The Madonna of the Almonds

by Marina Fiorato

  Selvaggio would sit by the hearth talking to Amaria as she cooked their simple fare, and all three spoke together in the evenings when they shared a stew and a cup of wine by the fire. He remembered nothing of his name or his fate, or from whence he had come. Nonna questioned him closely, but try as he might he could not recall how he had received his wounds or the horrors he must have seen. Selvaggio returned, when questioned, to his metaphor of the wood that had been his first thought in his conscious state.

  ‘Does a piece of wood know that it has once been a tree?’ he asked, picking a rough hewn log from the woodpile and turning it in his hand. ‘No, it does not remember where it stood, in plain or forest, nor the winds that rocked it, the rains that soaked it; nor yet the sun that warmed it. It does not remember that it shed leaves in the winter and grew them again with the spring, many many seasons round, as the rings grew in its belly. And yet we know that it did live this life, and yet here, now, it is just a log. I am here, too, and once I was somewhere else, but where that was I know not. I do not even know how many summers I have seen, nor where in the world I stood when I was alive.’

  Nonna nodded and began to feel safe, that Selvaggio was truly theirs and would not leave.

  Amaria, in her sunny acceptance of him, had never doubted he would stay and certainly wished him to never leave her side. As he began to converse with her she found him exactly after her own heart; his tastes and preferences were hers. He loved the woods and the wells far more than the wonders of the town; he took more pleasure in the silver turn of a fish in the river than the fantastical frescoed sea-creatures of San Michele. He loved nature and cared not for art; he loved the simple act of carving wood, or the simple taste of rough wine. He gained enormous satisfaction from squeezing the fine fat vegetables in the market, choosing the best for the pot with the small coin than they had; admiring the purple sheen of a melanzana, blood-bright tomatoes or the pebble-green olives. These vegetables, grown from the earth which his blood had nourished, were more beautiful to him than the finest stained glass which pierced the gloom of the cathedral. Nothing of the higher arts could touch him – music hardly penetrated his ears; yet he loved the song of the wind on the river. The awesome bulk of the Duomo did not impress him; yet he craned his head back till his neck ached to admire the tallest trees in the forest. And Selvaggio turned his head from the female icons of San Pietro, to sneak a lingering glance at Amaria’s rapt face. The Saints wore closed expressions, their eyes and their bones were dead, yet Amaria lived, and glowed more with mature beauty with each passing day. Selvaggio’s heart now beat to the rhythms of the earth, no courtly measure.

  The pair walked about town, more sedately now, conversing on all subjects, always in each other’s company. Silvana, Amaria’s intimate friend, was quite put out; her erstwhile companion and the savage were together so much that Selvaggio’s tongue was not the only one which learned to wag. But the pair knew nothing of it, and were all ease and friendliness, until the day that the sister began to see the brother in a new way.

  She saw him in the yard one morning, without his shirt, as he dipped to the stoup and scooped the freezing water onto his face and body. He wet his hair and she saw the shapes of the muscle under the skin, the scars newly healed, and the mapping of the veins standing on his arms like the vessels of a leaf. As if he felt her eyes upon him he lifted his dripping head and shot her through with a look, at once warm and quizzical. The winter sun turned to spring in his eyes, which were grass-green as new shoots. She stepped back into the welcoming embrace of the black shadow of the doorway, and bit her lip. Her face heated, her heart thudded in her throat, and she felt she could hardly stand.

  CHAPTER 13

  Elijah Abravanel Captures a Dove

  ‘Perhaps we could speak a little, Signora, for we have passed many such sessions now in silence.’

  Bernardino spoke the truth. Simonetta had been as silent as a clam for three sittings now, and he found her gaze, as beautiful and cold as that of a hawk, rather unsettling. He was past the frenetic drawing stage, and the passionate dash of the block colouring for which he required total silence – now he was adding lowlights and highlights and subtleties and it was his way with his models to talk at this stage. Now was the time to have conversations and discourse that he would never have countenanced before. Of course, when he went on to complete the face (last of all) she must be silent. He could never capture such lips or such eyes if the face was animated. But for now, a little light chat while he painted her robe would ease his hours considerably. Yet at the suggestion Simonetta turned her gaze on him, unable to hide her contempt.

  Bernardino sighed and threw down his brush. He had his answer but he would not be so easily defeated. He stretched and yawned, showing his pink tongue and white teeth.

  Like a cur, she thought.

  ‘Well, I’ll go to the tavern for a spell then. If you will not speak with me, I’ll seek those who will. Don’t move, will you, while I’m gone?’ He began to move down the nave, jingling the coins in his purse. Her coins. She almost rose, startled, and broke her silence.

  ‘What do you mean – what of the sitting?’

  He turned as he walked, but did not stop. He moved backwards as he talked. (Would that he would trip and brain himself, thought she.) ‘I will be back later when I have had a little society. You must expect these sessions to take longer if you persist in keeping mum. Don’t worry – we’ll have you home by midnight.’

  He had reached the doors. ‘Wait!’ cried Simonetta. Inwardly she fumed, but by no means would she have her torture prolonged in this way. ‘We’ll converse if you like,’ she muttered in a low tone.

  Bernadino cocked his hand behind his ear. ‘What?’ he bawled down the nave.

  She sighed gustily and raised her voice. ‘I said we’ll converse if you like.’

  Bernardino came back and sat down, taking up his brushes. ‘Excellent.’ He looked at her and raised a brow, waiting.

  ‘What would you talk about?’ said Simonetta in measured tones.

  He rested his chin on his hand. ‘Hmmm. ’Tis a tricky issue – for conversation must needs be stilted between such as ourselves.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Those who have such strong feelings for each other.’

  ‘What can you mean?’

  ‘I mean hatred of course. For you hate me do you not? What else could I mean?’

  She had scarcely hated him more than at that moment but her manners made her desist from honesty.

  He smiled. ‘Perhaps we will proceed thus. You ask me a question – but it has to be interesting, mark you! – and then I will ask you one likewise. Each party must answer truthfully.’

  ‘You are mad.’

  ‘Am I to go to the tavern?’

  ‘No, no. Who shall begin this peculiar catechism?’

  ‘You may. Ladies take precedence, even mere artists’ models.’

  She refused to rise, and searched her brain. Her brain failed her. ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘Oh, Simonetta. So boring. I said the question must be interesting. But since you ask, in Luino on Lake Maggiore. And now, my turn. Why do you need money so?’

  Simonetta looked at her hands. ‘Because, my…we… have been impoverished by the wars.’

  ‘Why do you need money so?’

  ‘I have just told you.’

  ‘Not so. I may keep asking till my question is answered. Why do you need money so?

  Simonetta sighed with impatience. ‘We had much expenditure – servants, many improvements to our holdings – entertainments befitting our rank.’

  ‘Why do you need money so?’

  This was too much. Simonetta raised her voice. ‘Why does anyone need money? Because their expenditure exceeds their income, and…’

  ‘Why do you need money so?’

  ‘Because Lorenzo spent all of our money on the wars!’ burst out Simonetta, angered to respond by his relentless probing. ‘He lavished it on his destriers a
nd his men, his liveries and weapons, and when I went to the treasure cellar to find money for our auditor it had gone. Are you satisfied?’

  He saw tears in her eyes and was sorry. He had pushed her thus far because he guessed that her husband had failed her. Something in him needed to know that Lorenzo was unworthy, but he had not needed to aggrandize himself by insulting the memory of that poor dead bastard. Lorenzo di Saronno had lost his life and Simonetta too. Now Bernardino regretted the unworthy impulse that had upset her so – she had been forced to realise that the perfection death confers is an illusion, and he was sorry for it. He did not say as much, but softened his tone.

  ‘Yes. Your turn now. And make it interesting – something that I would not expect.’

  Very well. ‘Have you heard of Masada?’ Simonetta’s head was full of the tale she had heard yesterday, and such a question he could never expect.

  Luini was too suave to express surprise, damn him. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘My turn.’ He thought hard, but she had intrigued him, and he was curious.

  ‘Go on then. What is Masada?’

  ‘Where, not what.’ She enjoyed her small triumph, but her spirits sank again as she told the tale she could not put from her mind. He painted on, seemingly unmoved, as she spoke and as she finished he shrugged.

  ‘Don’t you care?’ Simonetta asked incredulously.

  ‘Is that your question? No, not really. Here’s mine for you – why should I?’

  ‘Because they were people. They lived and breathed and felt.’

  ‘Too much fighting is done in the name of religion. That is why I care naught for any of it. It matters not to me.’

  ‘What does matter to you?’

  ‘It is not your turn. My question is: who told you such things?’

  ‘A…Jew that I know. He is…helping me, where many Christians would not.’

  Bernardino stopped painting and looked her in the eyes. ‘I would not consort with Jews if I were you. They are bad people, and naught but trouble.’

  ‘I care not for your opinion.’

  He shrugged again. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘Alright, what does matter to you?’

  ‘That I be left alone and allowed to paint. Nothing else is important to me.’

  Simonetta snorted with angry contempt, and as the bells rang Sext, gathered her clothes and stalked away. Luini the Jew hater. Just one more reason to detest him.

  Bernardino watched her go. He had deviated from the rules of the game for he had said much that was not true in their discourse. Especially his last statement. It was a downright lie. It used to be true, but no longer.

  In a spirit of angry righteousness, Simonetta returned to Castello and told Manodorata what had passed. He was poring over her inventories in the denuded great hall. But he set down his quill as she talked. When she had done, she expected anger, and a few homilies on the ignorance of Christian men, but he actually smiled.

  ‘How can such a man amuse you?’ she asked, incredulous.

  ‘Because he speaks against his heart. Let me tell you about something that happened to my son.’

  * * *

  ‘Elijah Abravanel, what have you got in your hand?’ Rebecca Abravanel noted the sheepish demeanour of her oldest son. He gave a vagabond smile which softened her heart.

  ‘I thought my name is to be Evangelista, since I was lately christened.’

  Rebecca smiled back, though the history of that event was not pleasing to her. ‘You are right – but that is the Christian name we use for you outside these walls. Inside this house you are still my Elijah. Now, show me your hand.’ Rebecca went to her oldest son and made him unfurl his palm. She could not explain what she found there. A white dove; beautifully painted on the flesh, wonderfully expressed and quite finished. The dove was in full flight, but she carried in her beak an olive branch. The work was so beautiful that the feathers seemed to stir in the wind, and the silvery grey of the olive leaves seemed to catch the sun. The bird’s plumage was snowy, but a close look revealed that there was a rainbow of colours making up the feathers to express the whitest of whites. And the whole was so small as to perfectly fit in a child’s hand.

  Rebecca knelt. She knew this was not the work of her son, nor yet Sarah the maid. Jovaphet was too little to do such work and even the boy’s father, talented as he was in many respects, had no skill with the brush. ‘Who did this, Elijah?’

  Elijah knew he was on his last chance since breaking curfew and opted for truth. ‘The painting man. The one who colours-in the church.’

  * * *

  Elijah knew he should not leave the house without his mother or Sarah, but he had heard the cry of the peddler and knew that if he wanted to buy the round black marble he had seen on the day of Yom Rishon he must go now. It was a fabled thing, this marble, made from the inky glass spewed forth by volcanoes, those fiery mountains his father told him of. Elijah took his only ducat from a secret place between the floorboards – not even his little brother Jovaphet knew where it was – and set out of the starred door.

  He followed the peddler’s ululating cry through the crowds, dodging the curs and the puddles of piss. At last he saw the motley of the peddler’s cloak, bellied like a sail in the wind, and followed the bright fabric till it disappeared round a corner with the snap of a raggedy flag. Elijah followed eagerly into a side street. But here he met not the peddler, but much worse.

  There was a crowd of Christian children, little older than he, and much more numerous. They were playing jacks on the street, and looked up at his approach. He knew that his gown and the fashion of his hair marked him out, and he began to back away almost before he knew why. But his instincts were correct. They came for him, and he started to run.

  Through the streets he ran for the comfort of the door with the star, but they had thought of this and his way was blocked. He doubled back and ran till his lungs burst. The tears filling his eyes almost blinded him to their twisted features but not quite. The thudding of his heart in his ears almost deafened him to what they said of him and his father and his beloved mother, but not quite. He knew not where he went until the church loomed ahead. He knew he was not supposed to enter such places, but the gaping dark maw offered salvation and he shot through it, straight into the arms of Bernardino Luini.

  Bernardino held the boy at arms length. ‘What the..?’

  ‘Please Signore,’ gasped the boy, his breath burning.‘They’re coming. I must hide.’

  Bernardino did not hesitate, but threw Simonetta’s voluminous blue cloak over the lad and settled him still on the chancel steps, to resemble a heap of cloth. No sooner was this done than the gang appeared. Even they had the respect to slow their steps and moderate their tones in the house of their God. But they were greeted not by God but by Bernardino Luini, hands on hips.

  Luini fixed them with an awful eye. ‘What are you doing in here? Interrupting my work, that’s what. Now clear out.’

  ‘But Signore,’ said the ringleader with more bravery than he knew he had, ‘we seek the Devil child. A Jew boy – he ran in here.’

  Luini shook his head. ‘Not here. I would have seen.’

  ‘But he is a demon; he may have used his black arts to hide.’

  ‘Really. I know nothing of that. But I’ll tell you what I do know. I am known as the wolf, and when darkness comes I turn into a beast of the night, ravening and knawing the limbs of bad children. See…’ he pointed at the darkening sky. ‘Evening comes. Now vaffanculo.’

  That did it. The ringleader’s courage defeated him, and he and his cohorts ran off into the night.

  Bernardino heaved the heavy doors closed and stepped softly to the chancel steps. The blue cloak was weeping. He lifted its folds and met a terrified boy, sobbing and snotty from fear and relief. His words were a jumble – something of a peddler and a round black marble and Sarah and Jovaphet and a ducat…

  Bernardino took the boy in his arms without knowing what he did. ‘Hush, hush.’ The boy continued to s
ob, and Bernardino, above his head, cast about for some distraction. He had it.

  ‘Come,’ he drew the boy to his paints. ‘I’ll show you some magic. Hold out your hand.’

  Elijah held out his hand, the palm still imprinted with the ducat he had clutched and lost as he ran. Luini smoothed the reddened place, dipped his brush and began to paint.

  Elijah started to smile. ‘Tickly,’ he said.

  Bernardino smiled too and the boy’s eyes became wider as the perfect dove appeared on his palm. ‘See, she does tricks,’ said Bernardino. ‘If you open and close your hand, thus,’ he demonstrated, ‘she will fly.’

  The boy manipulated his hand and beamed in pleasure as the dove seemed to flap her wings.