Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘I have a present for you,’ the woman said. As she bent towards Margherita, her heavy perfume overwhelmed the fragrance of the little cake. It seemed to smell of hot exotic lands. Margherita took a step away, suddenly afraid, but the woman only smiled and slipped something about Margherita’s neck. She saw a flash of gold, then felt an unfamiliar weight on her chest. She squinted downwards and saw that a golden pendant was now lying upon the rough brown fabric of her dress.

  ‘But … who are you? How d’you know my name?’

  The woman smiled. ‘Why, I’m your godmother, Margherita. Has your mother not told you about me?’

  Margherita shook her head. The woman touched her nose affectionately. ‘Well, we shall soon be getting to know each other much better. Give your mother my regards, and tell her to remember her promise.’

  ‘Si,’ Margherita answered, though it came out sounding like ‘Thi’ because of the gap where she had lost her two front teeth.

  ‘Run along home now. I will see you again very soon,’ the woman said.

  Margherita obeyed, breaking into a run in her eagerness to get home and show her mother her present. She looked back over her shoulder as she went and saw a huge man in a dark robe step out of the shadowy doorway. He held out his arm to the mysterious woman in cloth of gold, and she laid her own hand on it, accepting his help to negotiate her way over the uneven cobblestones, her other hand lifting her wide skirts so that Margherita had a quick glimpse of the extremely high chopines she wore.

  For a moment, the man and woman were silhouetted against the light at the end of the alley. The man was dark and massive, head and shoulders taller than the woman. He must be a giant, she thought with a painful jerk of her heart, and her steps quickened. The next moment, she tripped and fell. The cake flew from her hands and smashed on the cobblestones. Margherita began to cry. She bent to pick up the pieces of cake, trying to squash them back together again. She cast a look of appeal back towards the end of the calle, but the woman and the giant were gone. There was only the dazzle of the sun on the canal, and the high walls of stone, punctuated by doorways and window frames and shutters. Margherita was alone.

  She stumbled home, all her happiness in her birthday cake gone.

  Her father was a mask-maker, and the downstairs room of their home was his shop and studio. The shutters stood open, giving a glimpse into a cave of glittering treasures. Masks hung from hooks all about the window and covered every wall – plain white masks with inscrutable eye slits and veils, harlequin masks in gold and red, weeping masks and laughing masks, masks fringed with peacock feathers, masks edged with precious jewels, masks framed with golden rays like a rising sun, and white masks with sinister beaks like a sacred ibis, worn during times of plague.

  Margherita’s father sat on his wooden stool, a papier-mâché mask held in one hand, the other holding a fine-pointed brush. He was painting delicate golden swirls and curlicues all over the mask, his touch deft and sure. He turned as Margherita came limping in, laying down the mask and brush so he could open his arms to her. ‘What is it, chiacchere? What on earth is the matter?’

  ‘I broke my cake,’ she sobbed, as he lifted her onto his lap. ‘I was being careful, I truly was, but then I tripped …’

  ‘Ah, well, never mind. Accidents happen. Look, it’s broken into three pieces. One for your papa, one for your mama and one for you. We would have cut the cake so anyway. All you’ve done is leave a few crumbs for the poor hungry mice and birds.’

  Margherita’s father was a handsome man, with heavy dark eyebrows, a large noble nose and a neat dark beard. When he laughed, his teeth flashed white against his brown skin. Margherita loved it when he lifted her high and threw her over his shoulder. While she squirmed and shrieked with delight, he’d rotate about, pretending to be puzzled, saying, ‘Where has Margherita gone? Has anyone seen my chiacchere? She was here just a moment ago.’

  ‘I’m here, Papa,’ Margherita would shriek, kicking her legs against his chest and banging his back with her fists.

  ‘I can hear a mosquito buzzing in my ear, but not my chiacchere.’ Her papa called her chiacchere because he said she chattered away all day, just like a magpie. He had all sorts of funny names for her: fiorellina, my little flower; abelie, which meant honeysuckle; and topolina, my sweet little mouse. Margherita’s mother only called her piccolina, my little one, or mia cara Margherita, my darling daisy.

  Papa picked up his painting rag from the bench and found a clean corner so he could wipe away Margherita’s tears. It was then he saw the golden pendant about her neck. He stiffened. ‘Where did you get that?’

  Margherita touched it. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten. A lady gave it to me. For my birthday.’

  Margherita’s father dropped her on the floor and twisted her about so he could stare at the pendant. ‘Pascalina,’ he shouted.

  Margherita was frightened. Her father hardly ever called her mother by her real name but by nicknames such as bellissima, cara mia and pascadozzia.

  Pascalina came running, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  Her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, Margherita had always thought. Her hair was the colour of new bronze, her eyes were periwinkle blue, her skin was fair and softly freckled, and her figure was soft and plump and comfortable. Pascalina sang all the time: as she rolled out dough, as she swept the floor, as she washed the dirty clothes in the tub, and as she tucked Margherita up in bed at night.

  Oh, veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda, she would sing. Lu lupu si mangiau la picuredda, oi ninì ninna vò fa. Oh, come, sleep from the little mountain. The wolf’s devoured the little sheep, and oh, my child wants to sleep.

  Pascalina looked white and sick when she saw the necklace. She gripped Margherita by the arms. ‘Who gave it to you?’

  ‘A lady. She said it was for my birthday.’ Tears sprang to Margherita’s eyes.

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Margherita looked from her father’s stern face to her mother’s anguished one. She did not know who to answer first. ‘A beautiful lady,’ she faltered. ‘Dressed all in gold like a queen. She said she was my godmother. She said to give you her regards, Mama, and that you were to remember your promise.’

  A groan burst from Mama’s white lips. ‘Alessandro, no. What are we to do?’

  Alessandro put his arms about his wife and daughter, drawing them close. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps, if we pleaded with her …’

  ‘That’s no use. She has no mercy. No, we must go. We must flee from here.’

  ‘Where?’ Alessandro asked. ‘I’m a mask-maker, Pascalina. It is all I know how to do. Where else in the world could I make a living? They don’t have Carnevale in Bologna or Genova. For all I know, they may not even have the commedia dell’arte. I’d be a man without a craft. We’d starve in a month.’

  ‘But we cannot stay. If she should accuse you … you cannot make masks without your hands, Alessandro.’

  All this time, Margherita had been crying and begging her parents to tell her what they meant. ‘Who is she? What do you mean?’ At this final comment of her mother’s, she gave a little scream of terror. ‘Papa!’

  Her father remembered her and squeezed her close. ‘Never fear, topolina, don’t cry. All is well.’

  ‘Your hands, Papa. What did Mama mean?’

  ‘Nothing. All is well.’

  ‘But who was she, Papa? Who was the lady? Why is Mama crying?’

  ‘She’s a witch. And a whore!’

  ‘Alessandro!’

  Margherita stopped crying out of sheer amazement to hear her father say such things.

  ‘It’s true. What else am I meant to call her?’ Papa took a deep breath. ‘I’ll talk to her. She has everything, we have nothing but our own little treasure. Surely she could not be so cruel?’

  ‘She could,’ Pascalina replied with absolute certainty.

  ‘Come on.’ Alessandro stood up. ‘It
’s our girl’s birthday. Let’s go eat this delicious cake and give Margherita her presents.’

  He took Margherita’s hand and led her through the door and up the steps to the portego. This was a long narrow room with windows at either end, one set overlooking the calle, the other overlooking the little canal. The portego was sparsely furnished, for Margherita’s parents were poor, but Mama had embroidered some cushions to soften the hard bench, and a rather shabby carpet was hung over the table, its red fringe faded to a soft pink. On one wall was a wonderful tapestry, showing ships in a harbour. On one ship, a party of people in gorgeous robes of blue and crimson and orange was sitting down to a feast of fruit and roast fowl and wine in strangely shaped jugs; another ship was being loaded with barrels and boxes; yet another was setting off to sea, its unfurled sails billowing with wind. Margherita had always loved this tapestry and liked to imagine that she too would one day set sail to faraway lands, where she would see extraordinary things and have marvellous adventures.

  Rich customers would sit here in the portego and drink wine while Alessandro showed them fabric and feathers and jewels, and a display of masks he had made. As his customers described the mask of their dreams, Alessandro would sketch it in charcoal, the mask bursting into life on the parchment, sometimes beautiful, sometimes grotesque.

  Margherita’s father always said a person only truly revealed themselves when in disguise.

  Margherita was not allowed to play in the portego, for one never knew when a customer would come, and the room must always be clean and tidy and respectable. It was only ever used by the family on special occasions, and so Margherita’s eyes widened when she saw that her mother had spread the table with a spotless white cloth and the best pewter bowls and mugs. A small bunch of margherita daisies was in a fat blue jug, and three sweet oranges sat in an earthenware bowl. Coarse brown bread stood ready on a wooden board, next to a bowl of soft white cheese floating in golden oil and thyme sprigs. Soup made with fish and clams and fennel and scattered with sprigs of fresh parsley steamed in a big clay pot.

  ‘Come and eat, topolina.’ Alessandro lifted Margherita up to sit in the only chair, a heavy throne made of dark carved wood with a back and armrests, and softened with cushions. If this had happened three hours ago, Margherita would have been thrilled. She always thought the chair belonged to a princess in a story, and loved the way it had claws for feet and griffin faces on the armrests. Now, though, she felt only miserable and uneasy. She did not understand why her parents were so upset.

  As her parents began to serve the food, Margherita picked up the golden pendant in her hand and examined it for the first time. It was a delicate golden sprig of parsley, hanging on a fine gold chain. It was so realistic, it looked as if someone had plucked a parsley leaf from the garden and dipped it in gold. Margherita thought the pendant one of the prettiest things she had ever seen.

  Her mother looked up and saw what Margherita was doing. ‘Take it off.’ She dropped the soup ladle with a clatter, spraying brown droplets all over the white tablecloth. She dragged the necklace over Margherita’s head and hurled it out the open window. A few seconds later, Margherita heard the faint sound of a splash as it fell into the canal below.

  ‘My necklace!’

  ‘Pascalina, that was stupid. What if she asks us for her gift back?’

  ‘I won’t have my Margherita wearing anything from that woman.’

  ‘Pascalina, it looked expensive …’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘My necklace! You threw it out the window.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mia cara. I’ll get you another necklace, a much prettier one, I promise. You didn’t want that awful thing, did you?’

  ‘It wasn’t awful. I liked it. I want my necklace back.’ Margherita began to cry and pushed her mother away when she dropped on her knees beside her. Pascalina began to cry too, gasping sobs that frightened Margherita and silenced her. She put out a tentative hand and stroked her mother’s face, and Pascalina flung her arms about her and cried into her hair. For a moment, mother and daughter clung together, then Pascalina wiped her face with the corner of her apron and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, my daisy, but you don’t want anything that woman gave you. It’s true what your father says. She’s a sorceress. Her gifts always have strings attached. Your father and I will buy you something pretty next time we go to the market. Come, eat up your soup, it’ll be getting cold.’

  Trying to smile, Pascalina served the soup, and Alessandro cut the bread and passed it around, giving Margherita a large dollop of soft cheese and olive oil. She could not eat, laying down her spoon and putting her left thumb in her mouth.

  ‘And look, we have oranges for you. We know you love them. And I’ve made you a new dress.’ Pascalina unfolded a simply made frock of dark green wool, with a sash of copper-coloured ribbon, exactly the shade of Margherita’s hair. It would have been cut down from a gown bought at the second-hand dealer’s stall in the market and carefully sewn together to hide any stains or darns, but Pascalina must have been working on it for weeks in secret. ‘And Papa has made you a mask of your own. Look, it’s just like a daisy’s face.’

  Margherita stared at the mask. It was painted bright yellow and marked with little copper-coloured circles to suggest florets. White petals streaked with gold radiated out in all directions. Long golden eyelashes fringed the eye slits, and the mouth was painted as a big happy smile. ‘La sua bella,’ she whispered, her lisp more pronounced than ever.

  ‘You’ll be able to wear it to the Festival of Ascension in a few weeks’ time, topolina,’ Alessandro said.

  Once, Margherita would have danced about in joy, wearing the new dress and the mask, singing jubilantly. Now, she said, ‘Thank you,’ in a subdued voice.

  ‘Don’t you like them?’ her mother asked anxiously.

  Margherita nodded and conjured a smile, as much a mask as the constructions of papier mâché down in her father’s studio.

  THE SORCERESS

  Venice, Italy – April 1590

  The next day, Margherita saw the sorceress again.

  The woman with the eyes like a lion’s looked in through the shutters of the shop and spoke to Margherita as she sat sorting beads and feathers at her father’s bench.

  ‘Good morning, Margherita.’

  Margherita did not answer, though her hand jerked and silver beads spilt across the wooden benchtop.

  ‘You must be ready to come to me.’

  Margherita shook her head.

  The sorceress frowned. ‘What do you mean? Has your mother forgotten her promise?’

  ‘I … I didn’t tell her,’ Margherita lied instinctively, her face growing hot.

  ‘Well, tell your mother I’ve not forgotten her promise and neither can she. I expect her to honour it.’

  Putting her thumb in her mouth, Margherita nodded. As soon as the sorceress had walked away, she ran to find her parents. She heard the angry sound of their voices as she hurried up the stairs.

  ‘She’ll never agree.’ Pascalina was crying.

  ‘I have to try. Surely she cannot have a heart of stone?’

  ‘A heart of ice!’

  ‘It’s worth a try. What can she want with a little girl? In seven years, chiacchere will be practically a woman grown. I’ll go and find a letter-writer in the market. He’ll know all the best phrases …’

  ‘A letter? Madonna have mercy, as if a letter would sway that cold heart. Alessandro, I beg you! We must get away from here.’

  ‘She will find us wherever we go.’ Alessandro’s voice was sharp and angry. ‘She’s a witch, remember. We cannot hide from her eyes.’

  ‘But we cannot give her our piccolina.’

  ‘Mama, what do you mean?’ Margherita ran into the kitchen and to her mother’s side, throwing her arms about her legs.

  For a moment, a strained silence. Then Pascalina bent and embraced her. ‘Do not fear, my darling, my daisy. Papa will make everything all right, won’t you? Alessandro
?’

  Margherita’s father looked at her with eyes filled with grief and something else. To her dismay, she saw it was fear. She did not tell her parents that she had seen the sorceress again, but put her thumb in her mouth and leant against her mother, her hand gripping a twist of Pascalina’s skirt.

  Alessandro squared his shoulders and stood up. ‘I’ll go now.’ He took off his leather jerkin and shrugged on his embroidered doublet, hanging behind the door. For a moment, he stopped, his hand on Margherita’s copper-coloured head. ‘Don’t worry, topolina, all will be well.’ Then he was gone.

  After dinner, Pascalina took Margherita and tucked her up in her bed, a small ragged piece of pale-green material in her hand, the only surviving remnant of Margherita’s baby blanket. Pascalina had sewn the sage-green wool with white satin stars before Margherita was born, but only one star was left, framed by a halo of ragged fabric. Margherita called it Bella-Stella and had only recently been persuaded not to carry it with her everywhere in case it was lost.

  With her thumb in her mouth, Margherita lay curled like a baby dormouse, while her mother sang her lullabies until Margherita’s tight grip on her mother’s hand relaxed, and she let herself slip towards sleep.

  The next day passed slowly. Her father paced the floor, unable to work, his face haggard. Her mother sat with her sewing on her lap, her hands clenched, crushing the fine linen. No one spoke very much.

  As the afternoon lengthened, Alessandro got to his feet. ‘She’s had plenty of time to read the letter. I’ll go and speak to her.’

  ‘Oh, my darling, be careful,’ Pascalina said. ‘Don’t lose your temper, don’t enrage her. Beg her … beg her to be merciful.’

  Alessandro put on his best doublet and went out. Pascalina sat as if in a trance, till Margherita came and climbed into her lap, twining her arms about her neck. ‘Mama, why …’

  Her mother stirred and stood up, putting Margherita down. ‘How about we bake a special pie for your father, just you and I? He’ll … he’ll be back soon. We’ll make him something delicious for when he gets home.’