The Madonna of the Almonds

by Marina Fiorato

  The place is greatly changed – what was once a plain white church is now an Ethiop’s cave, a treasure chest, a rainbow. There are paintings everywhere – frescoes crawl over every inch, and my eyes have entered paradise, even though my heart burns in hell. Despite the sight, my flesh heats with the agony of loss, like my name – Saint Lorenzo. Save for the crowd of Saints no one is within, except a single fellow hanging high at the rafters and scratching at an image with a paintbrush. The face he paints holds me at once, for it is Simonetta di Saronno, as surely as she is standing in front of me. She is just as I recall her; as beautiful as the day, but now insubstantial. Her fairness can no longer touch me. To me, true beauty wears a more dusky countenance – it has the olive warm skin and raven hair of Amaria.

  I find my voice at last. ‘Did you do this?’

  The fellow spins round on his ropes, as if he expected someone else.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘It has been a long road, but at last it is done. This face is the last of it, and the best of it, long overdue.’ He smiles, as if at a private jest.

  ‘It is wondrous indeed,’ I say, speaking the truth. ‘If miracles truly happen here, then this is surely the greatest.’

  He descends, pleased by the compliment. ‘I thank you,’ he says as he finds his feet. He is shorter than I by a hand, and, on closer scrutiny, a good bit older. But he is slim and handsome enough.

  ‘She is very fair, your subject,’ say I.

  He smiles, and is suddenly my own age. He looks like a man who owns the world and is perfectly happy in it. I envy him. ‘I’m glad you think so,’ he says. ‘She is my wife.’

  A hammer strikes in my chest, and I think my ears have deceived me. ‘Your…wife?’

  ‘Indeed. I am Bernardino Luini, the artist,’ and indeed I do think I have heard the name, ‘and this is Simonetta, formerly Simonetta di Saronno, now Simonetta Luini.’ He said the name with pride. ‘She sat as my model for the Holy Virgin, as you see. The frescoes are to be dedicated tomorrow, in fact, on the day of Saint Ambrose.’

  I nod, dazed. I knew the Saint’s day well. We had come to the parade every year of our marriage, Simonetta and I. But what I remember now is that this time last year I had taken Amaria in my arms for the first time, and carried her away from the Swiss mercenaries.

  My new friend and rival looks at me closely, so heaven knows what he sees written in my face. I make an attempt at pleasantry. ‘Is there still a feast, and a parade of the reliquaries?’

  ‘There is. Attended by the new Cardinal, whom we like much better than the old one, God rot his bones.’ The artist’s eyes narrow. ‘Do you know these parts?’

  ‘I used to.’

  The fellow claps my shoulder. ‘Then you must attend,’ he said, clearly in a mood to be friends with the entire world, even with a pilgrim he had never met before. ‘I will present you to my wife.’ He is plainly eager to show off his prize.

  I choke on the remembrance that just a short week past, I had been the same happy, proud groom, wanting to show my Amaria to all the world.

  ‘Till tomorrow then. You must meet her,’ he says.

  Tomorrow. I would see Simonetta tomorrow. She that had been my wife, and was my wife still, till death parted us. We had been married here, in the sight of God, and the law of God bound us still. I take the artist’s proffered hand. Poor fellow. He does not know that I am here to take his world away from him, that I am Arthur to his Lancelot and I am about to claim back my Guinevere. I am sorry that he is soon to feel as I feel now.

  ‘Right gladly I will,’ I say.

  CHAPTER 43

  The Banner

  At first Amaria could not believe Selvaggio had gone. She searched everywhere – went to all the places they had been together in Pavia. The wells where they had met, and he had asked her to be his. San Pietro where he had saved her life, and then saved it again by marrying her. All the woods and walks, bridges and falls where they had spent the happiest of times, she went back again, lest he had once again lost his memory, and was somewhere, dazed, waiting for her to take him in her arms and make all things right again. She asked everyone she met if they had seen her husband. Most folk knew of him, for they had been a familiar sight, going everywhere together two by two like the creatures of the Ark. But no one had seen him since the wedding day.

  As the days passed Amaria grew thin and silent. She could not eat. She was worn to a shadow. Nonna, stricken too, did not know how to help her granddaughter. The two women revolved around each other, unable to look at the other’s face, so great was the pain that was writ there.

  As the days became a week, Amaria began to spend long hours at the dovecot Selvaggio had made for her. The pair of white doves which he had bought her as a gift, she began to tend obsessively; as if they were children he had left. She coddled them in her hands, cooing in their own voices and stroking their snowy feathers. He had named them Phyllis and Demophon, but said that he did not know why. She called them by these names, names that seemed strange to her, but ones that must be kept because he had so christened them. When Selvaggio had been gone a week, she discovered that Demophon, the male dove, had flown from the dovecot in the night. She took Phyllis in her hands and kissed her head. She felt no sympathy for the bewildered bird, who cocked her head from right to left, looking for her errant mate. Instead Amaria took her rabbit knife and did what she had been too enamoured of the birds to do on her wedding day – she spread Phyllis’s right wing like a fan and cut out the two long prime feathers. The blood ran dark over her hands. The bird flapped in protest but Amaria did not flinch. She remembered, suddenly, the day she had killed the red hen for Selvaggio without a moment’s hesitation. That day she felt she had grown, and become a woman, for there was now someone to look after, someone to love. The pain of loss was suddenly so bad she could hardly stand. She put Phyllis back in the dovecot, alone. ‘There’ she said, with triumph. ‘Now you cannot fly away. You must stay here, with Nonna and me. Three old maids together.’ From nowhere, laughter shivered her ribs and she rocked, crowing with mirth like a mad woman, till the shiver became a retch and she vomited, violently, onto the straw. The chickens came to peck at her leavings, and she was suddenly frightened. I cannot live without him, she thought. This will kill me.

  Meantime, Nonna sat rocking in the chair Selvaggio had made for her, as she had taken to doing. For the second time in her life she gave way to tears. How much greater was this second loss of her life, than when she had seen Filippo dead? For this time Amaria, her dear child, suffered too.

  And there was more joy and pain to come, for Nonna had lived in the world and knew why Amaria was vomiting. She grieved that the girl was doomed to repeat her own life, pouring all her love into the child Selvaggio had left. This child would grow like an olive plant around their table, not, now, as part of a happy family but as a crutch to two lonely abandoned women. A child that reminded them daily of him who had gone.

  Gone. A dark thought stopped her rocking and led her upstairs to the dorter. The blue banner, folded and put away, had Selvaggio found it? Nonna opened the chest at the bed’s foot. The banner was missing.

  He had not lost his memory again. He had found it.

  Nonna blamed herself bitterly. She had hidden the banner, folded it and kept it away, telling herself that she would show him one day, but that day had never come. She should have burned it so that they would be safe, or else shown him at once, the day that he woke from his wounds, so that he could begin to remember straight away before this great love had grown between him and Amaria. But she had hidden the thing, and said nothing, because she had wanted him to stay. And now she had brought immeasurable, killing grief on the girl she loved the most in the world.

  She sat heavily on the bed, her hand on one of the four heavy posts he had made for it. A chill grey hand clasped her heart and she gasped at the pain. Most unusually for such an active soul, she felt that she had to lie down on the bed. Just for a while. The cold hand squeezed her heart
again and she allowed her eyes to shut. She had endured one great loss in her life and survived it. She knew she could not do so again.

  CHAPTER 44

  The Feast of Sant’Ambrogio

  I walk the well-known streets of Saronno and marvel that I could have forgotten so much. How could my mind have lost the years I lived here, and loved here, and wived here? And now, as I mingle with the feast-day crowds in my pilgrim’s garb, my heart is in my mouth with the thought that I will see my wife again, the wife I no longer want or love, and divide her from her new life. But it is the law of God. Forgive me, Simonetta!

  I line the streets with the many, and wait for the procession of the reliquary of the Saint. Many of the good people of Saronno are jug-bitten already, for all that, it is only Sext. My eyes search the crowd for her, and the husband that I have already met, but they are not in the street. I soon know why. A cheer goes up and I turn with the crowd; she is there, seated in a bower of flowers, on the balcony of the mayor’s house. My heart falters – she is beautiful indeed, and smiling in a way I never saw. Simonetta. Were we really wed once? It seems an age ago, another life indeed. There is something new about her. Her hair is a little shorter, her features more rounded. But above all, she looks as if a torch lights her from within. Could the man beside her, the dark-haired artist who also waves at the crowd, be the reason for this transformation? He holds her close, possessively, as the crowd salute their Queen of Heaven, the model for the frescoes shortly to be dedicated.

  Another mystery. Simonetta was unknown to the town when I was her husband – we were private people. How has she gained such adulation? From being an artist’s model? I suppose that may bring honour on the Comune of Saronno. Or has she done the town some service in my absence? As the procession begins and the costumed servers pass, I strain to keep the couple in sight through the passing motley of the town’s livery. I duck under one of the passing horses to gain their side of the street, earning a curse from one of the local Signori. I know him. I sold him the very mare that now dances over my head.

  I draw closer now. The two heads – one red, one dark, are close together. Kissing? No. Whispering and bubbling with laughter. My stomach shrivels. So I was once with Amaria, until my trickster memory brought me back to my duty. I look closer through the fancy open carving of the balcony, to see if their hands are clasped. But I see something else.

  Two golden haired children – boys – sit low behind the carving and watch the spectacle. One, the elder, shares sweetmeats and toys with his brother with an affection and propriety that is affecting to see. And now I see that the couples’ hands are indeed clasped like lovers. But each rests their other hand on the golden head of a child, fondling the locks with love.

  Like parents.

  My head spins. How can this be? I have not been gone so long! My eyes fix on the town’s fairest maids as they march by holding arches of almond blossom – my almond blossom – and I try to resolve my thoughts. Of course. The children must be his. He has some years on Simonetta – perhaps his wife is dead and his children now call my wife mother. I look on the familial scene and I grieve that I will divide them all. But it must be done. I approach, for the time has come to reveal myself; when I am carried away from this domestic scene by the press of numbers. The maids with the almond branches are passing something into the crowd. I jostle closer and see that they are filling small wooden cups from the flasks they carry – like naiads distilling their own sap the amber liquid gushes forth and the crowd sups so heartily that barely have they finished pouring but the cups are proffered for more. A cup is thrust into my hand and I drink. The draught is sweet and yet bitter, with the taste of the almonds of my home. It tastes wonderful. It warms my chest and gives me courage. It is time. But another cheer pre-empts me; this bounty has something to do with Simonetta, for with difficulty she rises to her feet, and I nearly fall from mine. For here is something to give me pause indeed.

  She is with child.

  Now I must sit on the pavings, among the horse dung and the almond blossom, as the liquor and the sight swirl my senses. Simonetta and the artist are having a child. How can I divide them now? I make an adulterer of both, a bastard of the child, and orphans of the two golden children I have seen that they love so well. I press my hands into the balls of my eyes, and when I take them away, the answer is in front of me. For Saint Ambrose passes by, in the glorious gold litter of his reliquary, and through the crystal panes of his casket I see his little bleached bones. My heart freezes for a heartbeat as I look on his mummified head and see the dead orbs of his eyes gazing straight at me. Amaria’s Saint, my Saint, Sant’Ambrogio, is trying to tell me something. I pray to him for guidance, pushing through the crowd to keep the contact of his eyes, willing him to speak. But the Saint remains silent, and passes through the crowd, away from me. He says naught to guide me, and suddenly I understand. He is silent; I must be too. It cannot be God’s will that I divide two families and cause pain when all have already suffered much. The Saint has given me his sanction. I am resolved, absolved. I will break the sacrament of one marriage to preserve two more.

  Lorenzo Giovanni Battista Castello di Saronno is dead. Let him rest.

  I pull my hood closer over my head, and take one last look at Simonetta before I turn away. Beautiful and abundant, I see the reason for the change in her swelling beneath her gown. I bless her before I turn away. I bless them all, all of her new family, with the Saint looking on.

  Now I must be quick. I am bearded, and hooded, and greatly changed, but here live people who watched me grow. I leave the crowd, and slip down a narrow street. I am safe. A fellow bumps my shoulder hard, sees my pilgrim’s cloak and mutters an apology. His breath smells of grappa, not almonds. I fatally raise my eyes to his, and both pairs widen. It is Gregorio.

  He falls to his knees and kisses my hand, and says the name I have almost forgot.

  ‘Signor Lorenzo! It is a miracle! The Saint has brought you home!’

  I curse with all the words in my lexicon over his matted head. He is bloated, and bearded too, but still my squire whom I loved once as a brother. I free my hand and change my voice as much as I can, affecting the drawl of the Lombard. ‘May I help, you, my son?’

  He looks up, puzzled. He is drunk, a tendency of his youth has clearly taken hold in his age. ‘Are you not?… Surely…’

  I see he is no longer sure, and press home my advantage. I feel like the Blessed Peter, denying knowledge of his Lord. ‘Son, I am a stranger to this town.’

  His heavy brows join as his joy drains away. ‘Forgive me… I took you for… Are you not Signor Lorenzo di Saronno?’

  I shake my head, and decide, now and for ever. Thrice denied, the cock crows. ‘No. My name is Selvaggio Sant’Ambrogio.’ I turn and walk away, sorry at once that I have crushed him. I know what I owe him, and what we once were to each other. I know too that if he tells the tale around the town he will be dismissed as a drunk, and that his gossip will not damage the golden family that I have left. He calls after me and my blood chills.

  ‘Pilgrim! At least bide a while and have a drink, for the love of Christ! For you have the look of my old Master that I loved well!’ I keep walking, knowing now that I am safe, and they are safe. He calls again, now so faint I can hardly hear.

  ‘Pilgrim! Where are you going?’

  I do not turn, but call out to him the word that warms my heart. ‘Home,’ I say, and at last I permit myself to smile.

  CHAPTER 45

  Selvaggio Goes Home

  It takes me less time to go from Saronno to Pavia than it did to get from Pavia to Saronno. Then my steps were dogged by reluctance, and a heavy heart. Now my heart is light, my step is quick. I do not rest until my legs give way, and then my sleep is only a few hours before I wake, thinking of her. Amaria. If only you will forgive me, then all will be well!

  I know where she will be. I find my way through the woods outside the city, till I come to the pozzo dei mariti. As I see the wells
and hear the splashing of the falls I look for her. She is there, sitting, gazing into the pool where we pledged our troth. She looks so thin, and so pale and sad that my heart wrenches. Her rounded form is now wasted to nothing; the green dress of our betrothal now hangs from her. Her hair hangs in lank swags and her eyes are dull and dead. What have I done to her? Then I understand. I have taken her life from her. It is time to give it back.

  I slowly walk up behind her, my footfalls soft in the dewed grass. In the water my face appears beside hers, and her eyes look into mine, wide with shock and instantly awash with tears. I want to take her in my arms at once, but have to ask the question. My hands are on her shoulders. ‘Do you know what they say of this place?’

  ‘They say that…if you look into the pool, you can see the face of…your husband,’ she says wonderingly, as if in a dream.

  ‘And is it true?’

  She looks at me then as the tears spill, and I know what she has suffered in the last week. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I think it is.’ I turn her round to face me. ‘I love you, Amaria Sant’Ambrogio.’ I say the words she had first taught me. ‘Mano,’ I say as I take her hand. ‘Cuore,’ as I place her hand on my heart. ‘Bocca,’ I say as I kiss her, tenderly on the mouth. She kisses me harder than last time, and holds me tighter, and I kiss her again and again, whispering through both our tears that I will never leave her again, my love, my wife. Her colour and beauty return and she laughs with pure joy. I know what she will say next.

  ‘Come home,’ she says. ‘We must tell Nonna.’ But this time she adds more words – words that toll in my chest like a death knell. ‘She is taken very ill.’