by Cheri Lasota
The pencil hovered over the slate, waiting for her to reveal all her secrets. If she told him, would Tristão believe her? And if she asked him if he was Alpheus, would he laugh in her face?
I can’t tell you, she wrote again. She looked up at him and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
“He has some kind of hold over you, doesn’t he?”
He thinks I am meant for him.
He took a moment to think that over and nodded his head. “Could Diogo have made an arrangement with your father without your knowing it?”
It was a question she was glad to answer. No, I’ve nothing to tempt him.
“Not true.”
No dowry, no title.
“You’re beautiful and unprotected, without family to speak for you. It isn’t hard for me to see what he’s got planned.”
She glanced down, trying to keep a cool head.
“Cheia told me to stay away from you. Said you were his. But I told him Padre Salvador asked me to help you, that I can’t just stay away.”
You should stay away from me.
“No, I want to stay.” Tristão started to say something but stopped. “Think of how you helped me with my mother’s letter. You can’t really know how long I’ve waited for you—for your help.”
I was glad to help, she wrote, after all you’ve done for me.
“No, it’s not just that,” he said, drawing closer. “I’ve been here for sixteen years and I’ve been taking care of these children for all that time. I’m about to leave this place, and I feel like I’ve only just met you. It’s like the little ones don’t need me as much as you do now. I can help you. I know I can. And—” He hesitated when she bit her lip and frowned, but he lifted his chin and looked her straight in the eye. “And I’d rather be here with you than anywhere else.”
She realized the same was true for her. His kindness, his warmth—he was mesmerizing to her.
“You and I, we’re both without a father,” Tristão said. “And Diogo, too, now. Choices are harder without fathers and mothers. I’ve seen it over and over.”
Tears came to Arethusa’s eyes. He had reminded her of how much she missed her mother. It wasn’t a true loss because Mãe wasn’t really gone. Yet she ached for her mother’s love and advice. Knowing she would never again feel her mother’s arms around her brought more pain to the surface. She couldn’t look at Tristão’s face anymore. He was watching her transform into grief, and it was hard enough at night for her when no one else could see.
“I didn’t mean to bring up memories. I’m sorry.” His long fingers took hold of her hand, and the touch was too tender. She felt herself moving toward him, and then his arms were around hers, pulling her close to his chest.
Tristão’s scent was everywhere, as if he bathed in the scent of citrus and earth. It reminded her of the herbs she and her mother would dry over the hearth. Strange to feel memories of home in the embrace of a stranger.
He kept her there for a long time, his steady heartbeat against her ear, calming her nearly to sleep. He didn’t speak, only breathed in and out. She imagined him Alpheus, the movements of his breath like the currents of water in a river. It would be so easy to believe. Could she make him believe it too?
Tristão pulled back at last, but he did not let go. “Right now, I know as well as you that I shouldn’t be in here without Jacinta.” He grasped his crucifix absently and then let it fall to his chest. But he never once took his eyes off her. “I made a bad choice, but now that I have, I don’t want to go.”
His hands grasped her arms and the eyes that haunted her in the vision were there again. She wanted to turn away—her heart was beating too fast—but she couldn’t.
“I—” Tristão whispered, and his fingers were there at her cheek. “Can I?”
Arethusa did not move, but he found the answer in her eyes. And then he looked down at her mouth and she closed her eyes to the taste and the touch of his lips on hers. She knew it was forbidden, that it could cost her everything. But Tristão’s fingers were filtering through her hair and his lips were warm on hers. When she heard Senhorita Jacinta’s clip-clop footsteps approaching, she almost didn’t care. Yes, it was a bad choice. Given a chance, she would make it again, vows be damned.
Tristão pulled away the moment Senhorita Jacinta came to the door. He didn’t make small talk or feign away what he felt. She saw in his face that he was struggling to regain himself. He did not turn to Senhorita Jacinta when she spoke.
“Tristão, I told you that from now on I must be in the room when you come to visit. Why do you not listen?”
“Yes, Senhorita.”
“It’s time you left to help the little ones.”
“I will go at once.” Tristão stood so abruptly that he winced and clutched at his ribs.
When Senhorita Jacinta’s back was turned to the medicine cabinet, he reached for Arethusa suddenly, gave her two kisses on the top of the hand, and put a finger to the smile on his lips.
“Nothing will keep me from you tomorrow, Senhorita,” he whispered. “If only tomorrow were today.”
ARETHUSA STOOD ALONE AT THE WINDOW, PEERING at a new day and a clear sea. No clouds marred the sky, and the city was alive with energy. Yesterday she had tasted the promise of joy. Today that joy faded to fear. She would have to leave the refuge of the sickroom after a long, bedridden week since Senhorita Jacinta and the doctor had at last deemed her well enough to join the other orphans.
Senhorita Jacinta came early to help her dress. Two women of Senhorita Jacinta’s lay order had made her a black mourning smock. After she tried it on, Senhorita Jacinta gave the garment a critical perusal.
“The fit is good, and it should serve well for everyday chores. A year is customary here for children to wear mourning clothes, but you’ll find the time will go quickly.” Jacinta stood back and pursed her lips. “Your bruises and cuts are healing, but you still need to keep your arm tight in the sling and your crutch at your side. And no matter what, don’t try to speak. The doctor forbids it.”
Arethusa touched her neck, feeling self-conscious.
“Don’t worry.” Jacinta smiled and straightened Arethusa’s dress again. “Your throat isn’t purple anymore. Your skin will soon fade to yellow. But it still hurts to swallow, yes?”
Arethusa nodded.
Jacinta wrinkled her nose. “Let’s hope that passes soon. I’ll be back in a minute. I want to see if Padre Salvador has arrived, since he’s to take you on the orphanage tour with Tristão.”
The mention of Tristão’s name was enough to make Arethusa smile. She had waited all day, brushed her hair many times, and washed her face many more. She found herself touching her lips where he had kissed her, wondering if he would snatch a moment today to kiss her again. She wouldn’t stop him. She didn’t know how.
When Tristão came through the door at last, she expected that shy smile he always gave her. Instead, his eyes were grave and his full mouth was tight with restraint.
“Arethusa.” Tristão said her name as if it were tainted with poison. When he sat next to her, the warmth of his sun-skin seemed to have turned to ice. “Diogo told everyone—he said you worship some sort of Goddess and make sacrifices—” Tristão paused, then, watching her closely. “He said you’re a pagan.”
So that was why he had the look of a stranger, why he seemed so cold. She imagined he must have crossed himself before he dared come into the infirmary. Diogo was trying to turn them all against her. She understood why Diogo would tell Tristão, but why the children? Was it to break her? To make her such an outcast that she would come to Diogo willingly?
Tristão awaited her response, suspicion and fear in his eyes. She knew that look well. When the rumors circulated about her and her mother back in New Bedford, the school kids and their parents would cross themselves when she came near. It was hard to see that look in Tristão’s eyes when the day before they had held nothing but regard for her.
If she told him the truth he might never lo
ok at her again, but it would be hard to lie to him too. She could tell how much Tristão valued honesty and how much it might hurt him if she lied. It was a terrible risk but she took it.
I am devoted to the Goddess of the moon, Artemis. My father was a Catholic, but my mother is a priestess of the Goddess. I have practiced both religions, but I made my vow to the Goddess.
Even before he finished reading, she knew she had made a terrible mistake. Tristão drew back from her, as if being too near would pollute his air. He shook his head, made a subconscious sign of the cross. It reminded her of the night Pai had found them, when he had crossed himself in terror. She reached out to him, pleading with her eyes. He evaded the hand he had kissed the day before and stood up.
“It’s true?”
The exquisite pain in his eyes was a torment to her. She laid her hand back down, knowing that she had lost something that could never be recovered. No, he could not be Alpheus. If he truly believed, he would embrace her, not shun her. No, he was not a God. He was a sweet boy who didn’t know her at all. And he would never wish to know her now.
“Meu Deus, it is true. I can’t—” He shook his head. “Padre Salvador warned us—told us to stay away from those... those who believe such things.”
Such things? He speaks as if I’m not human at all. She had endured her torments, at school, at mass, at the market, but to hear these words come from Tristão—the one who had kissed her, saved her—was too much for her to take.
When her tears came, Tristão did not heed them. “I thought you were someone else. Someone I could trust. I’m sorry, but I won’t allow you near the little ones. They are Catholic and that is how they must stay. And I can’t—shouldn’t—be near you either.”
Padre Salvador popped his head into the infirmary. “Bom-dia, Arethusa.”
She hadn’t even noticed his footsteps on the stones. It took him a moment to notice the looks on their faces.
“Is everything all right?” It was clear he hadn’t heard the rumors yet.
“Nothing is the matter, Padre. I believe Arethusa is ready for the tour.” Tristão picked up the slate and pencil. “I’ll carry these, so Arethusa can use her crutch.”
“Are you ready for your tour, milady?” the padre said.
The cheer in his eyes almost made her cry, but she had to be strong for this, strong against all the eyes that would soon see her as what she was: a blasphemous pagan not even worth their pity. It had been a long time since she felt ashamed of her mother’s beliefs, but she felt it now, wishing against her will for a different life. A different name.
Arethusa pasted on a brave smile and turned away from Tristão. Taking her crutch under her arm, she stepped out into the hall. Her muscles felt stiff and her legs unsure. She had barely used them in the last few days. The musty old corridor was run-down and the lingering smell of the various medicinal ointments from the nurse’s office wafted through the maze of halls and byways.
“You may be feeling a little nervous in a new place without your Mãe and Pai, but Tristão will stay beside you all day to help you understand our life here. I imagine it must have been quite different living in America,” Padre Salvador said.
She glanced at Tristão, but he had moved to the other side of the priest.
Padre Salvador led the way through the darkened hallway. “Tristão and I are taking you to the refectory where you will eat with the other children as well as the nuns who run this orphanage.”
“Here on the right we have the boys’ bedrooms.” The padre pointed to two open doorways. “The first room is where the younger boys sleep and—”
“The second room is where I sleep,” Tristão cut in. The rooms were deserted as they passed by. She caught sight of Tristão’s old, beat-up trunk, and the memory of his mother’s letter pierced her like an arrow. Would he come to regret showing it to her?
“Farther down the hall is the girls’ dormitory. One of the sisters will show you after you have your breakfast.” The padre walked on. “The nuns keep a strict schedule here. Days are filled with chores and lessons—sewing and cooking for girls, farming and masonry for boys—as well as mass every morning. Tristão is also in charge of the orphanage’s soap-making venture.” The priest gazed at him with pride, but Tristão said nothing.
Padre Salvador nudged him. “Tell her about it.”
Tristão rolled his eyes, but he did as he was told. “We have a bergamot tree in the orphanage yard, brought over by a rich Italian from Calabria many years ago. Since the essence of bergamot is prized in soap, I hit on the idea that we could pay for our winter food by selling a bit of soap to the wealthy Freemasons.”
So this was the reason Tristão smelled of bergamot. She smelled the citrus scent coming off his skin even now. She breathed him in deep, trying to capture the scent-memory for later. He might not care for her anymore, but she didn’t know how to let go so easily.
“Ah, but that’s just the thing. The mere growing of a bergamot tree here is the true miracle, you see,” Padre Salvador said. “It never grows outside of Calabria, Italy. This is a very special tree. And Tristão is its keeper.”
“That’s the kitchen,” Tristão blurted, as if looking for any safe topic to pull the attention away from himself. He pointed to an open door where a frenzy of noisy activity spilled out into the hall. Habited nuns in large aprons handed out breakfast plates to a line of children. The boys wore brown wool uniforms, and the girls wore beige muslin with fitted sleeves and thin, white cuffs.
“Irmã Rosa stands there at the oven,” the padre said. The middle-aged woman had plain features and a wide nose, and her strained face belied a worrisome character.
“And that’s Irmã Fátima handing out the sweet bread,” Tristão said. Irmã Fátima was much older, with swarthy, wrinkled skin and a stocky frame, but her eyes sparkled through their folds.
“Let’s get Arethusa settled in the refeitório.” The padre motioned them on.
When she entered the room behind the priest and Tristão, her heart pounded as everyone stopped to stare.
“Since we already have everyone’s attention,” Padre began, “I’d like to introduce you to our newest arrival. This is Arethusa Maré. Welcome her and introduce yourselves in turn.”
No one moved. The priest didn’t seem to notice the horror on their faces and the distrust in their eyes as they stared at her in silence.
“Come, Arethusa,” the padre said, touching her shoulder. “Tristão will take you through the food line, and then you can go eat. I must leave now to attend to some church business.”
She glanced at Tristão, skeptical.
“I’ll take you through the line,” he said, glancing at Padre Salvador to reassure him.
“Excellent. You’re in good hands, Arethusa.” She watched the priest walk away, his robes swishing over the stone floor. With great reluctance, she turned to Tristão who motioned to her.
Arethusa followed Tristão up to the open doorway where Irmã Fátima handed out the bread, milk, and goat cheese. Arethusa clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking as they moved up through the line. Tristão waved the other children away from her, and they backed away from both sides of the line, giving her a wide berth. Did he think she would put a spell on them?
“So this is the new girl.” The nun looked Arethusa over as if she were sizing up a vegetable at the market and then handed Tristão their food since Arethusa still didn’t have the use of her arm.
“Yes, Irmã,” Tristão said. “This is Senhorita Arethusa Maré.”
“There’s not much to you. You better eat up all my cooking so we can get some meat on you.”
Tristão cleared his throat. “I’ll set your food down over here.”
There were four long tables in the refeitório full of young children, but Tristão chose the table where the older orphans sat.
All the better to keep her blasphemy away from the little ones, she thought.
“I’m sorry,” he said, setting do
wn her bowl of soup and milk several seats down from the others, “but I think it would be best for you and them.”
“I am sorry.” He leaned down to whisper so softly that no one else could hear. “If I had known before, I wouldn’t have kissed you. This isn’t what I wished for, but it’s best to keep your distance. The children here are very mistrustful of those they do not know. I don’t want you or them getting hurt.” He rose and joined the others.
Arethusa stared at the empty seat on the other side of him. He regrets even our kiss. How quickly fear changed his feelings for me.
Whispers erupted at all the other tables, and as she could think of no excuse to leave, she began to eat without appetite or joy.
“Does she have to sit so close to us?” It was Isabel, the girl that had discovered them in the dormitory.
“Hush, Isabel.”
“No. I won’t. You didn’t hear half of what Senhor Cheia said about her. She—”
“Isabel, that’s enough.”
“So we should be friends with her then?” Isabel snapped her fingers to get Arethusa’s attention. “You remember me? I am Isabel Infante. I caught you alone with Tristão, you recall?”
Tristão glared at Isabel, but she ignored him.
Isabel pointed out the skinny girl across the table. “Introduce yourself, Margarida.”
The young girl brushed her matted brown hair from her face and picked crumbs from her tattered dress as she whispered, “Bom-dia.”
Arethusa nodded in acknowledgement.
Isabel waved a hand toward the stocky boy sitting next to Margarida. “This is Damiano.”
He had dark brown hair, a wide dark face, and thick shoulders. When he cleared his throat of a mouthful of food, he said, “I heard you put a curse on your parents and killed them.”
Arethusa took an involuntary intake of breath at his blunt words. But she bit back her anger and tried her best to breathe in and out, attempting to remember that his words weren’t true. But how could she know for sure, when her memory of that night had failed her utterly?
“Damiano,” Tristão said. “I told you not to speak to her.”
