the stories passed
from men
to boys.
Maybe Francesco couldn’t answer,
too busy reciting
his Ovid.
Perhaps Lucretia, like yesterday
while I was chopping onions
for his supper.
“Three times she tried to speak, three times desisted,
And a fourth time, gaining courage, still couldn’t raise her eyes.
She said: ‘Must I owe this to a Tarquin too? Must I speak,
Speak, poor wretch, my shame from my own mouth?’”
I may not know how to read,
but I know how to overhear
the stories men
tell boys
of women’s lives.
“What she could, she told. The end she suppressed.
She wept, and a blush spread over a wife’s cheeks.
Her husband and her father forgave her being forced:
she said: ‘I deny myself the forgiveness that you grant.’
Then she stabbed herself with a blade she had hidden,
And, all bloodied, fell at her father’s feet.”
Mother whispered our stories
in my ear.
“Even then she took care in dying so that she fell
With decency, that was her care even in falling.”
The men and boys shout
theirs at full volume.
70.
I am not sure you understand.
If you go spreading this nonsense—
Nonsense!
You are the one who will suffer,
not Agostino.
He is not wrong, and yet.
If you had a sword,
you wouldn’t turn it on yourself.
I am already suffering.
And your property has been damaged.
He sets the palette down.
I did not send you away
upon your mother’s death
or any day since then.
We will cry foul on my property
if necessary but
do not act as though
you are a brush I’ve used
and thrown away once you were worn.
Then help me!
All of the blame,
all of the accusations
will be yours to bear.
Even if you are to be believed
you are the one who will no longer
be able to show her face.
No society.
No marriage.
I only meant to say the words.
What’s more, if this defines you,
there will be no painting.
This should not shock me.
And yet I feel it like a blade
upon my skin.
And without me to paint
how ever will you survive
the Roman art world?
That is hardly my concern.
That’s your only concern!
If you say this—
I’ve already said it.
Outside these walls?
Only the slimmest
remaining shred
of concern for decency
keeps me from lunging
for the open window,
screaming into the narrow alley,
to echo off the paving stones,
be carried by the creeping ivy
into every home.
No.
But you mean to. You are decided.
I weigh my next words carefully.
He put a brush into my hands
but never quill and parchment,
never books.
Words and paragraphs
were gifts bestowed upon my brothers.
But my mother gave me stories.
The ones she chose to tell
were not an accident,
not fevered ramblings
but the sharpest blade
that she could leave me on her death.
Mother believed in
telling stories.
71.
The blade I’ve turned
on my own father
draws instant blood.
Whatever changed his course
—my words
or Mother’s memory—
he’s hurtling down
an entirely new path
before he’s even sure
where he’s headed.
If you insist on this story—
—the truth.
He’s still off-balance,
a composition
with no focal point.
He’s all first fire;
I want to see the end result.
Don’t just sketch.
Paint a masterpiece.
The state of my purity
on display
for all the world to judge
and yet
my father is willing
to take such action
in my defense.
A trial?
He scowls.
Trial or silence,
make your decision.
Agostino is no fool.
He is already sowing his seeds.
And finish this damn painting.
Righteous
Shall we finish our story tonight, love? Perhaps. But I do not want to rush these tales. You will not hear them elsewhere. You will not hear them the way I tell them.
Others will tell you Daniel saved Susanna’s life. But hear this: Susanna used her voice. She spoke her truth. She could not expect her words to change a single heart, but neither could she be silent.
Her words saved her life.
Where our story picks up tonight, our young, respected leader Daniel happens on the scene and stops the crowd, inquires after Susanna’s crime. He does not take Susanna’s side immediately, but calls for more investigation before a woman’s skull is crushed.
The necessary parties gather. Susanna waits as Daniel questions first the men.
(Always first the men, my love.)
This feels like justice—or at least the possibility of justice. But for Susanna, it’s nothing more than prolonged agony. When has Susanna ever seen a man rule in favor of a woman, and against two elders of standing? Most likely all Daniel does is stay Susanna’s execution, while casting light on his own wisdom.
But at the very least, Daniel’s intervention gives Susanna a few more moments to sit and hold her sister’s hand. The sister she sent away.
When finally Susanna is called inside Daniel’s chambers, her sister is left to wait outside. Rebecca protests, loath to leave her sister unattended again. But Susanna has faced far worse than one who seeks the truth.
“Your honor.” She bows low.
“Please. Speak freely.” He acts as though they are equal. And why not? He stands to lose nothing. They both understand perfectly well she will never be his equal. “I have the highest regard for your husband,” he says.
“And for me?” It slips out before she can stop it.
He could dismiss her then and there. Instead he smiles. “You are immensely brave, if nothing else.”
Susanna is so brave her hands tremble at her side. But then, to be so terrified and still persist is true courage. Daniel sees all of this.
“The way you spoke to that crowd, rocks already in their hands. You’re either brave or mad.”
Susanna cannot stand to hold back any longer. “The truth is this: your elders threatened me if I did not disrobe and allow them their pleasures.”
“And did you? Faced with a crowd holding stones, many w
ould proclaim their innocence.”
Righteous anger blooms; color rises in Susanna’s cheeks. Should she show him how this accusation makes her feel and be discounted as hysterical? But if she doesn’t, how is he to know the truth?
“They intended to violate me. To seize by force what is not theirs.”
He nods, as though she has just explained the state of the olive harvest. “I understand. But now you are faced with a new ordeal, new violations. At worst, you will still be stoned. At best, the accusations against your virtue will continue. This won’t end here, regardless of my ruling.”
(Though here is what he does not say: if he should rule against Susanna, send her to her death, the matter will end for her accusers. They will go on about their lives, affirmed in their right to take what they want from a woman, no matter the cost to her.)
Susanna’s words suggest more confidence than she truly feels. “I know what I am.”
Daniel takes that in. A report on stores of grain. “I have questioned your accusers thoroughly.”
Susanna dies a thousand deaths in the pause that follows. He has questioned the elders. They have told their story. He upholds their version. What will become of her sister when Susanna is gone and the family honor disgraced?
But Daniel goes on, selecting his words like a lover choosing the finest fig to bestow on his beloved. “There were . . . inconsistencies in their stories. One said your faithlessness occurred beneath an oak tree, the other said a willow.”
Susanna’s brain scrambles to make sense of Daniel’s words. One man described an oak tree, the other a willow. And if they’d both said oak? How would that change the validity of her story?
Exasperated, Daniel furrows his brow, speaks as though she is a child. “I’m ruling in your favor. Both elders will be stoned.”
Susanna knows she should be grateful. He has spared her life, after all. And yet—
“What if they’d both told the same lie?”
Daniel is done treating her as though she is a child. Now she has exhausted his patience. “By God’s grace, justice prevails for the righteous.”
“God’s grace? By my strength I did not let them violate me!”
“That is my ruling, which spares your life. Next time, though? You might be more aware of who’s watching you bathe.”
72.
Trial or silence,
light or shadow.
Sharp edge that draws the eye
or blended lines that lead off
of the canvas.
Lay my heart out bare
or let it devour me
from the inside.
I pick up a paintbrush,
roll it between my fingers.
This is how I tell a story.
Facial expressions
and hands. But words
have never been my friends.
I told my story.
As though it’s that simple.
As though Susanna’s life
were not at stake.
Somehow I cannot
lift the brush.
The empty canvas mocks me.
But telling a story
in a courtroom,
to a judge,
to people ready
to hear only one thing . . .
What’s the point?
I cannot tell if Judith agrees
or only plays
the other side.
Restitution for your father?
He’s the one to bring a case,
girl as damaged property,
a painting ruined in a flood.
The court’s concerned,
as always,
with the men.
What if he’s punished?
I don’t know how Susanna
can ask that.
Does that change anything?
Did it change anything for you?
She cannot claim it did.
Her violators’ deaths
changed nothing
of the stain they’d left
upon her heart.
But Judith never minces words.
As long as Agostino
walks the streets,
he’ll keep on taking
what he wants.
It’s true.
But will I be forced
to bear the weight
of his every choice
from this moment on?
You’re the one who said
it was pointless.
That’s not what I said.
Here’s my real question:
What do you hope to get out of it?
73.
Giulio hollers up the stairs,
his voice singsong, delighted.
For the briefest moment
I think my smallest brother
has remembered
he has a sister
he might cherish.
But no.
I descend to see
my brothers, slack-jawed
at the men who loom
in our doorway
all power and
education and
might.
We’ve come to take
Signorina Gentileschi’s testimony.
The thought of strangers—men
in my home without my father
has me unmoored, stuttering and
wordless.
Francesco speaks for me.
Don’t mind her
You know how girls can be.
The younger man winks
at my brothers.
Girls are trouble, no?
Giulio puffs up.
She just likes attention.
The man chuckles, nods,
and welcomes Giulio
to the brotherhood.
74.
I am alone
with two men
who’d sooner scorn the Pope
than validate a woman.
My audience,
though not the one I longed for.
I have to pray
the worst outcome
will be that they don’t listen,
they won’t see.
I tell my story once
and then again
and then again.
The men are either simple,
or they hope to wear me down
until I say:
You’re right,
this never happened.
What am I to do
with such a faulty brain?
I do not oblige.
My voice grows thin;
my story doesn’t waver.
I paint the blood
they do not want to see.
If I must bear the wounds
then they can stand to look
upon them for a moment.
They’ll have the luxury
of forgetting.
When they have seen enough,
I do not show them out.
If my brothers want
so desperately to be
these men, then they can
bid farewell to
my interrogators.
When I am sure
the threat of tears has passed
I step out of the kitchen.
My brothers shuffle growing feet,
find interest in a crack
upon the tiles.
They’ll never look me
in the eye again.
75.
The house falls into deepest shadow.
Tuzia never calls for dinner.
Her absence gnaws
away at one last shred of hope
I’d hoarded, one last sense
that someone in this house
could ever understand.
If Tuzia failed to spread
a meal before the hordes
on any other evening
my brothers would have
pounded down the studio door,
demanded food from me.
They do not come.
When finally I hear the door
it’s Father, not the closest thing to mother
that I’ve known since I was twelve.
(Always just a shade
too dark, too light,
but close enough to sketch
a guess at might have been.)
Tuzia will not return.
76.
He cannot truly think
I’ll be content
with no more explanation
for the disappearance
of the only other woman
in this house.
You do not want to know.
I do.
He sighs.
These last few months
have aged him more
than all the years
since Mother died.
She was paid.
I blink, uncomprehending.
Tuzia was paid
to look the other way.
Paid by who?
He examines
a scuff on the ground,
finally meets my eye
for the briefest instant.
He can’t bear to say
and doesn’t need to.
I know.
He turns to go.
But Father—
I won’t have her here.
We’ll find a way
to muddle through.
77.
Each time I think
it can’t get worse
another log is thrown
onto the fire
and the blaze transforms
still more of my life
to ashes.
Tuzia,
with whom I shared
a room, a cycle,
the burden of womanhood,
was never going to be
my Abra.
My fault, perhaps?
I wasn’t Judith,
didn’t have the grace
to treat her as an equal
when it mattered.
But why could she not see
my disregard,
my irritation, distance
for what they were—
the armor necessary to survive.
She wore it too.
We could have soldiered
Blood Water Paint Page 11
