by Sarah Dunant
Once inside, the reason for the abbess’s presence there becomes obvious. On the flagstones beneath the altar is the great, newly repaired crucifix, lying in all its glory, ready to be lifted back into place. In between the choir stalls a tower, hoist, and pulley are waiting to start the process.
The abbess is on her knees to one side of the cross, prostrated upon the ground, her body reaching out toward His own. His sculpted flesh is so close that if she were to put out her hands any farther she would surely touch it.
Zuana hesitates. She has seen her often enough in chapel, where she always makes the prettiest picture of a nun at prayer, but as she watches her here it appears that she is at a deeper, private devotion. She finds herself almost embarrassed to be watching.
After a while, as she turns toward the door, the voice says, “Sit, Zuana. I will be with you soon.”
Perhaps not so private after all.
From her vantage point in the choir stalls, Zuana now studies the sculpture. On the ground, Christ’s figure seems larger than life-size. Along with making repairs to the crossbar and the hand, the workmen have cleaned and revarnished the body, removing a century of candle smoke and grime so that the surface of His skin seems to glow.
At last the abbess straightens up. She sits back on her heels for a moment, staring at the body, then leans over and kisses the wood of the cross before getting to her feet.
“You know, when I first came here as a child, the story was that the man who sculpted this had used the body of his own son, who had died in a brawl, as his model.” Her voice is calm, conversational even. “It was said that his grief was so overwhelming it informed his hand when it came to his chisel on the wood. He’d been a handsome young man, by all accounts. A favorite with the young women. I used to wonder how it could be that his body had now become that of Christ. For there was never any doubt that this was who this was.”
She finds a place to sit near her dispensary mistress and spreads her skirts around her.
“Over the years I have come to realize that we nuns are wondrously adept at seeing what we believe.” She hesitates. “Or rather believing what we want to see, perhaps even when it is not there.”
Both her words and manners are a long way from the rage with which they had parted company less than a day before. The rule of their order is clear on such things: a Benedictine nun must not give way to anger or foster a desire for revenge. She must love her enemy and make peace with an adversary before the setting of the sun. And she must never, ever despair of God’s mercy. It is an arduous list, and the abbess must be seen to be a shining example to all around her.
Even when she had not agreed with her, Zuana had admired her more than any abbess before her. Would that she could feel that way again.
“It appears I have you to thank for the fact that she did not stab herself in the middle of Matins.”
“It was not simply me, Madonna Chiara. The girl herself has no wish to do you or the convent harm.”
“No, she did make that clear. Nevertheless she hates me. The eyes show more than the words.” She pauses. “Well, in her place I would hate me, too. I assume you supplied the extra blood to make the performance complete?”
Zuana hesitates, then nods.
“It was most impressive. I hope you left enough for Federica’s blessed cakes. Though it is likely that there will be no Carnival feast by next year.”
“There will be a feast,” Zuana says firmly. “You will still be abbess. And then, as now, you will be much loved and admired.”
“Oh, Zuana, please. Do me the courtesy of refraining from false praise. We are, I think, beyond that. We are here to negotiate, are we not? In which case let us get on with it.”
“Here?” Her eyes slip to the crucifix.
“Why not? We will never have a better witness. And I would not like it to be thought that we sought to hide anything from Him.”
And so Zuana speaks, first of the disease and then of the remedy. The words she uses are clear and simple, as befits a good physician or scholar who has studied something deeply and wishes to convince others of its efficacy. The abbess, for her part, listens well, never once taking her eyes off Zuana’s face.
ON THE CHAPEL floor, on the cross, Christ’s face is turned away from the two nuns. The falling angle of the head suggests a man close to death rather than one still in agony. For Him at least the worst is past and there is resurrection to come.
“Do you know the greatest fear women have when they enter a convent against their will?” the abbess says at last. “It will surprise you, I think, for often they do not even know it themselves. It is not about children, or the latest fashion, or even stories of the marriage bed. No. At root it is that if they do not find comfort in God, they will die of boredom. Boredom.” She smiles. “I must say, in all the years I have been abbess of this convent, thanks to sisters such as yourself and even Umiliana, that has never been my problem.
“It is very clever, Zuana, your plan. You have always had the clearest mind when it comes to understanding problems and finding a solution. Still, it is not so much a remedy as blackmail.”
“Oh, it is not meant to be.”
“No? And if I still refuse? What then? I daresay there is enough dye left for her to disturb a good many offices. You have not seen her hands. She was most enthusiastic with the knife. If she were not in ecstasy, Suora Umiliana certainly would be. But of course you know all that. So tell me, this ‘remedy? You have used it before?”
“Not exactly. It is not possible to try it with any certainty upon oneself.”
“No, I would think not.”
“But I have studied a number of sources.”
“From apothecaries or storytellers?”
“I …I don’t see—”
“Ah, Zuana!” The smile lifts her lips, but does not reach her eyes. “For someone who knows so much, you are sweetly ignorant. Two noble lovers, one dying to be reborn in the other’s arms: Mariotto and Giannozza …Giulietta and Romeo …they go by many names. You’ve never heard the tragic tale? Well, it is too late now. The good Fathers of Trento consigned Salernitano’s stories to the flames. Though I daresay that will only make them even more popular.”
“You are right,” Zuana says quietly. “I know nothing of such stories. The sources I have for the remedy come from a traveler from the East and from my father.”
“…Sources we must do our best to protect.” The abbess slides her hand over her skirts, a gesture that denotes business as usual. “So you had better tell me the rest of it. How, for instance, will her ailing young pup learn what he must do?”
“She will send him a letter.”
“What? You have an address for him?”
Zuana drops her eyes.
“And you are sure he will respond?”
“Yes. I am sure.”
“And if something goes wrong? What if this potion of yours does not work? What if she dies?”
“She will not die.” Zuana’s voice is strong. “Though”—she hesitates for a second—“though if that were to happen, you need have no fear, for her secrets would die with her.”
“You have thought of it all. Except perhaps for one thing. It is clear what the convent will lose by your plan: an unwilling songbird novice and most of her considerable dowry. But as to what we might gain?”
And Zuana, who is not surprised at all by this question, now speaks again.
This time there is no hesitation.
“Very well, you had better have her write the letter. She will not stay thin forever.”
NOW, AT LAST, the ingredients can be mixed together.
Under Zuana’s tutelage, the girl writes to a young man who has sworn to love and marry no one but her. While the letter contains enough phrases of longing to leave no doubt of her feeling, its main purpose is to issue instructions, and in this the words are Zuana’s, for there can be no mistakes here. When it is finished, instead of the censor, the abbess reads it herself, seals it, and disp
atches it by private messenger.
If there is any doubt as to the young man’s fidelity, it is dispelled within hours. The messenger is kept waiting so he can bring back an answer straightaway. It is almost as if the recipient had been waiting for it—which, of course, in some ways he had. The reply is delivered directly into the abbess’s hands, so that she is the first to read the outpouring of passionate love from the young man who will be instrumental in the escape of one of her novices. The irony is not lost on any of them.
The next day the abbess makes an unexpected visit to the sewing room to make sure the novices and sisters there are chattering less and sewing a little harder, so the trousseau will be ready and packed for dispatch within the week.
For her part, Zuana is busy with her books and her choir of cures. She is cross-referencing between two sources: her father’s own notebooks and a volume by one Alessio Piemontese, who claimed to have traveled the world in search of nature’s wonders and secrets. Though the ingredients in both are the same, there are discrepancies of measurements between the versions. In the end she errs in favor of her father’s, though it comes along with his warning—This has not been tested by myself but comes from verbal sources of others—scrawled close to the edge of the page.
For these few days Isabetta, in contrast, does nothing, which in some ways is hardest of all. By now she does not even bother to conceal the food she is not eating at table, so that everyone can see how viciously she is starving herself. For the rest, she sings and prays ostentatiously, hands together or hidden in her robes, face chalk-white, body hunched and fragile as she trots like a newborn lamb in the footsteps of the novice mistress.
As promised, the crucifix is mounted in time for Palm Sunday. The nuns take part in a procession around the convent that ends in the chapel, where there is a public service and mass, all of which take place without further mishap.
Matins that night is a glorious affair. In celebration of the return of Our Lord, the chapel sister lights an array of great candles to further illuminate His homecoming. Everyone is eager. Even those half asleep from fasting and prayer take their places on time tonight.
Umiliana is early into her seat. This, she is sure, will be an office to be remembered. Above her head Christ glows in the candlelight, His sweet suffering body its own miracle of transformation, His flesh suddenly so real, the blood from His hands and feet a shocking red against the pale varnished skin. When she was young and at her most febrile, she would imagine the weight of that tortured body lying across her knees, imagine the wonder of holding Him in her arms. She has loved Him all her life, this perfect, gentle, powerful, beautiful man, beside whom any other bridegroom could only be found crassly wanting. She sits, hands gathered in her lap, watching as the novices arrive and Serafina takes her huddled place among the rest of the night procession.
How frail and ghostly pale she looks, more spirit than body, surely. Except for the eyes. The eyes are as bright, these last days, as if a great light were shining somewhere behind them. Oh, if only Umiliana had reached her cell more quickly the night she had started screaming. She had been amazed when, the next day, the girl described to her how a trio of spitting black devils had been in there with her, kicking and pushing her to the ground every time she tried to pray Serafina had even shown her the ripening bruises to prove it. Oh, the wonder of it. Of course the girl had been frightened, fearful that such an attack proved she was not worthy of God’s mercy. But what Umiliana knows, and the novice does not, is that such a violent testing often comes with the final awakening of grace. The testaments of the humblest visionaries tell stories of wrestling physically with devils, of their violence and taunting. She, Umiliana, has been plagued by a few such tribulations in her time. But unlike the saints and now this young girl, the beatings never left a mark on her.
The opening chant begins. Umiliana raises her eyes to the body of Christ. He is above us now. He is here and will make His presence felt.
Except that He does not.
Matins passes with joyful song amid warm candlelight. The novice seems so tired she can barely open her mouth. In her choir stall as the office draws to a close, Umiliana gives herself up to prayer, swallowing her disappointment and accepting His will humbly, almost numbly, as she has done for so long in her life.
It is only as the nuns leave, and she stands watching the novices file out, that she sees Serafina trip on the hem of her skirts and pull one hand from under her habit in order to steady herself on the edge of the pew. And as she does so, a spasm of sudden pain crosses her face in a way that makes Umiliana’s heart beat faster.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
THE CHAPTER MEETING next day is so full of necessary business that it is verging on dull.
Easter is almost upon them, and with it the reliving of the terrible, wondrous story of Christ’s persecution and death on the cross and His resurrection. While the novices and young choir nuns are visibly excited—Lent seems to have lasted forever— a few of the elder ones are thinking how quickly this season has come around again. If it is true that years seem to move faster for the old, it is also a marvel of convent life that what at first appears a desert of time is actually a dense calendar of all manner of liturgical feasts, city celebrations, special masses for benefactors, and saints’ days. The demands of Easter are among the most arduous, and, between questions about psalm settings and the Good Friday procession through cloisters behind the convent’s great silver crucifix, there is ample room for disagreement. Maybe for that reason the meeting starts with everyone being exceedingly polite, as if the slightest objection will unleash a storm waiting to break.
They are in the middle of a discussion about the Easter Sunday feast, which breaks the Lent fast, when Suora Zuana asks— and is given permission—to speak out of turn.
“Madonna Abbess, as fasting is not compulsory for novices, may I ask if those who are doing so might be allowed to eat normally again before Easter Sunday? As dispensary mistress I am becoming fearful of the impact of the regime upon their health.”
The room stiffens—or, rather, those nuns who support Umiliana stiffen, in readiness for her rejoinder. In the front row, Suora Benedicta nods animatedly; the choir is ragged without the inspiration of its finest voice. But it is the abbess who answers first.
“While I appreciate your concern, Suora Zuana, this is surely more the business of the novice mistress than it is your own.”
“I …um”—Umiliana is momentarily taken aback by this unexpected support—“I am not sure what the dispensary sister is referring to. The only fasting done by a novice was in response to an imposed penance and has been over for some time.”
“With respect, Suora Umiliana, I do not think that is true. The novice in question has grown steadily thinner through the weeks, and while the food may go onto her plate, I believe she is not eating it at all, only hiding it away to dispose of later. It is not good for one so young to be so depleted of nourishment.”
Zuana is not the only one to be staring directly at the novices’ bench. By now everyone has noticed how clumsy Serafina has become at mealtimes, with bits of food falling to the ground or being so obviously hidden that there is almost no pretense about it. Yet no one has said a thing. When someone is wasting away so dramatically, the fascination can, for a while, overwhelm the concern.
“I am grateful to you for the observation, but if my novice’s true health was in any danger, I assure you I would have noticed it by now.”
“Yes, indeed.” The abbess again confounds expectations. “If there was anything to worry about, I am confident Suora Umiliana would have seen it.” There is the briefest of pauses. A few are no doubt remembering the recent screaming. “I know she disturbed the peace of the convent a few nights ago, but I believe that was because she had bad dreams.”
The discussion has taken on a strange, almost surreal, quality, since Serafina herself, the person at the center of it, is being totally ignored. She sits, huddled and gaunt, on the novice ben
ch. For some time those around her have been aware that her breath is coming in fast little spurts with occasional quiet grunts, like a small animal trying to bury itself farther into its lair.
“Meanwhile, we have many more things to discuss and must move on. Rest assured, Suora Umiliana, the convent has the greatest faith in your judg—”
But the abbess does not get any further.
The noise—for it is indeed a noise—coming out of the novice has grown suddenly louder. For a young woman with such a pure voice, the lack of harmony in this rising wail is immediately disturbing.
“Aaaaah!”
Umiliana, who has kept her in her sight, sees it coming. Oh, sweet Jesus! She might have chosen a more devout setting, but one does not argue with God’s ways. She is half out of her seat, but the chapter rows are packed and she cannot get there.
The novice, however, is now standing out from the front row, in the middle of the floor.
“Aaaaah!” She throws her hands above her head, exposing two black, gory palms, with blood streaking down her arms to the floor. Then, when there can be no mistaking what people are seeing, she grabs her skirts and lifts them high, a good deal higher than is necessary, to reveal, at the bottom of long bare legs, feet dotted with blood, though nowhere near as much as the mess of her hands.
The room sits stunned.
She starts to jump and dance, as if trying to get her weight off her feet, and the wail turns into a howl as if she is being tortured, while her skirts reach up as far as her thighs. If this is a thing of wonder, it certainly does not appear to be that way for the girl herself. There is surely no ecstasy here. Only panic, terror—and hysteria.
The abbess gets to her first. “What have you done? Novice Serafina, what is this?”
And Serafina turns on her, pushing her hands almost into the abbess’s face and yelling, “It’s Him! It’s Him! She told me He would come!”
“Who told you?”
Now she waves her hands in the direction of the novice mistress, spraying flecks of blood over the heads of the nuns. “See,” she says, “see, Suora Umiliana? I prayed and He came. Christ’s wounds. But oh, oh, loving Jesus, why does it hurt so much? Oooh! Aaah!”