We’d become as attached as the situation would allow. When Allegra threw tantrums, I was summoned. I was the only one who could bathe her without incident. At first I was cautious of showing favoritism, but I began to see myself as a valued peacekeeper, a problem solver. I convinced myself that the abbess appreciated my efforts.
Did Allegra know it was her birthday? I imagined she couldn’t. The convent was a timeless space; the institution achieved comfort and righteousness in routine and uniformity.
But I found Allegra crying outside of her classroom, a sister standing over her. What’s wrong? I asked, aware of my own distress at the girl’s unhappiness.
The class wished Allegra a happy birthday this morning, the sister said, a picture of impatience in her brown habit.
And I could see, then, all the useless hopes Allegra had been holding on to, the expectations she had. Her eyes were pink and tears were smeared across her smooth cheeks. Her hair, which had been pulled back from her face, was mussed. She turned away from me as I approached.
You’re four today, I said, crouching beside her. I took her hand. Allegra buried her face between my bent knees.
I can manage Allegra for the morning, I told the sister. She looked relieved. Thank you, she said, disappearing quickly behind a wooden door, the whispers of her class ceasing quickly upon her reentry.
Last year, Allegra said, Papa brought a cake and a dress to my nursery.
And then I did the thing that I most regret and cherish. I opted not to soap the tubs, as was my weekly duty—they were cleaned each night after use and no one would notice—and instead indulged myself. I thought: What would please Him more—a clean tub, or this girl’s happiness?
Would you like to go outside? I asked, touching Allegra’s shoulder. Do something special?
Though it was forbidden to take children beyond the abbey walls, if I could get her to her seat in the cafeteria for lunch, I thought, there would be no suspicion, no problem.
Allegra’s eyes lifted to mine and a smile began to form on her beautiful lips. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. We moved quickly through the winding halls—the other children were in class or morning prayers—and to the kitchen, full of scalded pans, split tomatoes, and baskets of onions. The back door was the only unlocked door to the outside world. We walked through it. The cold air was fresh and rewarding. When I looked back at the abbey, the place seemed hollow, the windows black, as if there was nothing inside.
It wasn’t unusual for a sister to be outside of the convent, but I knew the brown habit was still conspicuous, as was the skipping, beaming four-year-old in uniform beside me. Allegra became more alive in the winter sun. She held my hand tightly, jerking my arm as she occasionally lost her balance on the cobblestones. We caught glimpses of the blue sky above the buildings, which seemed taller and more jumbled than ever. Allegra kicked stray rocks and stared inside the farmacias, packed with colored jars and jugs and women out for morning errands.
Why is that man selling ugly hats? Allegra said. Why does that woman carry her groceries all alone? Does she not have children? How long did it take the men to build these streets?
So many questions without good answers, I said. Tell me what you think.
A hundred years to build the streets, she said.
I ran my fingers over the back of Allegra’s hand. Her skin felt like a tulip petal, soft and undamaged. A vendor leaned forward with a bowl full of olives, tempting me to buy. Before I could pull her away, Allegra had one hand in the bowl, her fingers wrapped around three fat olives.
Allegra! I said.
Go ahead, the vendor said, laughing. Take them. Nessun problema.
She looked to me for permission, then brought the fruit to her mouth quickly, as if worried he would change his mind.
Allora, I said, kneeling on the cobblestone to take in the iridescent excitement in her eyes. Let’s head to a café for an amaretti.
Her affection—even if it was fleeting and inconsistent—was a balm. Though I was nervous about breaking rules, the warmth that began to spread through my body was beautiful. The temporary freedom was intoxicating. I thought, then, about a place I could take Allegra. I thought about my childless aunt in her austere villa in Alfonsine, the extra bedrooms and lemon trees Allegra could climb.
But I knew I could not get away with such a scheme. I knew that while her father did not love her—not the way I could—he cared for her future. He wanted a formal education for Allegra, not a life sowing seeds alongside a peasant woman, a failed Capuchin sister. He wanted a dignified history and explanation, even for his illegitimate daughter.
I imagined making a case to him, a case based on my ability to love Allegra every day. I will ply her with wisdom and all the books I can get my hands on, I would say. We will memorize your texts . . .
I realized I had been making the case in my mind for weeks, imagining a life outside of the convent with Allegra as my own.
We reached a small piazza and entered Giuseppe’s, a mirrored café that smelled of caramelized sugar and coffee. Paninis heaped with prosciutto and mozzarella were being stacked onto trays in preparation for lunch. Giuseppe’s was a place for laborers and mothers, quiet and many turns off the main street. I brought Allegra to the counter.
A glass of warm milk for the little one, I said to the cameriere, and your best amaretti.
It’s my birthday, Allegra said, unabashed. I’m four.
She did not savor the cookie but attacked it with childish vigor, plunging it into the milk.
I want to write a letter to Papa, she said to me, crumbs across her lip.
I don’t have paper, I said, wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin.
Cameriere, Allegra called. Do you have paper?
He turned from fixing a cappuccino to stare at her.
I have a pamphlet, mia cara, he said. One I no longer want. Politica stupida . . .
And a pen? she said.
For you, he said, reaching behind the sacks of coffee to retrieve one. He handed it to me.
Your scribe, I presume, he said, nodding in my direction.
Dear Papa, Allegra began. Today I am four. Your gift did not arrive. I am learning my alphabet but do not like the food here.
She paused to press her finger into a crumb on the counter and pop it into her mouth. She continued: A boy says my right leg is longer than my left; I do not think this is true. Please come soon to bring me home.
Dear Papa, I wrote across the political pamphlet, ignoring the text beneath my ink. I look forward to your next visit. I am learning my alphabet and wish to show you. Please come soon. Con affetto, Allegra.
I reached into my habit to find the small sack of lire I kept hidden on my body at all times—we were not allowed to have money in the convent—and fished out coins to pay for Allegra’s milk and cookie. We were running out of time.
I plucked her from her seat at the counter and held her for a moment. She wriggled down and burst out of the café. There was a fountain in the piazza, and she ran toward it.
In the middle of the fountain was a stone horse bucking into the air, his front legs raised in high alert. Water dribbled from the horse’s mouth. It sounded like a small stream as it hit the tea-colored pool beneath.
Allegra! I shouted. We do not have time! Arrestare!
She did not turn back.
Two men on horseback came between us. For a moment I could hear the abbess’s cautionary words, and I became fearful that Allegra would be hurt or taken from me. I was upset at myself for not being more careful, for putting the girl’s life in jeopardy.
Allegra! I said. Stay where you are.
She was faster than I. As I hurried toward her she looked back once and smiled at me, and if it was a wicked smile, or the smile of a happy child who had forgotten herself, I’m not sure—but she placed one leg into the fountain.
Do not—
She swung her other leg over the stucco ledge and stood knee-deep in the cold, dirty water. Sh
e began to splash. She scooped water with her hands and thrust it into the air and over her blond head. She laughed.
I reached the fountain and pulled her backward over the ledge, planting her two feet on the gray cobblestone. Her clothing dripped and sagged, and she began to cry.
Knowing now that we would be caught, I slung her over my shoulder and began to walk. She kicked and beat my shoulder, but I was resolute and strong and walked further than I believed I could with her body draped over me.
I was reminded, then, of my mother’s assertion that you must work for love. Allegra’s love, I knew, was not mine to have. There was no obligation, no blood, no history that made it so. But even then, as something inside of me raged at her impulsiveness, a thing like love stirred. I didn’t want to turn her over to the abbey again. I wanted to brush her hair, put her in a warm bed, tell her a story about the shepherd in Bergamo who lost his sheep, the one my mother used to tell me, her eyes big and her voice hushed.
The last block my back began to ache and I could no longer carry Allegra. Her body was cold, and I knew the walk would be good for her circulation. She had calmed and, once placed on the cobblestone, held my hand obediently, as if aware we were facing trouble.
It was quiet in the city. A few articles of laundry waved from the balconies above us. The sand-colored facades seemed to close in around us as we walked. For the first time, I realized the columns that held the upper stories of the buildings above us were painted the color of dried blood.
The only way into the convent was through the kitchen door. The cooks stopped their chatter and chopping as we entered, the air around them pungent and much warmer than the temperature outside. Allegra’s wet hair curled over her shoulders, and she began to shiver.
I kept her hand in mine and we walked to the dormitory. I did not make eye contact with anyone; I was focused on getting Allegra into dry clothes.
Later that evening, after the rumors had spread, one of the sisters came to my room. “The abbess will see you now,” she said.
When Allegra’s first fever came on, I was unable to go to her, though I was told she asked for me. The abbess, infuriated at my poor decision, had not expelled me.
You’ll serve the Reparto Speciale indefinitely, she said. Under close supervision.
The Reparto Speciale was a dark wing of the convent, the place where only truly disturbed girls were kept, some chained to their beds, some refusing food, some maimed from experimental surgeries and unable to feed themselves. I fed them broth, their eyes gurgling with a wildness I could not fathom. I changed their sheets and clothes. Some spoke in tongues; some did not speak at all. I was bitten, besieged by prying fingers, hit in the chest with a bedpan. Once a week I filed their nails, which many of them bit down to jagged quicks or, in fits of rage, used to scratch the corneas of their caretakers in protest of a linen change. There were four patients per room, and I read scripture to them before turning down their gas lamps.
I did not dare stop by the infirmary on the way to my room at night; I’d been given strict instructions to avoid Allegra. Still, I imagined her shaking and sweating underneath rough blankets, delirious, lonely. Her father did not come to her bedside; through letters, I was told, he claimed to feel certain of her strong constitution and recovery.
When I lay in bed at night, I could still picture the eyes of my newborn daughter, freshly and forever closed, her eyelashes long and lush, her skin yellowed, her life abbreviated. Her eyes, at death, were certainly more peaceful than those of the girls I cared for, their breastbones protruding from thin gowns, their gnarled hands reaching toward the invisible.
Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary . . .
I longed to be at Allegra’s bedside. I knew that I could offer her comfort. But I would not risk further punishment, so I worked patiently, and waited.
Perhaps the abbess felt that I had served my time. Or perhaps Allegra had worn them down with her constant pleas. One month and thirteen days into my service in the Reparto Speciale, I was whisked to Allegra’s bedside, where I found a cheerful four-year-old thumbing through a book.
I smiled, took her hand, and kissed her forehead. Tell me how you’re feeling, mia cara, I said.
Can we go for another milk and amaretti? she asked.
And risk another swim in the fountain? I said. I think not.
Allegra smiled. Will you scratch my back? she asked, pointing to a place between her shoulders.
I knew that she would never love me, but I could delight, at least, in trust and familiarity.
We were allowed, then, to continue our daily visits before lunch. The abbess, I suppose, wanted to keep her sick, mercurial charge happy. Allegra and I always sat at the same table in the empty cafeteria. We continued to write letters to her father. They grew in length and content, and, with some exceptions, I tried to remain true to the author’s intent.
Dear Papa, she instructed. I now enjoy the spaghetti here. I have learned a great deal of Paradise and the angel Raphael. I would like very much for Mammina to bring me a toy and gold dress, and for you to visit and give me a hug and a kiss. How is your bad foot? I think I would like to have a bad foot too. Please visit your Allegra soon.
I kept her letters by my bedside. The abbess would not give me permission to post them—I asked monthly—though I could, she said, present them to Byron at his next visit. There were now close to fifty letters, detailing Allegra’s wishes for toys, her changing dietary preferences, remedial spiritual insights, and desire for visits from her family.
As we continued to compose the letters, week after week, my hardest job was convincing Allegra her father would read them.
Why does Papa not write back? she asked.
The mail is unreliable, I told her. Your father is a busy man who travels widely. But I know he loves you, and thinks of you fondly.
In February, the abbess received word that Byron might visit. There is some risk, she said, that the birth mother is living in the area and planning to kidnap Allegra from the convent. You’ll keep a close watch, please.
I realized that if someone were to take Allegra from the convent and offer her a better life, I would not be entirely happy. I felt agitated by the news, and guilty at my own agitation. I did not want to give her up.
If Byron’s visit is not certain, I told the abbess, I beg you not to get Allegra’s hopes up.
She looked sternly at me, and I could tell my advice was not welcome. Her face was something I could not understand. It was weathered, tired. The compassion in her eyes, if that’s what it was, was faded and rooted in an ancient system.
It would be good for him to visit, she said. Good for the convent.
And certainly good for Allegra, I said. But—
Perhaps we could post one of Allegra’s letters to him, the abbess said. As encouragement.
I’ll bring one to you in the morning, I said, excusing myself.
He wants to win a little favor, does he? one of the sisters asked me, as I left the abbess’s dark quarters.
There are many things he could have done for her favor in the last year, I said. Out of simple decency, if not love.
The sister looked shocked. Excuse me, I said, eager to move on from the topic. I should not have spoken so openly.
In my room that night, I leafed through the stack of letters I had penned for Allegra. She’d begun to sign her name and contribute her own words, her handwriting large and unsteady. She had a tendency to bear down too hard on the paper, leaving little tears that she worried over.
Will Papa mind? she’d ask. Should we begin again?
I imagined Byron reading the letters of his progeny, halfheartedly entertained. Perhaps the matters on a genius’s mind are bigger than little girls and their wants, bigger than dresses and circuses and cookies, early spiritual reckonings.
Not satisfied with the letters
I had, I found Allegra in the morning as she was entering her classroom. Would you like to post a new letter to your papa? I asked.
Knowing this letter would reach him directly, I was determined to let her speak her mind. I promised myself that I would write down every word. Her teacher, one of the younger sisters, remained in the hallway, eager to help.
My dear Papa, Allegra said, stopping to hold her forehead.
I can’t think, she said. My head hurts. What else should I say?
How about this? her teacher said. It being fair time, I should like so much a visit from my papa as I have many wishes to satisfy. Won’t you come to please your Allegrina, who loves you so?
In your own words, Allegra, I said. Your own words are best.
I like the way she said it, Allegra said, nodding to the sister, who, impressed with her own eloquence, moved into the classroom, beckoning Allegra to join her, and she did.
Allegra’s second fever hit fast. She began complaining of headaches and pain in her knees. She was sent to bed and assigned a full-time nurse. A doctor was summoned.
In the weeks prior, the convent had given shelter to a group of twelve men sent to us by Austrian authorities, soldiers perhaps, revolutionaries even, who had been found in a leaking boat off the coast of Grado. They were deloused and provided food, water, and beds. The doctor brought in to tend Allegra and others who had begun to show signs of rashes and fevers worried of a typhus outbreak. The abbess, however, insisted that Allegra’s illness was related to her ongoing malarial fevers. Still, she wrote to Byron, who had not come to visit his daughter the entire length of her stay in Bagnacavallo.
Now he will come, she assured me.
Those days, between my visits to Allegra’s bed, prayer, and duties, I began to realize that I was more devoted to work than to Christ. I did, however, subscribe to the belief that I might find my own redemption through suffering, and looking at her sick body, I suffered. Listening to her groans of discomfort, I suffered. Feeling the weak grip of her fingers around mine, I suffered.
When will Papa come? she asked me.
Almost Famous Women Page 10
