by Gian Bordin
"You lie. I know you think that I’m a fool."
She let go of his face and he immediately held on to her skirt.
"Gaetano, that’s not true."
She removed his hand. He tried to get up and collapsed on the floor. Pepe helped him up again.
Alda murmured: "Chiara, it’s useless to talk to him while he’s in this state. Let’s get him back to his home."
"It’s too late. We won’t make it before curfew."
"Then let him sleep it off here. Jacomo, fetch a mattress and put it into the corner over there."
"Get mine," said Chiara.
With Pepe’s help, she laid the mumbling young man on the mattress, removed his boots and belt and loosened his shirt laces. Alda covered him with a blanket. He held on to Chiara’s hand, repeating her name from time to time. When his grip slackened, she extricated her hand.
While the others went to bed, she rested in Antonia’s chair, watching him. His face was relaxed, almost boyish now, except for the dark stubbles around his unshaven jaws and chin. From time to time he smacked his full, inviting lips. Was he really so hurt about her refusal that he drank himself stupid? Or was it only hurt pride? And was she wrong in rejecting him? Lady Maria was right, he offered everything that a girl could wish in a marriage. And I even like him. I could learn to love him. The rugged face of the sailor rose in her mind. Why am I thinking of him? She was suddenly confused about her own reasons. Was it really her quest for justice and revenge … or was it something else? … The sailor? She chided herself for her foolishness. What a forlorn hope, whereas this silly young man lying at her feet was a tangible possibility. But maybe that was the real trouble. He was a silly young man and maybe her own pride would not allow her to face the almost certain prospect of being turned down by Signor Salimbeni.
She was woken by Gaetano stirring on the mattress. The candle had burned itself out. A hint of dawn gave body to the room. Gaetano opened his eyes, looking around confused.
"Where am I?" he murmured. She bent forward, and he saw her. "Oh no," he exclaimed and covered his face with his hands.
"Gaetano, you were drunk and spent the night at our house."
"Did I disgrace myself?"
"No, you fell asleep almost immediately."
He remained silent, searching her eyes in the dim light.
"Chiara, tell me why."
What could she say? Maybe it was simplest to lie. He might accept that more readily. "I am already betrothed, secretly."
It seemed like a light extinguished in his eyes. He lowered them, noticed his boots and put them on. Then he rose and fastened his belt.
"Lady Chiara, please accept my apologies for my unbecoming behavior. I will now leave and will not bother you any further."
His sudden formality pained her.
"Oh, Gaetano. You once wanted to be friends with me."
"That was before I knew who you were," he said, walking to the door.
She followed him. When he briefly looked at her at the door, she said: "Gaetano, I still would like to be your friend."
He bowed slightly and murmured: "Good-bye, Lady Chiara."
13
On the Road to Florence, April 1349
If initially I had been toying with revenge alone, I now wanted to recover my rightful inheritance from Casa Sanguanero and be master of Castello Nisporto, whether I lived there or not. It had grown into a firm determination. I admit that I almost abandoned this quest when Contessa d’Appiano tempted me with an attractive union to the Sienese Casa Salimbeni. But it only lasted a moment, not only because my doubtful reputation and the lack of a sizeable dowry would hardly get the approval of that illustrious house, but more because the young man, although fun for a good banter, did not measure up to my exacting standards.
Siena had helped me firm up the vague plans of how to go about my quest. Casa Sanguanero wanted to break into the lucrative spice trade. From what I had heard the Venetians were unlikely to admit foreigners into their close-knit circle. By some clever scheme I was going to lure Niccolo into my snare. He was gullible and ambitious. I would offer myself as the prey, the sole daughter of a rich Naples merchant family in search of both a husband and a partner to run the family’s business until her only infant brother reached maturity to assume a leading role himself. I even had a name — Lucrezia Alberti de’ Morrone, a name I vaguely remembered my father mentioning several times. If planned carefully, it should work. And I now knew what further preparations and investigations I needed to undertake before I could set my trap. Florence, the biggest and most affluent city offered just the right forum.
By April I was getting impatient to embark on it. Of my fellow players only Alda guessed what I was up to, and I intended to protect them as best as I could. Once I was setting the trap, it would be impossible to hide it, but until then I figured that the less they knew, the better.
To dupe Sanguanero, I needed testimonials from credible sources. My father’s satchel provided the names. Two of the documents were from the reputable Naples banking house Lamartini, used by the King of Naples himself. A third — the document knighting my father — was written by the King’s notary, Oddo Arringhi da Catenaia, himself. And equally important, if not more so, I had clear wax imprints of their seals. I felt confident that I would be able to forge their signatures and write convincing letters. Attending the lectures at the university had sharpened my Latin. So all I needed to complete that task was somebody who could forge the seals, and Florence surely had its seedy hideouts where unholy plans were hatched and unsavory acts perpetrated.
We left Siena by Porta Camollia in the third week of April under a clear, blue sky. Antonia clung to the saddle of the donkey. Alda walked beside her, just in case the old woman decided to fall off. We had begged, implored, cajoled, even tried to bribe her to enjoy her life in Siena. We painted the grim picture of being on the road, but it was all to no avail.
Our first destination was the Sienese fortress of Monte Riggioni, some four leagues north, under normal circumstances a pleasant half-day walk. But it was not to be. After an hour, Antonia was moaning that her back was killing her, that the silly animal was torturing her on purpose by its jerky gait, that she wanted to walk. So we let her, which slowed us to less than half our previous pace. For a while, Pepe even carried her on his back, but that only earned him her wrath. We took a long rest and half an hour later the whole scene repeated itself again.
Alda, who never loses her patience, lost it then. She told her: "We told you so," only to get abused. Finally, I could stand it no longer.
"I am taking you back to the sisters of Santa Maria, whether you like it or not. Pepe, put her back on the donkey."
She must have seen that I meant it, because she immediately cried: "No, Chiara, please not. I will not complain anymore." And she was true to her word. I saw that she suffered, and we took regular rests to give her respite. So it was afternoon before we reached Monte Riggioni.
The fortress was full of soldiers. To offer all of them an opportunity to watch our show, we gave two performances, one that afternoon, the other on the morning of the next day. Our skits were rather more raucous and Jacomo got his first chance to put his head under my skirt. I do not know whether he was disappointed in seeing only my breeches, but the soldiers were generous.
As it turned out, Antonia soon changed her mind about staying with us. She sprang her surprise when she asked to be left with her cousin in Poggi Bonsi. Although the old woman had grown on me, this took a great burden off my shoulders. We set off for Florence light-hearted and nothing in my everyday dealings betrayed the dark plans on my mind.
* * *
For Antonia’s sake, they traveled from Monte Riggioni to Colle in three stages, stopping in Castiglioncelo and Staggia for one night each. The takings were meager and Chiara wondered whether it had been worth it.
When Poggi Bonsi came into sight, Antonia announced, without having given them any hint beforehand: "Chiara, you can leave me wit
h my cousin here. That old weed must have survived the pestilence."
She did not say any more than that. Her pride would not allow her to admit that she was not cut out for the road any longer. The others simply looked at each other, lost for word, until Chiara broke into a big smile. Why had she not told them before, she wondered? It would have avoided much anguish and aggravation, but that was the way she was. They entered the little town with a light foot.
As it turned out, her cousin, an equally cantankerous woman a few years younger, took her in willingly when Chiara gave her two florins and offered another two each year. Antonia promised to pay her share for the food. Chiara knew that she had plenty of money to live for another ten years.
Alda and Pepe wanted to visit San Gimignano, one of the towns on Lorenzo’s itinerary, where they hoped for good crowds. Chiara was astounded by the number of towers — keeps built as protection against attacks from other families — some over twenty men tall, like so many beanstalks, sprouting on that hill. She counted sixty-nine and had to start three times, since several were hidden behind others. Nor did it feel safe to walk near them, although they were impossible to avoid. Some looked like crumbling at any moment.
They returned to Poggi Bonsi to make sure that Antonia had settled in and discovered that she already had a small clientele for her card reading. When they left her, the old woman wanted to hug Chiara, something she had never done before. The words that usually came so sharp and easy failed her, and her tears lost themselves in her wrinkled cheeks.
Although Chiara would have preferred to take the direct route to Florence, she gave in to Alda and Pepe who wanted to visit their old haunts down Val d’Elsa. At the Arno, they took the good road along its left bank.
As they got closer to Florence, Chiara sensed Alda’s growing need for news about Carla, her daughter. So, at Signa, the port of Florence on the Arno, she suggested that they go directly north to Prato before turning east to Florence. She was devastated by the emptiness of that once bustling merchant town and sometime competitor to its bigger and more famous sister. Every second house looked empty. Poorer quarters were utterly deserted. A stranger greeted them in the cobbler’s workshop previously run by Carla’s husband. He rented the shop from the widow of the merchant who owned the house and did not even know the name of the previous occupant.
After taking lodgings at their usual inn, Alda, Pepe, and Chiara went in search of the merchant’s widow. She confirmed that the cobbler, his young wife and their little son had all been claimed by the plague and had been buried in a mass grave. Alda and Pepe took the news with stony faces, but once back at the inn, Alda’s front shattered and she cried inconsolably in Pepe’s arms. Feeling her pain and seeing solid Pepe’s wet cheeks, Chiara let go of her own tears. She ended up hugging and consoling Veronica.
There was no question that they would do shows in Prato and they departed for Florence the next day.
* * *
"Welcome to our most illustrious city, I Magnifici," the innkeeper at the Angelo Benito greeted them. "Travelers from Siena and Monte Pulciano have already sung your praise. I will let it be known that you are honoring my establishment."
Chiara was again struck by the effect of the plague. Many houses stood empty, shops shuttered. Some quarters were more affected than others. Although there was much activity going on — the water wheels along the banks of the Arno that provided the energy for the spinning wheels and powered the fans to dry the cloth in the dyeing shops were turning day and night — but the streets and squares looked deserted. There were no throngs of people as there had been a year and a half earlier on her first visit to the city. Only the number of girls offering their bodies seemed to be the same.
One of the first things she did was to write a letter to Lady Maria d’Appiano, as she had promised.
In view of their success in Siena, Chiara decided that they would give a single public show of the knife-throwing act and two comic skits. After that they would only play by private invitation. It took a mere four days before they received their first from Casa Buondelmonti, requesting the play Phormio a week later. Chiara hesitated to accept, since she was not sure whether Alda was up to it. To her surprise, the woman insisted that throwing herself back into work would be the best remedy for her grief.
So she went to visit the inns and meeting places frequented by itinerant players in search of an actor to fill the leading male role. She interviewed half a dozen, but there was always something wrong — arrogance, a lack of maturity, a voice that did not carry without shouting, unpleasant facial features, too small, a vague sense that she could not trust the man. She was getting worried and wished she could simply summon Ser Mario, only appreciating now how lucky she had been to find him.
Four days before their first private show, she returned to the inn late after another frustrating search. The others were already eating. A man in his early forties was with them. She took the seat at the end of the table, next to him.
"Chiara, this is Orlando," said Pepe. "We once belonged to the same troupe. How many years ago was that?"
"More than ten," remarked Alda before turning to Chiara: "Any luck?"
Chiara shook her head.
Orlando acknowledged her with a brief smile, murmuring "Signorina" and then continued talking to Pepe. She listened, studying him, fascinated by how both his face and his graceful hands gave expression to what he said. He modulated his voice for emphasis. His diction was clear and refined. He could not be said beautiful, but rather distinguished.
She interrupted him in the middle of a sentence. "Do you want a job?"
"And who are you that you can offer me a job?" he replied, startled.
"Chiara, the corago of I Magnifici, and we need an actor with your skills."
"How do you know my abilities? You’ve never seen me act."
"I watched you just now and that was all I needed."
He turned to Pepe. "Your corago a woman? I bet she isn’t even twenty, Pepe, and you told me that you were successful." His voice went quickly through three different emotions, disbelieving, disparaging, mocking.
"Orlando, you better watch your mouth," exclaimed Alda. "Chiara is a dangerous woman, and yes, she isn’t yet twenty and it’s because of her that we’re so successful."
Orlando’s outburst, rather than offend her, reinforced her favorable impression.
"You haven’t given me an answer. I offered you a job," she repeated with a smile. "The leading actor in a serious play, translated from Latin, not simply short skits. And no masks."
"Alda, is she real?"
"Yes, I’m real," Chiara answered instead. "We do mostly private functions, usually no more than two a week. In fact, in Florence, we will only give one public performance, but we wouldn’t need you for that. So, will you give me an answer?"
"What do you offer?"
"The normal share of the purse. One month trial period."
"He won’t need that, Chiara," said Pepe.
"Oh, I doubt he’ll need that for his acting, but he may need it to have his wings clipped a bit."
"Oho!"
"Orlando, don’t be a fool," cried Alda. "Accept."
Chiara locked eyes with him. "I like you, Orlando."
He met her gaze for a while, and then looked away.
"Yes or no."
He turned his eyes back on her. "Yes."
"Good."
She held out her hand, and he shook it.
"I suggest that you move in with us tonight. Jacomo, are you willing to share your room with Orlando?"
"Yes, Chiara. I would like that."
"Can you read?"
Orlando nodded.
"I’ll give you a copy of Phormio. Our first performance is at Casa Buondelmonti."
"Casa Buondelmonti?" He turned to Pepe. "Is she pulling my leg?"
"No, she isn’t," replied Alda. "Pepe told you that we are successful."
"We’ll have our first rehearsal tomorrow morning," continued Chiara,
"and we stick absolutely to the lines, word for word, no improvisations. You’ve four days to memorize the play."
Later that night, when she and Veronica retired to the room they shared, the girl said: "Orlando seems to be a nice man. Are you pleased that he joined us?"
"Yes. He’s a bit too cocky, but we will fix that, and I think he’s a very expressive actor. Watch him. We all can learn from him."
* * *
Chiara was right. Orlando was an outstanding actor, better than any she had seen, except for Maria. She had to remind him twice that she did not want any improvisations. There was little need for active directing. He fitted naturally into the play, as they had given for Casa Salimbeni.
Alda, having tasted playing house in Siena, urged that they again rent a house. They found a small furnished one, this one with a small enclosed garden, not far from their lodgings, and moved in. As had become the rule since Antonia left them, Chiara and Veronica shared a bedroom. Veronica had a real need for talking before going to sleep, eager to learn anything Chiara could offer, and she enjoyed introducing her to literature, or telling her about the history of the Italian peninsula. The girl had become the younger sister she never had. Often Jacomo joined them before turning in, as eager as his sister to learn.
Back at their house after the play at Casa Buondelmonti, while Alda fetched wine and served each a cup, Jacomo as usual counted the purse — thirty florins. Chiara gave each his or her share. She noticed that Orlando took his three gold pieces repeatedly from his pocket, as if to make sure that they were real. He must have gone through hard times, she mused.
She raised her cup. "Let’s drink on a rich stay in Florence."
Orlando too raised his cup. "Let’s drink on our corago." And then he added: "I owe you an apology, Chiara, for what I said when we first met."
"No apology needed, Orlando. I’m glad that you are one of us."