Chapter 3 Chapter two

"Seven, eight, turn around, step, turn around... no, no... no, Alexandra, you're not listening to the rhythm in the music." I hate my dance teacher.He was small and wretched, like a mouse; when he walked, he seemed to have something between his crotch.But to be fair, on the dance floor he moves his hands and moves just right, flutters like a butterfly, and is more charming than me. I was embarrassed that Protila, myself, Tommaso and Luca took dance lessons together in preparation for Protila's wedding.There are too many rituals to master, and they need to be partners, or one of us has to play the role of the man.As I am very tall and a three-legged cat, I am in desperate need of advice.Luckily Luca is as clumsy as I am.

"And, Luca, you can't stand there still. You have to take her by the hand and guide her to dance around you." "I'm not doing it! Her fingers are full of ink. And she's so much taller than me." He yelled, as if it was my fault alone. Looks like I'm going to grow taller, at least my brothers think so.He was always trying to get everyone's attention and make everyone laugh at me for being so tall and clumsy on stage. "No! I'm as tall as I was last week." "Luka is right." Tommaso never let go of every opportunity to stab me with words, "She's still growing taller! It's like dancing with a giraffe." Seeing Luca laughing he couldn't breathe He was even more excited, "Really, even the eyes are alike! Look, the lashes on those dark eyes are like closed hedges!"

This is annoying, but it's really funny; even the dance teacher who paid to be a teacher couldn't help laughing.If it wasn't about me, I couldn't help laughing too, because his analogy is so good.Of course we saw giraffes, the strangest animals in our town.Somewhere a sultan or someone else gave it as a gift to the great Lorenzo.Admittedly, although I'm not as tall as it is, and not as weird as it is, its eyes do look a bit like mine: both are dark and dark, very large on the face, with hedgerow-like lashes. In the past, such insults would have made me cry.But I have grown up and my skin is thicker than before.Unlike my sister, dancing was one of the many things I should have been good at that I didn't learn.Protila danced like a cloud and sang like a lark when she sang musical verses; I danced badly and sounded like a crow, but could translate Latin and Greek faster than she and her brothers could read.I swear I can draw a color scale diagram like lightning: a sketch of glowing gold leaf at the top, then ochre, red, and finally magenta and dark blue.

But today I escaped further taunting.The dance teacher began humming a few scales, his little nostrils quivering like the buzzing of a bee mixed with a clarinet harmonica.At this moment there was a thunderous knock on the downstairs door, and old Ludovika ran into the room panting, the sound carried in like a gust of wind. "Here, my Miss Protila. The dowry box has arrived. You and your sister Alexandra must go to your mother's room at once." This time, my giraffe legs ran much faster than her antelope legs, which is probably a benefit of being as tall as a bamboo pole. It looks disorganized.After seeing the box, we were silent for a while.

"It's an impressive painting," said the mother at last, in a calm but unmistakable voice. "Your father must be delighted. It will bring honor to our family." "Wow—that's great!" Protila was ecstatic. I don't see it that way, the whole thing is kind of vulgar.First of all, the gift box was so big that it was almost like a coffin.The painting itself was exquisite, but the boxes and ornaments were so artificial—there was not an inch of space that was not plastered with gold leaf—that it spoiled the joy of art.I was surprised that my mother could be so foolish, but I later discovered that she had a special eye, like a well-trained esthetician, who can understand the subtleties in sculpture.

"I wonder if we should have Bartolomeo Giovanni for the chapel, he's more sophisticated," she mused. "That's more expensive, too," I said. "Papa was lucky enough to live to see the chancel finished. I've heard he rarely finishes this on time, and more often leaves it to his apprentices to paint." "Alexandra!" my sister screamed. "Oh Protila, open your eyes. See how many women are posing in the same way. They're obviously just using this as a practice drawing of human figures." Although I have always believed that Protila was very tolerant of me as a child, it seemed that my words really irritated her that day, so that she instinctively fought back, and everything she said seemed trivial and stupid.

"How can you! How can you say that! Ah, even if it were true, I don't think anyone would notice but you. Mom was right, it's great! Of course, if it's Candide Nas Takio's Tale, I like it even more. Although I hate the dog that jumps on the women, but these women are very beautiful, and they are perfectly dressed. The girl in the front is amazing, don't you think so, mother ?I heard that every dowry that Bartolomeo handles, there is always a figure that is based on the bride. I think the most touching thing is that she looks like she is dancing." "She's not dancing, she's being raped."

"I know that, Alexandra. But do you remember the story of the Sabine women? They were invited to a banquet, they were raped, but they accepted it resignedly. That's what this painting is about. City of Rome The birth of China is based on the premise of women's dedication." When I was thinking about how to answer her, I met my mother's eyes.Even in private, there are limits to her tolerance for quarrels. "Anyway, I think we'll have to admit he's done a good job. For our whole family. Yes, even you, Alexandra, I wonder how you didn't find yourself in the painting Woolen cloth?"

I looked back at the dowry. "Myself? Where do you see me?" "That girl next to me, standing there, talking earnestly with a young man. I'm thinking she must have given the man a dignified look by talking about philosophy," she said calmly.I lowered my head in surprise.My sister looked at the painting absently. "So stop arguing," Mom's voice was clear and unmistakable, "it's a rare masterpiece. We must hope your dad's doorman can draw half as good as this!" "How is the painter, mother?" I said after a while. "No one has seen him since he came."

She gave me a stern look, reminding me of her maid in the yard.But obviously the latter didn't find me.My encounter with the painter was weeks ago, and if she had found me, I would have known it before then. "I think he's a little out of sorts; the city is too loud for the quietness of the monastery. He had a fever a while ago, but he's better now. Got to see some of the churches and chapels in the city before he starts painting. .” I lowered my gaze so that Mom wouldn't catch the twinkle of interest in my eyes. "He can come with us!" I said with feigned indifference. "He'll have a better view of the frescoes from our place."

Unlike other families who usually only attend one church, my family was known to attend churches all over the city. "Alexandra, you know very well that would be inappropriate. I've made arrangements for him." The conversation had strayed away from Protila's wedding, which she sat on the bed with no interest in.She touched the colorful fabrics with her hands, sometimes wrapped them around her neck, and sometimes put them on her knees to see their effects. "Oh, oh . . . the coat must be blue. It must be. Isn't it, mother?" We turned to Protila, each thanking her for interrupting our conversation.The cloth was indeed an unusually blue one, with a metallic gleam.It reminds me of the deep teal that painters painstakingly washed from lapis lazuli to dye the Madonna's garments, though it's a little duller by comparison.The dye of this cloth is not precious, but it has a special meaning to me, because its name is "Alexandra". As the daughter of a cloth merchant, I certainly knew all about these things and had always been curious.It is said that when I was five or six years old, I begged my father to take me to the place where the "smell comes out".I distinctly remember that it was summer and the place was close to the cathedral and the square by the river.The dyers had built a shantytown of their own, with dark streets filled with dilapidated houses, many of which were built on the water and looked ramshackle.Topless children are everywhere, stirring the dyeing vats, their bodies covered in mud and pigments splashed from the dyeing vats.The foreman in Papa's factory looked like a devil: his face and upper arms had been scalded, his skin shriveled with scars. How Dad felt when he saw them I don't know. Nevertheless, I must have been affected by their desolation on that visit; for when I grew up, when I thought of the colors in the warehouses, I thought of those big dye vats, like those used to boil sinners in hell. Steam boils like a boiler.Since then, I have never said I would go again. My sister didn't have such cloudy memories to overshadow the joy the fabric brought her. At that moment, she was interested in how the blue fabric could be cut to match her enlarged breasts.I sometimes even think that, even on wedding night, she appreciates her evening clothes more than her husband's body.How much does this upset Maurizio?I only saw him once, and he seemed solid and strong, a cheerful guy, but he didn't show any signs of maturity.Maybe that's better, who knows?Anyway they seem to be happy with each other. "Plautila, why don't we talk about this later?" Mom said quietly, putting the cloth back and sighing softly, "It's very warm this afternoon, let your hair get more golden in the sun , is even more enviable. Why don't you go to the roof to embroider your cross-stitch?" My sister was taken aback.Fashionable young women of the time, often without knowledge of their mothers, left their hair disheveled in the sun in a vain attempt to lighten the color of their hair. "Oh, don't be so surprised, are you? Because you will do it no matter what I think, and I might as well bless you. But soon you will find that you don't have so much time for such vain things." Mom likes to talk like this recently, it seems that all of Protila's original life will end after marriage.Protila himself seems pretty excited about the prospect, but I gotta say, it's as scary as hellfire to me.With a smile on her face, she rummaged around the room for her sun hat, found it, and took an infinite amount of time to put it back on.She pulled her hair through the hole in the middle of the hat so that every strand of her hair was exposed to the sun while her face was shaded by the visor.Then she gathered her skirt and ran out. We watched her go out and I think it made Mom sad.She sat still for a while before turning to me so that I wouldn't see the waves in her eyes. "I think I'll have to go out and be with her." I got up from my chair. "Don't be kidding, Alexandra. You hate the sun, and your hair is as black as a raven. If you really want to, you might as well dye it, but I don't think you can." Seeing her eyes rest on my ink-stained fingers, I hastily closed them. "When was the last time you washed your hands?" There were many things she disliked about me, appearance being one of them. "Oh, you're unbearable! I'll send Ellie out this afternoon. You wash it off before you go to bed, do you hear? Stay here now, I have something to say to you." "But mom..." "Leave!"