‘Heavens, not now’ interjected Bianca, sipping her Ouzo before whipping her damp lace hanky through the air. ‘She’s strong in the head’ she added speaking to Giovanni in a stage whisper - a man unfamiliar with the jagged rhetoric of Illawara’s mind. ‘She’s bent the brains, all except one, of every suitor that’s passed through here with questions and riddles only Dante, or God could answer.' Bianca tutted and shook her head.
‘Where did you find this girl?’ said Giovanni, almost with disgust, but the mistress ignored his question.
‘Please sit and stay a while’ she said in soothing tones, before clasping Giovanni’s hand and pulling it into her lap, ‘Dondo, at times, has given us what word he could of our son till now, but how have YOU been, Giovanni?’ she said.
The man wriggled somewhat before Dondo brought forward a chair, and Illawara again noticed the resemblance that Antonio bore his father, his good looks, but also she recognised a shift in his movements that she saw, and did not like, in Antonio.
This man can’t be trusted Illawara thought, and he doesn’t love her anymore. She studied the man and wondered if Antonio moved the same way around Hermes whilst in jail.
Bianca clung to Giovanni’s arm as he then entertained the room with edited stories, and the maid poured forth the Ouzo: more than happy to have another man in the house that so reminded her of Antonio. Illawara drank, the sweet liqueur buzzing her mind, and watched Bianca as Giovanni allowed her to fondle his arm. Illawara read her mistress’ body language as Bianca relived memories, decades old, of how Giovanni would caress her body, and saw his lined hands as young as they were when they touched her so long ago. Sensations and impulses, forgotten yet lived again, trembled through her body. She listened to Giovanni's tales enraptured as if he were Odysseus returning to her from the Trojan war.
Get a grip on yourself you sad woman Illawara thought, light-headed when she looked at Bianca and remembered the near endless laments from the exile of how the man had wronged and deserted her. But she sat there listening to him and melting, like raspberry sorbet, at his animated words.
Illawara felt hungry, dizzy, and agitated by the time Giovanni stood to leave, and Bianca clung to his hand as if death would claim him if she let go. What a doormat thought Illawara, curling her toes, as Bianca implored that Giovanni visit them again, and struggled to sit still, as Dondo made haste to bring his hat and cloak.
He promised to collect his son from jail and bring Hermes back safe with him, thanked Illawara again, and tipped his hat. Giovanni then made a hasty gesture of farewell to the room, before he made a bid for freedom via the living room door. The slam echoed through the corridor.
◆◆◆
Bianca could speak of no one else all evening, and although Antonio and Hermes were mentioned, on many occasions, her efforts focused in the main on Giovanni. This grated on Dondo, but Grizelda listened to her mistress like a placid guide dog.
The dam has burst mused Illawara looking on. She gulped the last of her Ouzo to try and drown her hunger and realised that Grizelda could not be compelled to make food whilst in docile contemplation with her mistress. In desperation, her stomach grumbling, Illawara picked up her Bible and began to read. She eked out meaning from the Latin that Bianca had taught her thus far, but wished that a stray bolt of lightning, from the storm gusting outside, would strike Bianca dead and thus end her suffering. Illawara retired to bed with a rumbling stomach, like the tempest outside, which kept her awake much of the night.
Chapter 17
Illawara's Wrath
Padua, late morning, Tuesday the 4th of December 1611
Illawara had to endure more visits from suitors as the days dragged on. The logic being that Illawara should stockpile her marriage dowry until Antonio and Hermes' return, and then accept the first realistic offer of marriage from her suitors. The gifts piled up from the lines of hopefuls, but Illawara invented ever more difficult questions or conundrums for the hapless men to answer: the only defiance left available to her.
She longed to see Orsini again, and dance with him, to alleviate the numbness, boredom and wretchedness that had begun to settle in her body like rigor mortis. Grizelda became stingier by the day with her breakfasts in the mornings, and Illawara could have slapped her for the meagre portion she served her that morning. The maid had also cleared Illawara's meals before she could finish them, cut thinner cake slices, and tidied the kitchen of morsels for her to eat. Illawara could feel her dresses becoming looser as time passed. Her hunger increased, but no one seemed to notice: Bianca spoke to no end about Giovanni, secondary to her son's release, and Dondo seemed to shrink at every mention of the man’s name.
She had blinked several times at the breakfast table, her mind fuzzy as her head ached. The limbo of her situation had become unbearable. After dressing, but before the first suitor of the day visited, Illawara had begun to make detailed plans in her mind for escape. When Hermes returned from imprisonment, they would find a way to return home and put everything behind them. Only Orsini lingered in her thoughts.
As the day wore on she smiled and nodded as Dondo introduced the men. Bianca received their gifts with practised humility, but no sooner had they read their poems to demonstrate their love, Illawara tied the men in knots with impossible questions, to which none could answer. Bianca smoothed things over, but less earnest than before, because she too counted the days to be reunited with her son, and be once again in the presence of his father. Yet another suitor left the house frustrated at Illawara's behaviour. Dondo excused himself to fetch someone that lingered outside.
From sheer boredom, Illawara's mind drifted to Prince Cavalieri. No sooner had she done so, he was announced by Dondo again and stood before her dressed in lavender clothes looking even more outlandish than before.
She laughed when she saw him: part for ridicule, part for joy, but most for the distraction his presence gave for her grumbling stomach. Illawara eyed the peculiar man with mirth but found him unforgettable.
Beppe, more composed than before, seemed unperturbed by Illawara’s tittering. He bowed with grace and stretched his arms to the side in such a way that Illawara recognised an early port de bras ballet move.
Not bad, ten points for trying she thought to herself, but Bianca turned to her with a look of confusion.
Grizelda gazed at Beppe's graceful move, her eyes a mist, and Illawara saw the bones of the maid’s scant bosom heave like an accordion. The maid fussed about the room dusting and polishing anything in sight, as the Inquisitor presented himself anew.
‘It is a delight to see you again, Illawara. And I’m glad to see that your beauty is undimmed’ he said, and with that Beppe made a deep stoop, but kept his knees straight, till his torso met his legs to fold himself in half. His arms coiled outward to the side, showing off his red puffed sleeves. A film played in Illawara's mind of a wildlife documentary about Japanese Cranes and then films of productions of her favourite ballets.
I’m watching Margot Fonteyn as the Firebird she mused within, but could not help smiling at him. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again too’ she said, humoured ‘and thank you.' Beppe returned to standing with a curl of his spine: his face in a broad smile. He whipped a folded piece of paper from his pocket and stated to both women:
‘Allow me to read to you a poem of feminine virtues I’ve composed for your mutual pleasure', Illawara and Bianca turned to smile at each other, 'and I’m sure you’ll both be pleased to recognise the virtues that you both possess.' The pair nodded at their guest in anticipation of a treat. Grizelda stopped her dusting to listen. Dondo stepped away from Beppe to watch both women, Illawara in particular, as they sat and waited.
The Inquisitor’s hands trembled as he read his poem out, ideas which he had plagiarised in most part from Erasmus’ story of the Abbot and the Learned Lady. With those themes he mixed in what he praised, and believed, to be “the highest feminine virtues” of prudence, economy, modesty, obedience and silence - silence in particular
. Beppe began his poem thus:
'It is said that a wise woman is twice foolish...'
The faces of the seated women solidified like stone as Beppe read on: a promising start sabotaged. But the maid’s smile broadened during his efforts.
His meandering personal treatise, veiled as poetry, on the fixed roles of women and how they should never stray from them was dysentery to the minds of Illawara and Bianca. Beppe ended his lengthy artistic contribution with a bow as if he had done his audience some excellent service. But silence no longer seemed a virtue to him, as both women glared at him so hard he feared being crushed.
‘Do you feel you have paid us a compliment by reading us that rubbish?’ said Illawara, her voice like a knife. The man shrivelled at her words.
‘On the contrary' he stammered and gestured to Illawara. 'My poem extols the virtues of a learned lady like yourself, who no doubt will run her house well, and educate her children in virtue, and raise sons that can govern, and daughters that could make obedient brides to be as gracious as yourself’ said Beppe. Illawara’s face clouded into a scowl, and her knuckles paled as she gripped the arms of her chair. She made ready to vent her opinions on his statements, but Bianca spoke before she could reply.
‘From where did you get that text?’ said Bianca, eyeing the man as if he were a skunk.
‘From the imaginings of my mind’ he said, massaging the side of his head as if anointing himself with Holy oil. The two women sat ridged. Beppe’s smile began to slip, his hands began to sweat, and he felt some heat rise from his boots to his face again. Bianca fixed him with a look as a cat does about to pounce on crippled prey.
‘I think you have just read us Erasmus mangled and corrupted with the thoughts of dotards, as well as your own' said Bianca.
His heart pounded, and Illawara looked to her mistress with approval for calling the man out, even though she had not heard of Erasmus.
‘Remember, Prince Cavalieri, that you stand in the house of a gentlewoman, a woman of some education, and when I was a girl, my father used to read me the same “poem” you just read now - without your putrid extras of course.’
Beppe started to bleach.
‘Oh my, one forgets how popular some tales can be’ he said with his back against the door.
‘Indeed' sneered Bianca, 'but I’m still surprised to hear those sentiments repeated by a prince - or are you really Antronius?’
He froze. Bianca had hit her mark. His guts turned to hear himself compared to Erasmus' silly Abbot character, Antronius, the counterpart to the wise Magdalia. He gave out a laugh as a person does when caught short, but Bianca had not finished. ‘I especially wonder at you because Erasmus’ teachings are on the Papal Index, as I recall’ she continued, ‘how did you get hold of such a work?’
If it were possible to die of shame, then Beppe came close as he had not thought it probable that his references to Erasmus would get recognised by women. He looked at Illawara and saw that although the name of the Dutch scholar seemed not to ring with her, she seemed possessed of peculiar knowledge, and had a mind and bearing alien compared to the very few women he had interacted with until that point. As for Bianca, he should have known better to understand that her class had some learning and remembered Erasmus’ enduring popularity - even after the Papal Index.
In the absence of defence, the Inquisitor chose to attack and challenged Bianca. He set his chin and stood as tall as he could.
‘Yes, we're learned in our class’ he said with a sweep of his arm, ‘but how could your father possibly have read Erasmus to you when you were a girl? His books have been banned since fifteen-fifty-five?’ Bianca’s eyes became slits. Beppe gave a faux smile, tittering, 'forgive me, madam, for the mistake is mine - but you look remarkable for a woman in her sixties.' Silence. Liberated from a formality he no longer wished to maintain, he carried on. He then bowed with great respect. 'I'm sure King Solomon himself would toast your health at the fountain of youth - if he had found it.' Beppe then addressed the various gifts that filled the room. 'I also suspect you instructed him on how to amass wealth and riches when he was alive' he said, as if impressed by a miracle of nature. Grizelda and Dondo covered their mouths that had fallen agape.
A guttural hiss emerged from Bianca’s throat, and her hand clenched into a white fist around her paddle fan: which snapped in her grip.
Illawara kept her face under control, just, but howled within, as Bianca had never mentioned her age once, and she guessed her to be in her late forties, but with Beppe’s comments, she could no longer be sure.
But Illawara, in solidarity, sought to avenge her insulted mistress.
‘You seem to know a lot about the Index’ she said, on more comfortable territory.
She heard the Professor's voice vent, across her memory, at how fond The Church had been of banning books, Galileo’s in particular and saw him rattling his wrist in the air at the injustice of it. ‘Do you belong to the Church?’
The temperature seemed to drop in the room with her words; all were taken aback by such forthright questioning from the young woman. But she sat, imperious, like a princess displeased by her courtier.
All colour drained from Beppe's face, and he contemplated shouting out the truth just to see the fear on everyone’s faces, and restore the effortless authority the title of Inquisitor gave him - even if he did not have the stature to match.
‘Of course, not’ he said lifting his chin and trying to rebuff the pose that Illawara had taken in her chair. ‘Why would any man of the cloth come here, and like this?’ he said, gesturing to himself. Bianca looked sidelong at Illawara and thought of Orsini: still unsatisfied with the explanations offered to her by the young woman. Stalemate. The maid stood polishing a figurine and studied him. Thinking things could not get any worse he became determined to find proof of moral rot within Illawara. He reached into his pocket, rummaged, and drew out his fist before he opened his empty palm.
‘Do you see this?’ he said, defiant.
‘What now, magic tricks?’ snarled Bianca, as she attempted to waft herself with her broken paddle fan.
‘Look again’ he said, walking forward, ‘look’, and he thrust his sweating hand forwards towards the women.
‘I don’t see anything’ said Bianca. Illawara peered into the palm, as her stomach ached, and her head throbbed. She tried to command her bleary eyes with a scientific focus.
‘It’s a speck of dirt from your pocket’ she said, ‘what kind of entertainment is this?’ There was a pause. Beppe raised his brow. Grizelda could not help but walk over to the palm to have a look herself.
‘It’s a mustard seed.’
‘Aha!’ said Beppe, beaming into a smile that made his awkward face pleasant, ‘a woman of true virtue has spoken.' Grizelda could not help but give out a grin of her own that added light to the room. Illawara gave the maid a cutting look, as she remembered her scant breakfast that morning and other numerous acts of Grizelda's sabotage. The smile vanished.
But the mistress knew her Bible backwards, and what the man fished for when he baited his hook. ‘What can Jesus’ story of the mustard tree tell us about our faith in God?’ he said, addressing Illawara.
The mistress shifted her brows as she pondered Beppe, the girl could be right about him she thought to herself, as she eyed the man and tried to read him for clues. Illawara looked as if her head had just filled with cotton wool. She had no idea about the proverbs of Jesus, and he may as well have asked her to fly to heaven upon a dove. She wanted to answer his parable with a quip of Diogenes - she often hurled the words of pagan Philosophers to hobble suitors that irritated her. Illawara had her suspicions about Beppe confirmed. But Christian proverb was not a strong point for her. She rubbed her hollow stomach and tried to concentrate. Her musings added to her delay.
‘Mustard is not a tree’ she said with haughty disdain after a long pause, grasping at her botanical knowledge, ‘it’s a plant: at most a bush.’ She thought her factual response wo
uld cut the man down, but her answer did not satisfy anyone, not even herself, and she knew it. A sneer crept across Beppe’s face.
‘I understand natural Philosophy is popular’ he said, ‘but it doesn’t answer my question.'
Bianca sensed danger. Something about the man had changed, and her mind began to turn over the possible conclusions she could draw from the situation. But curiosity also gripped her, and curiosity demanded that she let her perplexing guest answer the question. Illawara sat still while her mind did back-flips. The other minds in the room bore down on her, and part of her registered the pressure. She wished she could just eat something and focus.
‘It means… it means…’ Illawara said, her face puckered, as she chewed her lip. Awkwardness was an alien feeling for her, and rare indeed that she could not answer a question when given time to think. Silence deafened everyone as all eyes examined the young woman: it was as if their looks had transformed into hounds to sniff out moral corruption in her. She was surrounded.
Illawara sensed that Beppe had asked a question a child of the times could answer, but her brain became a desert. 'It means...' She added again with futility. Heat rose to her face and something coiled within her like a fiery snake. Silence deafened the room. Illawara’s stomach then grumbled so loud everyone heard it. Grizelda stepped into the void. She looked at Illawara as she spoke and let her words drip into the room.
‘It means: though our faith can start out small, it can grow to become mighty - mighty enough to move mountains’ she said with simplicity and pleasure. Illawara’s face twisted into an expression of embarrassed violence: understanding the allegory in that instant.
‘He didn’t ask you, you scrawny BITCH!’ Bellowed Illawara. Bianca and Dondo paled into shock and looked on incredulous that such venom could spout from her pretty face. But Illawara, like a pot with a loose lid, over boiled and burst free with her feelings. ‘I’ve had enough of this crap!’ she ranted, ‘enough, enough, ENOUGH’ she yelled, as she flung her fists down upon the arms of her chair with a boom, and stamped her foot. ‘Day in and day out I’ve had to suffer fools’ she said pointing at Beppe, her arm like a javelin, ‘one after the other, for weeks on end, cow-faced prats like you have come here to read me their drivel.’
Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2) Page 23