The Painter's Apprentice

by Laura Morelli

  “My husband says that they have buried those of our guild—including your father and cousin—not in one of the mass pits for plague victims, but rather in the cemetery on one of the outlying islands where many of our fellow painters are laid to rest. Thanks be to God for that, cara. At least in that you may take some comfort.” Signora Gardesano then pressed a meager stack of linens in my hand. “I embroidered them with my own hands,” she tells me.

  “I am grateful,” I said.

  She crossed her arms over her ample breast and continued. “The walls are chattering with the news, you know.” Her eyes passed over my midsection, but she forced herself to return her gaze to my face. I resisted the urge to bring my hand to my stomach.

  “I am prepared,” I said. “I am going to be all right on my own.” I do not tell her that even though I know leaving my baby in the convent is the best thing for him, it has taken everything in me to do it.

  The gastaldo has told me that the guild will provide funds to help me buy what I need to replenish my father’s house. It is meager but the bereavement payment is to be expected in such circumstances, he has told me. Beyond that, it is up to me now to try to reestablish our patrons and make a living for myself. If I am to make a life from this place and carry on my father’s trade, it will be up to me.

  The next time I hear a knock at the door, I am startled to see the painter’s wife.

  “There she is!” she exclaims, running her eyes over me up and down. “Look at her, poor dear.”

  “Signora Trevisan,” I say. I put down the horsehair cloth I have been using to sand the new alder wood box on my father’s worktable. Her midsection seems to have deflated, but her cheeks are still flushed with pink just as when she was with child. I cannot help but observe beautiful blue satin trim at her waist and neckline, and the pearls entwined in the fine piles of hair she has arranged around her face. She carries a brown woven bag under her arm.

  “Dio, but you are brave!” says the painter’s wife, stepping across the threshold and scanning the space with her wide eyes. “Having a child and then going back to reclaim your father’s house! Where is the little one? I came to lay eyes on the baby!”

  “He… He is with the sisters,” I say, feeling my heart pound at the sight of her. “It seemed the right thing to do… under the circumstances.” My eyes land on a pair of large dust motes in the corner and I wish that I had swept.

  “Ah,” she says, and I see her face fall. “A sensible arrangement, under the circumstances, as you say. Well, God bless him. And to you. Auguri.”

  “That is very kind of you,” I say, watching the painter’s wife’s eyes scan the cramped room. She places her bag on the table, then runs her eyes from the low wooden beams on the ceiling to the worn desk under the window, to our modest hearth. I am acutely aware of the cobwebs in the window and our bare furnishings.

  “Congratulations are in order to you, too, signora?”

  Her face lights up. “A little girl,” she says. “Benvoglio was perhaps disappointed, but no matter. She is healthy, as am I. That is what is important.”

  “Thanks be to God. I would like to offer you something to eat,” I manage to say. “Forgive me. I would have been better prepared if I had known you were coming.”

  “Figurati, there is no need,” says the painter’s wife. “I am here to help you, my dear, not the other way around. But I will sit.”

  “Of course,” I say, rushing to pull out one of our rickety wooden chairs.

  The painter’s wife heaves herself onto the chair and sighs audibly. As soon as she sits, the two cats, who seem to have taken up residence with me even though I have nothing to feed them, weave their way around Signora Trevisan’s ankles. She ignores them. From a ceramic pitcher on the table, I pour well water into a chipped ceramic cup and hand it to her.

  “I walked all the way from San Marco,” she says. “And in this heat! But how else was I to get here? Who would want to ride in one of those filthy boats from the traghetto? Ha!” Signora Trevisan swallows the water in a single gulp. “When the gastaldo informed us that you had returned to your father’s workshop, well, I insisted that we come to see you right away,” she says. “I am sorry that my husband was not able to join me. He is occupied, as you know, with his many commissions.” Her fingers fidget nervously around the cup.

  I feel heat flash across my cheeks. The painter and I have not set eyes on one another since that night when I ran from him in the church and he left for terra firma. “Of course,” I say.

  “He asked me to convey his best wishes,” she continues.

  “Master Trevisan has returned home,” I venture.

  “Yes,” she says. “He came back home as soon as he received word of the... surprising events... that occurred in our home.”

  I am not able to find the words to respond. I refill the ceramic cup with water, grateful to have something to do with my hands. Mercifully, the painter’s wife continues to talk.

  “We did not want you to go away feeling that we harbored any ill will,” says the wife. “We did not hold you responsible for... the things that happened.” She is looking at my stomach now, refusing to lift her eyes to my face. “What I mean to say is that what happened with our servants, well... none of it had anything to do with you. And the matter with the gondola... It is unfortunate that you were caught in the middle of such a turn of events.” It is unlike the painter’s wife to hesitate like this, and I wonder if her husband has planted the words in her head.

  Finally, unable to restrain herself, the painter’s wife throws up her hands and meets my eyes. “Antonella and that evil boatman seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I knew we were wrong to trust them.”

  “Master Trevisan’s beautiful gondola,” I say.

  “The gondola maker and his sons from the Squero Vianello came to help us fish the boat out of the water,” the painter’s wife says. “By the time they arrived it had sunk nearly all the way to the bottom of the boat slip! They had to get the rocks out of it to pull it up,” she says.

  “What a shame.”

  “Now it is upside down on trestles in the boat slip. The gondola makers offered to repair it right away but my husband does not seem to be able to bring himself to do anything with it. A shame, you are right. It was a beautiful boat but I doubt that my husband will have it repaired, at least for now, for he is unlikely to hire a new boatman,” she says.

  “The boatman and Antonella…” I venture.

  The painter’s wife shakes her head vigorously as if to rid the image of her servants from her head. ”At first he seemed to be such a capable young man. Almost too good to be true. But I knew it was a mistake to bring him back. I knew not to trust that boatman. He was marked by fire already, for the love of God! Surely Benvoglio should have heeded such a sign. But Antonella... That took me by surprise. I never would have thought of the two of them together. Such a transgression of my trust! I confided everything to her, even my own children.”

  “They have not been caught?” I ask.

  The painter’s wife shakes her head. “The signori di notte looked for them for a while, but never found them. Then my husband got word that they were seen on terra firma trying to pawn off the box to a second-hand broker.”

  The striped cat makes a tentative move to jump into Signora Trevisan’s lap, but she stands. Thwarted, the cat rubs himself along my leg instead.

  The painter’s wife takes my hand. “But enough about us,” she says. “You, my dear, look one step away from the pesthouse yourself, if I may say it! Have you nothing to eat? My goodness, a girl like you, all by yourself. How will you manage?”

  “The gastaldo is helping to arrange my father’s affairs,” I say. “I will be fine.”

  “But how will you get along?” She gestures around the barren studio. “When we heard that you had left the convent... Well, we just could not imag
ine that you would try to come back to your father’s workshop all by yourself.”

  “The convent was not for me,” I interject, “and… well. It seems that neither was marriage.”

  The painter’s wife examines my face. “The baby’s father?”

  I shrug. “He perished in the lazzaretto with my father and cousin. That is the only conclusion.”

  The painter’s wife nods, and the two of us fall silent. Signora Trevisan’s eyes scan the meager tools on my father’s worktable. Finally, she says, “It will take some time for you to establish yourself.”

  “I know my father’s patrons,” I say, “though I must rebuild those alliances. It will take some time, but above all I want to carry on my father’s legacy.”

  “Very honorable. That reminds me,” she says, and I wonder if I see her eye twitch. “My husband has asked me to tell you that he will continue to send you gilding work as you are able to do it. Anyway, he has sent you something.”

  From the dark woven bag on the table, the painter’s wife dumps some two dozen new metal molds onto my worktable. I gasp, then finger each one, examining the small forms of women, men, decorative designs, animals, and plants. I imagine the numbers of different gilded boxes that I might make with the molds.

  The painter’s wife then produces a leather book from the bag. I recognize the stamped binding immediately. It is the book of engravings that I thumbed through so many times in the painter’s studio. The value of such a book might amount to two times what my father and I might earn in a year.

  “Oh no!” I say. “I could not accept this, Signora Trevisan. It is too precious.”

  “It is the least we could do for you, cara. After all, it is thanks to you that my dowry has been preserved.” She shakes her head. “If that boatman had made off with all of that gold… Well, I can hardly stand to think of it.”

  “I do not know what to say.”

  She waves her hand. “My husband insisted. He says that he retrieved the molds from his cousin’s studio when he was visiting his ancestral lands near Padua. He has little use for them. He thought you might use them, and the book will help you get started,” she says. “Benvoglio says that on terra firma they are successful in selling these gilded boxes to new brides. “Perhaps they will help you earn a living once you get a few of the boxes out there. Maria,” she says. “This path you have chosen will not be easy for you. Cavolo, look at this place!”

  I feel both insulted and ashamed, though she does not seem to notice. I pick up the orange cat and stroke the silky fur between its ears, as if this small act might soothe the affront. “It is not the same as your husband’s workshop, signora,” I say. “But it never was, even in our most prosperous time.”

  The painter’s wife grasps my arm. “No. That much is true. And even so, I would change places with you,” she says, giving me a thin-lipped smile. “I can see that you belong here with the gold, that you are strong enough to do well here in your father’s studio on your own. Truth be told, I envy you.”

  Chapter 46

  With each passing day, it becomes clear who is on my side and who is not. Signora Gardesana, in addition to bringing me two rickety chairs, has also brought me an onion pie and some asparagus and radicchio that she put away in the spring. I remove a few small pieces each day from the containers, making it last. She has also offered me some seeds for the garden. I have sowed them in the hard ground and wonder if they will last long enough to be nourished by the fall rains. The baker at the corner dispatches her son at the end of the day to bring me a loaf or two of bread left after the day’s customers have finished their marketing.

  A few of my father’s guildsmen have appeared at our doorway to offer their condolences. On the surface it would seem a generous act, but I quickly realize that many of them are there to gawk at me and my meager workshop.

  “Your father would not have wanted to see you in such a state,” said the wife of one of these men, a woman who knew my mother long ago. I know she meant well, but I felt stung under her sharp gaze, and pulled at the linen wrap that I have fashioned to cover my shorn hair. “How will you get along by yourself?” she had asked.

  “I will be fine,” I said, but the more I am asked the question, the less I know the answer.

  But most of the guildsmen and their wives have not taken the time to express their opinion to me directly, though I am certain that they whisper to one another at the market and the laundry well. Most have simply stayed away or kept their judgments to themselves.

  Along my father’s worktable I have lined up the rectangular wooden boxes, and placed their lids in a row along the dining table. The carpenter would not accept a scudo in return for making the boxes for me; not that I have any to offer. With sad eyes he said, “Keep them, signorina,” before frowning and rubbing his gnarled hands together. I imagine that the carpenter must not have much to spare himself after feeding all of those children of his, and I feel grateful.

  I have set aside the tin molds that Master Trevisan has brought me. For days, I have rearranged the figures into varying designs, referring to the book of engravings for inspiration. I have drawn numerous sketches of possible compositions and combinations, using some of the newfound drawing skills I have learned in Master Trevisan’s studio. I have also put aside the precious pieces of gold leaf I have retrieved from the drawer of the battiloro’s worktable behind our house. I will need to count my money to see if I can afford to buy the pastiglia to mold the figures after I purchase some bread and gruel to eat.

  After a few days, the stream of hat-holding guildsmen and curious wives dwindles, and I am left to my work. A hush has fallen over my father’s workshop, replaced only by my singing.

  When the gastaldo appears at the door, I am affixing a newly formed figure onto an alder wood box with rabbit-skin glue. I am experimenting with the new molds that the painter’s wife has brought me, and feel certain that no one else in Our Most Serene Republic will be able to produce such a box.

  “Signorina indoradòr,” the gastaldo nods his head. His bulky frame fills the doorway and I see his eyes crinkle as he gives me a familiar smile. “It smells like heaven in here,” he says.

  “It’s the muschio, I say. “I am mixing it with the paste so that the boxes will be scented. The vendecolore told me that is how they do it in the workshops around Padua.” The color-seller has given me much more than information. He was so full of pity at the loss of my father that he sent me home with two bags full of muschio scents, the rabbit-skin glue, and two additional adhesives to try, not to mention some of the gold-like alloy that I used in Master Trevisan’s studio.

  “I see that you have found your purpose.”

  “The colored pigments were not for me,” I say.

  “Your talents lay elsewhere,” he says. A grin spreads across his face, then his brow furrows. “My dear, you are not eating?” the gastaldo gestures to my lean body.

  “I am not hungry,” I lie, pushing away the image of the empty root cellar from my head.

  I sit on the small stool of the gilding bench. The gastaldo pulls up a rickety chair and removes his hat.

  “You have everything you need?” He sets his blue eyes on me.

  I nod. “Mostly. I will need more firewood soon.” I do not want to appear needy, for I am desperate now to make it on my own. I do not tell the gastaldo that I am sleeping on a makeshift pallet on the floor, made with linens handed down from a neighbor. I do not admit that I have pulled apart the planks that formed the cross over the door and thrown them onto the fire. “The neighbors have brought me some food and there are onions in the garden that have resurged from last year.”

  “But you have little money.”

  I study the floor. “I have not sold any boxes yet. But Master Trevisan’s wife says that there will be eager patrons once people have seen them. And soon I shall have my father’s bereavement payment,” I say.<
br />
  “The bereavement payment,” the gastaldo says, scratching the top of his head where the hair has disappeared. He takes a deep breath. “I am sorry to tell you this, Maria, but there is no other way around it. Your payment is, for the moment, in question.”

  I stand up, clutching my chest. “What?”

  The gastaldo stands and begins to pace the room. “I am afraid it is not as simple as I thought, Maria. The guild statutes state that the written wishes of the deceased person must be followed to the letter. Now the marriage to Pascal Grissoni is out of the question.”

  “That was his choice!” I raise my voice. “It is not that I am disappointed; that must be clear. He was a logical choice for my father to make, I suppose, but I did not love him. You may have deduced.”

  The gastaldo raises his palms to calm me. “Capito. If it were up to me I would simply give you the payment, Maria. But there is some resistance from certain of our guild members. These are dark times. Our guild coffers are nearly bare. There is so much need and only so many resources to go around. The members… They are having trouble with the idea of a woman here on her own, having birthed a... child like you have birthed... under the circumstances… being part of us, a full member of our guild. No father, no husband.” He pauses and waits for my response but I am struck dumb. The gastaldo continues. “I am looking for a solution that will satisfy everyone and allow you to get through this difficult time. I do not want to see you suffer.”

  “You and the others are trying to punish me for having a child with a man you do not accept, out of the bonds of marriage!”

  “Maria.” The gastaldo measures his voice. “I assure you that I am not trying to punish you. On the contrary, I am trying to help you.”

  “Then give me my father’s share from the guild, as I am entitled. It is so written in the guild statutes. I am not stupid. You know that my father would have wanted that!”