Intrigued, the doctor leaned in closer. “You speak…for God’s sake, man, spit it out!”
“I speak…” Cesare closed his eyes and whispered, “I speak of Antonella!”
The doctor was surprised. “Antonella? Surely you don’t mean Antonella Aiello?”
Cesare nodded. He looked abashed.
“But how is that even possible? As you well know, I am not particularly partial to the ladies and, indeed, have no small difficulty telling them apart. However, even I recognize that Antonella is not the sort of woman one falls in love with.”
“My head agrees with you, but my heart begs to differ,” said Cesare. “Advise me, dear friend. What shall I do?”
Dr. Pellicola stroked his goatee, considering his response. He supposed Cesare must remarry. He had one son, it was true, but one could hardly count on children living to adulthood. The least little thing seemed to carry them off—a fever, a stomach ache—or else they might set themselves on fire or slice off their own head with a scythe. Frightfully accident-prone, children, which was why, he supposed, it was wise to have as many of them as possible if your heart was set upon having an heir. And Cesare’s was. Pellicola knew that. For Bacigalupo & Son, there must be sons and there was just one way to get them.
That being the case, Pellicola reviewed Cesare’s options with an eye to his own advantage. Were his friend to marry a townswoman of standing, she would inevitably exercise more control over his friend than would his former housekeeper. And if she didn’t, her family would. In other words, were Cesare to marry a townswoman, he might not be allowed to “play” with Pellicola, as Isabella so tartly put it, to the same extent as he was now at liberty to do. The doctor shook his head. No, no. That would not do. Not at all.
Moreover, were Cesare to obtain a wife with expensive taste in, say, jewelry or hats or dresses from Milan and Paris, then his old chum might not be able to so generously fund the doctor’s various experiments. That was definitely no good. While it was true that Antonella’s status would rise were Cesare to wed her, it would probably only ever attain a point halfway between that of a servant and a wife, meaning that Antonella might be more easily managed than a higher status woman.
All things considered, it would better suit Pellicola’s ends for Cesare to marry his housekeeper than someone of his own rank. Accordingly, he replied, “Why not?”
“You mean it?”
“I do.”
“She comes from a good family, after all,” Cesare grasped at straws. “She is my second cousin. And she was educated in a convent until she came to us. She has a smattering of Latin, I believe.”
“Always useful.”
“And French.”
“What more do you need?”
“But what if she says no, Matteo? Because the way that she treats me…I sometimes think she doesn’t much like me.”
“Don’t be absurd!” Pellicola laughed. “That is just her manner. Believe me, there is not a woman alive who would prefer being a housekeeper to being the lady of the house. Now, I’m not saying that some persuasion won’t be required. Some blandishments, perhaps. Candy, flowers. That sort of thing. Perhaps one of Petrarch’s sonnets. But, in the end, Antonella will say yes. Mark my words.”
“All right,” agreed Cesare, at once happy and wary. “It’s decided then. I shall ask her today. For, in truth, I cannot bear to wait any longer.” He cast a sideways glance at the basket resting on the doctor’s knees. “What’s the lavender for?”
“Oil of lavender. But what am I thinking of? Zounds!” Pellicola slapped himself lightly on the forehead with the heel of his hand. “I forgot to tell you about my new subject—or should I say, our new subject, for I assume you are footing the bill as usual.”
Cesare was intrigued. “We have a new subject?”
“We do, and she’s our first primate!” Pellicola grinned. It was a ghastly sight given his somewhat pointed teeth. “A chimpanzee, to be precise, by the name of Arabella.”
Cesare was astonished. “What? A chimpanzee? And you didn’t think to tell me this great news?” The two of them had been trying for some time to work out how they might obtain a human cadaver to work on. According to civil law, only the corpses of executed felons might be used in medical experiments and these were devilishly hard to come by. A chimpanzee, given its uncanny similarity to a human being, was surely the next best thing.
“I was going to tell you this afternoon,” Pellicola responded. “She is the deceased pet of an Arabic merchant of my acquaintance who sold her to me. Quite cheaply, too, you’ll be happy to know. He sent a man down with her early this morning. I was thinking of using a mixture of vermilion, turpentine, and oil of lavender. Hence the lavender. Have you time to look in?”
“Indeed, I do!” said Cesare, appalled and delighted at the same time. He had a notoriously weak stomach, particularly when it came to dead creatures. On the other hand, he could never resist a peek.
“You won’t faint this time?” Pellicola asked.
“I can’t promise that,” Cesare told him. “However, I shall endeavor not to.”
“Fair enough,” replied the doctor, who kept a supply of smelling salts in the laboratory for the express purpose of reviving his friend and fellow conspirator. “Come along then.”
That Saturday I had risen with the dawn, too agitated to sleep in. Had the spell once again worked its magic on Cesare? How would I know? When would it be confirmed? And how?
At about eight, there had been some commotion from downstairs—doors were slammed, angry words exchanged—but commotion, I knew, was not out of the ordinary where Antonella was involved. For a woman with little to say and none of it good, she made a great deal of noise.
Flora appeared three quarters of an hour later to collect Cico and bring me my breakfast; she was not happy to have been charged with the latter task. “As if I was a common servant! Bringing you breakfast! It’s not in my contract, I tell you, and I won’t be putting up with it! The Prior’ll have to find another wet nurse for that little ingrate if she don’t smarten up!”
“Why did she have you bring it?” I asked. “She’s always brought it herself before.”
“How should I know?” Flora fumed. “All high and mighty, she is, with her airs. She thinks that she’s better than me. Wouldn’t talk to the likes of me, she wouldn’t. Too good for that. But you know what? I overheard her talking to herself in the kitchen like a crazy woman.”
“What was she saying?” I asked eagerly.
Flora gave me a cool stare. “Do I look like the kind of person that listens in on other people’s conversations with themselves?” she asked and left.
I think that particular Saturday was perhaps longest of my very long life; certainly it seemed it. The Oracle and I waited and waited. We sat on the balcony until it became too warm and we had to go in. I wrote a long letter to my family. I listened as Sibylla told me for the third or fourth or fifth time, about something that happened to her a thousand years ago and that might have been funny then, but, clearly, you had to have been there.
Finally, after what seemed like an absolute eternity, Cesare returned for lunch. We heard the front door open, then shut behind him, the sound of voices and the slamming of what must have been the kitchen door. I waited impatiently for him to make an appearance, for he always paid a little visit to me just before lunch. Not that day, however. Finally, I could stand the suspense no longer. “I don’t care,” I told the Oracle. “I’ve got to see what’s going on. I’m going downstairs.” I hurriedly dressed in the clothes I had worn on my journey to Casteldurante—skirt, bodice, apron, and chemise—and wrangled my unruly hair into some semblance of order. I was ready for anything, but, most particularly, for getting out of that room. Despite all its elegance and comfort, I had come to detest it. And I had to find out whether the spell had worked.
“What about me?” Sibylla
pleaded. She sounded forlorn.
“I’m sorry, Milady, but it would look very odd if I were to carry you downstairs with me. What would I say?”
“No odder than fetching me here from Montemonaco!” the Oracle protested.
“I’m sorry.”
“But I’ll miss everything!”
“Who knows if there will be anything to miss?”
“You will see how he looks at her,” countered the Oracle. “You’ll hear how he talks to her. You’ll be able to tell.”
“I’ll give you a full report,” I promised, growing more impatient with each minute that passed. I wanted to leave. I wanted to go downstairs. I wanted to get out.
“But it’s not the same as being there!” she wailed.
I descended the stairs to the foyer for only the second time ever and arrived at a large, dark parlor crammed with uncomfortable looking furniture where I found Cesare awkwardly perched on the arm of a tub chair, lost in thought.
“Brother-in-law?” I ventured.
“Hallo! What?” He sounded startled. He stood, blinking at me as if he did not quite recognize me. Then, “Why…Maria, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to see you down here. What in Heaven’s name are you doing up?”
So he’d forgotten my name, had he? That was a good sign. “It’s Mariuccia,” I replied, “and I’m feeling much better. Cico is down for his nap, so I thought I might get dressed and have lunch with you for a change.”
He looked stricken.
“Is that all right?” I asked.
“Why, of course it is!” he said uncertainly. “But we shall have to tell Antonella. Wait a moment.” He rubbed his hands together, hunching his shoulders as if there were a chill in the air. Then he retreated into an adjacent dining room. I heard him knock tentatively on a door. “Antonella?”
“What?”
“Our guest…what’s her name…will be having lunch downstairs with me today. Is that all right?”
Silence.
“Antonella?”
“Fine!” came the reply.
“You don’t sound like it’s fine.”
“It’s fine, I tell you! Now, leave me alone!”
Next the sound of a lid clanging roughly down onto a pot…then of a dish hurled against the wall and shattering.
Cesare returned to the parlor, red-faced and perspiring. He mopped his face with a handkerchief. “You must forgive the poor dear. She doesn’t like surprises.”
“What surprise? It just means that she doesn’t have to carry my lunch upstairs—”
Cesare cut me off. “Any surprise, any change whatsoever. Hers is a very delicate sensibility—exquisitely so. The least little thing sets her off. We must make allowances.” He ushered me through to the dining room. Unlike the gloomy parlor, it was filled with light and simply furnished with a long table, half a dozen chairs, and a sideboard. He took his place at the head of the table, unfolded his napkin, and said, “Sit. Please. Anywhere.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I walked down to the opposite end of the table and sat down, facing him.
“So you’re feeling better?” he asked.
“Much better. A little weak is all.”
“And you didn’t feel at all wobbly…coming downstairs?”
“No.”
Conversation in this halting vein continued for perhaps a quarter of an hour, made increasingly more awkward by the obvious fact that his mind was clearly elsewhere. He squirmed and fidgeted like a boy with fleas, yanking at his cravat and glancing surreptitiously in the direction of the door that led to the kitchen.
Finally, I announced, “I’m feeling a bit light-headed. I think I need to eat.”
“Ah, yes, well,” said Cesare. “You need to eat. We both need to eat. I wonder what’s keeping the dear girl. She seems to be running a bit late. Perhaps I should just check.”
The dear girl! I ducked my head so that he wouldn’t see me smile. Yes! The spell had worked! He had clearly forgotten all about me; his attentions were now focused on his housekeeper.
Cesare rose and crossed over to the door. He knocked tentatively. “Oh, Antonella?”
“What?” A strangled sound from inside the kitchen.
“May I come in?”
“No!”
Silence.
“Antonella?”
“What do you want?”
“Just wondering how lunch is progressing.”
“I’m making it as fast as I can. I only found out fifteen minutes ago that there would be a guest!”
“No rush,” Cesare attempted to soothe her. “Just take your time.” He returned to the table and sat down. “Poor darling. She’s very excitable. Like a lovely filly, full of fire!”
I leaned in, gleeful. “What is Antonella’s story anyway? I don’t believe I know it.”
Cesare brightened, delighted to be afforded the opportunity to talk about his housekeeper. “She is the daughter of my mother’s cousin, who married, I fear, a rascal. In time, the scoundrel absconded and my mother’s poor cousin subsequently died in childbed. Poor Antonella.” He sighed. “My mother was the only mother she knew.”
Poor Antonella, indeed, judging from what I had heard about the Dowager Bacigalupo.
“Antonella is quite accomplished,” he continued proudly. “She attended a school for girls at the convent of San Franceso and can do all manner of needlework. She can read and write and do numbers; she even has a little Latin and French. And her penmanship!” He sighed rapturously. “Breathtaking!”
“Penmanship is so important,” I said.
“It is!” said Cesare. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “She had a vocation to become a Poor Clare, but the Mother Superior advised against it. She told my mother that Antonella was too cross to be a nun. Can you imagine? Too cross! When she has such a lovely disposition! I think the Mother Superior mistook high spirits for irritability! Well, the Poor Clares’ loss is our gain!”
The door to the kitchen swung open and Antonella appeared, bearing a soup tureen. We turned to look at her.
She bristled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Who? Us?”
“Whatever do you mean?” This from Cesare.
“Like cats look at a mouse!”
“Nonsense, dearest,” said Cesare. “We are only hungry for our lunch. Though I must say, you are looking particularly charming today. I have always admired how you carry off that fichu.”
Antonella stared at him, incredulous.
“Come along! Come along, cousin,” Cesare cajoled her. “Let’s eat. I can hardly wait to sample what delicacy you have prepared for us.”
“It’s tortellini in broth,” Antonella said flatly. “Just ordinary old tortellini in broth. You’ve never much liked it.”
“Not liked it? When it’s my absolute favorite? And how not, when it has been so lovingly prepared by such delicate hands?”
Antonella’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. She walked over to the table, put down the tureen in front of me—roughly—and, without a word, turned on her heel and returned to the kitchen. The door slammed behind her.
“You must forgive her,” Cesare said in a low voice. “She’s very shy.”
“Is there any bread?” I asked.
“Oh, Antonella!” Cesare called. “Bread?”
A hand protruded from the kitchen door holding a basket of buns.
Cesare started to rise.
“Please!” I leapt to my feet. “Let me.” I crossed over to the door and took the basket from the hand. The hand withdrew; the door closed.
I served up the soup. It was very flat-tasting. “The tortellini could use some nutmeg. And the broth needs more salt.”
“I’m in the next room!” This from the kitchen. “I can hear every word you say.”
; “Oh, now you’ve hurt her feelings!” Cesare exclaimed softly.
“Sorry!” I mouthed.
We finished our soup in silence.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Cesare told me. “I’m going to try to talk with her. Smooth her ruffled feathers, so to speak.”
“Of course,” I said. Then, growing bolder, I said, “This afternoon when Cico’s with Flora, I thought I’d go out for a bit of a stroll. Do some exploring. I’ve seen nothing of Casteldurante except what I can see from the balcony.” I braced myself, expecting him to protest or even to forbid me from striking out on my own, a young unchaperoned woman in a strange city. What would people think? What if something untoward were to befall me? To my surprise, however, he seemed to barely register my plan, so preoccupied was he with the state of Antonella’s wounded feelings.
“Yes, well, good idea,” he said distractedly. “Fresh air and all that.” He was staring at the kitchen door as if it were a formidable palisade he must assail.
Triumphant, I excused myself.
“Antonella! Oh, Antonella!” I heard as I ascended the stairs to my room. “Please, dear cousin! Let me in!”
That afternoon I ventured out into Casteldurante for the first time. It might have been a small city when compared to the likes of Rome or Milan—at that time the old city walls held perhaps a thousand households within their embrace, while another thousand lay without—but to a country girl like me, it seemed both vast and impossibly sophisticated. I was entranced by the Metauro, that lazy, insolent river, thick as treacle and grass-green in hue. Its leisurely meanderings give the town its contorted shape and make of its streets baffling rabbits’ warrens. I was astounded by the height of its sand-colored buildings—often several stories high, a thing unheard of in Montemonaco where the closest thing to a second floor was a loft. And the smells and the sounds! Not to mention the people—so many of them coming and going. It was breathtaking.
I made a mental note of the rectory where Pasquale lived with his parents and doddering old Padre Eusebio—a modest two story house with green shutters, separated from Casa Bacigalupo by the little chapel of Capella Cola—and ventured briefly into the dark little church itself, which I understood from Cesare to be funded by the Confraternity he served as Prior. It paled, however, when compared to the city’s imposing Duomo, which I also visited.
The Oracle of Cumae Page 14