If, by any chance, you had happened to wander into the streets of Firenze on a certain April afternoon in the year 1954, you would have doubtless noticed that those streets were rather overpopulated by chappies of a somewhat conspicuous aspect, some long-haired, the others not. And what would have struck you most, had you subjected those coves to a closer inspection, was that over those assorted specimens hung an air of distinct gloom, almost despair.
Passers-by, when catching sight of those long faces, did their best to pass by as rapidly as possible, but you, dear reader, could have pondered what the reason for this despondency was. Were those chappies immigrants, unemployed or orphans, you might have thought. What misfortune had caused these faces (some rather good-looking ones, mind you), to become pale and drawn? While strolling on and meditating in such a way you would have spotted another of those chaps kicking a garbage can viciously… A bum, no doubt, you would have said to yourself.
In reality, they were none other than the younger members of the Medici family, and what had driven them out into the street was the prosaic fact that on that particular afternoon Mother Medici had announced her intention to clean out the family cupboard. Those who were of a delicate age tried to exclaim ‘what, again?!’ as a sign of protest and received hard stares which, had the recipients been of a less resilient family, would have gone through them like the better type of stiletto.
So, not having apparently been presented with a choice, the family trudged out while the trudging was good, as the house gave the distinct impression of a joint shortly to be filled with such a bouquet of arsenic, cyanide and other jolly substances that have made the name of Medici so well-known in the course of history that the gang knew even they would have found the mixture too rich.
Now that you’ve got the solid facts before you, only the toughest reader would not agree that the unfortunate fish were justified in feeling peril not far ahead. And the sense of doom intensified closer to 8 p.m., as such had been their sense of rightful indignation at that time that it had completely slipped the throng’s mind that it was Mother Medici’s turn to cook dinner.
But what made them think she would certainly slip some poison or other in the minestrone, you ask? Surely she wouldn’t do it to her own kin? This kin knew she wouldn’t and was nevertheless worried. During the cleaning it was Mother’s customary practice to brew a concoction of some kind from the ingredients that were past their sell-by date, if such substances do have one. And so strong would this concoction be that it was predestined to make inroads into any dish Mother happened to touch.
Another thing at the recollection of which some of the younger Medicis barked like seals was that though she insisted she was as attentive as anyone of the family, Mother sometimes had her bad moments, and during these moments labels were likely to be swapped from sheer over-enthusiasm. The sinister story of Lorenzo was the elephant in the room, or, to be more accurate, in the street, now that the members of the clan were at large in such numbers. Lorenzo Medici, it must be recalled, in his last year made a practice of taking some mint extract before retiring to bed, as it used to do so much good for his headaches. This healthy habit continued for some time, until after one particularly strenuous cleaning a bottle with the sign ‘mint extract’ (actually containing some species of little-known poison) found its way into Lorenzo’s sleeping quarters. And that, if you follow me closely, was that.
