The Painter's Apprentice

by Laura Morelli

  “Now that we have the panels for the Vergini commission prepared we can turn our attention to them in earnest.”

  I nod, feeling grateful and excited that it means I will be able to turn back to the gold.

  “We must get moving on this commission or it will end up here on my wall,” he says, gesturing to the pictures hanging from floor to ceiling.

  “You have many,” I say. The painter’s studio is filled with pictures. Some of them are old and gilded. I run my hands over one gilded panel that my grandfather or great-grandfather might have made. Alongside it there is another picture that has captured my attention, that of a young woman reclining, with her head lolling on her arm. “Who is she?” I ask.

  I hear the painter chortle. “Yes,” he says. “That one has a story.” He comes to stand beside me, enlacing his fingers behind his back. “A failed commission.”

  “I did not imagine you would have such a thing,” I say.

  He waves his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “It happens to all of us.”

  “And so all of these pictures...” I begin, and the painter nods.

  “Many of these are commissions that have failed for some reason—either for me, my father, or his father before him.” He shrugs. “The patron abandons them, changes his mind, or turns out not to have the money to pay. Sometimes patrons die before I finish their commission. More rarely,” he says, running his finger along the top of the frame to remove a layer of dust, “as in this case, the love affair runs its course before the portrait is finished.” He smiles, then turns back to the picture.

  “The patron lost interest.”

  The painter nods. “Alegreza Antelini,” he says, gesturing to the painting. “This one falls into the category of a love affair that ended badly before I could finish the portrait.”

  “You did not have a contract?” I ask.

  “I did, as always,” he says. “More importantly than that, I had a verbal promise from one of the most upstanding men in Our Serene Republic. A member of the Ten.”

  “And he never paid you?” my eyes widen.

  The painter shakes his head. “I was still very young, naïve enough to think that the signor would come to claim the picture, or at least compensate me for the many hours I had spent observing the woman’s face and body, and replicating it in paint.”

  I imagine the woman in the painter’s studio, shuddering against the cold. I blush, but thankfully the painter does not seem to notice. Somehow the picture does not fit in the great space of the painter’s studio. It is a private painting, a cabinet picture meant to be savored, consumed. Consumed by one pair of eyes.

  “And so,” the painter continues, “eventually I became resigned that this picture would end up hanging on the walls of my own house. In retrospect, I should have finished the picture before things went sour. I should have seen it coming.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The young woman was… encumbered,” he says. I feel my stomach turn. “I saw it as soon as she disrobed to sit for the picture. I should have finished it that day and whisked it to the patron and asked to be paid before he discovered it.” He chuckles. “He was not the father.”

  “What happened to her?”

  The artist scratches his beard and shrugs. “You can imagine her father was not pleased. They did what parents in this situation do. They decided that their daughter was best suited for a life devoted to God. I heard from a reliable source that she took the veil and her vows. She was escorted to a cell at the convent of San Giovanni Evangelista on Torcello. The parents made a respectable donation of jewelry and religious paintings, which of course could be resold to offset the cost of housing their daughter for the rest of her days.”

  Trevisan runs his fingers lightly over the textured surface of the paint, tracing the hourglass outline of the woman’s narrow waist and full hips. “Alegreza Antelini,” he says again. “She was one of our city’s great beauties, the envy of countless women, object of desire of countless men.” I try to imagine the curves of her body now obscured under the black habit of the Benedictines.

  Trevisan stands back and observes his work. “This is a good one, if you do not mind my saying,” he says, tapping the panel with the back of his hand. “Too bad no one will see it.” He turns and smiles at me, the creases of his eyes wrinkling.

  Chapter 22

  I know that the painter is finally happy with his sketch for the altarpiece, as he has opened a small glass jar of black ink and selected a fine brush for applying it. Carefully, he traces his charcoal lines, laying down the final design on the great panels I have prepared with gesso. The under-drawing may show under the paint, I know, and it is those lines I have to pay attention to when the panel is ready for my gilding.

  I see that the painter has intended some of the under-drawing to show, in order to provide for more modeling of the drapery and the shadows of the arms and faces. Along the edges of the under-drawing I run my sharpened metal stylus so that it will provide a border for my gold leaf.

  I swirl the tip of my brush into a small pot of bole, watching the ruddy liquid coat the soft brown horsehairs. The smell is at the same time repugnant and comforting, the peculiar odor of the glue made from animal fat mixed with red clay from the mainland which has filled my nostrils since the day I was born. I press my brush against the side of the pot, letting the excess drip back into the dark liquid, then I begin to apply it to the prepared wood. At first, it goes on as bright, blood-red liquid, but it dries to a dull ruddy hue.

  The poplar panels that the carpenters have made for us have already been prepared. Now the panels are stacked vertically around Trevisan’s studio, five large pieces that will be fastened together in the church. Trevisan, his journeyman, and I work in companionable silence, each doing his or her task as the fire in the hearth crackles and spits. I watch the reddish bole coat the white gesso underlayment, moving my brush slowly to avoid lines between the layers.

  “Most people believe that the gold is completely opaque, but that is incorrect,” my father told me countless times, wagging a finger under my chin before dipping his own brush into the bole. I nodded, though I had heard this proclamation many times. I was not one to question this assertion, for he knew his trade.

  I knew that it was important to go slowly in applying the bole because gold leaf highlights any nicks, rough spots, or imperfections in the wood beneath. Any of those can show through the layers, and the gold leaf will magnify them all the more. It is important to take the time to prepare the surface as perfectly as possible so that nothing shows through.

  “What is underneath the gold has everything to do with the final appearance,” my father continued as if telling me for the first time. “The red bole brings warmth to the coloration of the panel, and it works in harmony with the reds, browns, and other such pigments of the painting.”

  “And since it shows through the layers of gold leaf you must layer on the bole as perfectly as possible. All the more reason to take your time.”

  My father stopped in mid-sentence and smiled. “Brava.” He pressed his brush down on the worktable emphatically as if he were done for the day. “Do you see?” he said, turning to my cousin and the battiloro, who were occupying themselves quietly on the other side of our workshop. “I have taught my daughter well.”

  Cristiano caught my eye then and I saw the wrinkles alongside his eyes as he flashed a private smile that made the color rise to my face.

  The pleasant image of the battiloro in my head is rudely interrupted as the painter’s wife charges into the room. “He is the son of a ferryman, so what does that tell you? Humph! It is no wonder that he cannot pretend to have elegant manners.” The painter’s wife blows a puff of air as if that explains it all. She shifts her sleeping baby to the other arm.

  The painter shrugs, as if resigned that the subject of the boatman is destined to continue. “I hav
e expended my own time and effort to instill the manners of a private boatman, to teach him all that is required of a good servant. Not to mention that he has the chance to row one of the most magnificent new gondolas in our city. I challenge anyone to find one any more beautiful.” The painter turns his attention back to his paintbrush.

  I do my best to stay focused on the red bole on the tip of my brush. The painter’s wife moves toward her husband. “But don’t you see? He has been anything but faithful, Benvoglio. He has been nothing if not ungrateful. We provide him with a fine roof over his head, food to eat, even cured him of that nasty infection when we signed the contract and he came into our service.”

  The painter scratches his head nervously, then smooths his wavy hair away from his face. He shoots a glance at me then looks quickly at the floor. I do my best to focus on my brushwork.

  His wife continues. “And do not forget that we have bought him a collection of clothing at a not insignificant sum.”

  I try to push the vile image of the boatman and Antonella from my head.

  “Please excuse us, Maria,” the painter says, looking at me sheepishly, “for airing these matters with our servants.”

  “I would not know,” I manage to say. “We had no servants. My cousin and I did everything that needed doing in my father’s house.”

  The painter’s wife puts her hand to her mouth. “I am sorry, Maria. As usual I have said too much.” But she continues, tugging at her husband’s sleeve. “We had better be careful about paying him in case he decides to disappear again.”

  All I can hope is that that hateful boatman does not have the instinct to chatter on like the painter’s wife.

  “Donata!” the painter barks sharply to his wife.

  She puts a hand on her hip. “I am sorry, husband, but why do you think that this time is going to be any different from the last?”

  “Because I have a plan,” says the painter, finally exasperated.

  “What is that?”

  “I plan to withhold his salary.” The painter casts a fleeting glance at the gilded box on the mantel. I am not sure that he is even aware that he has done it. “Instead of giving him payments up front I will pay in arrears instead.”

  The painter’s wife raises her eyebrows. “That is unusual,” she says, “but I suppose if it keeps him in place.”

  “The boatman is here now, signora.” I hear Antonella’s voice, then I see her head appear through the barely opened kitchen door. I wonder how long she has been standing there and if she has been listening to the conversation. She smiles tight-lipped at Trevisan’s wife. “He is waiting with the gondola in the boat slip, signora.”

  I think of the golden sheaves I have paid the boatman over the past weeks. What would the painter and his wife say if they knew that I had bought the boatman’s silence? And what is that slimy boatman doing with gold leaf anyway? Surely he must be pawning it for zecchini somewhere else in the city. I imagine him trading gold leaf for the gold coins in his pocket.

  Despite my efforts, I realize that I am now embroiled in the painter’s matter with the servants, and I cannot share my secret. Once again, desperation begins to fill my heart.

  Chapter 23

  The aroma of freshly baked pastry wafts from the small, beautifully wrapped package that I carry back from my aunt in the convent. I anticipate the taste of the soft leaves made with milk and fresh butter from the convent’s goats cloistered behind the building. We always have these pastries at Easter time, served along with roasted piglet, radicchio, and tender pea shoots. My aunt is exceptionally talented with them, and in my pregnant state I crave sweets, more than I have ever wanted to eat.

  “Your aunt is a genius with the spatula and the fire,” the sister says to me as she escorts me from the visitors’ room to the main entrance of the convent. I would not call her elderly, and I suspect that she appears older than she is. Even though I cannot see her legs under her long habit, I imagine that one leg is significantly longer than the other because she hobbles, carrying her weight on one side.

  “I am certain that her skills are well known here, sorella.”

  “She is famous!” the nun flashes a few greyed, crooked teeth. She herself is carrying another bag with pastries inside. I know that Antonella will be waiting for me back at the painter’s house, wanting to study my aunt’s confections with great interest, spending many hours trying to recreate the recipe.

  I have been avoiding my aunt but she has written to me several times. At Master Trevisan’s canal-side door I have received small folds of paper with her delicate, looping handwriting, entreating me to visit.

  Even though she is the one locked behind the iron grille, she seems one of the only ones who can give me the information that I so desperately desire. And so I come to see her, and pray that she will not see me so changed.

  Suddenly, a small door swings open and a small boy spills into the convent corridor. “Dolci! I smell dolci!” His high-pitched voice booms in the brick-vaulted corridor, and he rushes toward the nun.

  “Get back inside—cattivo!” The nun yells in a stern voice. She swats the boy with her hand, then grasps his shoulders and presses him against her girth, as if she might squeeze the breath out of him. “These are not for you!” she says. He wriggles free, laughing, and escapes through another door open to the corridor. “Cattivo!” the nun yells again, then flashes a smirk at me to show that she is joking.

  My eyes follow the running boy into the room. I see flames in a great hearth. Around the room are several steaming cauldrons and piles of linens. Children of all ages with their heads wrapped in rags are beating out the linens over the heat. From the small sliver of an opening in the door I see that the convent laundry is vast. I watch a young girl, her sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, rubbing a cloth over a washboard.

  “I did not know there were so many children here,” I say.

  “What in heavens do you think we are here for?” the nun shrugs. “This is what we do. They work, yes. We give them jobs in the laundry, the kitchen, the boathouse, cleaning the dining hall, the latrines. But we also teach them their letters. Many of them go on to do great things in the city and on terra firma, I am proud to say.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the mainland.

  “All of them are orphans?”

  She nods. “Well, nearly all. They come to us every day. Right here in fact.”

  We approach the side door to the convent, the one I have seen from the quayside, the one with the opening where people leave small bundles in the middle of the night and press money through the opening in the marble to pay for their care. On the interior side of the door I see that there is more than an opening. There is a giant wooden wheel like a grindstone, set horizontally to turn around a vertical column. Part of it projects outside the convent wall to form a ledge beneath the window. When people place their unwanted babies on it, they turn the wheel and the baby is ushered seamlessly inside the convent walls to the care of the sisters. A small wooden trap pricks a string that operates a small brass bell.

  “When the bell rings we drop what we are doing to come see what God has brought us,” the nun tells me.

  I stare at the wheel and ponder the many reasons why someone might to want to hand over a baby.

  As if reading my mind, the nun says, “Sometimes there is a letter that comes with the baby. “More often not.”

  “A letter?”

  She nods. “So many unfortunate stories,” she clucks. “Most often those born outside the sanctity of marriage. Or the privilege of money. It costs to raise a child,” she says, rubbing her fingers together as if she were fingering a coin. Then she shrugs. “But then others with charitable intentions place money in the box, so the Lord provides for these poor babes.”

  I reach my hand out to touch the wooden wheel, feeling it budge and creak on its metal track beneath my hand. Just the
n, I feel a small kick in my side.

  Chapter 24

  If the orphan wheel, that creaking wooden scaffetta that draws the infants behind the convent walls, has haunted me, then the tiny kick in my side has unnerved me to the core. As I hear the convent door latch closed behind me and I melt back into the bustle of the city, I feel lightheaded, as if I might faint. I press my palm to the rough brick convent wall for a few moments, judging how many steps I must take from here to the painter’s gondola.

  The painter’s boatman is waiting for me.

  He is seated next to Trevisan’s gondola with his legs hanging over the stone lip of the quayside. Beside him, a tall, slim boatman with a red velvet hat is sharing a husk of bread.

  “They stuff themselves with sausages and sweetbreads, while we only have a ration of bread and wine, and hardly enough wood to keep the bedchamber warm,” I hear him say to the other boatman.

  They have not seen me. I think of the dank room off the kitchen where the boatman sleeps. Part of me feels pity for him.

  “Count yourself fortunate,” I hear the other boatman say. “I am sleeping in a corner of the chicken yard.”

  I step carefully to the waterside and lower myself into the gondola. The other boatman gestures in my direction and Trevisan’s boatman notices me for the first time. He scrambles to his feet and jaunts into the boat, grasping the oar from where it is tucked along the side of the keel.

  I have no desire to engage the boatman in conversation. I press myself into the passenger compartment and close the curtain behind me. I place the package with my aunt’s pastries on the seat beside me, their aroma still wafting from the linen wrapping. I close my eyes. I feel the boat rock as the boatman takes his position on the aft deck. I hear him place the oar into the carved oarlock. Then I feel the gondola begin to ply the water. Mercifully, he does not speak during our journey to the painter’s workshop.