by Alan Gordon
She laughed. “Oh, this is too fine a meal for my children. They’ll have to content themselves with some scraps of salt herring later. I am a cook in the Duke’s house, and there’ll be eighteen to dinner tonight.”
“Ah, I had the pleasure of dining there many years ago. It was a fine table. The cook’s name escapes me, but the dessert lingers in my memory, an orange custard, delicately spiced, that tantalized the eye, seduced the nose, and enslaved the mouth. I’ve never had its equal. Say you’re the warden of the recipe, and I’ll marry you on the spot. Look, here’s the church now, Mistress Cook.”
She laughed merrily. “And what should I tell my husband and children then? Nay, the sorceress of the hearth then was a woman named Katrina, and that recipe was passed to her daughter, who is the inheritor of her position as well. The recipe is kept within her bosom to be handed on to her own daughter someday.”
“Then I shall wait for her daughter to come of age. How fares the young Duke? Will he partake of your basket tonight?”
“Alas, the poor boy still ails. He’s on the mend, I’m happy to say, but he can only keep down broth and a bit of gruel.”
“What afflicts the lad?”
“The doctors don’t know. Something in his gut, and it’s a wonder we didn’t all get it, for that’s usually the case. And his father dying, well, that was a blow to all of us, but especially to him. To fall so ill and lose him practically at the same moment, well, it’s no wonder that he nearly followed him to the grave.”
“Were the two events so close? I hadn’t heard that.”
“Certainly, it was the same night. We had a large group of people for the dinner, the main families of the town, and all of a sudden Mark gives a scream and falls, clutching his stomach. It was right after the third toast, a merry one by Sir Toby, and some thought maybe it was just too much wine for a boy his age, and he had been gorging himself on nuts and sweetmeats before. He always liked to come down to the kitchen when we were preparing large dinners, to watch how we did things and to snatch whatever his nimble fingers could. Yet there he was at the table, moaning and heaving like a drunk man until he collapsed on poor Sir Andrew. Mercy, I thought the knight would make a second when the boy did that, he turned so pale. They took the boy to his room, and the Duchess and his nurse were up all night with him.”
“And then they heard about the Duke. The shock must have been considerable.”
“Oh, the boy worshiped his father, as boys do at that age. And there was the grieving, and now all the fuss over who’s to be the regent. Why they just don’t make it his mother is beyond me. She has a better head then all of them, foreigner or no. Everyone’s coming to visit him, which is nice, but some of them are trying to insinuate themselves into his good graces, if you take my meaning. Using a sick child like that just to be regent for a few years.”
“But he’s improving.”
“Yes, by Our Savior, he is. With luck, he’ll be well enough for the play, though Count Sebastian is standing in for him now.”
“Ah, a Christmas play. What are they doing?”
“It’s The Harrowing of Hell this year, and he was to be the Savior. He was so excited, it was the first year his father was to let him play the part. And now neither old Duke nor new may be there. Such a pity.” She chattered on, telling me of Silvio’s gout, Anna’s latest pregnancy, and such other servants’ matters until I could have probably walked in and identified the entire staff. Finally, we reached the villa.
She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Well, sir. Here we are, and the walk was a quick one, thanks to you. Nothing like the conversation of a gentleman to pass the time. Blessings upon you, sir.”
“And you,” I replied. “And on your house and your feast.”
She dimpled again and went in.
The Harrowing of Hell. An odd choice. The town was not large enough to do a full cycle during the season, so they always put together one for the last day. I wondered which version they’d be using. Not much of a play, more like a quick debate between Jesus and the Devil, which He wins, naturally, then the righteous Jews parade about and thank Him for saving them.
I came back down the road into the square to find a number of laborers erecting some small platforms on and about the steps of the new cathedral. The market stalls were being pushed back to the western side of the square to make room for the upcoming festivities, though the vending continued uninterrupted. As I drew closer, I recognized some of the scenery in progress. The Cross and the Sepulcher were easy enough to figure out. Two poles with a rope dangling loosely between them were at the highest step. I assumed that would eventually be Paradise. The most elaborate setting was for the gates of Hell, a crude head of Satan with his jaws open wide enough for a man to walk through without stooping. Red damask curtains concealed the interior. To the right of that were a pair of thrones, one painted white, the other a deep red.
A man was turning a windlass that lifted a small, frightened boy into the air. He kept flipping over, which did nothing to assuage his fear.
“No, no, no,” scolded an imperious man who seemed to be in charge. “That won’t do. The Angel of the Lord must be upright when flying. What can we do?”
“How about we weight his feet?” suggested the man at the windlass.
“Excellent,” cried the man directing, and a pair of large stones were lashed to the unfortunate child’s shoes. He turned upright, the rope now digging painfully into his armpits. He looked unhappily at the man in charge and took a deep breath.
“All harken to me now,” he whined, barely audible.
“No, no, no,” shouted the man. “You are supposed to be an Angel of the Lord, coming from up high to deliver a message of hope. Don’t whimper, proclaim it, boy.”
“But it hurts,” whined the boy.
“You’ll stay up there until I decide to let you down, and that will be when you give the speech to my satisfaction.”
I recognized him now. His name was Fabian, and he had been one of the Countess Olivia’s men when I was last in Orsino. He had played a small part in the events leading to Malvolio’s disgrace. I hoped it was small enough to escape notice. He was an impudent rascal when I first knew him, and now the rascal had metamorphosed into a tyrant.
The boy struggled through his speech, scrunching up his face as if he thought it might be written on the insides of his eyelids. He did it a few more times in the same faint monotone, but the last rendition either satisfied Fabian or forced him to concede defeat, for he turned to a young deacon who was standing nearby.
“The cue is, ‘As I shall now tell to thee,’” he instructed him. The deacon nodded at a shivering group of onlookers who proved to be the choir, for they launched immediately into a shaky rendition of “Advenisti desirabilis.” Fabian immediately cut them off. “Not that one, that’s for later. That ‘welcome to hell’ one, that’s the one I mean. Good, that’s it. Jesus, that’s your cue to enter. Jesus?”
“Here, damn you,” muttered Sebastian, huddled inside his cloak. He walked to his position in a most ungodly fashion. “Christ, why did they have to put Christmas in the winter?”
“Now, now, Count. That’s hardly the spirit we want. Your first speech, if you please.”
“Hard ways have I gone,” began Sebastian, scarcely more audible than the angel who preceded him. There were a number of spectators openly smirking at his appearance.
“And how do you like our little production so far, pilgrim?” came a voice at my elbow. I turned and marked the Bishop, his miter replaced by a simple cap, his eminence swathed in an elaborately trimmed fur coat.
“I find it somewhat appalling,” I replied. “Surely the Church does not endorse these sorry proceedings. How can you let these holy days be profaned by theatricals?”
“Nonsense. Just what we need. It brings them in, and if a little moral instruction slips in amidst the entertainment, so much the better. It’s not as if they were doing The Interlude of the Shepherdess.”
�
�It smacks of bread and circuses.”
“Of wafers and masses, more likely. Look you, see the high and the low mingle in common purpose. Think how grateful the lowly peasants are to be freezing their balls off in the same cold wind as a count or a duke, and to realize how little they suffer in comparison with the agonies of Our Savior on the Cross, which they see reenacted right in front of them. And then to assemble afterwards in a nice warm cathedral and give thanks that their lives are only slightly miserable and that Heaven awaits them.”
“Where’s Adam and Eve?” yelled Fabian. “We need to measure Paradise.”
A young couple, giggling, ascended the steps and stood between the two poles. Fabian fussed with the rope until it was level with their chests. “This is the height,” he said to a man who marked it with chalk on each of the poles. “Remember, Paradise must reach the ground so only their heads are visible once they enter. Demons! Mouth of hell, if you please.”
“I know there are those in Rome and elsewhere who disapprove,” said the Bishop a little more quietly. “But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t usurp spectacle to our purposes. Why should the Devil have all the good tunes?”
“Because, unlike your choir, he can sing.”
He laughed. “Charity and patience, my cynical merchant. And you shouldn’t be one to criticize. I’ve heard German music—those elevated drinking songs—and it is unfit to sing the praises of Our Lord. And you condemn actors. Remember Genesius and Pelagia were actors once, and now they’re saints. Well, good pilgrim, although I’m forbidden to put my own genitals to use, that doesn’t mean I want them to freeze off. I will see you later at the Elephant. I am giving the traditional blessing of the wine in there.”
“If there’s wine to be blessed, I will honor the sacrament,” I promised, and he strolled away. An earthy fellow for a Bishop, I thought. Unusual, but I liked him the more for it.
Fabian was walking the demons through some clumsy pratfalls. “Now, remember, this is the holiest personage you have ever encountered, and it should send you into a complete panic. Astarot and Anaball on the right, Berith and Belyall on the left. Use your pitchforks, trip over them, try poking each other.” Belyall slipped for real on a patch of ice and nearly impaled Astarot. The onlookers roared. “That’s good,” applauded Fabian. “Keep that in.” Belyall looked dubious as to whether he could repeat the move. Astarot looked dubious as to whether he wanted him to. Berith belched abruptly, some more spontaneous comedy. It was all very crude and pedestrian.
“Come, demons, you can do better than that,” scolded Fabian. “By heaven, if only that drunken oaf Feste were here to see this. He could teach you a thing or two about falling down.”
I had decidedly mixed feelings about being invoked in that manner.
The demons finally trooped through the mouth of Hell. Jesus made another bland and pretty speech and followed them.
“Sir Andrew? Where’s Sir Andrew?” shouted Fabian.
“Here I am!” shouted the spindle-shanked knight, galloping into the square precariously perched on an equally emaciated pony. The beast stopped abruptly, pitching its rider headlong into the choir. Fortunately they seemed to be expecting something of that kind, for several, in the spirit of the season, cleared a space for him to fall.
He stood up, reassembled his wardrobe, and limped over to an impatient Fabian.
“My apologies,” said Sir Andrew. “You were going to tell me my cue.”
“Your cue was to be here an hour ago,” snapped Fabian. “Everyone else, in town and out, managed to be here, but not Sir Andrew. Oh, he was a-traipsing through the woods looking for his little stone so he could live his little life past his days. Demons!” he shouted suddenly, and Sir Andrew jumped, looking frantically about for them while the choir roared with laughter. The demons emerged. “Now, Sir Andrew, when they enter the mouth, I want some kind of smoke and flame.”
“Certainly,” said Sir Andrew. “I can give you red smoke, black, or a nice yellow I’ve been working on. The flame, unfortunately, will not lend itself to being anything other than flame-colored.”
“Red would be fine. And then the second time will be when the Count enters. Count Sebastian?”
“Morning, Andrew,” waved Sebastian from the mouth of the devil. “Coming for the mince pie tonight?”
“Yes, thank you,” replied the knight. “I’m trying to do all twelve nights this year. Maybe my luck will change.”
“Good. Come with me to the Elephant after this. I need something to take the chill off.” He turned and went back into Hell.
I noticed Isaac watching from in front of his office. He caught my eye and beckoned to me. I walked over to join him, and we watched the rehearsal from the entry to his offices.
“It’s not much shelter, but the wind is blowing from the north,” he commented. “A sorry spectacle, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I expect they’ll be up to speed by Twelfth Day. And audiences tend to be very forgiving about this kind of thing. How do you like it? I supposed it has little meaning for one of your faith.”
He examined me as he had that first night in the Elephant. “How am I supposed to answer that? As one of my faith, I would never criticize any aspect of your faith.”
“I speak only out of curiosity. As a Jew, you must find it insulting. All of your prophets and patriarchs condemned to Hell, only to be redeemed centuries later by someone you do not believe in.”
He laughed. “As a Jew, one comes to tolerate such insults. One must, if one wishes to continue to live in a Christian world. There are worse insults than this. At least this play considers us worth redeeming. Look, that must be Moses.”
I turned and watched a man dressed much as Isaac was, with a false beard and a pair of stone tablets under his arm. “Lord, Thou knowest all with skill,” he shouted. “The law of Sinai upon the hill! I am Moses…”
“He declaims well,” I commented.
“Note the horns,” Isaac pointed out. I squinted, and was just able to make them out buried in the curly wig.
Isaac glanced at me sideways, gauging my reaction. “Another tradition?” I asked.
He shrugged. “A trick of the light.”
The Angel was raised again to deliver the Epilogue. As he completed it with, “And to Heaven wend,” the choir launched into something I didn’t recognize.
“What is that?” I wondered aloud.
“The Twenty Fourth Psalm,” answered Isaac. “In Latin.”
“You understand Latin?” I asked, slightly surprised.
“Of course,” he answered. “I travel to many Christian lands. I do not speak ever native tongue. But all the educated gentry speak Latin. An agreement made in Latin in Constantinople will be honored in Latin in Bruges, and anywhere in between. A most useful language for commerce.”
“You must speak all the languages of commerce.”
He laughed. “Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, and double entry. I know them all. Are you sure you had no word for me from Venice?”
“None.”
He sighed. “The wind seems to be blowing from that direction. Around here they say surely no Christian will attack another Christian. Not being a Christian, I lack their faith.”
“Does your own faith sustain you?”
“Of course. And the faith of the Muslims sustains them. And what is remarkable is that when we all profit from successful trading, we all seem to be able to live together just fine. Perhaps that’s the answer.”
“Yet Our Savior drove the money changers from the Temple.”
“They seem to have resettled in the Church. And they seek to reclaim Jerusalem. Why? For its holy sites or its strategic location? For whichever reason, too many people have died for it, and too many more will follow. But such is the way of the world.”
“A cynical view.”
“Is it? My late master sallied off to the last Crusade and was away from his wife and family for two years. Many of our best men went with him, and many did not return. He cam
e back and dedicated part of his plunder to that pile of marble over there, displacing several dozen families in the process. Why did he do it? To buy his place in Heaven after earning one in Hell?”
“I am shocked that you could be so critical. The man employed you despite your faith. How many other princes of the realm would deign to do so?”
“Should I praise him for being neutral instead of hateful? Or because his greed outweighed his Christian scruples? I am grateful to find steady employment. I would be more grateful if I were permitted to own property and my own business. But such is the way of the world.”
The rehearsal came to a close. The participants began to scatter while Fabian yelled suggestions and criticisms that were largely ignored. A substantial number moved in the direction of the southeast gate. I thought of the Bishop’s invitation and found I had a powerful desire to join them at this particular occasion.
“I’m going to the Elephant for the blessing of the wine,” I said. “Will you join me?”
“Respectfully, I must decline. We bless the wine on a different day. I will offer a prayer for your brother’s safe return when I do.”
I bowed, which pleasantly surprised him, and to the Elephant did wend. It may not have been Heaven, but with both wine and a bishop, it was the closest thing in town.
* * *
I entered as the Bishop was completing the blessing over a large cask, surrounded by Sir Toby, Count Sebastian, and Alexander. The cask was tapped and cups were passed around to the assembled worshipers.
Milling around, I found myself near the Count. I quickly introduced myself as Octavius before he could have a chance to remember me as anyone else. Fortunately, he had a head start on the blessings due to some earlier imbibing and was plunging headlong into the morose.
“Merchant, eh?” he said. “Traveler, I suppose.”
“Quite a bit.”
“Lucky. Get to see the world. Thought I was going to see the world once. Got as far as here.”
“This seems to be a pleasant enough spot.”
He laughed, a short, bitter barking noise. “Oh, it’s lovely. Stay for the summer when it’s at its peak. Glorious. Every summer, exactly the same. The town, that is. The people?” He quaffed his cup and filled it from a pitcher. “They keep getting older.” He downed about half of the next one. “Never marry young,” he said suddenly.