I, Mona Lisa by Jeanne Kalogridis Page B

serena
, the expensive subtle gray stone. My father had made no additions, added no statuary nor replaced the plain, worn floors or the scarred doors; he eschewed unnecessary adornment. We rode inside the gate; then Zalumma and the driver lifted my mother from the carriage.
    To our horror, my father, Antonio, stood watching in the loggia.

 
     
     
     
     
     
XII
     
     
    M y father had returned early. Dressed in his usual dark
farsetto
, crimson mantle, and black leggings, he stood with his arms crossed at the entry to the loggia so that he would not miss us. He was a sharp-featured man, with golden-brown hair that grew in darker at the crown, a narrow hooked nose, and thunderous thick eyebrows above pale amber eyes. His disregard for fashion showed in his face; he wore a full beard and mustache at a time when it was common for men to be clean-shaven or wear a neat goatee.
    Yet, ironically, no one knew more about Florence’s current styles and cravings. My father owned a
bottega
in the Santa Croce district, near the ancient Wool Guild, the Arte de Lana. He specialized in providing the very finest wools to the city’s wealthiest families. He often went to the Medici palazzo on the Via Larga, his carriage heavy with fabrics colored with
chermisi
, the most expensive of dyes made from the dried carcasses of lice, which produced the most exquisite crimson, and
alessandrino
, a costly and beautiful deep blue.
    Sometimes I rode with my father and waited in the carriage while he met with his most important clients at their palazzi. I enjoyed therides, and he seemed to enjoy sharing with me the details of his business, speaking to me as if I were his equal; at times, I felt guilty because I was not a son who could take over the family trade. I was his sole heir, and a girl. God had frowned upon my parents, and it was taken for granted that my mother and her fits were to blame.
    And now there was no hiding the fact that our secret escapade had just caused her to suffer another one.
    My father was, for the most part, a self-possessed man. But certain things goaded him—my mother’s condition was one of them—and could induce an uncontrollable rage. As I crawled from the carriage to walk behind Zalumma and the others, I saw the danger in his eye and looked guiltily away.
    For the moment, love of my mother took precedence over my father’s anger. He ran to us and took Zalumma’s place, catching hold of my mother tenderly. Together, he and the driver carried her toward the house; as they did, he glanced over his shoulder at Zalumma and me. He kept his tone low so it would not distress my semiconscious mother, but I could hear the anger coiled in it, waiting to lash out.
    “You women will see her to bed; then I will have words with you.”
    This was the worst possible outcome. Had my mother not succumbed to a fit, we could have argued that she had been too long housebound and deserved the outing. But I was overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility for all that had happened, and ready to submit to a well-deserved tirade. My mother had taken me into the city because she delighted in me and wished to please me by showing me the city’s treasures. My father could never be bothered; he scorned the Duomo, calling it “ill-conceived,” and said that our church at Santo Spirito was good enough for us.
    So my father carried Mother up to her bed. I closed the shutters to block out the sun, then helped Zalumma undress her down to her
camicia
of embroidered white silk so fine and thin it could scarce be called cloth. Once that was done, and Zalumma was certain my mother was sleeping comfortably, we stepped quietly out into her antechamber and closed the door behind us.
    My father was waiting for us. His arms were again folded againsthis chest, his lightly freckled cheeks flushed; his gaze could have withered the freshest rose.
    Zalumma did not cower. She faced him directly, her manner courteous but not servile, and waited for him to speak