Free The Smile by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

together. Is it his habit? “You talked a lot in those days. Or at least you talked a lot that time.”
    I don’t remember talking a lot. I might have said twenty words. But maybe to a ten-year-old boy that was a lot. He’s thirteen now. Only a couple of months older than me. Thirteen, without a mother or a father. I, at least, still have my beloved Papà. But Giuliano does have siblings. Thank the Lord for that. If one of us had to lose both parents, I’m glad it’s him rather than me.
    What a dreadful thought. I’m ashamed of myself. But I can’t help it; thoughts invade on their own.
    â€œDid your brothers come, too?”
    â€œAlas, no. Cardinal Giovanni lives in Rome now. He only came home briefly for my father’s funeral. And Piero, well, he sends his regrets and condolences.”
    â€œGood.” I put my hand to my mouth. I did it again. “I’m so sorry. I should bite my tongue.”
    â€œWhy? All you did was voice your true feelings.”
    â€œNothing excuses rudeness. That’s the kind of behavior that made Mamma worry about me.”
    Speaking of her—saying Mamma aloud—cracks my skull, so the truth of it all seeps in again. Mamma is dead. She won’t come back. My eyes brim with tears.
    Giuliano looks away.
    I cried through the funeral Mass, which was all right, because I was hidden behind the black veil. But that’s enough. I should be finished with crying. Mamma would want me to be a dignified hostess. It shows strength of spirit and good breeding to hold in tears at times like this. Besides, crying means I can’t talk. And I want to talk with Giuliano. I swallow again and gather myself. “Did you come alone, then?”
    â€œAunt Nanina brought me.”
    My eyes smart with embarrassment. “Of course. I wouldn’t have expected you to come on your own.” This sounds wrong. I feel confused now. “I mean, that’s what aunts do, they make people . . .”
    â€œNo one makes me do anything. I came of my own accord. To see you, Monna Lisa. To offer comfort.”
    Before I can speak, Giuliano steps partway behind me and jerks his chin toward the other side of the room. A man and woman wend their way through the crowd from Papà to me. I immediately understand: Giuliano’s yielding his place so I can greet these next visitors, who have come to pay their respects.
    Francesco di Bartolomeo di Zanobi del Giocondo and his young wife, Camilla. My ears catch the long string of names but hardly process the words that follow. I want to be talking to Giuliano. There’s something I want to tell him, I realize now. And the realization makes it feel urgent. But I must pay attention. These kind people have come to Mamma’s funeral. I force myself to nod at appropriate moments, to murmur thanks.
    Francesco kisses my hand. Camilla kisses my cheeks. She’s older than me by only a few years. And she’s married to a man probably ten years her senior. A friend of my father’s, in fact.
    I think of Silvia and her hopes to do just what Camilla has done. She wants to entice a husband today, in fact. She wears my old green dress and holds her mouth shut—for we had a frank talk and I told her my fears about her language. She’s determined not to let her tongue expose her social class until after a man is already smitten with her.
    And all this is going on at Mamma’s funeral. But it doesn’t bother me. Rather, it seems a natural part of the sadness. For it’s a widower Silvia hopes to lure. Widowers often take young wives. How else can a man provide loving care for his small children when his wife dies? And so many wives die. There’s nothing wrong with such a match.
    All the same, I pity those girls, tied to aging men. I never want to be one of them. I pity this Camilla. And if Silvia succeeds, I’ll pity her. It’s awful, but I can’t help how I feel.
    What is this way