Blood Water Paint
Page 10
of Susanna’s hand
in my own.
He’s actually impressed by you,
by your second-rate frescoes,
your filthy mouth.
He’ll see what you are,
but by the time he does,
I’ll be so far gone
neither one of you
will ever reach me.
You’re ambitious, Artemisia.
But without me?
You’ll never fulfill
your potential.
His eyes land on a sketch
from before my hands stopped moving—
another version of Susanna,
one where she stands
and looks the monsters in the eye.
He reaches for the sketch.
He’ll rip it like he did before.
I lunge, snatch Susanna,
send Agostino toppling
off the stool
before I scramble down the stairs.
Arrive
They run as though they will be torn limb from limb if they are caught. And they will.
Mile upon mile, stumbling over rocky terrain in the dark, panicking at every crack of a branch, every animal call. Judith wrestles with the heavy basket, her arms aching, the adrenaline exhausted miles ago. Abra wrestles with her terror. Her body is strong from a lifetime of hauling water and children and waste, but she is no soldier.
And this is war.
Finally they reach the gates. Abra lunges for the rope to ring the bell that brings the watchmen in the night. But Judith uses the last of her strength to stay Abra’s arm.
“Wait,” she gasps.
Abra’s lost all respect for station. “I didn’t run all this way to sit as prey outside my own city gates.”
“Only for a moment, Abra.” Judith’s legs shake beneath her, but if she sinks to the ground now, she may never stand again. She sets the basket down, turns away from it. “I have to think of what to say. Everyone will come when they hear the gates opening at night. They won’t believe we’ve done this on our own, not to mention that little matter of a large man’s head in a basket!”
Abra gives Judith her moment. But no more than that. In a single day she has gone from a life of drudgery, every day the same, scrubbing, cooking, hauling, to breaking into an enemy camp, aiding in the seduction of the captain, then helping to take off his head.
A snort of amusement escapes and Abra claps a hand over her mouth. But then a full-blown chuckle grows beyond the point where she can control it. Judith stares in horror.
“I’m sorry,” Abra gasps. “But this whole thing is funny, if you think about it. You don’t hesitate to slice off a man’s head, but you’re shaking at the prospect of knocking on your home city’s gates.”
Suddenly Judith sees the humor too—the utterly horrifying humor.
“You don’t think I hesitated?” she says, deadly serious, and yet she cannot stop her own hysterical giggle. “You don’t think it was the most horrible, gruesome thing I’ve ever done in my entire life?”
Abra’s laughter dies in her throat. “I only went along with you because you were so sure!”
Judith would never show uncertainty to a servant. But after sharing this night with her, Abra would never be her servant again. “I wasn’t sure of anything.”
“Then what were we doing there?”
“What no one else could.” The laughter has passed. Judith retrieves the basket. “Ring the bell.”
62.
The stairs do not descend
into some unknown depths,
do not deliver me
to another life
where I might still have
a chance as artist, bride.
I face only
the same four walls
as every other day.
I make it almost
to the door
when boots
come clomping
down behind me.
If Tino should chase me
through the streets
I’d be the one
to look the fool
or worse.
I duck into
our tiny pantry,
inhale onions, garlic,
rot.
Two men who hold
my future
in their hands
stand feet away
from where I—
. . . insolent girl,
lazy and prone to
flights of fancy.
—gasp for breath.
The front door slams
and slams again
as Father hurries after
Agostino, to beg
forgiveness from
my rapist.
63.
The stool.
I want it to burn
now that Tino’s
marred it with
his touch.
The brushes.
The easel.
The dress.
He’s touched everything.
I’d have to burn myself to ash
before his touch could be erased.
But when I turn one way
I see the wreckage of Susanna:
she did not yield.
The other way is Judith,
straining to lift a sword
she never asked for.
They could have both been killed.
Susanna would have been
if not for Daniel, who lent
his voice and saved her life.
(Imagine that: a man who stands
up for a woman’s truth.)
Not Daniel’s voice.
Susanna,
always there,
unafraid to speak.
My own voice saved me.
Use your voice.
I can barely
find my footing,
much less . . .
Much less lift a brush?
Judith,
not so soft,
(and how could she be
to do what she did?)
Much less survive.
Judith turns to me, points to
my paintbrush.
I need you.
I don’t have a sword.
She reaches out,
her hands bloodstained,
and wraps my fingers
around the brush.
They paint me
nubile and dainty and weak.
They make a beheading
look like an orgasm.
It was bloody.
You have no idea.
Or maybe you do.
It was bloody.
It was bloody.
Why are women expected
to be afraid of blood?
Susanna.
We spend half our lives
cleaning it up.
It runs through our veins,
spills from the source.
Paint the blood.
Paint the blood.
I don’t want to.
I know.
We know.
64.
Before I can paint the blood
it’s creeping down my thigh,
both razor-sharp reminder
and relief so deep
I’m on my knees
to the patron saint
of women who do not wish
to pass along their wounds
to one who may be innocent
but still would bring to mind
with every breath and kick and heartbeat
how much different life would be
&nb
sp; if they had never been conceived.
65.
This time
when the front door creaks
and Tuzia’s girlish laughter
drifts up the stairs
I’m ready.
Perspective was never
Tino’s to teach me.
I know this now.
Familiar boots on the stairs.
A shadow in the door frame.
You are not small.
Judith reminds me.
I am not small.
I am painting the blood.
I keep my voice steady
even though
my hands shake.
I speak before he can,
as though his answer
doesn’t even matter.
Leave. Now.
You’re not nearly
as hospitable as
they say you are.
I want to let his words
fly out the open window,
dust that settles
on the stones below
and turns to mud
in the rain. But still
I flinch.
Oh, my Artemisia.
We used to laugh together.
Those fools who think they know you—
it matters not what they say.
It’s you and I
against the world.
Always has been.
Nothing’s changed.
The first time,
he made me small.
The last time
I panicked, fled.
This time I look to Judith.
Just beyond my easel,
her eyes bore into mine.
This time I’ll stand
my ground.
Everything has changed.
I’m going to tell my father.
Judith nods.
But Tino acts as though
I haven’t spoken,
he hasn’t understood,
doesn’t care.
He wanders through the studio,
laying casual claim
to all he sees.
I’m going to tell my father.
What you did to me.
He pauses,
doesn’t turn around.
It’s not that I want
him to look at me
speak to me,
I only want
him to acknowledge
I have a voice
and things to say.
What did I
do to you?
He cannot make me
say it
live it.
Words have power.
He won’t take mine again.
You think you’ve gotten away
with this but you haven’t.
I still don’t follow.
He lounges by the window,
disturbs a pair of mourning doves
nestled on the sill,
crushes a honeysuckle tendril
that dared curl its way inside.
Anybody walking by
could spy him
inside my studio.
My father’s studio.
But that’s the point.
What was wrong,
with taking what you offered?
You have weapons.
Judith is Abra at my side.
You’re not defenseless this time.
Offering is not
how I’ll describe
it to the judge.
The judge!
Your imagination astounds—
that’s your artist’s heart at play.
Your strength,
till it’s your weakness.
But here are the facts, my love:
our laws
do not allow a little girl
to bring a charge of any sort
before the court.
In short: even if what you said
were true, you can’t do anything to me.
A brush, a palette knife,
a stool, a bit of canvas.
A daughter.
If he should be charged
with anything,
it won’t be attacking me.
It will be damaging
my father’s property.
Still.
My father can.
Your father!
Your father, who invited me here?
Who has always been
right downstairs?
In this fantasy you’re spinning,
I’ve deflowered you
and left your heart in ruins, yes?
If Judith had a sword
to wield this moment
I’d never get the blood
off my walls.
I am the one
who takes her trembling hand.
I know what’s coming,
feel it like the moments before
a fat, dark rain cloud
opens up and drowns
a mouse in the gutter.
Your father will be utterly unsurprised
by news that you’re a whore.
You’ve damaged his property.
He won’t take kindly to that.
You were damaged goods
long before I touched you.
That’s what I’ll say,
if anyone should ask.
Or perhaps
even if they don’t.
66.
A spider treks across the studio,
his route the stretch of ground
beside my face.
Someone should sweep.
It won’t be me.
Breathing is a chore.
From my chosen perspective,
Father is a monster.
He looms above,
muttering obscenities;
the angle magnifies
his bulk,
his rage.
But that’s the thing about perspective.
The slightest shift
transforms the subject.
If I should shift
and look him in the eye,
I cannot say what I would see.
Not monster, though, I think.
More like beast
who lashes out in fear.
Atop my stool,
he grumbles at his own attempts
to compose a decent Lucretia.
The focal point
of Father’s version
is not the agony
she must feel
moments before
she ends her life,
but rather the breast
into which she will plunge
her dagger.
If I’d found Father
stumbling over
the female form
a month ago, I would have pitied
him and fixed the faults
when he went out to drink.
But now I cannot paint.
Father does not understand
what’s changed. Suddenly his secret
weapon’s blade has dulled.
His paintings do not magically
improve at night.
He has to do the work
he signs his name upon
while I lie useless
on the ground.
I’m only in the studio
because there’s nowhere else to go.
67.
That’s not quite true.
I am also here
beca
use the studio
is where I tell
my truth.
If I can find the strength.
You will.
But Susanna only knows her story.
Not mine.
Father flings the paintbrush down.
It lands next to my head,
splatters on my cheek.
I do not wipe it off.
He grunts and stomps across the floor.
I do not ask—
he’ll tell me soon enough.
And here it is:
We’ve taken on more work
than I can handle on my own!
I sigh.
He’s never understood
Susanna’s terror.
How could he begin
to understand mine?
I start with something simple.
(Nothing’s simple.)
I will take no further lessons
from Signor Tassi.
My father laughs.
You will not do the work required
to keep us from the streets
and yet you’ll also kill my only chance
at his commission?
I have learned perspective.
What do my lessons—
Don’t play the fool, girl.
He likes you.
A far sight more than he likes me.
And if his infatuation
can make this family’s fortune—
He raped me.
68.
I’ve choked on truth
for so many weeks
and now it’s finally out
I’m outraged
Father didn’t know.
How could he see me day to day
ghostly pale,
not from enclosure in the studio
but from the strain
of anything beyond
survival
stuttered breaths,
erratic, jagged
shards of pottery
smashed on the floor
hands that refuse
to grasp
a brush
and not put the broken pieces
together?
I won’t let him
avert his eyes
any longer.
You need to think very carefully
before you utter another word—
He raped me.
A lover’s quarrel—
He raped me!
My shriek echoes
off the walls of my cell.
My brothers must have heard
and Tuzia.
But then they may have heard
the rape itself.
No one came running then
and still they do not come.
69.
Maybe my brothers were too busy
at their studies to hear my screams,
memorizing ancient texts,