‘Yes. At Pavia.’
‘The Spanish took your husband?’
‘Yes.’
Manodorata pointed the quill at the chair. ‘Sit down.’
Simonetta sat, her heart thudding with hope.
‘You see, Signora di Saronno, you have caught the trick of it. Your plight does not touch me but you have said something to pique my interest. You see, we have something in common. I too hate the Spanish. And I like to think that I am qualified to speak on the matter – that my opinion does not arise from hearsay or conjecture.’ He looked at her with his light grey eyes and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he divined exactly what she had been told about him.
She found her voice. ‘You know that nation well?’
‘I should. You see, I am a Spaniard.’
Simonetta’s head span. ‘In truth?’
‘Yes. I was not always known as Manodorata. I was born Zaccheus Abravanel, in Castile. But despite this, I still hate them. For they took something from me too that I loved. In my case, my hand.’
He held aloft the hand that had been hidden under the desk, and Simonetta could not but stare. It was indeed a golden hand. It gleamed in the light from the ornamental windows. She looked at it curiously. Seeing her interest he held it out to her. It was solid, the fingers defined by ingenious moulding. There were even nails to the fingers and lines crossing the palm as he turned his hand. On the palm too, in the very centre where one might press a coin, was the same star that she had seen on the door.
‘What do you think of it?’
‘’Tis wonderfully well wrought.’
‘It is. Perhaps more so than your own, for I see that you have three fingers all of a length, a mistake a craftsman would not make. This hand was made not by God but by some of my Florentine brethren. It has served me well. And it is the only story they tell of me that is true.’
Simonetta felt a blush spread over her cheek.
‘What else did they say? That I devour babes?’
She looked down.
‘The rest is easily explained to the rational mind. I may resemble a bear, because I wear a fur at all times as I am used to warmer climes. I have no taste for human flesh. I have a wife and two sons whom I love dearly. You may have noticed them playing.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Rebecca. And my sons Evangelista and Giovan Pietro. You are surprised?’
‘Only at them playing so together. In great…Christian families, nursemaids tend the children at all times. I barely knew my mother.’ She surprised herself with such an admission.
‘Then perhaps such families are not so great. I hear that even the Christian king Francis, who was taken prisoner at Pavia, has offered his two sons as hostages in his stead.’ A fastidious sniff was enough to deprecate the conduct of a king. ‘As for my wealth, I have amassed it through fair means, merely by being able to understand the principles of banking and the precepts of Arabic mathematics. Which brings me back to your troubles.’
Simonetta was encouraged by such openness and explained her plight. Manodorata smoothed his beard with his gold hand as he listened, as if he could feel its fibres with his false fingertips. When she had done he was silent for a period, and Simonetta wondered what he would say. He surprised her.
‘I think that I must visit your property. For one thing, you must offer it to me as security in case you are unable to pay me.’ He held up his hand to silence her protests. ‘Such practice is normal. But for another, I may be able to think of a way to make the place pay. You see in order to keep it you may have to make the land work for you, and I must see if there is a way to do this. I will visit you in a sevennight, but there is a condition. Before that time you must have made some money for yourself. For it is also common practice to offer me a sum, or principal, for my help. I can see you are noble, and unused to work, but you must work if I am to help you.’
‘But how? What you ask is impossible! If I could get money I would not be here.’
‘Think hard. Is there no possible way, has no opportunity been presented you? Use your wits, for I only help those who help themselves.’
Of course she remembered. The parting shot that he had assailed her with, that had at that time been so disgusting to her; that mention of payment so offensive to a great lady, could now be her saviour. ‘There was…a man, who wanted to paint me. For the church, here in Saronno. But it was some little time ago. I have…changed. He may not want to paint me now.’ She thought she saw a flicker of amusement in the Jew’s eyes, for all that his mouth remained impassive.
‘I am not given to gallantry, Signora, but let me assure you that any man who has seen you would wish to paint you, if only he could.’ He stood abruptly, the interview over. ‘I will leave it to your best offices to decide. Come to me in a sevennight, with the money for your principal or not at all.’ He held out his golden hand, and saw her hesitate before she took it.
It was surprisingly warm to the touch – clearly its metals had been heated by the limb to which it was attached. Simonetta met his eyes and saw at once that in that moment of hesitation he had divined what she had been told. For the first time in their discourse he actually smiled and his face was transformed. ‘Don’t worry Signora,’ said the man they called Manodorata, ‘it won’t kill you.’
CHAPTER 8
Amaria Wakes
When Selvaggio opened his eyes at last, he could see nothing but wood.
At first he could not move his eyes. The wood was an inch from the end of his nose. Smooth, worn, polished with age. He could look neither left nor right for some moments so stared straight ahead, blinking. He must be in his coffin. He must be dead.
He did not expect death to feel like this. If he was dead, then why could he still feel? Why did his chest and stomach sting with raw pain? He tried to move; could not. Better to stay still, and look at his casket. Rest. He followed the grain of the wood with his eyes, flowing, beautiful lines, like a landscape in microcosm. Gentle inclines and long plains of a peaceful, fruitful land. Or the waves of a calm sea, rising and falling in unison, now and again punctuated with dark fishes that were the knots. He felt the grain draw him in, embrace him. He became one with the landscape. Dust to dust. Wood was beautiful, why had he not seen it before? Why could he only see it now, now that he was in his coffin, perhaps interred in the earth?
No, he could not be below ground, for there was light coming from somewhere, light that hurt his eyes. And somewhere too, over the landscape or across the sea, somewhere an angry fly buzzed and bounced at a casement, trying to get out, trapped too.
With a Herculean effort Selvaggio moved his eyes from left to right as his head beat time. Despite the pounding, searing headache he could now find his bearings: he was lying on a long table, padded with straw. The straw tickled his nose – here his bedding was golden, here it was black with blood. His blood. He was lying on his side, with his face inches from the wall; the wood he had first seen was the mainstay of the wattle, criss-crossed around the plaster panels of the daub. He tried to call out, to bring someone to aid him, but no sound came from his desert-dry mouth. The sweat of panic rimed his upper lip and chilled his forehead. He could not remember anything, not one thing; not how he came here or what had happened to him, nor where he was from or anything about his life. There was nothing in his memory before the wood that he saw as he woke – he was like a schoolboy’s slate wiped clean; a babe newborn. He knew his impression of the coffin was an error; the wood was a beginning for him, not an end. In the beginning was the wood. And yet, there must have been something before this; just as the wood that made the wall had once been a tree that stood in a forest, in another life and another place. How could he know of seas and fishes and coffins and such, if he did not know his own name? How did he know the words for everything that he saw and felt, but could not speak one single syllable? He knew everything, yet he knew nothing. He saw all, but could say naught. The vessel of his consciousness, swelling at every moment like new
-blown glass, was already brim-full with questions. How came he here? Why was he lying down? Why was he on his side? Selvaggio rolled onto his back and learned the reason; he was immediately pierced through with a million blades as if he had rolled onto a waiting bed of nails. He rolled again, in agony, away from the pain like a speared fish, and crashed to the floor. The sound brought Amaria running.
When Amaria laid her hand on Selvaggio’s forehead, she knew he was out of danger. For a day and a night he had slept on their board on his bedding of straw; they had shoved the table against the wall to lessen the chance that he would roll off if he woke. And he did not wake; for as long as the bells of the Duomo chimed their nine times round. He did not feel his dressings being changed or the sting of the bitter salve that Nonna rubbed into his wounds. He did not hear Amaria make the polenta on the fire, no, not even when she dropped the pot. But when she placed her fingers on his head, there on the floor where he lay, she knew he would live.
Amaria told herself she wished to check for his fever. But in truth she wanted to feel his warm skin again. When his eyes looked into hers she started guiltily, then smiled. His mouth did not smile back, but his eyes did. She ran to fetch Nonna.
Nonna was in the yard shooing the chickens with her stick. She grunted at the news that the wildman was awake, but secretly her heart unfurled within her. Since that first brief waking when they had brought him home, she had not allowed herself to feel, in case he should sink and be taken from them. She had kept herself still and close. But now she could hardly feign her indifference as she hastened inside behind her chattering granddaughter. She found the young man already raised on one elbow and the two women heaved an arm each to help him back on to his makeshift bed. Amaria rolled a sheepskin behind his shoulders for support, and lifted the polenta from the hearth, talking all the time.
‘Nonna, hold his head. Can you hold your head still? Can you open your mouth? Take a little of this. ’Twill do you good. Nonna, wipe his chin. ’Tis only polenta, but I made it thin with a little goats milk and olive oil and good parmesan. We have a little block of reggiano wrapped in canvas in the pantry, just for special occasions like Pasqua and Yule, and Saint Ambrose’s day. He’s our Saint you know – I mean Lombardy’s Saint; Milan’s Saint. And my special Saint, because I share his name. But the parmesan – I thought it might do you good. After all, when something tastes so good, it must be good for you, mustn’t it? Tonight I think we will kill a chicken. Nonna, we may, mayn’t we? I think it would benefit you, for our chickens are the best in Pavia, are they not, Nonna?’
‘Nothing like.’
‘Anyway, I think a good chicken broth will have you on your feet. And perhaps tomorrow I will find some roots in the forest, perhaps some rosemary for the polenta. Rosemary is a great healing herb, and I know a little of such things. Nonna always says I am quite the medico, she has so great an opinion of my physick.’
‘I never said anything of the sort.’
‘Or you ask Silvana. She’s my friend, you know. She had the gripes so terrible last spring that we thought she would die from them – yet my sage water saved her from certain doom. ’Tis true that her skin was something of the yellow hue for a sevennight, and her tongue swelled up somewhat, but afterward she felt better than new.’
‘’Tis only a pity that her tongue was not disabled forever. That would have been a cure indeed, for she talks only second to you, Amaria.’
‘By all the Saints, I forgot to tell you my name! We have not become properly acquainted. I am Amaria Sant’Ambrogio, and this is my Nonna. We found you in the woods. You were terrible bad, but we looked after you and now you look a great deal better. Don’t you think him improved, Nonna?’
‘There’s some danger yet, I’ll be bound.’
‘Can you tell us your name? Are you Milanese?’
Nonna had heard enough. ‘Blessed Saint Ambrose, child! How can the fellow speak with a spoon of polenta in his mouth and your tattle in his ears? Give him some pause – space and silence will do more than all of your prompting.’
Both women looked eagerly at their patient. He had taken a little food, and watched them closely throughout their exchange. His eyes looked amused. It seemed he understood, and he opened his lips a little to speak, but not a sound came. He looked distressed to be mute, and began to exert himself, but Nonna said, ‘Do not trouble. ’Tis full early to think of such things. When you are fed and recovered we will see what comes forth.’
Amaria was unable to remain quiet for long. She looked him in the eyes, and spoke more slowly. ‘But you are able to understand us?’ she asked. ‘You speak Milanese? Can you nod?’
Selvaggio nodded weakly, and seemed to fall back a little on the sheepskin. Nonna saw it all. ‘Leave him, child. Go strangle one of the birds – the red hen will do. This boy may rest awhile and we will make a broth for later.’
When Amaria had gone Nonna smoothed the wildman’s coverlet as he slept again. She too would do everything in her power to heal him but now she knew he would live she was in no hurry. For as he grew well, and spoke, there must be questions, and answers, and plans and schemes; and he must, at last, go home to wherever he belonged. Nonna listened for Amaria’s receding footsteps then reached for Selvaggio’s hand. She folded his calloused swordhand in her knarled old fingers and held it tight as she had held Filippo’s before he left for battle. Nonna knew little of the wildman but she did know this – that she did not want him to go.
Amaria was happy to leave – her heart was full, and she was determined to make her Selvaggio better. She began to chase the red hen around the yard, holding her skirts high, whooping and hollering like a child. Then she stopped suddenly. She should not shout: she might disturb Selvaggio’s rest. She dropped her skirts to a seemly level and slowed her steps. She smoothed her hair and tucked stray strands behind her ears. She had a job to do; a responsibility, and she must be equal to it. Amaria had never had anyone to look after before; she had been Nonna’s project, her dearest granddaughter, and had been tended and nurtured like a young flower. Despite their poverty Nonna had seen that Amaria never wanted for the things that she needed; always giving her the best cuts of the little meat they had, or the heel of the bread, or the last of the wine. Nonna had even tried to give up her own bed for Amaria when the girl grew too big for her truckle; their one upstairs room was a little dorter up a winding stair, warmed by the fire below – but this Amaria had refused, respecting her grandmother’s age and need for the comfort of the bed, and she curled up in a sheepskin on the floor.
Amaria had grown, an only child, without ever having to concede to a demanding sibling, or shift for herself in any way. She had never been responsible for tending anything more worthy than these chickens that now pecked and scratched at her feet. She had made children of them, they had been her dolls in a house too poor for toys. She had always turned her back when Nonna strangled one for the pot. And now the red hen, her particular pet, must go; and she must dispatch it. Without fuss, she cornered the witless, unsuspecting bird and caught it in her skirts. Nonna had never asked her to kill one of the birds before, but today was different; there was someone else in need, and Nonna needed Amaria to rise to the occasion. And she would. She took the red hen in her two hands and cracked its neck.
On the way back into the house with the warm bird dangling from her hands, she held her head a little higher. In those short moments in the yard she had grown up. Nonna had looked after her. Well she, Amaria Sant’Ambrogio, would look after Selvaggio.
CHAPTER 9
The Miracles of the Faithless
When Father Anselmo watched Bernardino work he felt he was witnessing a miracle. His duties in these troubled times were often heartbreaking and onerous, so when he was not offering alms to the poor, comforting the bereaved or taking funeral masses for the dead soldiers, he refreshed his spirits by watching Bernardino attack the white walls of his church and bring them to life.
The priest watched as Luini cleaned the wa
lls down with water and vinegar as assiduously as any washerwoman. Anselmo was there when Bernardino strode around with a rope and a stick, making measurements which he marked directly on the walls. He was there when Bernardino mixed his base plaster with chalk and tempera of egg. He was there when the first of the miracles began – the drawing of the cartoons with broad strokes of charcoal – from the black sweeping lines sprung wondrous monochrome depiction of Saints and sinners, angels and demons, apostles and heretics. And at length, as the colours began to be added, what marvels did Anselmo behold then! He watched as Bernardino first laid down his shadows with pure colour laid on thick. Such strong reds, such blues, such greens and golds that Anselmo had not known existed in God’s spectrum! Bernardino made his paints himself as da Vinci had taught him, using the fruits of nature, but surely nature had never seen colours this vivid? Even the brightest flower or the gaudiest parrot would fade beneath the work of Bernardino! And after, for the definition, the lights of the same colour were thinly used and mixed with a little white. Then, what tender, muted tones of pure pastel appeared: mild blues of a summer sky, the faint blush of a rose and the lambent yellow of an egg yolk. Never had Anselmo seen such scenes, so carefully finished, so warm in colour. Such wonders Bernardino painted, as he balanced precariously on a rickety scaffold of planks and ropes, his brushes and palettes hanging about him on an ingenious system of belts and straps. Bernardino worked in just a shirt and hose, the shirt soon becoming as multi-coloured as stained glass as Bernardino wiped his fingers impatiently on its fabric. On warm days he would yank the shirt impatiently from his body when he grew hot from his work. At such times his very flesh assumed these tribal markings, his muscles giving them animation as if he wore the feathers of a bird of paradise.
When mass was taken each day Bernardino fidgeted impatiently at the back of the church while the congregation gawped at the half-finished works that were appearing. Luini never took part in such observances, never uttered a response or knelt in prayer; he was merely anxious for the ritual to be over so that he could carry on. It was a source of great wonder to Anselmo that Luini could depict these scenes of such holiness, and give his figures faces of such sweetness with such an intense fervour of devotion, without having any belief himself. In fact his notions were, to be charitable, classical; and to be harsh, pagan.
The Madonna of the Almonds Page 6