I return to the long wooden bench where Zenobia is seated. She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it tight. She is steady and calm, even though her eyes evince a profound sadness. The feeling of her hand on mine brings me comfort and strength.
“Do you think it will work?” I say. “The people believe that the relics of the saint hold the power to heal.” We gaze at the gilded reliquary on the high altar and the new frescoes and shiny new church around us resplendent in the candlelight.
She looks at me and shrugs. “I do not know if I believe in such things. Whatever faith I might have had sunk into the sea when I came here,” she says. “But I do believe that you would do anything to bring him back.” I inhale deeply and try to prevent the tears from spilling over. “You must know that my Cristiano is a strong man,” she continues. “If he has become sick, I believe that he has the power to get well again.”
I lean my head on Zenobia’s shoulder and she grasps my shoulders under her arm. I allow myself to bask in the comfort of this woman, nearly a stranger. She spreads her fingers gently against the tautness of my stomach, and I feel the warmth of her palm spread across my mid-section, bulging against the linen wraps. I place my hand on top of hers, and we sit like that for a long time, her strong hand under my palm. I close my eyes and feel the cool air of the church on my face. For the first time in months, I feel a glimmer of hope. She has brought me comfort, and that is something I have not felt since leaving home.
My gaze travels across the studio to the gilded box on the mantelpiece.
I should have offered the boatman the box of gold leaf instead of my necklace, which now seems relatively worthless since my man is no longer in my father’s house.
“There is a gilded box on the painter’s mantel that is filled with enough gold leaf for you to live well for the rest of your years,” I should have said. “Find my man and the box will be yours.”
If I had said that instead, would the boatman have worked harder to lure away my battiloro from the barriers of Cannaregio? Would he have brought him to me before he was taken away to the pesthouse?
“You could make a good living with those,” Master Trevisan says, gesturing to my worktable. Has he read my mind? I feel my face flush.
“Is that so?” I brush a layer of gesso on the new lidded boxes that the carpenter has brought. Now that I have one complete, I feel more confident about making another one while Master Trevisan watches.
“Indeed,” he says. “My cousin in Padua does very well. The ladies love those molded boxes. As soon as he makes one it goes out the door. In Our Most Serene City there must be many more people than in Padua who would buy them.”
While I work, Trevisan and his journeyman brush the colored pigments onto the panels, inside the outlines that I have made with the gilding. It is painstaking, slow work.
Within the week, a cargo barge will dock outside the artist’s studio, and the carpenters will load the panels, placing sheets of canvas between them to protect the colored surfaces. From there, the boat will wend its way through the canals to Santa Maria delle Vergini, where they will be unloaded and brought into the great church where my aunt is cloistered. It will take a full day or more for the carpenters to hammer the battens across the backs of the panels that will support the great altarpiece.
Trevisan paces back and forth, scratching his beard and looking at the images of the saints surrounded by the great swaths of gold that I have laid down with my own hands. Trevisan takes account of the saints beginning to take shape on the panels. Saint Peter. Christopher. Barbara. He stops before the panel with the figure of Mary Magdalene and gestures to the picture with his long, elegant finger.
“Maria Magdalena,” he says, smiling at me. The likeness is uncanny; it is true. Once the picture is hanging in the church, no one will ever know that the model for the picture was a gilder’s daughter, a wretch who found herself hiding a secret inside the studio of the painter that made this very altarpiece. They will only see the great sinner with the flowing hair.
“What do you think?” Trevisan asks. “Too heavy on the vermillion?”
“It is difficult for me to judge,” I say. “I never could have painted that.”
“You do not give yourself enough credit,” the painter says. “You have grown in the months since you have been here. Come.” I approach the worktable where I have been practicing painting hands. Trevisan picks up a small panel I have used to practice, and holds it alongside a panel painted mostly by Trevisan’s journeyman. He stands close to me, and I smell the musk of his breath, sending a strange tingle down my spine.
“See?” he says, and I must admit that my hand is not so much worse than his.
“Signor Zanchi has invited us to his home after the installation of the altarpiece next week. You may recall that he is the one who has made this donation to the convent. He is hosting a large celebration and inviting his associates. I typically decline such invitations. I do not enjoy crowded parties, but I do not feel I can say no this time. He has been exceptionally generous, and there may be other potential new patrons there for us. Under the circumstances,” he says, “my wife will not go.” I imagine Signora Trevisan napping upstairs, her enlarged stomach heaving up and down with each breath. More and more often, she has taken to her bed.
“But Stefano will be there,” he says, “and I would like for you to come too. It would be a shame for you not to receive the credit you are due.”
“Maria.”
My aunt presses forward, urging me to look at her. My eyes stay in my lap, fingering the black glass beads of the rosary that she has pushed through the iron swirls of the grate. I watch their dull reflections flash as I turn them over in my hands.
At this very moment inside the abbey church, Master Trevisan and his journeyman are meeting with the carpenters, discussing how to fasten together the prepared panels, to secure the battens on the back of the panels that will prevent them from warping in our damp environment. I know the men are there taking their time, scratching their heads, gesturing with their hands before the vast empty space of the altar, strategizing a way to move and mount the panels in a way to take advantage of the light.
“You must have faith,” my aunt urges with as much sincerity as she can muster. “Our congregation—and many others across the city—are praying well beyond the holy offices for the healing of those in the lazzaretti. You must believe that they will come home.”
I nod, but her words fall hollow on my heart. In the core of my being, I fear the worst. The image that pollutes my head now is that of the officials dragging our goods, our bed linens, and God forbid—the tools of our trade—through the crooked door of my father’s house and stacking them on the ox carts to be burned in the square.
“You must count yourself fortunate that you are lodged with the painter,” she continues. “God has spared you the suffering. There is a reason for it. He has placed that artist in your life for a reason. He has also brought you here to this house of God, Maria.”
She speaks my name again, softly but insistently, as if she is trying to coax me back from a dream far distant. She reaches her hand and wrist through the grate and squeezes my fingers around the rosary in my hand. “I have spoken with our badessa about you.” She falls silent for a few long moments until I meet her clear, green eyes. “I want you to consider coming here to be with us at Santa Maria delle Vergini.”
I feel my heart skip a beat and my mouth form a large circle. I feel awakened now, and meet her eyes. “What do you mean? Me? In this convent?” The idea seems so ludicrous that I stifle a laugh.
“Yes,” she says, and I think I see the sides of her mouth turn up into a grin. “Think about it. You are already a natural-born singer, from what your father has told me. Your vocal talents would be greatly appreciated here.”
I hear myself gush, then the laugh comes out, but when I look at my aunt’s face, I see nothing bu
t seriousness. She has been thinking about this for a long time. “Zia, I hardly know what to say.” I try to imagine myself sitting in the choir stalls singing for the rest of my days, looking at the altar panels that I have made partly with my own hands.
“Say yes,” she says, flashing her teeth. “It would be a joy to me to have you here. Besides, convent life is not so bad. Everything here is taken care of. Our cooks are some of the best in Venice. You have already tasted our pastries, have you not? You must try some of the other dishes.”
“I know you all eat well, but...”
“Listen to me,” she says. “I know your father wanted to arrange for your marriage, but now that things are as they are, under the circumstances...” She hesitates, and I see the lines crinkle around her eyes. “Well. Things are tenuous for you. A woman artisan on her own… Yes, it is done under certain circumstances but you must admit to yourself that it is the difficult path.”
I do not respond, but only twist the ragged edge of my sleeve around my hand.
My aunt continues. “You must consider joining us here in the convent, as soon as it can be arranged. Your father may not have scraped together enough money to dower you, but surely it is enough to make a donation suitable to place you in a house of God where you will be able to ply your skills for His glory. You must follow the path that is laid out for you by God,” my aunt says. “If you search your heart you must know that it is what is meant for you. Come to us, Maria.”
In the silence, I try to search my heart to see if there is an inkling of truth there. Is this what God has willed me to do? And why is she pushing me to this path of life?
“Why are you trying to help me?” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.
My aunt suddenly seems out of patience. Her face turns serious now, the smile gone, the face grave and sincere.
“Because, my dear girl, you of all people need help. Will you be the last to admit it?” She leans in close to the grate and grasps the wrought iron with both hands. For a moment she looks in the direction of the dark corridor to see if anyone is there. Then she looks at me in the eyes and lowers her voice to an insistent whisper. “You may be trying to hide it, but it is clear as day to me that you are with child.”
Chapter 35
The painter’s wife has taken to her bed, overwhelmed with spasms in her abdomen that come and go over the days. She spends more and more of her day there as her body burgeons, and Antonella is more occupied with the children and chores.
From her bedchamber, the painter’s wife has dispatched Antonella with a frock for me to try. Antonella has carried the beautiful billowy dress, deep green with lace trim, destined for the party we are going to attend after the unveiling of the altar panels. I try it on in despair, watching in the mirror as the dress hangs on my frame, my thin arms poking out of the puff. Antonella comes to my rescue, producing a darning needle and tucking pleats under my breasts so that the silk falls and hides my middle that presses against the bindings made with long swaths of linen.
“The painter’s wife is working hard to make sure that Pascal Grissoni cannot bear to take his eyes off of you at this party.” Antonella sets her dark eyes on me, full of thinly veiled envy.
The shoes that the painter’s wife has sent are too large, so I have done my best to shine my own. In the end, I hope that my scuffed leather mules will simply be hidden beneath the copious drape of the green silk.
“I rather think that instead she is trying to get me out of this house sooner rather than later.”
Antonella bursts into a laugh that ends in a cough. “Who could blame her for wishing you married as soon as possible?” she says. “You have upset the balance. Be still.” She fumbles with a knot in the thread.
“I have done nothing,” I say, keeping my fingers busy by running them through my hair to untangle a snag, then redoing the braids. I think about everything I have done.
The truth is that I feel that I might burst, that maybe I should just tell Master Trevisan or his wife the truth. That I was only sent here as a way of separating me from my lover, that I am with child, that the boatman is trying to steal from them, that I do not want to marry Pascal Grissoni, that in spite of everyone’s expectations of what I should do, I love someone else. That I have siphoned off the gold leaf I brought from my father’s workshop, that the man who made the gold is my secret lover from whom my father tried to separate me by bringing me here to Master Trevisan’s workshop. It all seems impossible to unravel, and all I can do is hold everything inside.
I do not know how the painter and his wife have not realized my condition. The painter, after all, has been watching me for months, replicating my hair, my face, in his sketchbooks and on the panel. But I realize that his vision is tempered by what he wishes to see, to the point where he does not see reality. That is what he does best. And the painter’s wife is focused on herself, on her own body, the distractions of her own family, and the delicate balance of running her household.
“That may be true,” Antonella says, “but I have overheard the painter and his wife arguing about you.”
“About me?”
She nods. “You are correct that the wife would like for your betrothal to be secured as quickly as possible.” She tugs at the thread at my side. “But the painter... He wants you to stay. He says that he must honor his contract with your father, but I rather think that he likes having you in his workshop.” She flashes her black eyes up at me again.
I feel heat rise to my face. My aunt’s words ring inside my head. It is clear as day to me that you are with child. All I want to do is hide. I wish I could run home to my father and my cousin.
My cousin. He was raised in the convent. And now my aunt is trying to convince me to go there, to raise my child up the way her own son was raised. By the time he came to us as a seven-year-old, he had learned to write and read. In the convent my cousin was well fed. He learned how to work. Perhaps it is not so bad, if not for me, for the child inside of me.
“There,” Antonella says, breaking the thread with her teeth. “No one would ever guess what’s beneath all this silk.” She runs her hand along the fabric. I look down at the dress and must admit to myself that it is lovely. Her teeth glow white in the evening shadows, and her voice comes out like a hiss.
“Bellissima.”
“Have you brought your fare?” the boatman says as I step into the gondola in Master Trevisan’s boat slip. He offers his hand, but I ignore it, lifting my skirts with one hand and grasping the iron lantern pole with the other. When I do not respond, he tries again.
“It only costs a few sheets of gold leaf for a gondola ride, signorina.”
I meet his wide grin with a steely gaze.
“I have already paid you,” I say, steadying my balance in the rocking boat. “All of the gold leaf that I brought with me from my father’s workshop has been used up in the making of the altarpiece. And you already have my necklace. There is nothing left. Besides, you have not lived up to your side of the bargain. You have not brought me my battiloro.”
“Ha,” he says. “Your battiloro. I think it is time that you tell the truth about him.”
“What do you mean?”
His dark eyes narrow into slits. “I mean the trip to the lazzaretti, all that talk about the Saracen man. It is all smoke,” he says, spreading his fingers before my face. “I am beginning to think that your battiloro does not exist.”
My mouth falls open.
“Tell us the truth, signorina indoradòr. You have been hiding it from us all along.”
“He is a real person,” I insist. “He lives… lived in my own house. Ask anyone in our guild!”
The boatman’s mouth forms a smirk. “I believe that you have been sending me down a false path, signorina. This battiloro may exist, but I think you are trying to distract all of us from the truth. Dai, admit it,” he says, gestur
ing toward my midsection. “The painter is the father of your child.”
“You are... pazzesco!” The word comes out like a sputter, a whisper that should be a scream if I dared to raise my voice in the painter’s house.
The boatman’s mouth twitches a few times as if he might burst into laughter, but instead he lowers his voice. “But it is a reasonable conjecture,” he says. “The wife is already suspicious, eh? Wives... They have a way of sensing the truth even when no one else can see it.”
“That is a lie!” Another quiet scream.
“But it is you who is lying, signorina.” The boatman’s eyes seem to turn black. “There is more gold leaf in the painter’s house,” he says. “A lot of it, from what I understand.” I am left to wonder how much Antonella has told him.
“A cassetina,” the boatman continues, hissing the word under his breath. “A golden box.”
My heart begins to pound. The signora’s dowry box. Would he really take it from Master Trevisan’s hearth?
“If you bring it to me,” he says, “then I might change my mind about telling the painter’s wife what I know about you and her husband.” Now I begin to see the outline of a plan to extort Master Trevisan and leave the house behind. What I did not realize until now is that the boatman plans to implicate me, too.
At that moment, Master Trevisan and his journeyman appear at the doorway to the boat slip, and step down the stone staircase. The kitchen door clatters shut behind them.
I lower my voice until it is barely audible. “You are evil—and just wrong. And if you want that box, you will have to get it yourself.”
I duck into the passenger compartment and heave myself onto the upholstered bench. Out of view of the boatman, I press my face in my palms and try to calm my wildly beating heart before the men step into the boat.
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