by Debbie Rix
He had arranged for his grandfather to be buried in the same graveyard as his mother. It was sad that Carlo could not lie there too.
The funeral service was due to take place the following day. Old Gerardo still lay in his bed upstairs. The young man was reluctant to leave his grandfather’s body alone in the house. He packed up his tools, but before leaving for work, rushed upstairs to his grandfather’s room, and hugged the cold, lifeless body, kissing it tenderly on the forehead.
‘Goodbye, nonno; I’m off now. But I’ll be thinking of you, and I promise… I won’t let you down.’
He approached the building site with trepidation. He dreaded telling Deotisalvi about his grandfather’s death. He knew well that the great architect had respected his grandfather, but had made no secret of his impatience with the grandson. The architect had not yet arrived at the site, so Gerardo organised the men and began work.
‘Where is my lapicida?’ Deotisalvi shouted impatiently as soon as he arrived.
‘Capo Magister, I have some bad news. Last night my grandfather passed away.’
Gerardo hung his head.
Deotisalvi sighed. ‘Well that leaves me in a pretty fix. I am sorry for your loss, Gerardo. Your grandfather was a fine lapicida and a good man. But this presents us with a problem. The foundations have been started, and we cannot wait too long; we must get that part of the job finished and make better progress with the build before the winter comes.’
‘I understand,’ said Gerardo. ‘I will do anything I can to help. You can rely on me.’
Deotisalvi paced around the site, stroking his straggly beard, before speaking again. ‘Gerardo…. I have a proposition for you. Your grandfather had great faith in you. He said he thought you would be a fine lapicida one day. I imagine you learned a lot from him. Do you have the skills to take over from your grandfather? I will need to find a new master mason, but that should not be a major problem. But a lapicida… it is a difficult job. It is not just a matter of running the site and managing the men – you are doing much of that job already. But there is the choosing of the stone and so on. I had discussed this at length with your grandfather and we were shortly due to make a visit to Monte Pisano to start our search. ’
‘Signore, are you asking me to become your lapicida?’ Gerardo asked, incredulously.
‘What do you think I’m asking you? Well… do you want the job?’
‘Of course! Capo Magister, it would be an honour.’
‘Then it is done. We shall leave for the mountains the day after tomorrow. We will be gone several weeks.’
‘But Signore, that is the day I bury my grandfather. I cannot go so soon.’
‘The following day then… Friday. And if I may, I shall come to the funeral and pay my respects to your grandfather. A fine man and a fine lapicida. Now, you had better explain the situation to the men and get those foundations sorted out.’
When Aurelia woke, she found her mistress gone, so she spent the day catching up on simple jobs: rinsing out Berta’s undergarments and hanging them in the big laundry room off the kitchen, mending the hem of a velvet cloak, and dusting and tidying her mistress’s room. As Berta was out, Maria Aurelia kept busy collecting ripe tomatoes and pears from the kitchen garden and bringing them to her for preserving and bottling. But Aurelia struggled to keep her mind on her job, overwhelmed by thoughts of how she could get to see Gerardo that evening.
When Berta arrived home, she went upstairs, calling out for Aurelia.
The girl ran up the two flights to her mistress’s bedchamber and found Berta seated at her dressing table, having already taken off her own gown. Wearing just her corset and underskirt, she was pulling out the combs and pins that held her hair in place.
‘Ah good, Aurelia; we have work to do. I have to go out in a little while… something very important. Please get out my cream silk dress.’
‘Very good, signora.’
The girl went to the largest of Berta’s caskets – the one made of tooled leather – and took out the gown. As with most of Berta’s dresses, it had sleeves hanging almost to the ground. It was traditional for the wearer’s hands to poke out half way down the sleeve, leaving a long train of fabric hanging to the floor, but this dress was of the latest fashion and the sleeves were gathered on the forearm so that the hands passed through the opening at the end.
‘Will you wear it with the emerald and pearl necklace, signora?’
‘No!’ Berta replied a little sharply. ‘No, no jewellery – just a cross, I think. I don’t want to look too ostentatious. I have a meeting with Bonanno Pisano, the sculptor. Now hurry, girl.’
Aurelia was delighted by this news; if her mistress was going out for the evening, it would give her the opportunity to see Gerardo. Humming quietly to herself, Aurelia laid out the gown and jewellery, along with some long cream leather gloves. She took special care with Berta’s hair, combing it thoroughly, before weaving it into two long plaits, which she decorated with ribbons. When she had finished, she stood back and admired her work.
‘Well done, Aurelia, that is very good. It would appear that you are finally becoming an excellent maid. Now, tighten this corset for me will you, and then help me into the dress. Have you my velvet cloak?’
‘Yes, signora,’ answered the girl, ‘it is here; I mended the hem for you this afternoon.’
‘Excellent,’ said Berta delightedly. ‘I shall be gone for several hours, so you will have a little time on your hands. Perhaps you might visit your mother?’
As soon as Berta had left the palazzo, Aurelia threw on her cloak, and ran all the way to Gerardo’s house. She arrived out of breath, and found him sitting at the table in the kitchen, while Fabricia, the maid, was preparing his supper.
‘Aurelia, how wonderful. Come in. Grandfather’s body has not long been taken to be made ready for the funeral. I still cannot really believe he has gone. But I am glad to see you… will you stay and share my supper?’
Fabricia was a sturdy girl with mousy brown hair and pale skin. She was not a skilled cook, Aurelia thought, as she observed her clumsily rolling out sheets of pasta.
‘What are you making, Fabricia?’ she asked the girl.
‘Ravioli,’ Fabricia replied, a worried look on her face.
‘Here, let me help you,’ said Aurelia kindly.
While the maid cooked up the filling of chopped rabbit and hard cheese, Aurelia expertly rolled out the pasta before creating the ravioli.
Gerardo sat and watched her fascinated by her skill.
‘I had no idea you could cook, Aurelia’ he said delightedly.
‘My mother taught me,’ she said shyly, ‘but I don’t get much chance to practise at the palazzo – Maria does everything.’
Her task complete, she left Fabricia boiling the ravioli in the pot over the fire, while she and Gerardo went upstairs to the sitting room.
‘It was kind of you to come,’ said Gerardo. ‘Will you take a glass of wine with me?’
Together they sat companionably while Gerardo told her his news.
‘Deotisalvi has made me lapicida on the tower at San Nicola. I am to travel with him to find marble for the face of the building. We leave on Friday for the quarries at Monti Pisani.’
‘That’s wonderful news, Gerardo. Your grandfather would have been very proud of you.’
‘I hope so… yes. He had faith in me, I know. It just seems a tragedy that my elevation has happened because he…’
Tears welled up in his eyes.
‘Oh Gerardo, don’t cry. Your grandfather was a wonderful man – and he had a good life and a long life.’
‘I know. You’re right. It’s just that he has been my only family for so many years. And now I am alone.’
‘You’re not alone, Gerardo… you have me.’
Gerardo took Aurelia’s face in his large hands and kissed her tenderly on her closed eyelids, her cheeks, her forehead.
‘Thank you, Aurelia. Now, I must think about nonno’s funeral t
he day after tomorrow. You will come to the funeral, won’t you?’ he asked earnestly. ‘He would have wanted you to be there. And your mother too, of course. Please ask her to come.’
‘We will both come, Gerardo. I will tell mamma on my way back to the palazzo.’
‘Why don’t we tell her together? After we’ve had our supper we can go to her house via the site of the new church I’m working on. I’d like you to see it. Then once we’ve visited your mother I’ll take you home. I must keep you safe, my little flower.’
Fabricia called up to them that supper was ready. As they got to the top of the ladder leading downstairs, Gerardo touched Aurelia’s arm.
‘Thank you for all that you did for my grandfather. You are such a good person. I want us to be together always. But we have time, little flower. You are young and so am I. Now let us eat, I am keen to taste your delicious-looking ravioli.’
Chapter Twenty-One
October 1171
Bonanno Pisano lived in an impressive tower house in the heart of the city on the north side of the Arno. Part of the new vanguard of Pisan artists, he was a gifted sculptor specialising in bronze. Although three decades younger than Deotisalvi, he was nevertheless considered, along with the great man himself, to be one of the most significant talents of his generation.
His house, as was the custom amongst the wealthy elite in Pisa, consisted of three tower houses joined together by galleries. It had a rambling, chaotic quality and, when Berta arrived, was filled with the sound of children’s laughter. Pisano’s wife, a beautiful dark-haired woman named Alfreda, was trying to control four young children, who were giggling and chasing one another along the main gallery. Laughing, Pisano shooed the children away and took Berta into his studio on the first floor.
‘Come in here. The children are not allowed, so we will have peace and quiet.’
Berta was delighted to be invited into his studio. It was not unlike that of her own father. Large and airy with natural light from the north, the walls were covered with sketches and designs for pieces of statuary and intricate drawings in preparation for his detailed sculptures.
Berta had met him once before. He had been commissioned to sculpt her as a new bride, and while she did not consider herself a close friend, she had an easy relationship with him.
He poured her a glass of wine and together near the window, overlooking the city.
‘So Berta, how are you? I am so sorry to hear about your husband’s death. That must have come as a great shock.’
‘I thank you, signore; it was indeed a shock. He had been unwell for a little while, but we had not realised, until it was too late, just how seriously. It has left a great hole in my life. But I still have my interests in art and architecture, and that is a great comfort.’
‘Ah yes. How are your little group of artists? The last time I saw you, you were encouraging a young mason… what was his name?’
‘Oh, you mean Gerardo di Gerardo. He is well, thank you. He is working on the new San Nicola tower for Deotisalvi. It is an interesting project and I understand he is doing very well there. He and his grandfather, who is a very experienced mason are working as lapicida and assistant; it is going well I believe.’
‘Good, good. I had been meaning to thank you for the bequest your husband made before his death for the new doors on the Duomo. I am so grateful. I have started work on the designs already. Would you like to see them?’
‘Yes. Thank you, I would like that very much.’
Bonanno took a thick roll of paper, tied with ribbon, from a large chest that stood beneath the window of his studio and smoothed it out on the table.
‘The drawings are not finished yet, you understand; they are just ideas at this stage, but I am quite pleased with them. I think they are coming together.’
Drawn in exquisite detail were twelve scenes from the Life of Christ; the three kings on their way to visit the holy child; the angels of the Lord visiting the shepherds and telling them of Christ’s birth. The infant Jesus laying in a manger – each square panel following the life of Christ from birth to his crucifixion.
‘They are charming, Bonanno… I may call you Bonanno, I hope? Really quite charming. They have an almost childlike quality about them, as if you are explaining the life of Our Lord to your own wonderful children.’
‘Thank you, signora. I trust I might take that as a compliment.’
‘Of course, Bonanno. They are full of poetry and drama, really most thought-provoking. I know Lorenzo would have loved them. Now, if I may, I have something I would like to show you.’
‘Please,’ he said, ‘I am intrigued’
Berta opened a soft leather bag and took out a roll of cream vellum. She untied the ribbon and laid it flat on the table.
Bonanno whistled quietly through his teeth.
‘So,’ said Berta, ‘what do you think?’
The sculptor looked long and hard at the belltower. Layers of arches, one upon the other… delicate… unlike anything he had ever seen.
‘I think it is extraordinary and very beautiful. Who designed it?’
‘Ah… well that has to remain a secret for now. But you like it?’
‘I do. It is very grand, very bold… although the engineering will be quite a challenge. Is it a design for the new belltower for the Piazza del Duomo?’
‘It is. And interestingly, the engineering is precisely what I wanted to discuss with you. I wondered if you could do me a favour.’
‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘I want you to tell me if the design is feasible; I need proper mathematical calculations. Can you do that for me?’
‘Signora, I am flattered that you should ask this of me. But in all honesty I do not have the skills for such an adventurous design. I can take it to a colleague, someone at the School of Architecture here in Pisa. It will be a most interesting project. But first let me ask you something. I understood that it was Deotisalvi who had won the commission for the new campanile on the Piazza. Surely, a work of such genius must be his? If so, why has he not done the calculations himself?’
‘Bonanno, can I trust you with a secret?’
‘You can, signora.’
‘Deotisalvi did win the commission, yes, but I think his initial design can be improved upon. I am an architect’s daughter, as you know, and I will try and persuade him the design I have shown you is better. He is a wonderful architect, please do not misunderstand me, but I believe that Pisa deserves to have the most wonderful campanile the world has ever seen. I have commissioned this design from a young, untried architect. But I need to know that it is sound, that the calculations are correct, before I present it to the great man. And although the Operaio will no doubt appreciate the revolutionary nature of the building, he will not be pleased if it falls down!’
Bonanno laughed. ‘Of course, that is vital. Well, it will take me a little time, signora. I will speak to my friend and get the information to you as soon as I have it. I will need to keep these drawings.’
‘Of course, but please, please, impress on your friend that this must be kept a secret. Do not show them to anyone other than him. Can I trust you?’
‘You can, signora.’
As Berta left the sculptor’s study, his children came running along the gallery towards him. He swooped the two youngest into his arms and turned the smallest child upside down, causing him to squeal with laughter. Putting the children down, he took Berta’s hand and walked her to the front door. When she got to the end of road, she turned round to see the family waving from the loggia. She could still hear the sound of children’s laughter as she reached the corner.
Two days later, young Gerardo and his little household led the procession to the Church of San Sepolcro, on the south bank of the Arno, for the funeral of old Gerardo. Masons, carpenters and gilders filled the church to pay their respects to a man they had worked with for over sixty years. Built by Deotisalvi at the start of his career, this hexagonal church was commissioned by the J
erusalem Knights of St John. The site was significant because it was the point from which pilgrims would embark for the Holy Land.
Deotisalvi was touched that his lapicida had chosen this church for his beloved grandfather’s funeral, and when he arrived for the service, he nodded at the young man and patted his shoulder.
Berta, who had been shocked to hear of the death of old Gerardo, attended with Aurelia and Violetta – Aurelia, dressed for the occasion in a new gown of fine pale blue wool, and Berta resplendent in dark purple brocade.
At the end of the service, Gerardo briefly acknowledged both women. He spoke formally to each one in turn, studiously avoiding any kind of intimacy with either.
But before he left, he stole back to speak to Berta, pulling her away from the crowd by her elbow.
‘Thank you for coming, Berta.’
‘Caro, of course I came. I was so distressed to hear of your grandfather’s death. I am just sorry I could not have been with you sooner. I had business with Bonnano that evening and had no idea what had happened. You are being very brave,’ she said, holding his hand.
‘Thank you; yes it was a terrible shock. But nonno was an old man. And I am grateful that it was not a lingering death, like my mother’s.’
She squeezed his hand tenderly.
‘Berta, I wanted to speak to you on another matter. I must leave Pisa tomorrow. I am to be lapicida on the Tower of San Nicola, and it is you I have to thank for that. The magister and I are to visit Monti Pisani in search of suitable stone, and I have no idea how long I will be away; a few weeks certainly.’