Free The Smile by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

of thinking, excusing terrible thoughts on the grounds that I can’t help it? I’ve done it twice in the last few moments. I must be a firmer master of myself. Mamma is no longer here to guide me.
    I turn my attention back to this young Camilla in front of me now and look into her eyes and wonder if she’s happy. She’s plain and a little stooped to one side. Was she desperate? Her husband stated his father’s name, Bartolomeo, and his father’s father’s name, Zanobi, but all he said of her was “Camilla.” He didn’t say her childhood family name—as though being married to him is the only thing about her that matters. Is she without a history, without ties beyond the broad girth of the man whose arm her hand rests on? I have no sense of her. In her eyes is only a steady silence. And below her eyes a bit of a shadow.
    Ah, sleep-deprived. Yes, I remember now: this Francesco recently became a father. Mamma talked only last week about how lucky he was now. For his first wife died in childbirth along with the babe.
    Why don’t her eyes show the delight of having that baby? But how stupid I am. Her eyes wouldn’t twinkle merrily at a funeral. Not while she’s talking to the daughter of the deceased. I must be losing my mind. Even if this young mother is joyfully giddy at her life, she’s too well-bred to show that here. Someone raised her right.
    I should behave like I’ve been raised right. Mamma tried so hard.
    Mamma.
    Mamma was younger than Papà. But her situation was different from this Camilla’s, I’m sure. She didn’t marry him out of desperation. She loved him. She loved him with all her heart. I know she did.
    All this time Francesco has been talking. And I’ve been lost inside my head. I hope I haven’t been rude.
    They move away and I can finally turn to Giuliano. But no. Behind them, waiting his turn, stands Ghirlandaio, the painter who has just finished his work on the choir chapel of Santa Maria Novella. Papà calls him a master of colors, and if there’s anything a silk merchant understands, it’s colors.
    He looks ill. I have the urge to lead him into the kitchen and set him down with a bowl of hearty ribollita —a soup made of layers of bread and beans and red cabbage, topped with onions and olive oil and soaked with beef broth. Silvia made it and brought it over last night. She filled a bowl and put it in front of Papà. She’s so good to him, even knowing he doesn’t like her family. She’s never said as much, but I can tell she knows. I love her for not holding grudges. For simply seeing need and giving.
    Papà ate hardly any of that wonderful soup. There’s plenty left. I should take this painter by the hand and urge him to eat it and grow strong again.
    But my hands hang at my sides, and I don’t speak my crazy urges. I act proper.
    And, finally, I am left in peace. I look over my shoulder at Giuliano.
    He steps neatly from behind me to my side. “As I was saying, I came with my aunt Nanina. And, obviously now, with her husband and his two nieces and the husband of one of them. The men sat outside on the coach bench, but I was stuck inside with three gossiping women who were annoyed with me.” He gives a little apologetic laugh.
    His words confuse me. What’s obvious? And which women, I wonder. I should be able to picture immediately this Aunt Nanina. I should see in my mind who she’s married to, who her husband’s nieces are, who the husband of one of them is. But I can’t think so well through the thick cream of grief that clogs my brain.
    Besides, the Medici family is too large to keep track of. And everyone has the same name anyway. Too many men called Giovanni. Too many women called Camilla. Mamma thought it was important to memorize every single link between every single family. But the whole thing is a muddle to me.
    A big family. What a comfort a big