Now Angelina was standing in her cousin’s house. “We have to do something, Guendalina! There must be some way to quickly remove Daniela from Bartolomeo’s life. Of course,” she added hastily, “nothing that hurts Daniela would be right. Do you not know some stregoneria, certainly not any fattucheria, some way of convincing Daniela to step aside and maybe enter a convent here, of her own choice, and grant Bartolomeo the freedom to ask my father for my hand? There must be some way of convincing her, si?”
Guendalina seemed both shocked and excited by this turn of events and paused before answering. “Well,” she agreed, “if we succeeded with the mirror, then certainly there must be some way we can maneuver our way around a small complication like Daniela’s love for Bartolomeo and her unwillingness to be put away in a nunnery.” She sat down and looked about her kitchen.
Angelina could hear the baby in the other room of the house entertaining himself with squawks and unintelligible songs. A hen in a wicker cage next to the hearth clucked and scratched at her confinement. Guendalina drummed her fingers against the tabletop. Angelina sat down opposite her cousin, afraid that any sound or movement might distract Guendalina and break her chain of thinking, thus thwarting the purpose for which Angelina had come this morning.
Guendalina stood and slowly wandered about the room. She paused and peered at various objects on the shelves near the stove. She picked up odds and ends almost as if she were cleaning or organizing but would then replace the objects exactly where she had found them. Nearing the great fireplace along one wall, she studied the objects on the mantle and then scuffed her toe along the edge of the ashes on the hearth. The hen clucked excitedly. About to move on, she suddenly turned back and reached for something on the mantle. She held a small box in one hand and closed her eyes as if struggling to remember something. Opening her eyes, she looked about the room again and—her eyes falling on the door to the back courtyard—a small smile appeared on her face and a light sparkled in her eyes.
“I have it!” she announced quietly and held up the box for Angelina to behold, but Angelina couldn’t make out what it was.
Guendalina opened the box and retrieved a few pins and then replaced the container on the mantle. She held out the half-dozen pins in her extended palm. Angelina leaned over to inspect them but could see nothing extraordinary about these pins.
Guendalina slipped the pins off her palm onto the tabletop. “We’ll need a chicken. I was planning to cook this one for dinner the day before yesterday, but Gualtiero’s family invited us to join them for stufato di manzo instead. Lucky for you! We can use what we need and I can stew the rest for supper this evening. These silly Bohemians keep the fasting days so strictly,” Guendalina announced as an aside. “Do you believe how rigid these northerners are, Angelina? No meat for forty days. So my poor husband will be glad to have this chicken for supper.” Angelina did not really care how strictly anyone kept the St. Martin’s Fast before Christmas. Her primary concern was to avoid the fattucheria, the wicked magic used to induce illness or death. That she did not wish to visit upon Daniela. “Remember, just something to wither her love for Bartolomeo,” Angelina reminded her older cousin. “Something to give her the desire for the religious life.”
Guendalina looked up at the sky through the open door that led out to the chicken coop. “Thursday is always better for working any sort of stregoneria, but as you need this done quickly, we will have to hope that the inauspicious day does not harm the magic overmuch.” It was as if she had not heard her younger cousin at all. She turned to Angelina. “Take the hen outside and we will butcher it together.”
Angelina stood. Anything that involved killing a hen sounded much more serious than the admittedly more difficult-seeming task of catching the reflection of a hen and rooster mating in a mirror. She bent over to pick up the heavy wicker cage. The hen started clucking and pecking. Angelina paused at the door, looking back at Guendalina.
Guendalina, catching the look on Angelina’s face, laughed. “Not to worry!” She hugged Angelina’s shoulders. “It will only wither Daniela’s affection for Bartolomeo, nothing more!” She squeezed Angelina’s shoulders again even more tightly. “But we do need the hen to do it with!” She swatted at Angelina’s backside and sent her into the yard as she turned to fetch the baby that had begun crying hungrily.
Angelina stepped out into the yard. The goat was still tied to the iron ring in the wall and the remaining hens and roosters wandered the dirt, pecking at stray seeds and kernels of grain. One of the other women whose kitchen also opened into the yard behind the houses was in the yard collecting a handful of eggs. A small girl, perhaps three or four years old, was playing with a wooden doll near the goat.
Angelina greeted the woman and began to introduce herself and explain why she was standing in the yard with the hen in the cage. The woman shook her head, dismissing Angelina’s nervous stutters.
“No, no. I remember you. You are Guendalina’s cousin. Did you come to help prepare a pollastri alla marengo for supper? I’m looking for eggs to prepare a frittata. How good of your mother to send you over to help Guendalina care for her baby and husband.” The neighbor smiled and returned her attention to the search for more eggs.
Angelina saw the great block off to one side of the yard. It looked to be the trunk of a large tree that had been cut down and the upper portion of the tree removed, leaving the base of the trunk to eventually die and become a natural chopping block for the execution of hens and roosters or even the slicing and butchering of larger animals, like goats, whose throats had been first slit. The rings and lines in the wood were darker streaks in shadows and pools of faint red stains. Dark stains dripped down the side of the bark. Angelina set the cage down next to the chopping block and stood awkwardly, waiting for Guendalina.
“I hope this neighbor did not overhear anything we spoke of.” Angelina realized that she could hear Guendalina moving about in the house but was unsure if words and conversations could be clearly understood in the yard. But the neighbor woman seemed unconcerned with whatever plans Angelina and Guendalina might have for the hen beyond supper that evening. Taking the eggs she had collected into her kitchen, she called her daughter in from playing with her doll and shut the door into the house.
After what seemed nearly an hour, Guendalina emerged from her kitchen into the yard, having donned a large apron covered with faded stains. She held a hatchet in one hand. “The baby simply refused to lie down again,” she explained. “I think he knows there will be an exciting adventure out here, the killing of a hen!” She laughed and handed the hatchet to Angelina.
“I will take the hen out of the cage and hand her to you, Angelina,” the more experienced cook instructed her younger cousin. “Then you hold her body against the block. She will struggle, so be sure to hold her tightly. Understand?” Angelina nodded. Guendalina unlatched the door of the cage and, twisting the chicken around so the bird could not peck her hand, she pulled the chicken out of the cage. Wild squawking erupted and feathers fluttered about as the hen dug at the air with her feet. Angelina set down the hatchet and took the hen, careful to keep the chicken’s face away from hers. She bent over and held the hen’s body as tightly against the chopping block as she could, aligning it so that the head pointed away from the houses and toward the coop across the yard. Wings fluttered and claws scratched and scrabbled at the wood as the hen struggled to escape and rejoin the other birds searching the yard for a scrap of food.
Guendalina picked up the hatchet and leaned over, grasping the back of the bird’s head and pressing it against the wooden block. The bird fought to open her eyes, squeezed shut by the pressure of Guendalina’s hand. The beak thrust against itself, emitting a series of frustrated, half-strangled squawks of distress. Guendalina raised the hatchet, half lowered it, testing her aim, and then raised it again. With a single downward stroke, she severed the bird’s head.
Angelina heard the blade hit the wood beneath the bird’s neck at the same ins
tant that the body in her hands convulsed wildly. She had seen decapitated hens and roosters that had escaped the hands that had held them for the death blow run about yards and courts, spraying blood in wild arcs until the bodies finally either hit an obstacle and collapsed or fell over from exhaustion or lack of blood. She pressed down onto the hen’s back even more firmly to avoid such a scene, not wanting to spend the rest of the day—or longer!—scrubbing the back walls of the houses clean of the blood or other offal that might spew from the severed neck.
Blood shot out of the open neck across the yard towards the coop in rhythmic pulses that gradually slowed as the heart weakened and finally stopped beating altogether. Blood seeped into the surface of the chopping block and dripped over the edges. Other than the chopping block, only the dirt was soaked with the blood of the hen. The other fowl scattered as the shower of blood drenched their feeding area but gradually returned as it ceased and resumed their search for grain and seeds. The birds tracked blood further around the yard, though, and left sticky red footprints behind as they stalked the outer reaches of the yard.
Guendalina took the still body of the decapitated bird from Angelina’s hands and held it up by the feet, allowing much of the remaining blood to drain and drip onto the chopping block. The feathers were matted with blood and stuck out in wild directions from the body in a way they would rarely do in a chicken’s life. When she seemed satisfied that the carcass had drained as much as was possible, Guendalina replaced the bird on its back on the sticky surface of the chopping block. Wrenching the hatchet loose from the wood, she lifted it again and smashed it down through one side of the bird’s breast.
Setting the hatchet aside, she reached into the crevice she had cut into the bird’s torso and pulled the wound open wider. Angelina heard bones crunching as they were pulled apart from the tendons and cartilage that had bound them together. Guendalina gave a final tug on the hen’s breast and heaved a sigh, wiping the back of her hand against her forehead. A streak of chicken blood remained above her eyes.
Guendalina then looked across into Angelina’s eyes before returning her attention to the bird on the block between them. She reached one hand into the open breast and felt among the muscles and organs before nodding. She seemed to adjust her grasp of whatever she held within the hen and then pulled it out into the open air, announcing firmly, “I extract not the heart of this chicken but the heart of Daniela and her love for her husband, Bartolomeo.” The veins and arteries still connecting the heart to the circulatory system within the bird were stretched as far as they would reach when she took a small knife from an apron pocket and cut the heart loose, allowing the arteries to collapse back into the crevice.
Angelina shivered. Guendalina’s announcement that she was extracting Daniela’s heart, not that of the chicken, was more ominous than Angelina had expected. Guendalina turned to reenter her kitchen and, carrying the heart gently in her open palm, gestured that Angelina should come with her. They sat in their usual places, opposite each other at the table. Guendalina set the heart on a cutting board. Blood oozed from the organ. Angelina shivered.
Guendalina picked up the half dozen pins that were scattered on the table and very carefully inserted all six pins into the heart, one by one, in two rows the length of the tiny cuore on the board before her. All this was done so quietly that Angelina did not even realize that she was holding her breath the whole time. She heard birds chirping outdoors and saw the sunlight streaming into the yard that still contained the hen’s carcass, but the morning seemed to stand still in Guendalina’s kitchen.
Guendalina sat back in her chair, and it was a shock when she scraped the chair’s legs against the wooden floor, pushing the seat back and standing. She carried the cutting board to the great stove in one corner and brushed the heart with its pins and the blood that had begun to stain the wood from the board into a small pan that simmered there, steam rising into the air. Angelina detected a whiff of vinegar as the heart splashed into the pan. Guendalina turned to Angelina and handed her a small pitcher.
“The heart needs to cook until only the pins are left, in a brew of water and vinegar and a pinch of salt. But there is one thing that must still be added to the broth,” Guendalina announced. “Take the pitcher and urinate into it as much as you can manage, Angelina, and then we will add it to the concoction.”
Angelina felt like she was about to vomit. “Urinate into the pitcher?” she repeated incredulously.
“Yes.” Guendalina was watching the pan, which was steaming heavily, and poked gently at the contents with a wooden spoon. Then she turned and noticed Angelina still standing there.
“Silly goose!” Guendalina laughed and hugged Angelina. “We are doing all this for the sake of your happiness. Did you think that you would need to contribute nothing to the process?” Angelina still hesitated.
“Go ahead, try,” urged Guendalina. “If you are feeling shy, just step into the other room.” She pointed to the room with the bed where she slept with her husband. Taking a much larger pot from a cupboard, she hung it over the coals in the fireplace and filled it from a bucketful of water.
“When you’re done, we can stir up the fire in the hearth and set the kettle to boil water. We need to wash the hen and pluck it.”
Angelina stumbled into the other room and managed to urinate enough to cover the bottom of the pitcher, though it took a few minutes to hoist her skirts, position the pitcher, and then relax enough to allow what urine her bladder still held after her morning visit to the latrine to begin flowing. Delivering the pitcher and its contents to Guendalina, she saw it poured into the happily bubbling pan on the stovetop and then went to get the hen’s carcass from the chopping block to prepare for plucking.
Angelina spent most of the day at Guendalina’s helping her cousin pluck the chicken and slice the vegetables that would join it in the kettle for supper that evening. One or the other of the women would check the pan atop the stove and see how the boiling heart was coming along. Each time she looked, Angelina could see more particles of the heart swimming loose in the foul broth. Eventually, the pins began to come loose and bounce about in the boiling water, which needed to be replenished occasionally. The hen heart continued to disintegrate, causing more and more of the pins to lose their mooring until finally, only flecks of blood and tiny grains of coronary muscle remained with the pins in the discolored brew.
Guendalina wrapped a towel about her hand, picked up the hot pot and poured its contents into the pitcher Angelina had used earlier. She tied a rag over the top of the pitcher to avoid either discovery or spillage and handed it to Angelina.
“Now, the only thing that remains is to pour this out on Daniela’s doorstep. It would best be done in the midst of the night but it might be difficult for you to manage to get out of the house at that point. Do you think you can manage that? I imagine that it should be after sunset, though, before you pour the brew on her doorstep.” Guendalina’s hands still held the pitcher even as Angelina took it. “Do not reveal it to anyone or allow anyone to look into it or taste it or pour it anywhere other than Daniela’s doorstep. The last thing we want is for suspicious neighbors to stop us or accuse us of maleficia.”
Angelina nodded. Interference or arrest were certainly the last things she desired in the process of winning Bartolomeo. She hid the pitcher under her cloak and set out for home.
It was hardly midnight but certainly after sunset when Angelina was able to steal away from her family and, taking the pitcher from where she had hidden it, walk in the direction of Daniela and Bartolomeo’s house. She passed others on the street, but apart from their friendly greetings, had no difficulty in reaching her target unobstructed.
She hovered a few doors away from Bartolomeo’s doorstep, watching the dark street. Light glimmered past shutters on the windows of the houses. One man strolled along, either coming from or going towards a tavern. The street was otherwise empty.
When she took the pitcher and pulled the rag
away from the top, the pungent brew tickled her nose. Darting up to Bartolomeo and Daniela’s door, she poured out the contents of the pitcher as quickly as she could. Liquid splashed about and Angelina thought she heard one or two of the pins bounce on the stone at her feet. Concealing the jar under her cloak again, Angelina paused.
“Should I break the pitcher on the doorstep?” she wondered. “Guendalina said nothing about that but it seems so… appropriate. Breaking the pitcher to break Daniela’s hold over Bartolomeo.” She was about to drop the crockery when she realized that the noise of the shattering pottery would be certain to draw attention. She slid the pitcher back under her cloak and made her way home, stealthily leaving the pitcher near the base of a drainpipe of a house she did not recognize in case someone from her family was waiting and she had no opportunity to hide the pitcher again.
Daniela, mystified by her husband’s ever more sullen behavior, was plagued by strange dreams that night. As Bartolomeo retreated across the bed from her to avoid even accidently brushing against her in his sleep, Daniela yearned for his touch, some acknowledgment of her presence, a kind word or a kiss. Struggling to ease her distress by dreaming, her uneasy sleep was instead filled with images of her husband in the arms of another woman. Many other women. Each time Daniela averted her gaze, fighting back tears, she would find herself staring at the naked shoulder blades of yet another woman locked in Bartolomeo’s embrace. She could hear him panting with the exertion of passion and see him bury his face along the strange women’s necks and collarbones or between their breasts. She could hear the women gasp and grunt with pleasure as Bartolomeo, again and again in a way that would have been impossible in waking life, released his manhood between their thighs.
Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 80