FOR TWELVE YEARS Albertino had carefully adhered to the standard calendar for sowing and planting: broad beans in April, eggplant in May, broccoli in June or July or even in August. This year, however, he decided to put down everything as soon as he could. Cauliflower and carrots. Sweet chard and onions. Parsnips and turnips and cabbage and fennel and peas. Whatever else happened, whatever fortune or destiny of the position of the stars decreed, he was determined to see that the vegetables went on without him. Albertino finally understood why the spring had been so reluctant to come to Riva di Pignoli the previous year. Why bring your bounty to a place of sickness and death? Why enliven the landscape with a sweep of brilliant color when the people are turning a blackish greenish gray?
Albertino did not feel the heaviness come over him until the evening of Piero's gathering at the new village center. He told himself that it was only fatigue, but when he woke the next morning and felt the soreness in his side he knew that the sickness had begun. So he gathered up his seeds and his bulbs and the sproutlings he'd begun in a series of shallow crates and set out across the water to do the planting. It was tiring work, and the lump in his side made the digging quite painful, but he wanted to put down the bulk of it while he still had the energy.
As he knelt before the trench he'd dug to lay down the fennel, he breathed in the smell of the fresh soil. He loved that smell, he couldn't imagine living without it; but he wouldn't be living without it, he would be dead without it; if he were living, he would still be able to smell it; but he wouldn't be, he'd be dead; unless you smelled things after death; although he doubted it; though on the other hand he imagined that there were lots of flowers in heaven; but it was better not to think about heaven and hell; and besides maybe it wouldn't happen after all; and so the best thing to do was to just continue laying down the seeds. That was as far as he ever got when he tried to think beyond the pain in his side: six paces down a twisted path that wound up in the mud. Planting the vegetables was the only thing that made sense; as long as he was doing that, nothing that might happen tomorrow really mattered.
Albertino worked through the morning. When he finished with the fennel, he began the cauliflower — bit by bit he sidled down the row, his fingers carefully sifting and patting, his eyes intent upon the placement of the tiny sproutlings. As he reached the middle of the row, however, he became aware of another presence in the garden — and when he turned to his right he found Gianluca, just a few yards away, placing sproutlings from a separate crate in the dark earth beside him.
“Gianluca!” he cried.
“Ciao, little brother.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like I'm doing? Do you think I'e forgotten how to put down a row of cauliflower?”
Gianluca did not look up as he said this; his attention remained on the simple act of placing the sproutlings in the trench and surrounding them with soil. Albertino was moved by his devotion and silently returned to his own work. After about a quarter of an hour, however, he turned back to his brother and spoke.
“You'e got it, too.”
Gianluca gave a quick nod.
“Right side or left?”
“Both.”
Albertino could feel the sun blaze hot on his neck, his back, his shoulders. That he should have the sickness was one thing; that Gianluca should have it was entirely another. He could feel a rising in his throat, a thickening at the back of his tongue, a stinging in his eyes. But as he did not know what to do with these feelings, he turned back to the trench and continued on with his planting.
“We should do the eggplant next. And then the cabbage. I'd like to get everything down by tomorrow night.”
“I'm here, Albertino,” said Gianluca. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
They worked on in silence — row by row, vegetable by vegetable. Gianluca did not mention Miriam; Albertino did not mention Ermenegilda. They merely dug and planted, sifted and cleared, while the light faded, and the shadows crept in, and the darkness overtook them.
AFTER THE GATHERING at the new village center, and Maria Luigi's ringing of the bells, Piero went out to the north rim of the island and stood in the field of wild thyme. In all the years he'd lived on Riva di Pignoli, Piero had seen the people bounce back from tragedy; famine or flood, they'd always demonstrated a remarkable resilience. What was happening now, however, could not be taken care of by a firm will and a hopeful spirit.
Piero knew that death was upon the island. He could see it in the eyes of everyone he came in contact with. He could smell it on their skin and hear it in their voices. And despite the brave calm he evinced for the benefit of the other villagers, he could not help but feel a shattering sense of responsibility for what was happening. What if he'd told the villagers about the body? What if he'd heeded the warning it had represented — the warning Nature had sent with the delay of spring and the devastating storm — instead of encouraging the people to pour their energy into the building of a useless campo? Perhaps he could have evacuated the island — averted the sickness — prevented the horror that was now spreading across the village like a fatal wave of gossip.
He stood there for hours trying to find some pattern in the horror, but nothing could help him make sense of it. Eventually he lay down upon the grave, hoping that understanding might come to him in his sleep. But when he woke the next morning his frustration and despair were as keen as when he'd closed his eyes.
When he returned to Beppe Guancio's hovel, Beppe informed him that Anna Rizzardello and Gesmundo Barbon had died, that Siora Scabbri and Maria Patrizia Lunardi and Paolo Guarnieri had reached the state of fever, and that he had found the first black lump in his side.
“It burns, Piero,” he said. “It's hard to think about anything but the pain.”
Piero instantly placed Beppe in bed and began laying hot and cold compresses on his swelling. He remained at his side for the rest of the day — encouraging him to drink a bit of broth, covering him with blankets when he became racked with chills, and pretending not to seem alarmed at how swiftly the illness accelerated. By nightfall the swelling had already burst and the blotches were beginning to spread across Beppe's belly. He whimpered like a small puppy and clutched Piero's hand and drew from him a strength he could not have drawn from himself.
Late in the evening Beppe's condition eased enough to allow him to sleep. Piero, who had sat by him and comforted him since early morning, was shaken and exhausted and longed for sleep himself. But before he could allow himself to crawl to his corner and lay down upon his bed of straw, he went to the worktable where he'd designed the campanìl the campo, and the monument, took a clean piece of parchment from beneath his drawings, and with his best quill pen, in his most careful hand, wrote “Deus non est.”
God does not exist.
Before he'd even finished forming the final letter, he felt a wave of terror rush through him. He folded up the parchment as small as he could and placed it beneath his tunic and blouse where no one could know he'd written it. With careful steps he moved toward his bed, certain that he would be struck by lightning before he reached it or that the earth would open up to swallow him whole. But nothing happened. So he closed his eyes and waited for death to take him like the others.
Piero was not afraid of death. A part of him even welcomed it. The problem was that as yet he had no pain, no feeling of sickness, nor the slightest symptom of the disease.
WHEN ALL THE ITEMS had been brought to the hovel, Piarina began to inspect them. One by one she held her hands over them, closed her eyes, and awaited some kind of verification. When she received it — in the form of a light, high humming in her head — she placed a small stool before the hearth, stepped up onto it, placed the items in the cauldron, filled it three-quarters full with well water, and slowly brought the mixture to a boil. Then she took a spoon and began stirring it all together.
Ermenegilda and Valentina tried to busy themselves while Piarina stirred the hopeful brot
h. As the water evaporated she would replenish it: stirring and boiling, stirring and reducing, stirring and adding again. A new glow came upon her — she became transparent as the wasp's wing — but she continued to stir with an even stroke as the mixture gathered its potency.
Toward the end of the day both Ermenegilda and Valentina felt the tenderness in their sides begin to concentrate into hard centers of pain. By the following morning the swellings had appeared, but though they both felt concerned, neither one of them panicked. As long as Piarina stood stirring the broth, they trusted her cure would save them.
On the evening of the second day of her stirring, Piarina suddenly laid the spoon beside the fire and went to the corner where Ermenegilda sat nursing her pain. After raising her twinkling hands to her cheeks in their old, familiar embrace, she guided her friend to the steaming cauldron across the hovel, stepped up onto the stool, and began stirring the mixture in swifter, cleaner strokes. There was a sense of mission in her movements that made Ermenegilda feel certain the magic potion would work.
“Bless you, Piarina!” she said. “Bless you! To think you can save the entire island with a handful of nothing at all!”
Piarina continued stirring — but then she stopped and turned to Ermenegilda. She seemed puzzled by her words, her starry eyes a pair of vacant screens. Then she understood and began to shake her head.
“What is it?” said Ermenegilda. “You mean the cure doesn't work?”
Piarina shook her head more vigorously, and patted the cauldron, and pointed her finger at Ermenegilda.
“For me?” said Ermenegilda. “You want me to be first! What a sweet friend you are!”
Piarina began to become upset. She placed the spoon down and brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead. Then she patted the cauldron, and patted Ermenegilda, and made a motion with her hands that Ermenegilda knew only too well.
“Basta così?” she said. “What are you saying? You mean you made it only for me?”
Piarina smiled a contented smile and began stirring the broth again.
“But you can't give it only to me!” cried Ermenegilda. “The whole island is dying! You'e the only one who can save them, Piarina!”
Piarina stopped stirring again, and again she looked perplexed. Then a torrent of tears flooded out from her eyes and she raised a tiny finger in the air.
“Heaven?” said Ermenegilda, thinking Piarina was pointing up. “We'e all going to heaven?”
Piarina shook the finger wildly, and tapped it against the wall, and beat it against her chest, and raised it in the air again.
“One,” said Ermenegilda. “Only one.”
Piarina nodded.
“You mean you can only save one person.”
Piarina nodded again, and again she pointed to Ermenegilda.
“You can only save one person and you want it to be me.” Ermenegilda closed her eyes. “And what about you?”
Piarina raised her tunic, and when Ermenegilda opened her eyes she saw that she was covered with the black blotches, the black swellings, and a series of open, running sores.
“Dio mi!” cried Ermenegilda. “Why didn't you let us know?”
Piarina hung her head, and patted the cauldron, and pointed to Ermenegilda.
“You wanted to save me!” cried Ermenegilda. “I know! But what about yourself? Why would I want to live if it takes you, too?”
Piarina stirred no more, patted no more, pointed no more. Ermenegilda, wet with tears, put her great arms around her and whispered into her hair.
“If you won't be here, I'l want to be with him. If he won't be here, I won't want to be here, either.”
Then she withdrew herself from the embrace and ran out of the hovel, leaving Piarina frozen before the fire.
A few moments passed. Silence filled the hovel. Then a voice from the shadows rose up in a raspy whisper.
“Piarina! I'm thirsty! Fetch me some water!”
Piarina was startled by the sound of her mother's voice; she'd almost forgotten she was there. But when she turned and saw her huddled by the wall, she suddenly realized what she would have to do. She only wondered, with their history behind them, if she could possibly find the forgiveness to do it.
WHEN THE SWELLING in her side had become the size of a melon and the greenish black blotches had begun to spread across her arms and throat, Miriam sent word, through Maria Luigi, for Piero and Gianluca to come visit her. She was aware that most of the island had contracted the pestilence by now, but still she did not want them to see that she was sick. So she wrapped herself in bolts and bolts of Maria Luigi's blue satin, then propped herself against a stack of cotton with Nicolo in her arms.
When Piero arrived at Maria Luigi's hovel, he was horrified to find the group of angry villagers gathered beneath Miriam's window. If anyone were to blame for this sickness, it was he; the thought that these people had chosen Miriam for their hatred made a wave of nausea pass through him. He tried to disband them; he pleaded with them to take their pain back to their beds. But they only ignored him and continued their tireless chanting.
Piero entered the hovel and made his way to the alcove. When he came upon the small space illuminated by the glowing candles, he almost forgot the horror that had taken over the island. Miriam and Nicolo looked so perfectly at peace, the candlelight on the blue satin was so gentle and soothing, he was able for a moment to free his mind from images of sickness and death. It was only when he actually saw Miriam's face — pale and shadowed and robbed of its delicate bloom — that he knew the horror was unavoidable.
“Thank you for coming,” Miriam said as he entered. “Please — sit anywhere.”
Piero crossed to the far wall and lowered himself to the straw. As he glanced around the room his eyes came to rest upon the statue of the Virgin, burnished yellow and gold from the light of the shimmering candles.
“This is very nice,” he said.
“It's what sustains me,” said Miriam.
Piero thought of his own statue of the Virgin — his statue of Miriam and Nicolo — and of the hope he'd had for the future of the island.
“Tell me how things are,” said Miriam.
Piero tried to block out the cries outside the window. “It's all across the island,” he said. “There's no one to help with those that are dying and no one to administer to the sick.”
Miriam closed her eyes. “I hear they'e calling it‘Beelzebub's dance,’” she said.
“There's a moment — a frenzy that comes — at the end.”
“I know. I'e seen it with Fausto. It's awful.”
“Giuseppe Navo's been out to Burano, Pescatorno, Ponte di Schiavi. They have it, too. It's all across the lagoon. All over the mainland.”
Piero and Miriam were silent for a moment, the cries outside the window like the patter of heavy rain. They tried to move beyond the violence in those cries, to concentrate on the candles, the satin, the energy between them. Then, suddenly, the sounds broke off in midcry — and the voice of Gianluca was heard.
“Get away from here!” he cried. “Go! Now!”
Piero and Miriam could hear no response — only the clanging of pots and the shuffling of feet as the ugly band dispersed. A moment later they heard the throwing open of the door to Maria Luigi's hovel and a faint cry from Maria Luigi at the hearth; then Gianluca appeared at the entrance to the alcove. He leaned against the wall — he was obviously in great pain — but his eyes were alive with their usual defiant luster.
“They won't bother you anymore,” he said. “I'l kill them if they do.”
“There's no point in killing them,” said Miriam. “They'l die soon enough on their own.”
“Perhaps it really is the end of the world,” said Piero.
Miriam lifted Nicolo, who in his usual manner had remained perfectly quiet, up against her shoulder. “It isn't the end of the world,” she said.
“How do you know?” said Gianluca.
She stroked the infant's curls in a slow, steady movement
. “Because Nicolo is well,” she said. “He hasn't been touched by the sickness.”
“And what about you?” said Gianluca.
Miriam paused. “It started for me days ago. But Nicolo is well. And there are sure to be others like him.”
Piero looked away as Miriam said this; he did not have the courage to admit that, like Nicolo, the pestilence had passed him by. Miriam, however, saw his reaction and instantly interpreted its meaning.
“Is it true?”
“I think so.”
Miriam closed her eyes. “Grazie, Dio,” she said. “Grazie.”
“What are you talking about?” said Gianluca.
“Then that's been the answer all along,” said Miriam. “I couldn't imagine how Nicolo would survive if no one else were to survive. But you'l take care of him. You'l take him away to where there is no sickness.”
“I don't know that there is such a place,” said Piero. “But I'l try.”
“You bastard!” cried Gianluca.
“You must promise me that you will come for him as soon as I'm gone,” said Miriam.
“Don't talk like this!” cried Gianluca. “You aren't going to die of this!”
“I am going to die of it, Gianluca,” said Miriam. “Most of the island is going to die of it.”
“No!”
“Listen to me,” she said. “We have so little time.” She leaned forward and drew one of the tapers toward her so that its light cast a plain glow over her face. “I asked you here because our lives have been bound up together since I first came to Riva di Pignoli. I didn't choose it — but you didn't choose it, either. I asked you both to be father to my baby. The truth is that neither of you is his father. Nicolo was inside me when I came to Riva di Pignoli.” She paused for a moment as her words penetrated. “Now it looks as if only Piero will be able to raise my child. So I'm asking you to stay with me, Gianluca. Until one of us is seized by this terrible dance. Stay here, be here with me.”
Simple Prayers Page 22