Gianluca looked at her, her beauty couched beneath a death mask, her body illuminated by the countless flames that scattered the tiny space. It was difficult for him to comprehend that all the jealousy he had felt toward Piero had been unfounded. That there was a nameless, unknown other who had fathered Miriam's child. He tried to consider what she was offering him: even a few hours beside her would be more ecstasy than he could hope for, and if those hours were followed by death, it would be a magnificent farewell. But the thought that she might die first — that he might have to watch her grow frail and feverish and hurl herself into that final convulsion — was too much for him.
“No,” he said, in almost a whisper. “No.” Then he turned and stumbled across the hovel and out into the night.
Miriam closed her eyes and tried to breathe through her pain. “Go after him,” she said. “Please, Piero — see that he's all right.”
Piero remained frozen for a moment, his eyes fixed upon Miriam; then he rose and followed after Gianluca. He'd broken into a run now — Piero could just see him at the edge of his vision, racing out across the fields beside the Vedova Scarpa's hovel. Piero chased after him, aware of his pain, aware that his suffering went beyond his understanding. And aware that no matter how fast they ran, nor how far they got, they could never outdistance this terror that was following so close behind them.
Chapter 18
BY THE END of the first week there was not a hovel on the island that had not been touched by the sickness. The villagers who were still in the early stages of it tried to take those who had died across the water to be buried in the cemetery. When that became too difficult they put them in their gardens and their fields. Finally they could do no more than throw a piece of muslin or an old cloak over their faces and leave them where the final pangs had taken them. The smell was awful; the people lit bonfires of juniper and ash along the Calle Alberi Grandi, but the thick sweet smoke only intensified the odor of death.
A few of the villagers tried to come up with their own cures in feeble imitation of Piarina. Paolo Guarnieri ran about his hovel in circles holding a sprig of blessed thistle over his head. Siora Bertinelli rubbed a mixture of bogbean, spearmint leaf, and horseradish on her swellings, which made them burn so badly that she had to roll herself in a washtub lined with lard. Silvano Rizzardello — who had lost his wife and both his children in the very first days — crawled up on his roof and began covering himself with salt.
The Vedova Stampanini and Giuseppe Navo faced the specter of death with a feeling of familiarity. The Vedova had watched her ten children, her husband, and most of the people she had grown up with pass away; Giuseppe Navo had watched the Vedova as she had watched them. So now, as their own ends drew near, they decided to prepare a final meal — a last, lavish supper —before the ultimate throes of the sickness were upon them. Giuseppe ventured out into the lagoon and brought back a pair of gleaming cefali. The Vedova worked for hours making pureed beans with bacon, almond milk pudding, sopa di pollo, dried peas with anise, breadcrumb compote, zampone, and clove-and-ginger tarts. They laid it all out on the small table where they had shared so many meals and ate, in silence, for seven hours. Then they wrapped themselves up in each other's arms, convulsed in the dance like a pair of teenage lovers, and died.
The Vedova Scarpa had stayed inside her hovel since the meeting at the new village center. As the sickness came over her, however, she gathered her belongings into a burlap sack, donned the pale green gown she'd worn when she'd first met Luigi Scarpa, and went out to the western docks where he'd disappeared on a fishing expedition so many years ago. For the next three days she stood there holding a small net bag, in the hope that when she evaporated into spirit he would spot her, and hand her his catch, and guide her into heaven.
In the Ca’Torta all was silence. The three Marias were sunk in the fever, and Orsina lay groaning in her bed as she awaited Enrico's return. She'd ordered whatever servants were still mobile to remove everything from the bedchambers, the androne, the dining chamber, the salone, and the main portico, place it all in a pile at the center of the rose garden, and set it on fire — banking on the theory that it was never too late to relinquish one's attachment to material posessions, and that the Holy Spirit might still be embraced upon one's deathbed. She knew Enrico would come; no matter how hard he'd tried to avoid her company throughout the years of their marriage, he would never desert her in death. And sure enough, on the night after she took to her bed, he arrived at the door of their chamber — barefoot, in a hair shirt, and covered with the ugly black sores — and together they prayed that God would forgive them for a little excess.
Only Beppe Guancio and Romilda Rosetta thought to go to the Chiesa di Maria del Mare. Beppe got there first; he dragged himself from his bed when Piero went to see Miriam and stumbled through the fields to the tiny chapel. When he went inside he did not have the strength to light even one taper — but he knew that God could see him whether it was light or it was dark, so he tiptoed down the aisle and knelt before the altar and begged to be delivered from his pain.
Romilda Rosetta found her pain invigorating. From the moment the soreness started in her side, she viewed it as her final, most challenging trial. She stayed at the Ca’Torta while the sickness spread throughout her system, following Orsina's orders in the absence of Ermenegilda's. But when the pain became excruciating she went to the chiesa, crept unknowingly into the darkness behind the prostrate Beppe Guancio, and lay down in a gentle cross of supplication.
It was a gesture that nearly everyone on Riva di Pignoli, had they seen her perform it, would have understood. For when the flesh blackened, and opened, and oozed, there was no choice but to turn to the spirit. Romilda Rosetta had simply had a head start.
WHERE THE SICKNESS made the other villagers’bodies grow heavy, it made Piarina feel lighter than ever; she practically floated through the door as she went outside for the first time since she'd fallen during the storm. Piarina had tried to induce herself to save Valentina — but after an entire day of prayer before the lone candle in the corner of the hovel, she still couldn't bring herself to do it. For months and months her mind had been filled with thoughts of murder; it was not so easy to wipe such things away. So when Valentina fell asleep she took the candle in her hand, went out to the edge of the island, and vowed to follow the circuit she'd traveled on the night she brought the spring until she found the grace to let her mother live.
She journeyed through the night, around and around the island, searching for the softness, the forgotten moment of tenderness, the sudden insight into her mother's nature that would allow her to reach past a lifetime of jabs and whacks and hold her to her heart. The Vedova Scarpa, who stood waiting at the docks for Luigi, was convinced it was not Piarina she saw but her ghost: the young girl's feet barely touched the ground, and her stick-bone body glowed brighter than the candle that guided her. Siora Bertinelli, who had gone to the eastern shore to soak her sores in the lagoon, claimed she saw Piarina walk on water: there was a point in the shore where the land curved in, creating a shallow cove where one could wade —Siora Bertinelli swore that Piarina ignored the indentation and continued straight across the surface of the lagoon. But circle as she might, Piarina could find nothing to help her. When dawn came she searched the grass and the trees and the line of the horizon for a shred or a speck to give her understanding. But all she could think of was how much the pain from the sickness felt like the pain from being beaten, so she finally gave up and went home.
When she reentered the hovel Valentina was still asleep — though in a different spot, having obviously awakened in pain during the night. Piarina went to where she lay, her breathing heavy, her face sallow and drawn from the fever moving through her. She thought of all the times she'd sat at her knees, how hard she'd tried to please her, how much the beatings had hurt. And she knew that she still loved her; and she knew that she still hated her; and she knew that, try though she might, she could not forgive her. So she
wiped away the bit of spittle that trickled from the corner of her mouth and crept to the hearth where her cure sat simmering.
She couldn't give it to Ermenegilda, and she wouldn't give it to Valentina. So the only thing to do was to spill it off into the fire. After lifting the cauldron from its hook, she lowered it to the floor; then she tilted it onto its side, and the hot, sticky liquid began slowly to drain away. No more than a few drops had poured off, however, when the door to the hovel flew open.
“Wait!”
The sound of Ermenegilda's voice arrested Piarina's movements. Without releasing the cauldron, she turned toward the door as her old friend moved swiftly to her side.
“You can't,” said Ermenegilda. “It isn't right.”
Piarina looked down at the cauldron, perched on its edge, its contents ready to run off into the flames. Then — her doe eyes sparkling with a last trace of hope — she looked back at Ermenegilda and, one last time, pointed her finger at her.
Ermenegilda closed her eyes. “That isn't what I mean.”
Piarina turned back to the hearth and began to tilt the cauldron over again.
“All right,” said Ermenegilda. “All right. Get it ready.”
Piarina flushed with joy as she lowered the cauldron back to the ground. Then she scampered to the table, fetched a small clay bowl, returned with it to the fire, ladled the contents of the cauldron inside it, and presented it without ceremony to Ermenegilda.
Ermenegilda placed her hands over Piarina's as they grasped the bowl. A tremendous heat passed between them, a current of love kindled strong by sickness. But instead of drawing it into herself, Ermenegilda pushed the bowl toward Piarina.
“You take it,” she said. “Please, Piarina.”
Piarina quivered at Ermenegilda's suggestion. She dropped her head and shook it furiously; she tried to pull away. But Ermenegilda kept her hands tight over her hands and would not let her escape.
“This thing won't leave many behind,” said Ermenegilda. “Who knows what an awful world it's going to be? But whatever's left, whatever it comes to, they'e going to need all the magic they can get. You made the cure, Piarina. You'e the one who should take it.”
Piarina looked into the bowl she clutched between her hands. She thought of how much concentration had gone into her struggle to find the ingredients, how much pain had been channeled into her efforts to produce the cure. And she saw that it had never once occurred to her to use that cure for herself. Her gifts, in all their magic, had always been for others; her spirit had grown so accustomed to bruising it did not recognize the chance to be healed.
“Take the life you offered me, Piarina,” said Ermenegilda. “I don't want it. Take it for yourself.”
Piarina felt the heat in her hands pass up through her arms and spread throughout her body. Ermenegilda released her grasp. Then the lucent child drew the bowl to her lips and drank the mixture off. When she'd finished the last of it, Ermenegilda lifted her up into her arms and carried her to the bed.
“Rest awhile,” she said as she tucked her in. “I'l be back.”
And she left the hovel.
Piarina lay with her eyes closed and listened to her mother's snoring. She felt the heat rise up to her head and spread down through her belly and into her legs. And gradually, as the heat intensified, she felt a light begin to radiate inside her. At first it was not much more than her usual glow, but it grew and grew until she shone so brightly that the hovel began to vibrate. Valentina groaned; she tried to cover her eyes; she complained that the glare was keeping her from sleeping. But Piarina couldn't hear her. She could only feel the light.
Growing brighter. And brighter. And brighter. And brighter.
And brighter.
THERE WAS NO LIGHT to guide Gianluca on the night he fled from Miriam's alcove; his body raced forward without knowing where it was going while his mind stayed rooted upon a single, unbearable image: the look of death that had fallen over Miriam's face. He ran until he reached the village center, where his eyes fixed upon the statue of Miriam and her child. Unable to bear this any more than he had been able to bear the sight of the actual pair, he hastened to the entrance of the campanìl and began climbing the makeshift stairs that led to the bells. When he reached the belfry he tore the central bell from its place and, holding tightly to the base of the stone archway opening out of the southern wall, began dashing to bits the wooden framework he'd just raced up. The power of his blows was so great that the entire stairway buckled and caved in within a matter of seconds. Gianluca hurled the bronze bell in after the wreckage; then he stood upon the ledge beneath the archway and began to howl.
It was not a howling like the howling of the night of the storm. Where that had been a catharsis, this was purely rage. He could not accept what was happening to his island, and he could not keep himself from venting his fury that it was happening.
By the time Piero reached the campanìl, Gianluca had already begun his savage cries; he stood there, inches from the base of the tower, as the terrible sounds rang out over the pestilent night. When he went to the entrance to try to climb after him, however, he found that Gianluca had destroyed the internal structure completely, making it impossible for him to follow behind him. So he closed his eyes and hugged the stone walls — the great wails riding over the campo expressing the rage that he himself could not. He stayed that way until the moon rose. Then he left the tower and returned to Beppe Guancio's hovel to sit out his lonely vigil over the dying island.
MIRIAM SAT BEFORE the altar and watched the candles. The pain was like a fire upon her now, but if she breathed evenly and watched the candles, she could bear it. Nicolo lay in her arms, looking up at her with wide eyes; Maria Luigi lay moaning in the next room. And though Miriam wished that she could go to her and comfort her in her pain, she knew that if she tried to move, Beelzebub's dance would come upon her instantaneously.
As she sat there, her eyes upon the flames, she thought about her time on Riva di Pignoli. She thought about the kindness of Fausto and Maria Luigi, the diligence of Siora Scabbri's chickens, the despair of the villagers who had gathered outside her window. And she thought about Piero and Gianluca. How faithful they'd been, how generous and devoted, despite her unwillingness to choose between them. She realized that though her mind had been fixed upon what she thought she could teach them, in reality they had taught her more. About constancy. And compassion. And the intricate threads that ran between passion and piety.
As the pain grew stronger, Miriam thought about the longing that had followed her through her life. Not even Nicolo had been able to draw off its pressure, and she realized, as she sat there, that she had spent her entire life trying to absorb it, remove it, deny it. “Take it away,” she'd cried to her mother and father. “Take it away,” she'd begged the ass, the men, her child. But the longing had disappeared only for brief transcendent moments that made its return that much more unbearable.
She closed her eyes and felt the candlelight burn warm against her eyelids and felt the weight of Nicolo in her arms. She shifted him into her left arm and held him close to her body, while with her right hand she reached down to retrieve a small bundle that was lodged beneath one of the pillows that supported her. It was a scarf of white linen embossed with leaves that contained a small gold wedding band: the last of the objects contained in the parcel she had brought with her to the island. Her mother had given it to her just before she died, and though Miriam had carried it with her wherever she went, she'd never actually thought she would wear it.
She drew the bundle up to her breast and placed it upon Nicolo's swaddled legs; then she drew back the folds of fabric to reveal the ring. She took it between her thumb and forefinger and held it up before her — a perfect circle of bright metal that reflected the flickering light. It seemed as strange to her as if she'd never seen it before or had never understood its purpose. She knew that purpose now, however, and with a simple movement slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand.
Miriam felt, as she sat on the floor of the alcove with the pain coursing through her like hot wax, that it was finally time to give in to her longing. To let it expand into a white-hot yearning, to let that yearning transform into something with no name at all. She felt her chest begin to pound. She felt the heat rise to her shoulders, her cheeks, her ears. Her eyes, though already open, seemed to open again — she saw the statue of the Virgin, the bowl of water, the bolts and bolts of cloth, as if she were seeing them for the very first time. And though their forms were precise — almost rigid — they poured out of themselves with an amazing fullness. And Miriam knew that if she concentrated, this moment would last forever.
Just as she was about to give over to her state, she felt a tugging at the satin that wrapped about her shoulders. She looked down, and through the sea of light that enshrouded her she saw the face of Nicolo, knotted in fear and confusion. He seemed far, far away, an object of another world. But she managed to bridge the distance with the fingers of her right hand and smooth the lines of worry from his brow.
“It's all right,” she whispered. “I'l be waiting for you.”
In that moment Miriam understood that the longing she had felt throughout her life had been the longing to return to God. And as her body began to spasm, and she entered that final dance, she knew that it was safe to leave Nicolo and follow the brilliant starburst to its source.
AS THE LIGHT in Miriam's alcove expanded, so did the light in Piarina's little body. One fed the other, until the shabby hovel that housed the prescient child shone brighter than a bonfire in autumn. Valentina stayed huddled in the corner, her arms pulled up tight over her head, while Piarina slept and glowed and slept and glowed and slept. Eventually she was awakened by Ermenegilda, who returned to the hovel pushing a wheelbarrow and carrying a fine lace dress.
Simple Prayers Page 23