by Debbie Rix
‘Gerardo,’ Carlo said quietly one night to the older man as they sat drinking wine after dinner. ‘My daughter… she looks thin. Does she eat when I am away?’
‘Thin… is she really? I had not noticed.’ Gerardo was a simple man, a man of few words.
‘Yes, thin. And her colour is not good. I am concerned for her.’
‘I suspect it is nothing; perhaps she misses the boy. Have you asked her about it?’
‘She says she is fine, but Carlotta never thinks of herself. It is not in her nature. She is too stoic. I will be here for another month or so, before I must go back to sea. I shall make it my business to ensure that she rests and eats well.’
Carlo spent his days helping his daughter in the household, carrying in the water, bringing home food from the market on the banks of the Arno, chopping wood for the fire. Sometimes, he would persuade her to rest in the afternoon and would sit with her, stroking her head, as he told her tales of his journeys until she fell asleep, feeling safe and secure as she had done as a little child.
But the time soon came for him to return to sea. Carlotta watched him as he packed his bags, with a sense of sadness and foreboding. He was cheerful, as usual, and as he set off for the docks, he held her tightly, promising to return with some spices and perhaps some new dishes for their table.
‘When will nonno come home?’ little Gerardo had asked after he had gone.
‘Soon… in a few months he will be back again.’ And Gerardo kissed his mother’s face as a large tear rolled down the soft brown cheek.
‘Don’t cry, mamma,’ the little boy begged. ‘I am here and will look after you.’
And the woman held her child closely – so closely that he finally broke free in alarm.
But Carlo never returned. Three months later, as Carlotta sat sewing one morning, there was a knock on the door. The maid ushered in a young man – no more than fourteen or fifteen – and showed him upstairs to the sitting room.
‘Yes, can I help you?’
‘I have come from Lorenzo Calvo.’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘It is about your father, Carlo Vaselli. I am sorry to tell you that he has been lost at sea.’
Carlotta could not remember – nor even hear – any more of what the young man said. She fell to the ground and began to wail. The maid, who was only thirteen, stood helplessly by, as the young man, distressed and embarrassed, ran next door to her neighbour Gabriella and asked her to come and take care of Carlotta, who by now was lying prostrate on the ground of her home, sobbing uncontrollably.
When Gerardo and little Gerardo returned from the Piazza, the day’s dust thick on their faces and hands, they found Gabriella, sitting by Carlotta, who lay in the bed she shared with the child, staring at the ceiling and unable to utter a sound.
Explaining what had happened, the neighbour left Gerardo in charge, promising to fetch some chamomile to make Carlotta a calming drink.
There was nothing Gerardo could say or do to salve her pain. She lay in her bed day after day and the older man did his best to manage the house and care for the child while she did so.
One morning, he climbed up the ladder to her bedchamber and, speaking quietly but firmly, said: ‘Carlotta… I have something to say. You have been mourning your father for many weeks now. It is right that you mourn, but you have a duty to the child and it is time to put away your pain and get on with your life. I am taking the boy to work now, but when we return tonight it would be good to find some supper waiting for us. The boy is scared by your grief. He needs you.’
Something in what Gerardo said filtered through the blackness and despair that had become Carlotta’s mantle, and slowly, as the sun rose and began to glint through the little windows of her house, she climbed wearily out of bed and descended the ladder to the kitchen. Her father’s belongings had been returned to the house by one of the seamen a few weeks before, and they lay in a pile in one corner of the room. She took out his clothes and held them to her face, drinking in the familiar scent of sea air they always contained, before setting them aside to wash. She found her father’s last journal and placed it carefully in a drawer to read at some later time when she felt a little stronger. At the bottom of the bag, she found a tiny wood carving; her father would often carve pieces of wood on long journeys – and this piece, she saw, was intended for the boy. It was shaped like a camel, an animal that had been newly brought to Pisa by an opportunistic trader, and was often to be seen ferrying goods back and forth across the Arno. She put it on the kitchen table for little Gerardo when he returned home, noting the thick layer of dust covering the table’s surface.
Tying her long brown hair on top of her head, she called to the boy to bring fresh water and then set about cleaning the little house with the help of the maid. Leaving the girl to wash the floors, she walked down to the market and bought the ingredients for a special meal. Beef and aubergines, flour and fresh eggs, with figs for their pudding. Then, while the maid cleaned and polished around her, she spent the rest of the afternoon making ravioli with a mixture of the meat and aubergines.
By the time Gerardo returned with his grandson, the house was clean and the kitchen was filled with aromas of the delicious meal. The little boy ran to his mother and kissed her all over her face, until she, laughing, was forced to hide behind her hands to get him to stop. Then, while the older man washed off the day’s dust, she showed the child the tiny wooden camel… and together they wept a little for their beloved Carlo, before eating their supper and going more happily to bed.
Over the next few weeks, Carlotta continued to make good progress… until one day she retrieved the journal of her father’s last sea voyage. She lay on her bed, alternately weeping and laughing at his tales of life at sea. But the last page of the journal was incomplete.
‘Woke early. Before the sunrise. We are in the eye of a big storm and the men are exhausted. I have stomach ache, the water is bad and the food ran out three days ago. We must make port or die. Lorenzo is pushing us too hard; he is determined that we will make Syria. He has promised that wife of his trinkets for her table. I must go up on deck – I hear the bell.’
There were, as Carlotta knew, many bells on board a ship. What had this one signalled? she wondered.
Carlotta began to pace the room, reflecting on the last entry. What, she wondered, could have happened after that bell had sounded? She had been so distressed by the news of her father’s death that she had not asked anything about how he died. She remembered only that he had been swept overboard.
Grief enveloped her once again, but instead of the dull gnawing helplessness that she had felt before, she was filled now with desperate longing to know the truth – that, and a growing anger that her father may have died because of Lorenzo’s greed.
She re-read the last entry: ‘Lorenzo is pushing us too hard.’
Grabbing a shawl, Carlotta jumped down the ladder to the ground floor and, without stopping to tell the maid where she was going, ran out of the house towards the Arno. She went first to the dockside where she knew Lorenzo’s galleys were moored. But that made no sense: the fleet was docked now, and there would be no one there – only the guards who slept on board round the clock to protect their master’s precious vessels. Remembering that her father had once described the home of Calvo, his master, as being ‘the grandest palace on the Arno,’ she crossed the bridge over the river, before turning right onto the path that ran along the river’s edge. Within ten minutes, she found herself outside the grand and imposing building that she recognised from her father’s description – the house of Lorenzo Calvo and Berta di Bernardo.
It was approaching midday – too early for siesta. She thought better of knocking at the grand main entrance, instead walking down the lane at the side of the property, until she found two large wooden gates in the wall surrounding the gardens behind the house. She pushed the gates and one gave way. She pushed a little more, revealing a large, abundant garden. At one end were v
egetables and fruit trees laid out in a regular design, overflowing with produce of all kinds. She observed two young men tending the beds with long hoes. Nearer the house, she saw the garden became more formal – geometric beds, edged in dark green box and filled with herbs, were set into a clipped lawn. Paths were laid between the beds, a sundial in the centre indicating the hour. As she walked silently up the path towards the grand house, she saw gillyflowers in shades of pink, purple and red erupting from large pots, and trees – olives and bays – casting short, sharp shadows in the midday sun. A small dog lay beneath a peach tree, snoring quietly. Surprised not to have been challenged, and the two young gardeners seeming not to have noticed her presence, she continued towards the house. She heard voices… and a maid ran up some stairs into the garden from what looked to be the kitchens of the household.
The girl stopped when she saw Carlotta.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I am here to see your master.’
The girl, thinking it odd that she had not come to the front door, asked, ‘Is he expecting you?’
‘No,’ Carlotta answered, ‘tell him that Carlo Vaselli’s daughter is here. He will see me.’
Bidding her to wait in the garden, the girl ran back down the kitchen steps.
Some ten minutes later, Lorenzo emerged from the back of the house through imposing doors that led to the terrace.
‘You are Carlo’s daughter?’
She nodded and he beckoned her to sit near him on a little stone bench in the shade of a large olive tree.
‘How may I help you?’
His tone was slow and deliberate. She, nervous, heard the blood roaring in her ears as she struggled to find her voice.
‘I need… I need…’ the words caught in her throat.
‘What do you need… money? I can give you money. Is that what you want?’
She felt the anger rising now and she stood up. ‘No! I do not want your money. I did not come here for that. I came because I want to know what happened. What happened to my father? How and why did he die?’
She held out the leather-bound book she had found in Carlo’s bag. ‘I have his log; there was a storm, he says, and that you were pushing the men too hard. Is that true? I need to know what happened, how did he die? I have to know.’
Bridling as Lorenzo smiled at her, she pulled back from him as he placed his hand on hers in an attempt to comfort her.
‘Your father was very brave, very brave. There was a storm, yes. We were trying to make land. The men were hungry. A lad, a young boy on his first trip with us, got panicky. He had not eaten or drunk for a day or so and was hallucinating… it gets some people like that. He wanted water, and in his madness, thought he could drink the sea. He went overboard. Your father went to save him. I’m sorry. That is all I can say. He went over the side and we never saw him again.’
‘Did no one try to rescue him?’
‘We had lost one hand already, and then Carlo; there was no sense in losing others. The sea was too treacherous and the men too exhausted. The wind dropped a few hours later and we returned to the spot, but there was no sign of him. We were still about ten hours from land; we had to sail on to find food and water, or lose everyone on board. I’m sorry. It was a tragedy. But he died a hero. We all miss him. I miss him; he had been with me for fifteen years.’
As Lorenzo had been speaking, Carlotta had pictured her father attempting to save the boy. It rang true; her father, a hero.
She stood to go.
‘I must go. I’m sorry, I ought not to have come. I just had to know.’ Then, remembering the log, she added: ‘But my father said you pushed the men too hard. Is that true?’
Lorenzo was unrepentant.
‘Of course it is true; I expect all of my men to work hard and be brave. We were all exhausted and half-starved, but that is life at sea. It was no different for me or for any other man on board. All rations were shared equally. We were aiming for Syria; we had a shipment to collect and the weather was bad. We had no choice but to keep going. We could not come ashore to get provisions – the sea was too treacherous, there was nowhere for us to stop.’
Carlotta sat down once again, her face flushed, tears smarting in her eyes.
‘Look,’ said Lorenzo, ‘I understand how you must feel. But it was a tragedy that I could do nothing about. Let me help you. You have a child, don’t you? Carlo would often talk about him. Let me give you something for the boy. It is the least I can do for Carlo; it would have been his wages for this trip, plus a share of the profits. Take it… please.’
Pulling a bag of coins from his belt, he handed it to Carlotta, who took it, reluctantly.
Guiding her towards the kitchen, he called to the housekeeper: ‘Maria, take care of…’ and he turned to the young woman.
‘Carlotta,’ she said.
‘Take care of Carlotta. Give her something to drink and send Alfonso back with her.’
That evening, as she served supper to her father-in-law and child, she did not mention her visit to Lorenzo. She placed the money he had given her in the bottom of her clothes chest, thinking to put it towards some schooling for her son. She hoped he, at least, would never die at sea.
And so it would have stayed, had she not overheard a conversation between two women in a queue for vegetables one September evening.
‘They say that he had the man thrown overboard.’
‘No! Why?’
‘For daring to argue with him.’
‘Really is that what Marco told you?’
‘He did; he is looking for another master. He is fearful that if he keeps on with Lorenzo Calvo the same may happen to him. The man is a monster, he will not be crossed.’
‘Well, I suppose you can see his point. You can only have one master on board a ship, can’t you?’
‘Yes, but the man had been with him a long time. He was just trying to persuade him to go ashore. The men had no water or food and were desperate.’
Carlotta’s head began to spin as she listened to the women. She felt nauseous, and her legs buckled beneath her.
As she came to, some moments later, she looked around for the women, but there was no sign of them.
‘The women,’ she said desperately to the stall-holder, struggling to her feet,
‘those women in the queue in front of me… where did they go?’
‘Oh they’ve gone. They left, just as you fell. They went that way, I think. But you are so pale, you must stay here.’
But Carlotta pushed him out of the way and, looking wildly in the direction the women had gone, rushed off in search of them.
She returned home, exhausted, two hours later; her father-in-law and son were waiting anxiously for her.
‘Where were you, Carlotta?’ the old man asked. ‘We were worried.’
But she could not answer. She was overcome with grief and rage. Weeping, she cursed the name of Lorenzo Calvo. Her father-in-law, frightened by her hysteria, immediately sent to the apothecary for some healing tisane, and persuaded his daughter-in-law to her bed.
That night, the child slept with his grandfather, but they heard Carlotta shouting and weeping in her sleep. The next day, for the first time in thirty-five years, Gerardo did not go to work, sending the little boy in his stead to explain that he was unavoidably kept at home. During the day, he tried to talk to Carlotta but she simply kept repeating over and over that Lorenzo had destroyed her father. She was burning up with a fever, and he feared that she had contracted some terrible illness – perhaps typhoid or the fever caused by mal aria.
Over the next few days, Carlotta’s fever subsided… but it was replaced by terrible pains in her right breast. At first, Gerardo thought she was describing a malady of her heart, but when her breast began to ooze a foul liquid from the nipple, he knew that this was no emotional episode. He sent once again for the apothecary.
‘Her breast, it seeps,’ he said to the woman as she entered the house.
The woman looked at Gerar
do and shook her head. ‘I will do what I can,’ she said.
Four weeks later, Carlotta was dead, and the old man was left to care for a small boy who he loved more than his own life.
Chapter Seven
March 1171
Berta stood looking up at the small wooden tower house. It was early in the morning and the streets, she was relieved to notice, were eerily quiet. She had left Lorenzo sleeping, and dressed quickly and quietly, anxious not to waken him. Swearing her maid to secrecy, she had roused the housekeeper, Maria, from her bed next to the kitchen. The huge open fireplace had not yet been sparked into life. The ashes from the previous evening lay in drifts in the vast grate. Pots and pans stood soaking in the room next door, ready for one of the kitchen maids to scrub them clean. The room hung heavy with the odour of nutmeg and the hare they had eaten the evening before.
‘Maria… wake up,’ she shook the older woman’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need you to do something for me.’
The housekeeper rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed, pulling her nightgown around her shoulders. ‘What is it, lady… it must be early.’
‘It is. I am sorry to wake you, but I have to go out now. There is something I must do. If Lorenzo wakes before I am back, please tell him that I have gone for a walk. He is fast asleep. He should not wake for another hour or two, and hopefully I will be back long before then.’
She found the house relatively easily; it was in the old part of the town, on the north side of the river. She knocked nervously at the door. For a moment, no sound came from inside, and Berta, fearing her journey was to be fruitless, turned away with something akin to relief. As she did so, a young girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen, with beautiful blue eyes, opened the door and gestured for her to enter.