Guendalina, several years her distant cousin’s senior and already a married woman with a baby, brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead before plunging her hands deep into the mountain of dough. “It will be difficult,” she agreed, “to find a man half so handsome. Or half so honorable and loyal.” She rolled and folded the dough, small clouds of flour puffing into the air as the coils gave way to the force of her experienced touch. Angelina was still learning how to properly bake bread on the scale required to feed a family for a week, and her mother was glad to send her to Guendalina for additional instruction and practice. The better a housekeeper and cook Angelina was known to be, the easier it would be to arrange a suitable marriage for her.
Angelina buried her hands in the dough that would become loaves of bread. She wanted to ask, “Would you think a man like Bartolomeo would ever be interested in a girl like me?” but was afraid to say such a thing aloud, even to her cousin. Angelina feared that a man like that would never approach her father to ask for her hand and that she would be trapped in a life shared with a man she considered neither so honest nor so valiant. Although pretty, she put no stock in the talk of others, who tried to reassure her of her good looks. She bit her lip and concentrated on kneading the dough.
The two women shaped the dough into loaves and set them aside to rise before taking them to the great communal ovens in the center of the Italian neighborhood, joining the procession of women—wives, mothers, sisters, daughters—who brought bread to be baked there. Laughing, singing, telling jokes, sharing gossip and news as the bread baked, they would pass the time together, and then at supper that evening, they would ask their fathers, husbands, brothers and sons if they had heard the same gossip as they worked on the castle or on the great cathedral rising in its midst.
The next day, of course, Angelina realized that her devotion to Bartolomeo was unlikely to be returned. “He is married, after all,” she told herself, “and seems happy enough with his wife, Daniela, even if she is slow at giving him any children. But she is a good cook and has a voice for singing. Though,” she continued her musing, “if she persists in not giving him a son—or even a daughter!—how much longer can he be patient with her? A man such as Bartolomeo surely wants children! Who else will offer requiem masses on his behalf?” Hope flared in her heart as she contemplated his possible response to his wife’s apparent barrenness.
It was a shock when that evening at supper, her father announced, “I have been approached by a young member of the guild, asking me to consider giving your hand in marriage to him. He is an apprentice yet, but will make an excellent mason when he is older. He is hardworking and, I think, a good match. What do you say, Angelina? Do you know young Ruggero of whom I speak? What do you think of him?”
“Ruggero?” she blurted out. “He is bowlegged and his face is pockmarked and he seems almost simple sometimes, Father! How could you even consider accepting the proposal?” Her brothers and sisters sat silently as their mother ladled soup into a stack of bowls. Their father tore a chunk of bread from the loaf and passed it to his eldest son.
“His is the first offer we have received, Angelina.” Her father spoke quietly. He chewed a bite of bread before continuing. “You say he seems simple. I don’t dispute that but I like him, Angelina, I like him. He knows that others think him simple and that drives him to work harder than all the other apprentices.” His wife passed the bowls around the table. “His family is also from Tuscany. It would be good to keep the Tuscan families together and not intermarry with the families from Sicily or Padua or Bologna. What if you were to wed an apprentice whose family came from one of those places? He could choose to go home and take you with him, and then we might never see you—or our grandchildren!—ever again!”
Her mother sat as the family dipped their bread in the soup or sipped from their spoons. She spread her napkin on her lap as she spoke. “You wouldn’t want to leave us forever, Angelina? How could my heart survive if you were to go far from us and far from our family in Tuscany? If you refuse the offer of Ruggero, the other Tuscan boys might assume that you are difficult and be less likely to make an offer.” She lifted her spoon to her lips and sipped before looking at her daughter.
“Mother!” Angelina was ready to burst into tears. “You would condemn me to a life with Ruggero because you fear that others would refuse to ask after he is refused? They would all know that no one could accept an offer of marriage from Ruggero! They would not think me difficult, Mother. They would think me reasonable! Marriage to Ruggero would make them think me mad!” She looked from her mother to her father and back again. No one else spoke. Angelina knew that the argument’s resolution would portend the direction of her sisters’ lives and how her brothers’ proposals of marriage might be received by other families.
Tears burst from her eyes and she buried her face in her napkin, sobbing inconsolably, her shoulders heaving. “Not Ruggero!” she finally stammered, gasping for breath. “Anyone else, papa, anyone at all. But not Ruggero!”
Her parents looked at each other, apparently unsure of what to say. Her father cared deeply for her, as did her mother. She knew neither wanted her to think they had condemned her to a life of misery. But neither did they want to risk losing her if she should marry into a family they had no connection to. Her mother raised an eyebrow. Her father set his spoon down. Her mother shook her head and raised a chuck of bread to her mouth.
“Very well, Angelina,” her father sighed at last. He took another handful of bread and dipped it into his bowl. “Not Ruggero,” he agreed, his mouth full. “But you can ill afford to be too careful or demanding in whose proposal you accept.” He swallowed, already picking up another piece of the loaf and shaking it in his daughter’s direction. “Do not think I can be so easily persuaded the next time there is a proposal from a boy that I think a good match for you.”
“Thank you, Papa! Thank you!” Angelina jumped from her seat and threw her arms around her father’s neck, kissing him and sobbing with relief.
At the other end of the table, her mother shook her head and smiled at Angelina. Angelina’s father hesitated before patting her on her back with his free hand.
The next time Angelina came to bake bread with her cousin, Guendalina set out the flour and yeast and water in a large ceramic bowl so the yeast had a few moments to bloom and reveal if it was suitable for baking. Angelina picked up a towel and twisted it in her hands, nervously playing with it and darting her eyes around the room. As they waited for the yeast, Angelina decided to share her distress.
“They wanted me to marry Ruggero!” Angelina announced. “They didn’t care that he is simple, or pockmarked, or bowlegged! My father only cared that he is a hard worker and from a family in Tuscany!” Her fury bloomed like proofed yeast at the memory of the dinner a few evenings ago. “Oh, and that he liked Ruggero! Do you believe it, Guendalina? He wanted me to marry Ruggero because he likes him himself! Ach!” She groaned and threw the towel to the table.
Guendalina laughed gently. “Is that what is distressing you so?” she asked.
“How can you laugh?” Angelina demanded furiously. “Of course! How can I not be distressed when my father wants to marry me to a simpleton?”
Guendalina reached around the table and pulled her cousin close, stroking her hair and then kissing her forehead. “Angelina, you must know that these are the ways fathers think. He loves you and wants to be sure you are cared for. He saw Ruggero’s willingness to work hard as a promise that you would never go hungry or want for a place to sleep. He loves you, Angelina. Do you understand that?” She pulled her cousin’s chin up with one finger.
She continued, “He also likes Ruggero. Men are like that. They will pick a husband for a daughter or a sister because they like each other, not because the woman likes either of them! Your father hoped that if he and Ruggero liked each other, than Ruggero would be less likely to move away.” She held Angelina’s face with that one long, delicate finger poised at Angelina’s chi
n.
Angelina couldn’t help but smile at her cousin’s gentle chiding. “I know that,” the girl admitted at last, shaking her shoulder and looking away in embarrassment. “But—Ruggero? There have to be Tuscans other than Ruggero that would work hard and see me fed!”
Guendalina admitted defeat. “Yes, even I must agree with you about Ruggero. I cannot think of a more dismal husband!” The two cousins burst into laughter and fell into each others’ arms, hugging each other tightly as the fragrance of the yeast rose from the bowl. They hugged a moment longer and then divided the yeast into two portions, then added flour and water to the bowls of yeast, mixing and stirring the thick and sticky masses that would become bread.
“You realize,” Guendalina began as she cradled her bowl with one elbow and moved the wooden spoon through its contents with her other hand, “that if you do not care for a husband of your father’s choosing, you must offer him an alternative?”
“How do I do that?” Angelina struggled to speak as she attempted to stir the stiff peaks in her bowl. “I cannot tell him to ask Merigo or Gualtiero or any of the other Tuscans if they would like to marry his daughter! Even I am not so foolish as to think he could go to them.” She sighed. “He would also never accept a proposal from a boy that I had gone to behind his back, either. He would be so ashamed of my arranging my own marriage that he would probably send me away.” Angelina shook her head. “I see no choice but waiting for one of the other men to come to my father, and then I will be forced to accept, no matter who it may be.”
Guendalina set her bowl on the floor near the hearth and covered it with the towel that Angelina had thrown down onto the table. Taking the bowl that Angelina struggled with, Guendalina agreed, “Yes, he would be too ashamed to accept a man of your choosing. If he knew that you had asked the man to ask for your hand, of course. He would not be averse to accepting a proposal from a boy that he knew that you liked and perhaps had exchanged a gift or two with.”
“Yes, but what gift could I exchange with Merigo or Gualtiero or any of the others that would not be either too simple or too extravagant?” Angelina threw herself into a chair and watched Guendalina set the second bowl next to the first and spread the towel across them both. “It would have to be a gift that caught their attention and convinced them to ask for my hand but not so elaborate that it was obvious I was offering myself to them.”
Guendalina stood over the bowls, her back to Angelina. “Yes, a simple gift, but one that convinces the recipient to ask for your hand without displaying ostentation or seeming to grovel before him.” She seemed to be thinking of something. She looked over her shoulder toward Angelina, a mischievous grin on her face. “Would you not like me to assist you with this gift before your father receives another offer that you have even less chance of refusing?”
“Yes!” Angelina sat up. “Would you do that for me, Guendalina?” Angelina jumped across the room with excitement, hugging her cousin again. “What kind of gift should it be, Guendalina? Some exotic token? Where will we get it? The great market square across the river?” Angelina grabbed Guendalina’s hands and bounced on her toes. “Can we go get it now? While the dough is rising?”
“No, no, no,” laughed Guendalina, pulling her hands out of Angelina’s and pushing her cousin back to her chair. Sitting down across the table, Guendalina folded her hands together and glanced to either side, as if to reassure herself that no one could overhear their conversation. Angelina tingled with excitement. It seemed like a grand conspiracy to win her happiness.
“Back home, in Tuscany,” Guendalina leaned in close to Angelina and lowered her voice to speak in hushed tones, “there were women who knew stregoneria, women who knew what plants and tokens to use for which purposes and who knew erbaria and fattucheria and guastare to twist the world according to their whims.”
Angelina’s eyes grew wide. No women in the Italian quarter practiced stregoneria openly, but she had heard tales of such women back in the villages near Firenze and throughout the hills of Tuscany. What did Guendalina have in mind?
“There was one woman in particular, who lived near us when I was a child,” Guendalina continued. “She showed some little of the stregoneria that she knew and even allowed me to serve as an apprentice of sorts—of course, without my parents knowing what she was teaching me! They thought she was revealing the secrets of housework and laundry and—baking bread!” Angelina laughed as she looked around the room. Were there secrets hidden on the shelves that contained the power to twist the world according to Guendalina’s whim?
Guendalina seemed to guess what Angelina was thinking. “I was young and foolish, of course, and could remember little of what she showed me. But I can still recall some small erbaria and tokens to win the affections of a young man.” She glanced about them again, as if someone might have entered unseen during their discussion. “A small gift of that sort would surely solve your father’s quandary of whose proposal to accept on your behalf, would it not?”
“It certainly would!” Angelina exclaimed, unable to contain either her excitement or her voice. Guendalina touched her finger to her lips and then continued to speak even more quietly.
“Of course, the more effective the token, the more difficult it is to produce. But we want a token that is very effective, do we not? The most effective that can win the heart of a young man without drawing attention to itself, si?” Guendalina sat back in her chair and studied the room.
Angelina was afraid to move or make a sound and thereby distract Guendalina from her thoughts.
“I have it!” Guendalina jumped from her seat and shot into the other room of the house, the room where she and her husband slept and where her baby was sleeping as they baked. She returned with a small mirror that Angelina had seen propped against the washbasin on a shelf. “I will give this to you and explain its absence to my husband by saying that I dropped it and broke the glass,” she said, handing it to Angelina for inspection.
Angelina turned it over and around in her hands. “Does giving this to a man win his heart?” she asked, her voice betraying her skepticism. How could such a simple act result in such affection? “Is this how you…”
“Of course not!” Guendalina shook her head in mock rage. “I would never need to resort to such things to win the heart of my Adolfo! Besides,” she went on to admit, “the mirror itself does nothing other than show the face of the one who looks into it. No, we must do something with it first to make it the token we wish it to be. That is the difficult thing, but well worth the effort, yes?”
Angelina nodded, unsure of what she was being asked to agree to.
“Thursdays are generally the most auspicious day to do stregoneria,” Guendalina told her. “But for this, we need a Friday morning and a pair of dogs or birds in the act of copulation.” Angelina still did not understand. Guendalina continued to explain what she recalled from her elderly former neighbor.
“We need to catch the reflection of the animals making love in the mirror at the same time that you gaze into it.” Guendalina paused, trying to remember all the details. “The animals should be behind you and we should catch the reflection of them over your shoulder. Then we give it to the young man of your choice. Whoever gazes into the mirror next will be smitten with desire for you, unable to quench his love and unable to stop himself from asking for your hand in marriage.” Guendalina was clearly very proud that she had recalled the magic so clearly.
“But how do we do that? Then how do I decide which of the Tuscan masons to give it to?” The whole exercise seemed impossibly daunting to Angelina.
“Tsk, we can select the young man who is to receive the mirror after we have caught the proper reflections in it,” Guendalina hushed her cousin’s objections. “That is the least difficult of all the things we must do. But that is what makes the magic of the looking glass so effective. If it were simple, than anyone could do it!” Guendalina laughed.
Angelina had to admit that she was intrigued, even fascina
ted, by the possibility of using the mirror to catch the appropriate reflections and then give it to the young man of her choice to win his heart.
“Tomorrow is Friday.” Guendalina was thinking aloud. “You should plan to come here early, as early as you can get away from home. Tell your mother that I have a special project for you and we may need the whole of the day to accomplish it. We may, in fact, need the day to accomplish such a feat. But the earlier in the day we catch the reflections, the more passionately the heart of your intended will be transfixed with love. Can you convince your mother to allow you to come early tomorrow?”
Angelina nodded, speechless at the possibilities opening before her. As long as she and her cousin could catch the reflection of dogs or birds mating behind her.
The next morning, Angelina arrived at Guendalina’s door shortly after all the men in the neighborhood had departed for work in and around the castle. The baby was squalling and Guendalina had him perched on her hip as she bustled about the room. Angelina saw the mirror on the table, leaning against a small bowl. Frustrated by the baby crying and the difficulty in doing anything with her other hand, Guendalina finally sat and raised the baby to her breast. The infant happily found his breakfast and nursed eagerly. Angelina was unsure if she should continue standing or sit. Guendalina waved at another chair at the table. Angelina sat.
Guendalina closed her eyes and let her head fall back, resting her neck against the chair. “We could have asked the gypsies along the river for help,” Guendalina announced, “if they hadn’t already left their camp and gone further south for the winter.” She sat up and looked at Angelina. “We can take the mirror into the rear court and perhaps some of the chickens there will mate this morning.” She allowed the baby to continue nursing for a few minutes and then, the sucking subsiding and a contented smile spreading across the baby’s face as he drifted back to sleep, Guendalina stood and lay the baby in his cradle near the stove. She picked up the mirror and stepped through the door into the rear courtyard shared by a handful of houses on the lane.
Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 77
