“Maria, the last thing you are is stupid. I also know what your father wanted. He wanted you to marry a guild member, continue to work in our trade yourself as you have done for so many years, and for you to bear sons who could carry on our craft. That is the unspoken promise of each member of our guild. I am sure you know that. If we don’t at least do that, our entire trade is in jeopardy.” He clasps his hands and wags them in my direction.
“My father would not have promised me to Pascal Grissoni under the circumstances. All I ever wanted was to stay here with my family and our battiloro! I am sure that is no secret by now,” I say. “Anyone who might have doubted that before certainly does not now.”
The gastaldo opens his palms toward me. “Maria, I understand. The battiloro was a good man, a fine craftsman. I was the first of our guild to argue that he be allowed as a full member of the goldbeater’s guild on the premise that his mentor was deceased and that he continued to work in the trade under your father’s roof. Many opposed the idea, and it took work on my part with the gastaldo of the gold beater’s guild. Even if he had survived and he had stayed under this roof, our guildsmen would have had trouble accepting it. You must understand that is the reality.”
“We do not know that he is not still in the pesthouse!” I gesture to the doorway.
“Maria,” the gastaldo says softly, “surely you must resign yourself to the reality that he perished with the others. There is no other answer. Otherwise where is he?” I look at a crack in the plaster wall and clench my throat, trying to push down the large lump that has formed there. The gastaldo continues. “In order to follow your father’s wishes to the letter of the law and keep your workshop and position in the guild, you must marry a guild member. That is what the others are saying.”
“Pascal Grissoni will not marry me!” I insist.
“Understood,” he says, raising his hand. “Your father only had your best interest at heart back when he arranged your apprenticeship with Master Trevisan, and when he asked me to help select a suitor among our guild members. He was trying to secure your future. It would be difficult to do better than Pascal Grissoni. You have seen his house and his pictures yourself.”
I nod. Of course I see the logic, but it does not account for the emptiness in my heart.
“Perhaps I should not tell you this, but Pascal Grissoni was not initially enticed by my insistence to pay a visit to Master Trevisan in order to meet you,” the gastaldo continues. “After all, your father was not in a position to make him a compelling offer of a dowry. The guild might have scrounged together a meager one, as we do in cases like this where our guild members cannot. Still, such an amount would not be considered an appealing arrangement for a man like Pascal Grissoni. But fortunately,” he says, a grin crossing his face, “the dowry seemed not to matter anymore once he laid eyes on you. I expected that might be the case.”
I feel my face flush. “But of course he is no longer interested. And I am no longer... unspoiled.” As I say the words I feel the pang of loss, and long to hold my son in my arms.
The gastaldo shrugs. “Pascal Grissoni is making a mistake, in my opinion, but I can only give my advice. I cannot force him.”
“What do you suggest that I do, then?”
The gastaldo paces in front of the window for a few long, silent moments. Then he stops to face me. “Maria, you know that I have been a widower for many years. I do not know if you remember my wife, Gerita. You were a small girl when the fever took her from us. I have never seen a good reason to marry again. My sons are big and able. They carry the burden of work in my studio and I find myself idle more often than I would like to admit. One might say... free. In fact, apart from my role as gastaldo, which will only be for another season, I am freer than ever. Free to start a new journey in my life.” His expression softens and he pulls the stool up close to sit in front of me.
I stare at him, unable to accept what he is suggesting.
“Keep your father’s workshop,” he says. “I am happy to work here with you. And I am certain that the guild would find the arrangement acceptable. Father Filippo would be overjoyed.” He lets loose a quick chuckle. “And no doubt my sons would be happy to rid themselves of me.” The gastaldo takes my hand and squeezes it gently. “The two of us together. Who might have foreseen it? I have known you since you were a little girl. I respected your father and knew him like my family. He respected me, too. You know that.”
“My father trusted you more than anyone in the guild,” I manage to say, but I cannot bring myself to meet his gaze now.
The gastaldo kneels in front of me and takes my hand in both of his. “Cara mia,” he says, “I understand the passions of the heart. Your son was born out of love. I know that. I can restore your legitimacy within the guild, and you will not have to leave your home again. I can help you if you will let me.” The gastaldo moves one hand to cover his heart and places the other on top of my hand. “I do not stand in judgment of you or your son,” he says. “Perhaps he will join us here, when he is old enough. If he grows up to be like his grandfather then he will be a worthy addition to our clutch of indoradòri. He will continue our legacy—mine, yours, and your father’s. Maria,” he says. “Think about it.”
I hear the gastaldo’s voice, but somewhere inside, a deep shudder runs unbidden through my body. My stomach turns, and I feel that I might vomit.
I finally manage to meet the gastaldo’s clear blue eyes, but when I do, I watch his expression transform from sincerity to concern.
“Maria. Are you all right?”
I nod, but a profound malaise has begun to creep into my bones.
“Of course it is a lot to consider,” he sighs and stands. “Bene. You know where to find me. I shall leave you in peace, my dear.”
After the gastaldo leaves the house, I return to my worktable and my boxes, but peace will not come. Instead, my heart races in my chest. By the time the sun has sunk below the still lagoon, I have begun to sweat, and no amount of well water will quench my thirst.
Chapter 47
The air has turned as heavy as a leaden blanket, still and moist, sweltering. Do the others feel it, too, or am I the only one who has soaked through my linens? I dip a small pail into the canal behind the house, and splash water on the dreary little patch of garden that I am trying to resurrect from having gone to seed, a hopeless exercise for the month of August. Soon enough, the stench of rotting vegetables in the canal and the row of latrines behind our block overwhelms my senses. Another wave of dizziness, and I feel I will drop to my knees.
I return to the dim stillness of the house and lie on the pallet I have made on the floor. The striped cat is already there, curled into a tight knot. When I lie down, he raises his head and peers at me through the narrow slits of his green eyes. Then he stretches and begins to gnaw at the fur on one of his hind legs. I place my hand on his scrawny back, and he settles into a curl again, uttering a soft murmur through his nose.
From my vantage point, I can see the wooden boxes that the carpenter has delivered to me. They are lined up on the table, waiting for the work of my hands. I must begin, I think, just as soon as I can drag myself from here. An unquenchable thirst has overtaken me, but I cannot imagine how I would walk all the way to the wellhead in the campo, much less walk back with buckets laden with water.
There are no more curious guildsmen or wives at my door who might bring me water. Even the gastaldo, who has shown more compassion for me than anyone might expect, has left me alone for two days. He knows that I know where to find him, and he has given me space to consider his proposal. I close my eyes, and in the silence, I do consider the gastaldo’s request.
It makes perfect sense for me to accept his proposal. Of course it does. I would be well fed, well taken care of for the rest of my days. When my son comes of age, I can pull him from the convent as our apprentice, our heir. My father might even be proud of me, I
think, if that is even possible under the circumstances. I cannot imagine that I would feel anything close to the fire that I felt with Cristiano, not with the gastaldo, not with Pascal Grissoni, not with anyone else. But in my heart I also know that when people say I cannot do this on my own, they are probably right.
Still, I have delayed my response. The hours stretch out. I know in my heart that the right thing to do is to go see the gastaldo, to accept his proposal. I cannot put it off much longer. I will do just that, I think, as soon as the profound ache in my head subsides.
I feel the chills come again, but there are no blankets. What has happened to them? I cannot seem to think straight. Has someone taken all the linens from the house?
I must ask my father or Paolo. Have they gone somewhere? I do not recall.
When I open my eyes I do not know if it is night or day, nor how much time has elapsed since I lay down with the striped cat, who has now disappeared.
At one point, I see the gastaldo’s face float before me, his brow furrowed and his mouth pitched into a deep frown. I feel his broad hand brush across my forehead.
“Yes,” I say to him, but I barely hear my own voice and he does not seem to hear me at all.
My head… My eyes close again.
The next time I open my eyes, I hear the soft, liquid voice of the battiloro’s mother. “Come back, child.” Zenobia. Is she speaking to me or to little Giuseppe?
I feel her strong hands rub an oily substance on the soles of my feet. Her hands on my feet feel wonderful, but the concoction smells sharply of onion and vinegar and I press my hand over my nose. I want to thank her, to tell her how beautiful her grandson is.
My son. Where is he?
“Giuseppino!” I try to push myself up to sitting.
“Shhhh…” I hear Zenobia say, then her voice and her touch fade away.
The next time I open my eyes I expect to see my gastaldo or Zenobia before me again. Instead, it is Father Filippo, and he looks very sad indeed.
Chapter 48
In my bed lie an old woman and her daughter—at least I think it is her daughter, as the old woman calls lovingly to her through the day. The younger woman rarely answers, but the old woman keeps talking, whispering, singing, moaning. Sometimes the old woman turns toward me, her sour breath spreading over my face. I turn my back, but I still hear her whispered complaints, nonsensical words in a tongue I have never heard before. Her voice sounds like a song. After a while, I stop trying to understand the words, but lull myself into oblivion on the cadence of its strange, lilting melody and long sighs.
Why are they here? Are they waiting for a gilded box? I must get up and finish at least one. Surely they will be delighted with its beauty. Surely they have never seen one like it. If only my head would stop hurting, I could finish it. My cousin. Paolo. We can work on it together. He can help with the gilding so that I can fill the molds that Master Trevisan gave me.
Master Trevisan. Where is he? Has he returned from terra firma? I must ask his wife.
Darkness.
Long, silent darkness.
The sound of a bell tolling. The call of a ferryman traveling over the still water. The scrape of metal gates.
Darkness again. Merciful oblivion.
Then pain.
Suddenly there is nothing but sharp stinging in my armpit, so painful that white light flashes across my closed eyelids. I gasp and try to sit straight up in bed. I open my eyes to see two women dressed in white pressing my shoulders to the straw-stuffed mattress. A man with a black leather mask over his face leans over me. All I see are clear, green eyes.
He is the one causing the pain. I try to swat his hand away, but the women press my other arm to the mattress.
“Where is she?” I demand.
“Where is who?” one of the women asks. Her face is serene except for a birthmark on her cheek the size and color of a strawberry.
“My aunt!” I say.
They do not answer. I feel my eyes open wide, but all around me are shadows, darkness. Disoriented, I grasp for any familiar sight or face. I make out a long hall with wooden beams above my head, and a few windows open to the fading light of dusk.
“This is not the convent infirmary.” My heart pounds in my chest and I struggle to sit up. The women beside me shift in the bed.
The medico’s voice comes out muffled through the mask. “Lazzaretto Vecchio,” he says, and I see his eyes crinkle with what might be a smile. “Benvegnesta.”
The pesthouse. I gasp for air and blink hard in the darkness to try to see clearly, to try to clear the clutter in my head. I struggle to push myself from the mattress, but the woman with the strawberry stain on her cheek pushes me back again.
“Be still, cara,” she says. “Almost finished.” Her clear, bright eyes are full of compassion.
I feel the sharp sting in my armpit again, and I wince. Then it spreads into a dull ache across my chest, and I hear the splash of liquid streaming into a metal container. The doctor stands. He looks down at me over a cup held with a bloodstained glove.
“Combative,” the doctor says through the mask. “A good sign. I will check you again tomorrow,” he says before he disappears from view.
Another woman in white brings me a cup and props me up to drink. She says nothing, but presses it to my lips. I take a sip, filling my cheeks with a foul mixture that tastes of urine and eggs. I retch over the side of the bed.
“You will get used to it, I promise,” she says, then the women disappear and I fall back against the mattress.
Darkness again. Long, condoling darkness.
In the night, I hear the swish of silk robes and the voice of a priest intoning rites at our bedside. The old woman’s whispers fall silent and I only hear the moans of others farther away.
Later, I hear my father’s voice at my ear.
“What comes next, Maria?” I hear him whisper.
A challenge. A test.
I know the answer. Surely I do. In the fog, I cannot seem to grasp it.
Chapter 49
“It is good to leave the hall to take some fresh air,” the woman with the strawberry birthmark tells me, lifting me by my shoulders and gently pressing the small of my back when I am upright. I sit on the edge of the bed and look at the glowing light of the doorway at the other end of the vast, dark hall. I cannot imagine how I would walk that far.
“Come,” she says. “That’s it. You have been in bed for a long time,” she says. “You must get your legs under you again.”
I do not imagine that I will be strong enough to bring myself to standing. But if I do not get to the doorway, if I fail to get up at all, then I do not live. That’s what the women in white tell us, and I can only believe that what they say is true. All around us is the evidence.
How long have I been asleep? I feel as though I have awoken from a long, dark dream. Beside me in the bed, the two women lie ashen and still. The old woman’s thick white hair splays out across the mattress, her fragile-looking freckled shoulders protruding over the top of the sheet. Next to her, her daughter lies frozen and staring at the wooden beams above us, a bony arm hanging over the edge of the mattress, covered in black bruises and boils.
The woman in white presses me up to standing. I feel myself totter unsteadily, my ankles weak. My head spins and I feel the sting under my arms again. What if I don’t want to live? What is there to live for? My knees soften and buckle under me.
I feel for the edge of the bed with my hand, but the petite woman is insistent and stronger than she looks. She presses me forward, and I find my footing. I take one more look at the two grey women in my bed. They are no longer moaning, no longer whispering. Have they passed to the World to Come? I begin to shuffle through the dimness toward the light in the arched doorway.
“Your lesions are beginning to show signs of healing,” the woman speaks
softly in my ear as we take a few more steps. “The medico says that you may live,” she says, “but only if you do as we say.”
I shuffle down the aisle between the rows of beds. Each one is full, two, three, or four wretched souls to a bed. In the delirium of the past days, I have not grasped the great numbers of beds and sick people around me. I am one of so many. I am insignificant.
What kind of God do we have to bring such suffering upon us? What have we done to unleash this horror on Our Most Excellent Republic? Who would know if I perished here? And who would care?
Two large men bearing a stack of folded linens pass us in the aisle. Monatti. Corpse bearers.
Once a day, they pluck the dead from their beds, wrapping the bodies in linen. Each man grasps one end of the sheets, and they carry them out of the infirmary hall in a long, limp package. The nun acknowledges the men with a nod, then presses me more insistently toward the door. I turn my head, and I watch the monatti stop at the foot of my bed. They begin to unfurl the sheets. One of the men reaches for the dangling arm of the younger woman and tucks it in by her side.
Sooner than I imagine, we are passing through the door. I squint against the brightness, my eyes aching with the light. The nun leads me to a wooden chair tottering on a brick floor.
“There,” she says, lowering me onto the chair. “I will return for you.”
Once my eyes adjust to the daylight, I see a broad, covered portico overlooking a large, open field with a wellhead in the center. I had not realized that the hall lay on the upper floor, and from this vantage point I can see the great iron gates in the wall of the lazzaretto, and the docks beyond. I press my forearms on the parapet before me, and rest my chin on my hands.
Fresh air, the nun has said, but there is none here. The Lazzaretto Vecchio—even the outside of it—smells only of smoke and death. The high walls marking the edges of the island have been blackened with fire and the ground is covered in fine, grey ash. Small flakes of ash rise into the smoky air.
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