by Debbie Rix
One of her first memories was when she was four or five, and he had sat her on his lap and held out his clenched fists for her to choose – one fist or the other.
‘Choose one, Smeralda; see if you can get the prize.’
She, excited by the challenge, keen to show off her skills to her father, jumped off his lap and examined his hands carefully, intelligently pressing his fingers into his palm to see if she could feel any difference between the two hands. Finally, she pointed to the left. Her father unfurled his hand, and there lay a tiny piece of pink marble carved in the shape of a bird.
Berta still had that bird; it sat on her dressing table next to a tiny dolphin made of purest white stone, a memento of a trip her father had made to the far south of Italy when she was eight years of age. He had gone in search of marble to match that chosen by the Duomo’s original architect Buscheto. The local quarries had been unable to supply it, and her father had travelled to Sicily by sea to explore the southern quarries. She had loved the tales he brought back from that trip.
‘One morning, as we came up on deck, the ship was escorted by hundreds of dolphins, all swimming with us, their bodies rolling with the waves in unison. What do you call a group of dolphins, Smeralda? If you can tell me, I will give you a little present.’
The child thought hard. She had learnt many new words and was sure that she had the answer somewhere in her head, if she could just retrieve it. She paced the room, desperate to remember and to win the gift.
‘A flock,’ she ventured.
‘No, that is birds,’ he chided.
‘A herd?’ she tried, not altogether convinced of her answer.
Her father shook his head.
She thought of the word, dolphins, over and over until, suddenly, the answer came to her clearly.
‘A school, Papa, like my school here where I have my lessons.’
And her delighted father took from his pocket the tiny white dolphin that he had carved for her on the return trip, and placed it carefully in the child’s palm. It felt as smooth as silk to the little girl.
‘Well done, my darling, you are very clever. And now I will tell you what we did on that journey. Would you like that? I found this stone to make the little dolphin at an amazing quarry. I’d been sent to find some snowy-white marble for the great cathedral. It had to match exactly with the stone that Buscheto had chosen. He wanted it to be purest white to reflect the innocence and purity of Santa Maria Assunta to whom the cathedral is dedicated. Well, we found some marble on this trip that was of such purity, I knew it would be perfect. We brought back many large blocks and it was very difficult to get it on board. Can you imagine how we did it? How did we get it from the land onto the boat?’
Once again, the little girl thought hard, and then, fetching a piece of vellum and a pen, father and daughter drew a sketch together: she the marble blocks on one side of the paper, he the galley on the other.
‘It was too heavy for you to lift it with your hands, I think.’
‘Correct. So what would we use?’
‘You would have to tie a rope to it and pull the rope somehow, with lots of men?’
‘We did, we did, we lifted the stone like this,’ and he drew a picture of a triangular wooden frame, a rope hanging from the centre, tied round the marble block, with the boat floating beneath it.
‘We sailed the boat right up onto the shore at low tide so that its bottom touched the sand. Then we dropped the marble onto the boat and waited for the tide to rise… lifting the boat, and setting it free to sail away with its precious cargo.’
Now seated at her dressing table, Berta picked up the tiny pink marble bird that her father had given her all those years before; she rolled it in her hands, feeling its cool softness. She thought back over her childhood. Her mother had died while giving birth to her. Was that why she was so frightened of having a child of her own? The absence of her mother had never distressed her – she had never known her. Her father had been her whole world… and he had been such a wonderful father, teaching her everything he knew. To bear a child of her own, if she survived the birth, would be a wonderful thing. And, she reasoned to herself, it would not necessarily mean the end of her interests… perhaps she could even take a child with her on her visits to the Duomo and Baptistery, as her father had taken her to his own work. But she would need help: a good nurse and a good maid – someone who would support her and care for the child, allowing her the time to do as she wished.
‘A child would make Lorenzo so happy,’ she said to herself. She knew that for him it was a nagging loss that ran like a thread through their life together. To have a son to carry on his business, to make the name of Calvo great, and found one of the great mercantile families – that was what he truly wanted, and it was her duty to provide it for him.
Berta was brought back from her musing by the sound of her maid, Lucia, entering the room.
She was a large, lumbering, slow-witted girl whom Berta had taken on against her better judgement in order to please Maria the housekeeper. The girl was some relative or other, a niece perhaps, but it had been a mistake. Even her voice irritated her – a slow, deep, nasal drawl, without a trace of energy or enthusiasm.
‘Signora?’
‘Lucia; there you are. I have been back from my walk for hours. Where have you been? I need to get dressed. Get out my green gown and then come here. We need to do something with my hair.’
The girl laboriously removed a green silk gown from one of the large cedar chests that stood under the window of Berta’s bedroom and lay it on the bed. As she took up the brush and began to comb through Berta’s hair, her mistress yelped in pain and slapped her wrist.
‘Stop… now. I have had enough. Please go down to Maria in the kitchen and see what duties she has for you there, and send her up to me… now.’
The girl turned away, apparently unconcerned.
And Berta, twisting her own hair into a neat coil around her head, decided to find herself a new maid.
Chapter Eight
June 1171
The nettle tea had not worked. And in spite of numerous prayers to San Nicola, the Patron Saint of Infertility, and repeated visits to Violetta the apothecary, Berta remained stubbornly childless. On her last visit, she had even been persuaded to take home a little parcel filled with the lizard biscuits.
‘Trust me, signora,’ Violetta assured her, ‘they have never let me down.’
‘But how am I to persuade him to eat them?’ Berta asked in desperation. ‘He will never accept any responsibility for the problem. Besides, he does not like sweet things.’
‘Then you must persuade him, signora. Please try.’
Reluctantly, Berta had taken the biscuits home, and as she and Lorenzo dressed for dinner that evening, she had the sweetmeats laid out on a majolica dish in the bedchamber.
‘Lorenzo, would you like one of these little treats? They go well with the wine.’ She poured her husband a cup of wine and handed it to him with the little biscuit.
‘Berta, you know I hate such things.’ He pushed the biscuits away and drank the wine.
‘I was given them today, by a friend, a new friend; her cook made them especially for us. I would so like to be able to tell her that we liked them.’
‘Tell her whatever you like,’ Lorenzo said irritably as he left the room.
Later that evening, when they returned from meeting friends, she tried again. Lorenzo was a little drunk, and it occurred to Berta he might be a little more malleable.
She undressed in front of him, deliberately letting her shift fall to the floor, revealing her body shimmering in the candlelight.
‘Berta, come here to me,’ he held out his hand to her. Picking up the plate of biscuits, she walked provocatively towards the bed.
‘Lorenzo, darling, eat one of the biscuits first, please. I promised my friend we would try them.’
He smiled at her but shook his head.
‘You will have to eat one, if I put
it in here…’
And teasingly she bent over and placed the little round biscuit between her legs.
Then, lying on the bed, she murmured in his ear: ‘You’d better see if you can find it…’
The following day, she returned to Violetta and recounted her success.
‘I have never seen him eat so much,’ she said laughing. ‘He found the first one and I had to put another and then another there. He ate them all, and this morning demanded more.’
‘You see,’ Violetta said triumphantly, ‘all men adore them… although I have never heard of them being served on such a sweet plate! Let us hope that they do their work. I will send Aurelia round later with some fresh ones.’
As Berta drank yet another steaming concoction, she watched Violetta’s daughter, carefully dissecting seed heads with her delicate little fingers, collecting the seeds in little bowls, which she then tipped into a jar to put on the shelves. There was a grace and quietness about the girl, qualities Berta knew were in short supply amongst her present household. A girl like Aurelia would make the perfect maid – discreet and loyal, someone she could trust with a myriad of little confidences. And the girl was clearly intelligent; she would be easy to guide and teach. If Berta was ever to have a child, she would need someone bright and quick-witted to help her; she could never leave a lump of a girl like Lucia with any child of hers. Seizing the moment she said, ‘Violetta, I have a proposition for you.’
The older woman looked up from her work, grinding the nuts for Lorenzo’s biscuits.
‘I would like to offer your daughter Aurelia a position in my household.’
Violetta’s face fell; she darted a glance at her daughter. ‘Signora,’ she spoke quickly, ‘I cannot allow that. Aurelia is all I have in the world; I could not be without her. Since we lost my husband, her father, to the fever three years ago, she has been my only comfort. Besides, who would take care of the house while I did my work. I am sorry, but it is not possible.’
Berta, not to be thwarted, had her argument prepared: ‘Violetta, I am not taking her away from you, I am merely offering her a place in my house as my personal maid. She will be well looked after and I will pay her well. Think of the money. She could bring money home to you, to help you, and possibly save something for her dowry.’
Berta caught the eye of the blushing Aurelia.
‘Surely it would be better for her to bring money into the household? I have another girl, less delicate than Aurelia, who would be well suited to helping you in the house. If you will let me have Aurelia, I will give you this other girl in return. Aurelia is too refined for this work; she will be happy working for me. I won’t make too many demands on her. She will just be required to care for my clothes – nothing that would be too arduous.’
Violetta shook her head. ‘No, I am sorry – I would miss her too much; and she would miss me too.’
Aurelia spoke up. ‘Mamma, please… I think I would like to go with the signora. It would be an opportunity for me.’
‘Aurelia, we will discuss it when the signora leaves.’ Violetta spoke firmly.
Berta, well schooled in the ways of diplomacy, picked up her parcel of biscuits, along with the recipe for a new tisane, and took her leave of the apothecary.
As she walked away from the house with her page and maid, Aurelia rushed out.
‘Signora, signora… please, I would like to speak to you.’
Berta stopped and turned.
‘If you would still like me to come, I will persuade my mother. You are right, she needs more money and it would be wonderful for me to make a new life for myself. You said you had someone who could help her here.’
‘Yes, my personal maid, Lucia.’ Berta waved her hand at the hapless girl standing awkwardly some feet away, and lowering her voice said, ‘she is not suited to the sort of work I am offering you, but she will be perfectly adequate to help your mother clean the house and bring in water and the like. If you can persuade your mother, I will arrange it. And tell your mother not to worry about the cost; I will continue to pay Lucia’s wage, and yours too. Come to my house as soon as you have her agreement, and I will send the cart for your things. You won’t need much, I will buy you new clothes. I know you can read, Aurelia. Tell your mother that I will allow you to read each day. I have many manuscripts in my house. Trust me, you will have a fine life with me.’
As Berta reached the corner of the lane, she glanced back and observed Aurelia watching her from the doorway of her mother’s house. The girl raised her hand in salutation and smiled. Berta smiled back. She would have her new maid, of that she was certain, and motioning to her retinue went home to the palazzo.
Chapter Nine
June 1999
The morning after Sam had discovered Michael’s notebook and research material, she set out for the hospital, his briefcase in hand, with a renewed sense of purpose. She was going to suggest to Michael that whilst he was unwell, she continued his work for him. It would be good for her to have something to occupy her, and besides, she had to admit that she felt just a little excited at the prospect of having a project to sink her teeth into.
Arriving at the hospital, she found him awake, a physiotherapist working on his weaker side.
He smiled weakly when she entered and attempted a feeble ‘Hello’.
She put their coffees down on the table and kissed him fleetingly on the forehead.
‘Hi – gosh so you’re being kept busy then? How are you feeling?’
‘A little better,’ he whispered.
‘Good, good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad. Look… I’ve been thinking, Michael. I know we’re going to be here for a while yet. The doctors have told me that we won’t be able to get you home for a week or two at least and, well, I wondered if you’d mind if I did a little digging on the film… you know… carry on where you left off?’
He frowned a little, and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
‘Was that a no?’
He shook his head again.
The physiotherapist looked at her over her black-rimmed glasses, a sense of irritation in her blue eyes.
‘Sorry,’ Sam said automatically to the woman, ‘I’m interrupting. Look, I know you’re not feeling great and I don’t expect you to help, but it just seems a bit of a shame, me being here and the film languishing and, well, nothing getting done.’
He raised his stronger hand and gestured to her.
She lowered her ear instinctively nearer to his mouth.
‘They won’t let you… film company.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said, straightening up. ‘You think they’ll have put the project on hold?’
He gave a slight nod.
‘And why would they trust a housewife with your project?’
He frowned.
‘I was a bloody journalist for ten years, for God’s sake.’
The physio stood up: ‘Signora… per favore… no shouting, please.’
‘No, no of course not, sorry. I’m sorry, Michael. I just thought I might be of some use, that’s all.’
He smiled back at her weakly and waved his hand in what, she felt, was a dismissive gesture.
‘Look, I’m off for a walk, I’ll be back later when this lady has finished.’
Taking the briefcase, Sam went to the café on the corner of the Piazza. She ordered and paid for a coffee at the bar, before taking a seat at a table in the window. Michael was clearly in no position to fight her corner with the production company. She would have to do that for herself and if she stood any chance of success she would need to get up to speed with the project. She carefully removed the book of maps and portraits from the battered briefcase, and laid it on the table. As the waiter placed her cappuccino on the table, he nodded towards the book – ‘Aah, Signor Visalberghi.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Sam said, a little confused. ‘What did you say?’
‘The book, signora, it was written by Signor Visalberghi. He sells it in his shop just round the corner from here.
He comes here for his coffee each morning.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s a fascinating book.’
The name seemed familiar to Sam – Visalberghi, but she could not quite grasp why. She drained her coffee, and went to the bar to find the waiter.
‘Signor Visalberghi’s shop – can you tell me where it is?’
‘Si. Just down Via Maria, turn left into Via Leopardi and it’s just there on the right.’
Sam realised that she must have passed the shop on several occasions, without even noticing its existence.
The woodwork was painted black and the windows were dark, with no lighting, presumably to protect the antique manuscripts and images that were displayed there.
She pushed the door; as it juddered open, an old bell jangled noisily, announcing her arrival.
‘Buongiorno,’ she called out into the gloom. At the back of the shop, an elderly man was stooped over a sheaf of papers laid out on a large wooden desk, a magnifying glass pressed to his eye.
‘Buongiorno, Signor Visalberghi?’
‘Si, si, signora. Come posso aiutarla?’
Sam removed the book from her bag and laid it on the old plan chest.
‘Signore... scusi, ma no parlo Italiono bene. E possible assistare mi... would you help me? Ho un libro – I have a book here that I believe came from your shop – your... negozio.’
The old man smiled and nodded.