Bakhita
Page 23
“You will do as you’re told, Moretta, and on the double!”
“Impossible.”
“What?”
“Impossible, parona.”
“And why?”
A slight spasm constricts Bakhita’s face, her cheek twitches, and she takes a deep breath.
“I’m not leaving,” she says. “I’m staying.”
Maria would almost be amazed, if she were not so violently, so profoundly angry.
“But are you mad, girl? Has the Venice air driven you crazy? You do remember that you’re my slave and I’m your mistress, don’t you? Does that ring any bells?”
Her vulgarity erupts in spite of herself, she would like to be different, more poised and authoritative, but does not know how. She feels like slapping this girl, and she understands why people beat their slaves, burn them, kill them.
“You belong to me. You were given to me. Has anyone ever heard a slave say no to a master? And this is what’s going to happen: I’m leaving for Suakin and you’re coming with me. We can’t always do what we want in life, isn’t that right, Madre Fabretti? Go on, get out! Go pack the bags.”
“Impossible…”
Madre Fabretti comes over to Bakhita, takes her to sit on the sofa, tries to reason with her, she must obey her mistress and go with her, that’s what was agreed, and you can’t disobey your mistress.
“I’m not His daughter there,” Bakhita murmurs.
“God’s, you mean? God’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry about the baptism, don’t worry about that, my darling, we’ll bring the date forward. Of course you’ll be God’s daughter, I promise you that.”
“No. Impossible. I’m not His daughter there. Impossible.”
“We’re God’s daughters wherever we are, remember, I already explained that, He’s everywhere. In Africa, Italy, everywhere.”
“Madre…Aiuto…Help…”
Bakhita’s sobs echo around the room and suddenly everything changes. This is not disobedience or capriciousness. This is something serious, that none of the nuns understands. Mimmina wails, calling Bakhita “Mama! Mama!,” and Mother Superior gestures to Signora Michieli to take the child out of the room for a moment. Madre Fabretti asks Bakhita to tell them everything she wants to say. She mustn’t be afraid, must explain what’s going on. The nuns wait, ready to discover a whole new world.
* * *
—
But they will never know what it is the Moretta confides to them. For she has never spoken so quickly or with so many Arabic and Turkish words, and African dialects, so many gestures, entreaties, and tears, it is like watching a rockslide tumble toward them with no means of defense, and they listen, stunned and illuminated, to the whole gamut of this young woman’s strange words and deep-seated anguish. They do not know this is the first time she has told the story. The men in Suakin. The strangers she serves, and the other men, the ones she is terrified of seeing again, the tormentors, sometimes former slaves themselves, the ones who ask Augusto Michieli whether she’s for sale, and to whom he replies, Not yet. Mimmina like a shield for her. And the children, boys or girls, summoned to these men’s rooms. And her sister, Kishmet, whom she dreads recognizing in every prostitute she sees. She says that she is young and she is old, says she is twenty years old and everything has already happened to her. Says she has seen the devil and now wants to see God. But not in Suakin, you can’t see God in Suakin, you can’t be a child of God in Suakin. She talks about the man who cried out every night in the hotel, a single cry, just once, but every night, and she, she herself doesn’t want to be afraid anymore. She is the stolen child, the child in the market, she’s always obeyed everything, and she emphasizes this point, everything, and she thanks her masters every day for letting her live. She has obeyed monsters, and now she wants to obey God. Abda, it’s not her fault and it’s not fair. No. No, she says again. For the first time. No. It’s the only word she has. No.
* * *
—
She talks in her jumble, more chaotic than ever, and when she stops, exhausted, ready to give up, to die, she hears someone speak.
“I shall support you.”
And Bakhita knows it is true. For Mother Superior has never deceived her. Madre Fabretti takes her hand and they stay there like that, with this young woman who has experienced things they can never imagine and who, by some incomprehensible peregrination, has arrived here among them with her fear and her strength, her youth and her past. The Lord has never given them a more visible and poignant sign of His presence. They are deeply affected and secretly excited. Utterly unaware of how far supporting the Moretta will take them.
* * *
—
For three consecutive days, Maria Michieli comes to the institute and asks to see the Moretta in the visiting room. And, of course, her daughter, a key part of her strategy. She comes alone, and then accompanied by a Russian princess, and finally by a cousin of hers, an army officer. Her fight, she says, “has the backing of high-ranking people,” who have advised her to confront the nuns who are overstepping their rights, which is why she has written to the president of the Charitable Congregation, denouncing them. She’ll get her slave out of this institute or have the place shut down. As in any battle, those to whom she turns for support do not reason with her, far from it, they fan the flames and urge her on into a war she would never have waged without them. But in full view of so many friends enthused by the whole business and curious to see how it pans out for her, she feels forced to go on the offensive, it is not just her slave she wants back but her own lost dignity, and every tactic is permissible. And every tactic involves her daughter. She tells Mimmina that Bakhita is going to abandon her, and in front of the child, pleads with the Moretta, shedding tears of rage that pass for outright despair.
“Love her!” she shrieks, brandishing her daughter. “I beg of you! You know she’ll die without you, why are you doing this?”
The child is plunged into the depths of terror, and Bakhita goes from slave to tormentor, from nanny to child killer. She wants to say that Mimmina has given her great strength, has given her tenderness and confidence, that Mimmina will live, even without her, she’s grown up, won’t be ill anymore. But she says nothing. She holds her tongue and clutches the crucifix so tightly that her palm bleeds. In the evening when she is alone with the child in their bedroom, they are drained, numbed by fear and bafflement. Mimmina tells her she doesn’t want to die. Bakhita swears she won’t die. “Ever?” Bakhita hesitates…“Never.” The child says she’ll be good the whole time from now on, she won’t throw any more tantrums and she’ll eat everything she doesn’t like, she’ll play with the poor children who frighten her, she’ll help the nuns do the dishes, and she weeps as she asks for forgiveness.
“Asfa, Mama! Asfa!”
“You know that word?”
“Asfa. It’s what you say. You say it at night.”
Bakhita looks at this child who will forget her, will forget her nanny but not the furious wreckage of these few days.
“I want you to still love me,” Mimmina says.
“I do still love you, Mimmina.”
“You’re black all over.”
“Yes.”
“Like the devil.”
Bakhita did not think it would happen so quickly. How many days is it since Maria Michieli came home? Does a child-mistress always end up loving in the same way as a master? And they both cry, because there is nothing else to do but let it flow, this barbaric pain, this separation that marks the end of their life together, their games, their rituals, their songs, their private language, their wishes in the gathering darkness of evening, everything they are losing by losing each other. They gave each other the gift of life, the baby whom Bakhita massaged and whose mucus she sucked out, the slave whom Mimmina begged for on the boat, but they will never see each other again. The pai
n will not fade, will be sharpened by other pains, and by joys too, joys that will remind them of what they gave each other, joy, the scorching brightness of it, suddenly replaced by loneliness.
“Asfa…Mimmina…Asfa, my darling…”
It is the first time Bakhita has had a choice, and whatever price she must pay, she decides to stay in Italy. She wants to be baptized and become the daughter of a father who will never abandon her.
She has been told only that there will be quite a few people, a lot of people in the visiting room. Important men who will listen to her and listen to Signora Michieli before deciding whether she should stay at the institute or go with her mistress. The word “trial” has not been mentioned. But that is what it is. Madre Fabretti makes her rehearse a short, easily remembered sentence that expresses her wishes: “I love the signora, I love Mimmina, I love God: I choose God.”
“Do you agree with that?” the nun asks. “The men who are coming—very kind men, you’ll see, they’re very kind—don’t speak Arabic, or Sudanese dialects, my darling. Do you know that?”
“Yes. I must obey them.”
“You understand, they are the ones you must obey. But Signora Michieli must too, she must obey them.”
“These men, do I know them?”
“No.”
“Oh…And you, you speak to the men?”
“No. I’ll be praying. Praying very hard for you. But I’ll be there, by your side.”
“All the time?”
“The whole time the men are here.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. In the visiting room.”
* * *
—
Madre Fabretti protects her from rumors spreading around Venice where this trial of a slave girl among the Canossian sisters fills every conversation, just as much in slums as in salons, in convents as in the streets, there are those who call for the immediate release of this African martyred by a tyrannical mistress, and those, fewer of them, who mutter about a subhuman nanny prepared remorselessly to let a little girl die. Madre Fabretti no longer allows Bakhita to leave the convent, no more evening walks along the lagoon, no more afternoons overseeing Mimmina and Giulia’s games, no more errands in the market with the nun who cooks, she has even forbidden the other catechumen young women from having visitors since the portinaia told her that they mostly came only in the hopes of glimpsing the Moretta in order to talk about this sighting all over Venice. People are saying the child is on her deathbed, there is talk of witchcraft, of escape plans, one woman insists she has seen the Moretta abroad in Venice at night, her long black arms flapping in the air while she pronounces magic formulae to the statue of the Virgin. People laugh at her. But partly believe her.
* * *
—
Mother Superior keeps her promise and defends Bakhita. Turns to face the head of the charitable foundation, who refers the situation to the patriarch of Venice, Cardinal Agostini, who himself refers it to the Crown Prosecutor. The cardinal informs the Crown Prosecutor that Signora Michieli keeps the Moretta in a state of slavery and, according to African law, no one can force Signora Michieli to free her. The very next day the cardinal receives an answer: “Your Eminence, by the grace of God, the barbaric law of slavery does not exist in Italy. Any slave who sets foot on Italian soil breaks his or her chains.” Mother Superior and Madre Fabretti meet the president of the Charitable Congregation, and their prior attends these meetings. Just like every humble parish priest and the bishop himself, like the lowly masses and the wealthy townsfolk, like men of law and their underlings, they too are passionate about this case.
* * *
—
The bells have not rung. This is what first intrigues the inhabitants of the Dorsoduro neighborhood that morning, when the patriarch cardinal’s white gondola adorned with red and gold draws up to the banks of the Grand Canal. Something extraordinary is going on, but what exactly? The bells have not rung, so this is no celebration or official ceremony. The prelate crosses the Campo, followed by an ever increasing crowd, women from all walks of life bow down before him, trying to come close enough to kiss his gold ring, he blesses them in passing. His secretary, a feverishly excited fellow, hops and skips in his wake, but soon the crowds are confused about which way to go because now the Crown Prosecutor has arrived. A frisson of awed admiration ripples through the neighborhood, the Moretta’s name is spoken in backstreets and on bridges, in squares and palaces, craftsman’s shops and warehouses; a slave’s name associated with the highest powers in Italy, the church and the king, is she really all that powerful, this poor Negress who has found God? Altar candles are lit in the basilica and also in more modest chapels, at the foot of statues, in oratories, and Venice comes alight in broad daylight and prays during working hours.
* * *
—
She is asked to stay in the chapel and not come out until Madre Fabretti comes to fetch her. Mimmina has been taken from her already. She does not know it is forever. Is shielding herself from this wrench. On the far side of the chapel door powerful men are taking their seats, men who will decide whether she stays or leaves. She knows that it is to them that she must say her piece: “I love the signora I love Mimmina I love God I choose God.” Definitely no African words and no expansive gestures, and careful with that very deep voice, and calm, she must stay calm the whole time, Madre Fabretti has said this several times, stay calm the whole time. Don’t look at Mimmina. Don’t go to console her if she cries. Leave her with her mother the whole time.
* * *
—
The visiting room looks like a courtroom. His Excellency the patriarch cardinal is sitting on the sofa, above which the crucifix exhibits a nakedness in stark contrast with his red velvet robes, and next to him, his secretary has set up a desk and a large record book. The Crown Prosecutor, a number of magistrates, the president and members of the Charitable Congregation, lawyers, noblemen, Signora Michieli along with her allies, Mother Superior, Madre Fabretti, a few nuns. And on Maria Michieli’s lap, Mimmina, who loathes this visiting room, Bakhita isn’t here, her mother keeps asking her to stop fidgeting, but she scours the room the moment anyone comes in, she thinks it’s her, she needs to go wee-wee. “I took you to the bathroom three times already. Stop it.” Yes, she took her three times already, but they didn’t see Bakhita, so where is she? Her mother kisses her and tells her to be quiet, and she’ll have a present if she’s a good girl, and look how pretty the big crosses are on all these nice men, but they’ll be very angry men if she gets up again to go pee, understood?
* * *
—
It is only when the patriarch cardinal speaks that she starts to understand. She recognizes the words, the same ones used over and over since her mother returned: Moretta, slavery, Mimmina, die. Things about her. It goes on for a long time and she is bored, but her mother stiffens, holds her very tightly, and Mimmina grows anxious, wants to leave, she never normally stays with the grown-ups, not even for meals on feast days, little girls are never allowed to be with all these important people, and why isn’t Bakhita here? She looks at the men in red, in purple, in gold, in hooded capes, coats, cloaks, cassocks, wearing regular hats, three-cornered hats, skullcaps, bright splashes of velvet and silk in the overheated visiting room, where the nuns were wrong to have lit a large fire, her mother says very loudly, with tears in her eyes, that the Moretta is her daughter, she loves her like a daughter, they are a family, she gave her a bedroom, clothes, hats, and gold earrings, and, most important, she entrusted her child to her. Mimmina doesn’t want to keep hearing her mother telling everyone she’s going to die and then weeping afterward, because even though Bakhita has promised that she won’t die, it still makes her cry. This tragic story her mother tells devastates her all over again, she calls for Bakhita, and rather than going to fetch her nanny, her mother points to her for the benefit of all these men in their complicated clothes, all these people cra
ning their necks for a better view, and she cries, “And look! This is the result! She’s in tears already!” She sits down again, puts Mimmina back on her lap, and her friends have their say, the officer, the princess, using the same words—Moretta, slavery, Mimmina, die—and in the end the child confuses everything, is Bakhita sick, is she going to die, or is it herself, Mimmina? It all seems very serious. These people are making sweeping gestures. They’re ugly and old. Where’s her mama, the one she mustn’t call mama? Where is she now? And her crying constitutes a reedy litany in the crowded room.
“Let us hear from the concerned party,” says the patriarch.
It is as if no one was expecting this, as if all those speeches from different people have made them forget the “concerned party.” People seat themselves more comfortably, jostle for space, clear their throats, like at the opera before the music starts. It is very hot. Stifling. It is about to begin. The Negress who cannot talk properly (they have been warned) is about to arrive. Word has it she is in the chapel, praying constantly to the Lord our God. Word has it she is extremely black, you have to disguise your surprise and be very patient.
* * *
—
Madre Fabretti comes into the small chapel where Bakhita is sitting with her face bent over her hand, holding the crucifix like someone else’s hand in her palm. Bakhita sees the nun and understands. She has come for her. She will take her to the rich men before whom she must slowly pronounce her rehearsed sentence. From Madre Fabretti’s solemn expression, from her apologetic but encouraging smile, she knows this will be as difficult as she anticipates. Her heart swells in her chest, her hands shake, and when she stands her right leg stiffens. With her halting step, her emotional disarray, and her determination, she walks into the visiting room that no longer looks like the visiting room she knows. There are so many people. It’s a market. A public place under a fug of heat. She can hear Mimmina but not see her. “Bakhita!” This is the only thing she recognizes, the child calling her. Even the nuns are unrecognizable in this crowd. They are taller, there are more of them, frozen like statues. She can tell that these other people, all these other people are hot and thirsty. And frightened too. She immediately knows where the truly powerful ones are, recognizes them straightaway, they are sitting on the sofa. And all around them this brutishness, this curiosity about her. She hears whispering, sees the appraisal in their eyes. Madre Fabretti leads her to stand before the patriarch and the Crown Prosecutor, then backs away, leaving her alone. The cardinal smiles and, looking at the slave, addresses the gathering.