CHAPTER 30
Pogrom
Manodorata, swaddled in his bear furs, walked through Saronno’s square. If any of the good citizens spat in his path, or crossed themselves as he passed, he did not notice today. His mind was preoccupied by a growing unease that had loomed larger over him since he had broken his fast with Rebecca and the boys. The day was cold and bright, and nothing seemed away from the ordinary, yet he was not comfortable in his chair, or his gardens. He could not sit or stand easily, and he thought to walk off his fears, but the foreboding followed him like a shadow. He was not wearing a ruff today, but his neck prickled uncomfortably. He ran his finger around his collar, but found no relief. He felt like a man on the block, throat exposed and cold, waiting for the axe to fall.
As he passed the Sanctuary a flutter of white caught his eye. As he approached the church doors his dread grew stronger, and there he found the source of his fears. The feelings that had stung him in the morning, like single wasps, had led him here; gathering more and more until there was a black swarm, emanating from this: the wasps’ nest. It was a placard, written in precise Latin, elegantly calligraphed, and bearing the Cardinal’s seal. What he read there made him turn for home at once.
Once inside his starred doorway he dropped his furs and called for Rebecca. For the second time in their marriage he told her that they must leave their home and fly for their lives. For the Cardinal had decreed that the right of Jews to own property or conduct business in the region had been revoked, and any that sought to contravene this edict would be put to the fire. Rebecca put her arms about him and he felt soothed, assuring her there would be time to pack and leave in the morning.
This was his fatal mistake.
For the sake of their sons they kept their eventide the same: they ate together and prayed together as the boys went to bed. Elijah held two white candles in his hands as he said the hashkiveinu evening prayer, flushed with this rare privilege. ‘Lay us down to sleep, Adonai, our God, in peace; raise us erect, our King, to life, and spread over us the shelter of your peace.’ His young voice chimed like a bell, the creamy candles were almost as tall as he, and the tallow light kissed his gold curls and turned him to an angel. His face though, held an earthly expression of half pride, half cheek. His parents smiled on him and Manodorata’s heart ached. He had never loved the boy more than this night. Elijah, bright eyed and intelligent, knew that Sarah was packing their trunks, but trusted his parents to tell him what he needed to know when the time was right.
Soon both boys were asleep and Rebecca came again to her husband. ‘Shall I lie with you tonight?’ she said, with a smile and an arch of her dark brow.
He smelled the frankincense on her skin and could feel her shivering with fear despite her playful nature. He smiled and shook his head. ‘My jewel,’ he said. ‘No. We must rest well, for tomorrow we must travel far.’ He pulled her close for a kiss by hauling gently on her black ropes of hair, just as he had done when they were first married.
When she had gone to her chamber, he had a visitor. Isaac, son of Abiathar; a great friend, wearing his distinctive black and white robes of the Jewish scholar. He sat, as bidden, by the fire and took a cup of wine, but was soon up again, his ugly face lively and agitated. ‘Zaccheus, you have heard what is decreed against us. Where will you go?’
Manodorata sighed. ‘Genoa. We will find a ship and travel east, perhaps to the Ottoman Empire. It depends where I may buy passage.’
Isaac scratched his chin. ‘Genoa.’ He weighed the word. ‘Jew-hating and plague ridden. ’Tis a bleak place.’
‘It is. Yet it is the nearest major port, and it is hard to know in these times who will welcome our people.’
Isaac nodded sagely. ‘Why do you tarry? If you leave tonight, you could reach Genoa by the Sabbath.’
Manodarata smiled thinly, his eyes shadowed by the fire. ‘Isaac, my friend, you know not what it is to have a wife and children. I must not alarm my sons. A few more hours will not matter.’
Isaac drained his cup. ‘I hope you are right. I head for Pavia this very night.’ He held out his hand. ‘I will not see you again. But you have been my good friend, and I wish you well. Shalom.’
‘Shalom,’ Manodorata replied. ‘Once again I am indebted to your family for the good offices of friendship; for it was your own father Abiathar who warned me to quit Toledo, may he rest in peace.’
The scholar nodded. ‘Yet it was your gift of monies without interest to my father that saved us from penury and enabled us to escape here too. So let us not speak of debts.’
In answer Manodorata held out his hand of flesh and pulled Isaac close for an embrace. When his friend had gone he sat for perhaps an hour, watching the embers die but seeing nothing. When he felt cold he went at last to his chamber and laid, fully dressed, on his fur coverlet. He was suddenly too tired to disrobe.
Manodorata’s dreams were strange and threatening. He dreamed that he was dressed in a red velvet doublet and hat with blue hose and was tied to a tree. By his side was a black ladder climbing to the stars. His sons Elijah and Jovaphet were tied at his feet, both wearing black, one lashed to each of his legs. When he looked down he could see their blonde heads shine. They were crying. Surrounding him were ten men and four horses, the colours of the horsemen of the Apocalypse, watching his fate with blank expressions, unmoved. The black sky arced over his head, with white stars hanging like blossoms. In the tree above him, the same blossoms waved in the breeze. Under his foot he felt the bump of a round stone. Then he felt the heat as they put the fire to the ropes at his chest and he began to burn and choke. Heard the boys’ screams as the flames threatened them. His golden hand grew hot and his wrist scalded with the fire.
Then he woke.
His bed was aflame, the curtains and poles consumed and the flames licking the coverlet. His gold hand had lain in the fire and he had not felt it. He leapt from his bed and ran to Rebecca’s room, but the fire beat him back. There was a furnace within. He backed away and ran to his sons’ chamber. He almost wept with relief when he saw that they still slept, untouched. He gathered them up, blankets and all, and ran down the stair. At the starred door he could hear the ugly chanting of a mob. He doubled back through the courtyard, hushing Elijah’s questions and Jovaphet’s cries. He kicked open the gate to the herb garden and crashed through the fence. Holding the boys high he waded through nightearth, through the wastepits of his house and those of the whole street till they emerged on the outskirts of Saronno. Without once turning back, he began to follow the well-known path to the Villa Castello.
Simonetta saw them come. Ever at her window, up at dawn for the almond harvest that was to take place this day, she saw them stagger up the path, through the almond groves. She ran down and could see at once that something was very wrong. The usually immaculate Manodorata was stinking and besmottered, the boys and he were black with smoke and the older child – Elijah? – had white stripes on his face where his tears had run through the grime. Manodorata shook his head as she began to question him.
‘Ask no questions. For your mercy give the boys a bed. I must go back,’ his face contorted in anguish. ‘Rebecca…’
She understood and took the boys in her arms at once. Her friend turned and fled down the path as Elijah screamed ‘Father!’
She gentled him. ‘He will come back,’ she said, hoping it was true.
The boy’s blue eyes stared out from his blackened face. ‘And mother too?’
She knew not what to say. ‘He has gone to find her. Come, we will clean you and find you a warm place to sleep.’
Elijah submitted then to her ministrations, and Jovaphet ceased his bawling and plugged his mouth with his thumb. The smaller boy played with her hair as she took them up to the kitchen. She was at sea – she had never had anything to do with children. Women of her class always had nursemaids and she had known no younger siblings or small cousins. She laid Jovaphet on a fur before the fire and cast her eye around for something t
o amuse him. The Chinese clove jar answered the task and he played happily, amused by the bright colours and tiny wreathed dragons while she took a cloth to Elijah’s face. She ran to Jovaphet just as he was about to roll into the hearth, but was too late to prevent him from adding to the soot that already rimed his clothes. He had opened the clove jar and was about to put one of the spicy black nails in his mouth just before she rescued it, and had to sweep up the rest. As she swept up the precious cloves, Elijah kicked over the bowl of water and soaked his already freezing feet. She knew not whether to laugh or cry at her own hoplessness, but Elijah’s face decided her. The boy was shivering, and said not a word as his little mouth was set in a line. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears in the firelight. She chattered in a way that was alien to her as she wiped him clean, then let him help wash the face and hands of his little brother. Then she carried them both up the stair and laid them on her own bed, pulling the coverlet of vair over them both. She knew she must get down to the harvesters, to direct their work, so was relieved that Jovaphet was asleep almost at once, his thumb firmly in place. But as she laid Elijah down, the tears spilled at last from his eyes and into his ears. He held tightly to her hand and turned his eyes upon her, and suddenly she knew what to do. Her awkwardness and her ineptitude disappeared. She shrugged her cloak off while he still held her hand, and climbed in beside him. She held him close and kissed his white blonde head, closing her eyes and breathing in the sweet bitterness of woodsmoke. She marvelled at the blondeness of these Jewish children and then cursed her ignorance – why should they not be blonde, why must they have black hair and swarthy eastern features?
As her lips touched Elijah’s head and she tasted his tears she felt an overwhelming desire to protect him and his brother. In that moment she loved him like her own son. She held him close until he slept, and then reluctantly disentangled her fingers from his, kissed his sleeping lids and went down to the men. She turned at the door and murmured to the sleeping pair that all would be well, even though she knew that it would not.
In the grey dawn Manodorata walked back to Saronno. He had no need for fading stars to guide him, for a black pall of smoke rose in a black column from Jews’ Street. As he got nearer his house he saw it was nought but charred snaggle teeth, open and roofless to the sky. The blackened stairs climbed to nowhere. He prayed every prayer he knew that Rebecca might have escaped the flames before they claimed her. He covered his face and joined the looting mob that trampled his home, like jackdaws pecking at carrion. He witnessed one man, the baker with the wall eye, spit on his mother’s filigree box and rub it on his sleeve till the silver shone through the soot, before putting it in his pocket. Manodorata wanted to kill him.
He searched through the wreckage till he saw what he dreaded. A blackened spider of a hand reached heavenward from beneath a charred beam. It wore a gold ring with the Star of David, the ring he had given her in Toledo on their betrothal day. He knelt then, for his legs would not support him. He touched her warm ashes once, then took the ring from the dark bones. The baker clapped him on the shoulder, almost sending him into the ashes. ‘You lucky knave! That’s a rare prize indeed, too good for a Jew’s whore. Would that I had seen it first,’ then he continued in his search, lumbering through the things that the family had loved. Manodorata’s eyes darkened and he forgot to breathe as the rage boiled within him. He would have struck the man down had he not remembered his sons – Rebecca’s sons – and he slipped the ring on his smallest finger and walked away quickly, head bowed, back to Villa Castello.
He headed up the path through the almond grove. The trees wept blossom for him and he remembered his dream. He found the largest sturdiest tree with the most beautiful aspect and crouched at its foot. He made a small hole in the groin of two large roots and buried the ring in the cold earth. He said the tehillim, the wind whipping the Hebrew words from his mouth and scattering them in the hills. Then, as was the custom, he took a round stone and placed it on Rebecca’s grave.
He walked to the house then. Two of the Jewish harvesters raised their hands in greeting but choked back their shaloms when they saw his face. His eyes were flint and tearless but his heart was black, as black as his charred house, as black as Rebecca’s bones, as black as the earth where her ring lay, with hatred for the Cardinal of Milan.
CHAPTER 31
Candle Angel
Bernardino had dreamed of Elijah, the boy with the dove in his hand. He did not know why the memory troubled him now. All his dreams were of his time in Saronno, but mostly he slept in the slim circle of Simonetta’s arms. He did not dream of the paintings he had done, or the friendships he had made. Only of her. After his troubled and early awakening he left his cell at dawn and walked through the cloister, thinking of the boy as he had clung to him when he carried him from harm. He had never felt a connection to a child in his life before, yet this one had struck him to the heart. Though it was yet daybreak he could hear the sisters’ song from the Hall of the Nuns and marvelled at the steadfastness of their devotions. Then he smiled at himself, for was not he rising early to follow his own religion?
He walked straight into the Hall of the Believers and took up his brushes. As he mixed his pigments he remembered again, as the dream faded, the sweet face of Elijah. The tow head and the smiling eyes when he caught Bernardino uttering an oath he should not have spoken. Bernardino shivered as he drew the face from memory. He hoped the boy were not dead, for he knew well that the dead visited in dreams. Dead or in danger. If so, this would be his memorial. The charcoal lines grew into an angel, wings sprouted from the shoulders and a loveable putto formed – not a lofty cherub with a heavenly countenance to sit in the fabled ranks of the seraphim, but a human child with a human expression. Bernardino worked till noon, laying shadow and colour. He placed two long white ceremonial candles in the child’s hands where they weighed like the scales of justice. Lastly the same tallow-white provided highlights to burnish the gold curls. Bernardino stood back and rested his chin on his aching hand. He remembered when he had met Elijah, that the boy had instinctively trusted Bernardino and told him his true name before correcting himself with the Christian version ‘Evangelista’. This gave Bernardino pause. The boy was a Jew. Did he have a right to depict the child here, among the Christian Saints, watched over by a God that was not his own? Without knowing precisely why, he mixed a thick blood-scarlet and adorned the wing feathers till they were a rich red. Should posterity question, the red wings marked him out – an angel apart.
CHAPTER 32
Hand, Heart and Mouth
Amaria and Selvaggio went into the woods. As soon as they were under the cover of the trees, they clasped hands, as was their custom when none of the townsfolk could see. Today she felt the pull of his hand as he led the way. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
He slid his leaf-green eyes sideways and smiled. ‘You’ll see.’
She asked no more. She was happy, holding his hand, going wherever he would. Now and again she looked at him – his beloved serious face dappled by the leaves under the sun, now light, now dark.
Selvaggio looked back at her, and rejoiced in her beauty. On this shining day she seemed all of a piece with the coming of spring – she could be the goddess Primavera herself. Her skin glowed with health, her hair shone in its carefully dressed loops and coils about her ears and neck, studded today in reverence for the spring with white and yellow days-eyes. Her gown was the same green as the sward, cut from a bale of cloth that he had bought her with his earnings, made up before the fire by Nonna. Her dark eyes sparkled with animation and promise. She was so alive, so fecund. Selvaggio could see her lying above and beneath him, laughing, her abundant hair spread on a pillow. He could imagine her carrying his child, his children – the curves of her body growing in amplitude with the passing months. Sun-spots danced in his eyes and desire beat in his chest so hard that he thought he might lose consciousness. He wanted her so much, wanted her not just as his lover, but as the root of
his family. She had brought him back from death and made him live again. She was as a fruitful vine, and he wanted to live to see their children’s children.
They walked through the glades and the clearings, following the crystal brook till they came to the pozzo dei mariti. As Amaria saw the wells and heard the splashing of the falls she gasped in delight. ‘’Tis where we first met!’ she said.
Selvaggio smiled, and led her to the nearest pool, where a fish leaped and dropped with a sudden flash of silver. When the surface had settled again, mirror bright, they looked into the pool together, his hands on her shoulders. ‘Do you know what they say of this place?’
Amaria blushed. ‘They say that…if you look into the pool, you can see the face of…your husband.’ She spoke falteringly, as if in a dream.
The Madonna of the Almonds Page 18