“Are you a member of the emergency restoration team?” he wanted to know.
“Oh, no,” I said; “I just wandered in off the street.”
“Just wandered in off the street? And you’re helping like this? Favoloso!” He grabbed my hand and kissed it, notwithstanding the rubber gloves and the caustic paste, which must have burned his lips.
By this time the worst areas had been done and I had made up a new solution, following Dottor Postiglione’s instructions carefully, that was slightly less caustic, for areas of the painting that were less heavily encrusted with salt, like the crystals you’ll find on a dish if you fill it with salt water and allow the water to evaporate. Not sodium chloride, though, but calcium sulfate (the worst) and probably other salts too, nitrates, and so on. The gel was a solvent that worked on all of them, though at different rates, depending on the nature of the salt. Nitrates were the easiest to dissolve, calcium sulfate the most difficult. There was no way of telling them apart just from looking. Every once in a while Dottor Postiglione would remove a compress and gently probe the surface with a wooden spatula. The solution, mildly caustic like strong laundry soap, caused a slight burning on my arms at the tops of my rubber gloves, but nothing really uncomfortable.
At seven o’clock Dottor Postiglione climbed down from the scaffolding for the last time, stripped off his rubber gloves and called for the abbot. The monks were still praying, their enthusiasm, if that’s the right word, undiminished. (Was it still the same team or had replacements been sent in from time to time? I couldn’t tell.) Dottor Postiglione lifted one of the compresses and probed with his spatula, showing the abbot how the salt crystals were beginning to soften.
“I’ll be back in three or four hours,” he said, “and then we shall see.”
“Is everything going to be all right?”
“Be happy, Abbot Remo. One way or another.”
“Shall we continue to pray?”
“Oh, I think so, yes, it won’t hurt.”
“But is it necessary?”
“For insurance, Abbot Remo, for insurance. I shall return tonight. How will I get in?”
“There’s an entrance through the police station, Dottore. Let me show you. There’s a bell you can ring. They’ll let you in. The night capitano knows me, you won’t have any trouble.”
“Very good, Abbot Remo. Just leave everything as it is for now. Please don’t touch anything. And don’t turn on the heaters, please.”
“As you wish, Dottore.”
We followed the abbot up the set of stairs that led to the upper level of the cloister, down a winding corridor, and out through a door that admitted us into a large room filled with desks, empty now. Two poliziotti, in smart uniforms, gave us a funny look as we said goodbye to the abbot.
We went down another set of stairs and out into the night, which was cold and starry. I was thinking to myself how much Mama would have appreciated this exit through the police station, when I suddenly realized that I’d completely forgotten about the book of drawings. I’d left it in my book bag in the chapel.
“O Dio!” I said. “I’ve forgotten my borsa.”
“Niente,” he said. “You can come to dinner with me, it’s the least I can do. Then we come back here, you can retrieve your borsa and all will be well.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t, really I couldn’t. I must get back to the convent.”
Actually I wanted to, but the prospect of showing him the Aretino book was beginning to seem more problematic. I couldn’t quite picture the scene, his response. Not after the labor of this particular day. What would he think? I had imagined something more businesslike, handing the book to him across a busy desk, in a room full of people. And it was late. Madre Badessa would be worried.
“So convent life is agreeing with you?”
“Very much so. You were right, it’s much more interesting than I anticipated. Madre Badessa is a wonderful woman. And I feel very useful.”
“And you don’t feel useful at home?”
“Not in the same way. I like the feeling of urgency, of everyone pulling together, the sense of purpose. I don’t feel lost in the convent.”
“You’ve discovered your vocation, perhaps?”
“Do you always speak in questions?”
“Only when I have so few answers.”
“But what about my borsa? Will it be safe? I’ll come by tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Will you be here?”
“Dipende. Yes, I’ll be here, but I don’t know when. I have to look at the frescoes again tonight. But don’t worry, your borsa will be perfectly safe.”
“Listen, there is something.”
“Mi dica.” Tell me.
“There’s a book in the borsa. Madre Badessa thinks it’s very valuable and wants to dispose of it. She wanted me to take it to a dealer, but his shop is closed because of the flood. I thought you might be able to help.”
“Books are hardly my line, Signorina.”
“But you would know whom to ask, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, yes, but . . .” He shrugged his shoulders, one of those full-bodied Italian shrugs. “A book, it can’t be difficult. All right. I’ll take it to my place and have a look at it. But tell me something about this book. I know my cousin was up in arms because the monks at San Marco were trying to get their hands on the library. This must be a very special book, to dispose of it . . . così furtivamente?”
“You’ll see when you look at it. But you’re sure it’s safe? I wouldn’t mind going back for it now.”
“Believe me, there’s not a safer place in the entire city.”
I assumed I could trust him—because he was Madre Badessa’s cousin, and because I liked him.
“You’re a woman of mystery,” he said. “But even women of mystery have to eat.”
“No, really, I couldn’t. Thank you very much; it’s been a very interesting afternoon.”
“Molto interessante, Signorina, molto interessante.”
The next day a special messenger delivered my book bag to the convent. The Aretino volume was gone, but there was a clipping from La Nazione in its place, a photograph of the monks on their knees in the nave and of the bandaged frescoes, and a brief account of the heroic efforts of Dottor Postiglione, and—to my surprise—his volunteer assistant, an anonymous cittadina who had just wandered in off the street. I was as pleased as if Mayor Bargellini had presented me with the key to the city.
9
Non voglio morire
Sister Agata Agape became ill. A week passed. I was very busy, but I missed her cheerful presence in the evening sessions and was sorry to learn that she wasn’t expected to live. Old contemplatives, I was told, can generally predict their own deaths, sometimes right to the minute, but apparently this wasn’t the case with Sister Agata, for Father Francesco had been summoned twice in the middle of the night to administer the sacrament, and both times Sister Agata had rallied by the time he arrived.
I was also sorry to learn that Father Francesco, whose apartments were at the opposite end of the convent from the infirmary, had made it clear to the novices, whose job it was to sit up with Sister Agata, that he didn’t want any more false alarms. He had, in fact, scolded Sister Maria in front of Sister Agata and accused her of crying wolf.
No one talked about anything else during the evening session in the sala comune. Nuns, you know, are not self-sufficient. Monks can get on by themselves, as long as one of them is ordained, but nuns need a man to say mass. And to anoint the sick. But Father Francesco was not popular. When he entered the sala comune, which was not often, the nuns knelt and asked his blessing, but behind his back they criticized him freely. What if Sister Agata were to die before he got there to administer the last rites? It could happen. And if it could happen to Sister Agata, then it could happen to any one of them!
I could share
the indignation of the nuns at Father Francesco, but not their professional concern for the well-being of Sister Agata’s immortal soul. What if Sister Agata were to die before Father Francesco administered the last rites? What difference could it possibly make? The notion that God might deny salvation to a soul on some technicality is so morally repugnant that I found it painful to think about.
I tried to turn the conversation back to more congenial issues: the new habits, Sister Chiara’s second book, the ongoing struggle with the bishop, the cleaning of the frescoes, the construction of the new library on the second floor. But without success. I’d come up against something primitive and irrational that took precedence over these enlightened concerns.
Determined to stay out of it, I kept my opinions to myself and thanked God that I still had enough detective novels to last another week. I was planning to go home just before Christmas, but before I went I wanted to stabilize the Aretino volume so that it could be sold. I’d set up a little workshop for the purpose in Dottor Postiglione’s apartment in Piazza Santa Croce. Dottor Postiglione—Sandro—had a friend in Rome, a rare book dealer, who had offered to dispose of it for a small commission.
I visited Sister Agata once in the infirmary, as was the custom, to say good-bye. We were both, I thought, in our own ways, preparing to go home. I found her lying flat on her back on a narrow bed. Out of her habit she looked very different. The fine white hair on her old head was cropped short and stuck out in tufts. She reached for the hand that I extended and took it. I’d thought of her as a large peasant woman, but she looked thin and frail under the coarse sheet. There was no strength in her grip.
“Is it true that you’re a protestanta?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “but you mustn’t worry.”
“I’m a foolish old woman,” she said. “Una vecchia sciocca.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You’re a lovely old woman. You make me think of my mama.” This was true, not because of any particular resemblance, but because I had stood by Mama’s bedside so often.
“A protestanta came to our village once, to help the sisters with the scuola materna. No one would rent to her; everyone was afraid. But she stayed five years anyway, and when she left everyone was sorry. She was a good woman.” She sighed. “Tutto è possible.”
She gave my hand another feeble squeeze.
I had finished the prayer book she’d been working on and showed it to her. She seemed pleased with the blue-and-white headband and asked me to leave it with her, which I did.
“Is there anything else, Sister Agata?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “Non voglio morire—I don’t want to die—but don’t tell the others.”
I wouldn’t have seen her again if it hadn’t been for Sister Gemma.
When it came Sister Gemma’s turn to sit up with Sister Agata, she was very nervous. It was the first time I’d seen her upset.
“How can you tell when she’s dying?” she asked me. “I’ve never seen anyone die. What if I call Father Francesco again and then Sister Agata doesn’t die?”
“Better safe than sorry,” was my advice.
“But he’s such an unpleasant man,” she said. “And he made such a fuss when Sister Maria called him. He scolded her right in front of Sister Agata.”
“Why don’t you just get rid of him and find somebody else?” “He’s appointed by the bishop.”
“Ah, yes,” I said knowingly, “the bishop. Well then, it can’t be helped, can it? You’ll just have to use your own judgment.”
“Would you sit up with me?”
I give her my “Who, me?” look, like the Madonna at the Annunciation. “What good would that do? I’ve never seen anyone die either. I wouldn’t know anymore than you do.”
“Are you afraid?”
“No, of course not.”
“Please?”
I had no particular wish to see someone die, but I didn’t want to seem afraid either.
“We’d have to ask Madre Badessa.”
“I’ll ask her. I’m sure it will be all right.”
Of course it was.
In the corridor on the way to the infirmary I encountered Dottoressa Bassani, who didn’t expect Sister Agata to last the night.
“Sicuro?”
“Sicuro.”
The dottoressa was a young woman, cheerful, professional. Her scientific confidence was reassuring. Death, after all, is a perfectly natural physical phenomenon. There was nothing out of the ordinary going on.
“Her heart isn’t strong enough to keep the blood circulating,” she explained. “Either she’ll suffer another myocardial infarction or the heart will simply slow down gradually and stop.”
“How will I know when to call the priest?” I smiled to distance myself from the superstition.
She smiled back. “You won’t need to. She doesn’t want one.”
The infirmary was a series of small rooms, all empty except one, like hospital rooms, but there were no nurses’ stations, no hustle and bustle as in a hospital corridor, no bright lights. Deep-set windows opened onto the upper loggia of the cloister. There were four beds in Sister Agata’s room, and four small tables. On one of these tables, spread with a white cloth, were the mysterious necessities for the last rites: a crucifix, two lighted candles, a glass of water (half full), a small bowl of water, a linen napkin, a bottle of holy water, balls of cotton on a white plate, another plate with a bit of bread.
Sister Gemma was waiting for me at the door, looking pale and grim.
“I saw Dottoressa Bassani in the corridor,” I whispered.
She nodded.
“She says it will be tonight.”
Sister Gemma continued to nod her head slightly.
Sister Agata was neither sleeping nor awake, but present. She opened her eyes when I took her hand. La protestanta. Moving her fingers slightly in my hand.
I sat down on a wooden chair next to Sister Gemma. We were both uneasy. “I saw Dottoressa Bassani in the corridor,” I whispered again.
Sister Gemma nodded again.
“She told me Sister Agata doesn’t want us to call Father Francesco.”
Sister Gemma gave me a frightened look, and I tried to reassure her. “Boh,” I said, an all-purpose Florentine noise made by suddenly opening one’s mouth and taking in a lot of air (while keeping the nasal passages closed). And then: “You can’t really blame her, can you, after what happened?”
“No, but what if . . . what if she’s slipped, fallen into a state of sin?”
“I don’t think that’s likely, do you? Sister Agata? She hasn’t had much opportunity, after all.”
“But what if she’s angry with Father Francesco? What if she hasn’t forgiven him? If she’s carrying a grudge against him she could be in a state of sin.”
I hadn’t thought of this dimension of the problem. I’d thought Agata was perfectly safe.
“What legalistic nonsense,” I said. “You can’t really believe that God would let Sister Agata go to hell on a technicality?”
Sister Gemma didn’t answer me, she just sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap.
“My mother,” I said, “refused to see a priest before she died.”
“O Signora!” Sister Gemma took in a short, sharp breath. I was surprised at the strength of her dismay and didn’t press on. Mama was, in fact, an Episcopalian but hadn’t been to church for years, and her sense of honor prevented her from accepting a visit from Father Brady, the rector of the Church of the Redeemer, where my sisters and I had been baptized, even though Papa had called him and he was standing downstairs in the front hall in his shirtsleeves, taking in the central airconditioning.
“I’ll take my chances,” she said, and she did, though afterwards Papa called Father Bob again and asked him to conduct the funeral service. He did it, bu
t without much enthusiasm, not that you could blame him. Papa gave him a hundred dollars for his trouble and made a substantial donation to the building fund. We lapsed Protestants are funny things, aren’t we?
Our “watch” had begun at nine o’clock, directly after compline. It was now eleven. The silenzio maggiore was in effect. I didn’t think it applied to us, but we had stopped talking anyway. Another hour elapsed. Twelve o’clock, and then another. Sister Agata had been lying still and breathing easily, but now she began to struggle a little, and her fingers began to pluck at the coarse sheet that stuck out from under a heavy, standard convent-issue blanket. They moved rapidly and unceasingly, back and forth, as if checking the hem of a fine garment for loose threads or for some unevenness in the stitching.
Sister Gemma was agitated, too. “Do you think it’s time?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
I put my hand on Sister Agata’s papery dry forehead but couldn’t notice any sudden drop in temperature.
“Sister Agata,” I said, just to be sure, “do you want me to call Father Francesco?”
Sister Agata, who was beginning to breathe more shallowly and more rapidly, opened her eyes for a moment and shook her head. Her lips moved without sound, no.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and rested my hand on her shoulder. Her fingers continued to pluck at the hem of the sheet. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see them, and I realized now what I’d known all along—that Father Francesco was quite superfluous. That it was all superfluous, the whole enormous superstructure that had been erected, like the walls of an imaginary prison, to incarcerate our deepest hopes and fears, to keep them in place. What need did Sister Agata have now of holy water, holy bread, holy oil? What Sister Agata needed was someone to hold her hand, which I did.
Sister Gemma was sitting ramrod straight on her chair. What could I say to her?
I was trying to think, but Sister Agata’s fingers continued to move under my hands and for some reason this nervous reflex—that’s what I called it, a “nervous reflex”—was terribly upsetting. The energy it displayed was almost violent. You couldn’t not be aware of it. I couldn’t ignore it any more than I could have ignored a bat flying around the room or a rat stirring in the corner.
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