  “It is about my father, sir. He longs to be restored to the light of your sun.”

  “Daniele’s exile is no doing of mine, child. It is a matter for the Jewish council to settle.”

  Did I sense a lowering of the temperature? No matter. Once begun, I must finish my task. “But your word carries such weight, Excellency,” I continued.

  “You want me to intervene with the Jews for Daniele — is that what this is all about?” His manner was suddenly brusque.

  “Yes, sir.” I took a deep breath and launched into my oration. “It would seem a hard thing to an ordinary man to take the part of one who had injured him as my father injured you, sir. But to men of generosity and greatness of soul such as your Magnificence, it is a natural and easy thing to forgive a crime and to go beyond even that largeness of spirit and befriend the criminal. I beg you, sir, to shower your compassion on my unworthy father.”

  With this, I prostrated myself at his feet and crouched there waiting for his response. It was not long in coming.

  “Get up, girl,” he ordered me gruffly. “You take a great liberty to bother me with such a sordid matter on this happy occasion.”

  “I chose the occasion because I knew that your heart would be full this evening and hoped it might be full even to the overflowing.”

  “Hmm.” He sniffed and looked about. “Full to the overflowing, is it? Where did you learn to speak so glibly?”

  “I speak what is in my heart, illustrissimo,” I answered.

  “You speak what you learned from Cicero,” he corrected me. “Has your father been teaching you Latin?”

  “No sir, Greek. I learned Latin from my tutor before my grandmother . . .”

  “Well, you are quite the little rhetorician, Signorina Grazia.”

  “Rhetoric is cold porridge if it cannot warm the hearts of the hearers,” I answered boldly.

  “Not only a rhetorician but an aphorist as well.” The Duke was smiling once again. Beside me, Asher’s breath was coming in quick, nervous gusts.

  “What ails the boy?” the Duke asked.

  I took a deep breath and asked God’s forgiveness for the nahora I was about to cast upon my poor cousin. “He has a breathing disease, sir. Asthma. A family trait.”

  “Well, in that case, you had better get him home at once and under some warm blankets.”

  I knew I was being dismissed, but could not bring myself to give up on my mission. After a long silence he spoke again.

  “You have brought us much pleasure today, riding on the elephant.” His tone was kindly. “If the decision were mine to make, I would forgive Daniele everything in acknowledgment of his having trained you so well. But I do not interfere in the internal affairs of my Jews.”

  I rose slowly to my feet, desperate for an idea, a ploy.

  “You could bring him back, sir, to perform some special service, just as you brought me here to ride upon the beast . . .”

  For a moment I thought I had reached a place in his heart. But his next words disabused me of that hope. “Unfortunately, my child, there are no more elephants to be ridden.” He leaned over and patted my head. “And so goodnight.”

  As we made our way down the great staircase and across the piazza past the huge equestrian statue of Duke Borso, I recognized the strains of Josquin’s lively “Scaramella.” Quite suddenly, Asher paused, bowed low and took my hand, and, with flushed cheeks and a new-inspirited gait, led me in a dainty galliard around the stone Duke perched on his stone horse above us. And somehow I knew that word of my bold intercession with the Duke would never reach La Nonna’s ears — at least not from Asher’s mouth.

  My journey back to Bologna was not a happy one. Even Duke Ercole’s compliments could not disguise the fact that I had failed to rescue my father. Of what use were my rhetorical flourishes if they could not persuade him to champion my cause? Of what use was my daring if I could not evoke his sympathy? The one bright memory I took away from Ferrara was of the young cavalier I dubbed my Knight of the Este Colors. And even he was driven into the shadows by the sense of failure that followed in the wake of the Jewish queen.

  14

  Although my absence from Bologna was brief, it was long enough to provide a fresh look at the familiar when I returned; more precisely, a fresh look at my father.

  Most striking was the contrast between Papa and Zio Zeta. The day after we arrived home, old Uncle Zeta was back at his hearthside post looking neat and trim after a walk to the barber’s. Somehow he survived those frigid hours on the deck of the barge. And here he sat dipping his gnarled, blue-veined fingers into his food and carrying each morsel to his mouth with the aplomb of a courtier. Whereas when Papa used his fork — an old affectation of his — bits of food fell onto his lap, which he often did not even bother to brush off.

  Furthermore I noticed with shame that there was dirt under Papa’s fingernails. And when he bent forward, his lucco showed a greasy rim around the collar. Gradually, without my being aware of it, my elegant papa had been turning into a ragpicker.

  At least a part of the answer was to be found in the wine barrel. Even before our departure for Ferrara, Papa had taken to absenting himself from the banco on the occasional afternoon. Now, he almost never came back to his seat behind the money-changing table after dinner. Our afternoon lessons petered out. Supper became a miserable thing, since by then even I could not ignore the thickness of his speech.

  One day after dinner, without saying a word, Papa handed me the heavy iron ring that held the keys to the front door, to the warehouse, and to the ironbound strongbox that sat against the back wall of the little banco. Inside that strongbox lay the ten thousand ducats that guaranteed our condotta for the next five years. He had entrusted to me the very life of the business, an awesome responsibility, but not without its compensations.

  I set out at once to survey my domain. It was a wondrous place, that warehouse, lit only by the glints of sunlight that sneaked in through the chinks between the heavy wall planks, and festooned with booty like the hold of a pirate shi
p. There I stood, mistress of it all — baskets and boxes and trunks overflowing with silks and ribbons and chains and velvet-covered breviaries and coarsely bound printed books and boots and hats and cloaks and towels and sheets and balls and ropes and flowing curtains and embroidered pillows in every hue.

  My eye fell upon an object suddenly illuminated by a glint of the sun — red and covered with stones. Mesmerized by its brilliance, I went toward it and discovered it to be a red leather belt, embossed and embroidered in gold and plastered with green, amber, and blue stones. Papa’s training enabled me to tell at a glance that the leather was worn, the “gold” thread of the embroidery was shot through with telltale rust, and the stones, alas, made of glass. But the knowledge of its relative worthlessness in no way diminished its charm for me. I had to have it.

  I reached for the ticket. “Donna Claretta,” it read. Beside her name was written the expiration date of the pledge: 10 March 1491. My own birth date, only four days hence. I tried the belt around my waist. It fitted perfectly.

  Each day after that I made the trip to the warehouse to assure myself that the girdle had not somehow slipped through my fingers. But it remained safe on its hook, shooting out colored rays like a corona, and on the day of my birth, it reverted to the banco, a gift to me from the gods.

  From that day forward, I was never seen without it around my waist. As if to enhance its importance, I took to hanging from it a small scarsella such as I had seen the ladies wear at the Este wedding; and I kept a few bolognini in the little purse so as to make a nice jingle-jangle when I moved. I subsequently added one final piece of affectation: a small bit of linen to be used as a fazzoletto. This I waved about languidly with what I hoped was a ladylike air, putting it to my nose from time to time to dab daintily or pressing it to my mouth to spit in as I had seen my mother do.

  Whereas previously I had aspired to a neat respectability in my appearance, I now fell into fantasy, slipped into it unknowingly, much as I daresay Papa had slipped into squalor. With the warehouse stores under my control, I ransacked the place for any bit of finery or fluff that lay there abandoned and took to wearing two, then four, then five rings and a pearl necklace that anyone could have known at a glance was concocted entirely out of paste.

  Each afternoon, I took my seat behind the money-changing table, adorned by my many rings and my jeweled belt, and from my dais dispensed coins to this poor wretch or refused the pledge of that one. In some strange sense, I actually became the Jewish queen, with a clerk to do my bidding and no one to say me nay. Only one element of the picture was missing: a handsome and faithful courtier. And that requisite was very soon supplied by bountiful Fortuna. I cannot remember if it was sunny or cloudy that morning or if the banco was full or empty. If there were clients around they faded into oblivion the moment I caught sight of those sky-blue eyes.

  He entered the banco clad in the sober garb of a student, come to borrow a few ducats until the end of the university term. No horse. No plumed velvet berretta. No initialed plaquette. But I knew him at once. And he knew me.

  “As I live, it is the Jewish queen ruling the roost in Bologna,” he observed the moment he saw my face.

  My mouth opened to riposte but no words came out.

  “What has happened to your elephant, Sheba?” he asked lightly. “I hardly knew you without him beneath you.”

  “He is back at the pyramids, sir,” I gulped, then added, still breathless, “Resting.”

  “Were the wedding festivities too much for him then?” he inquired with mock courtesy.

  “I fear so,” I replied.

  “I am saddened to hear of the fate of your elephant,” he went on in the same tone. “For I did think him a handsome specimen . . . almost as worthy to grace the princess’s wedding as his rider.”

  Barely sixteen years of age, he already knew how to turn a pretty compliment. But I, at thirteen, did not know how to accept one. I simply reddened and busied myself with extricating my fazzoletto from the scarsella at my waist. Perhaps if I blew my nose he might credit my weak voice to a malady of the chest.

  But when I had managed to get out the wretched cloth and cough into it, the effect was quite the opposite from what I had intended.

  He drew back from the table and inquired suspiciously. “What is the purpose of that rag, Jewess?”

  Stung by his insolence, I was also made bold by it. My shyness forgotten, I replied angrily, “This is no rag, sir. This is a fazzoletto.”

  “I care not for the name but for the purpose,” he answered impatiently. “Tell me true, do you put a Jewish curse on me when you wave it in my eyes?”

  The idea of myself as a Jewish witch so diverted me that I burst out laughing. “It is meant to wipe the nose, sir, and nothing more.”

  He stepped a step closer to the table.

  “But why the rag?” he asked, still not satisfied.

  “Because certain fastidious persons prefer not to wipe their noses on their sleeves,” I explained. “This fazzoletto is a civilized thing, sir.”

  But I could tell from his eyes that he continued to harbor suspicions of the thing. So, taking my courage into my hands, I walked around from behind the counting table and placed myself nose to nose with him, so close that there was barely room for a hair between us. Then, staring at him straight, I asked, “Tell me, sir, do I look like a witch to you?”

  The ploy worked. He threw back his head and began to laugh. “In truth you do,” he answered cheerfully. “A Gypsy witch. But I do not believe you would harm me.”

  A Gypsy witch! Was that what I appeared in my finery? To mask my hurt at this unintended insult, I went straight to the business at hand.

  “Now then,” I began in the honeyed tone I had often heard my father use when dealing with a highborn client, “how can we serve you today, young gentleman?”

  In answer, he placed a large, cloth-covered packet on the table and explained as he untied the strings, “I wish to leave these books in pawn with you. I have used up all my allowance and am awaiting a fresh remittance from my lord father.”

  The bantering manner was gone now. When it comes to money, patricians never jest.

  Taking my cue from him, I set about to examine the merchandise for telltale signs of rot and misuse the way Papa had taught me. As I thumbed through the vellum leaves in search of tears, stains, and mold, the words jumped off the page:

  Come Lesbia, let us live and love,

  Nor give a damn what sour old men say.

  The sun that sets may rise again

  But when our light has sunk into the earth

  it is gone forever . . .

  Who was the author of this marvelous verse? I turned to the frontispiece. Catullus: Poesia, a work forbidden to all virtuous women for fear that its contents would overheat our blood.

  With great reluctance I tore myself away from the Roman poet and directed my attention to the second volume, a smaller book, not illuminated but copied onto fine vellum with an elegant hand.

  “But this is your Latin grammar,” I exclaimed upon reading the title page.

  “So it is,” the young man replied cheerfully.

  “How will you study without it?” I asked.

  He rubbed his chin and furrowed his forehead. Apparently, he had not foreseen that predicament.

  “You must not place this book in pawn,” I ordered him, quite unconscious of the impropriety of my address, not to mention my lack of business acumen.

  “Oh, must I not now?” he joshed. The dancing devil in his eyes brought me back to myself. Blushing deeply, I begged his forgiveness.

  “What do I have to forgive?” he inquired, the soul of geniality.

  “My impertinence, sir,” I answered prettily. “It is not my place to instruct you. I only know that, for myself, I could not get from one day to another without my Greek grammar, and I know it is the
same in studying any language. The grammar book is the base on which the entire edifice stands.”

  “You are a scholar, then?” he asked.

  “In a small way,” I answered modestly.

  “I find nothing small about Latin and Greek, lady,” he rejoined. “In truth, I find them mountainous and far too elevated for my poor understanding.”

  “It is the same with my brother,” I told him, more familiar as the minutes went on. “He is very clever at science but cannot digest a single Latin conjugation without choking on it.”

  “A man after my own heart.” He smiled.

  “I believe it is often the case,” I ventured, made bold by his amiability, “that boys cannot command the patience for the study of languages, especially active boys such as my brother Vitale, and — yourself.” Here I felt myself blush to a flaming red.

  “Whereas girls . . .” he encouraged me.

  “If girls were given an equal chance, they would take over scholarship in a single generation,” I stated flatly.

  But he did not take my words ill. Instead, he smiled broadly. “I wonder what my teacher will have to say when I tell him that,” he teased.

  “Oh sir, please . . .” I begged. God knows what reprisals might come back to me from my careless boasts.

  “Never fear, little one,” he consoled me. “I would not dream of repeating your remark, not only for your sake but for my own. If I were to make such a statement to my teacher — or even in his hearing — I should surely feel the touch of the rod for it.”

  “He beats you?” I asked.

  “For such an impertinence, he might. For he never tires of warning us against women, their wantonness, inconstancy, and proneness to folly. Women have their being in this world, he claims, for no other purpose than to serve men and to bear them many children.”