“No,” he says. “It was a small skiff like the ones they have at the traghetto. The boatman was tall and as black as I am. He said that he had been paid to bring me a message. The message was that the gilder’s daughter was well, that she was housed in the studio of a painter named Master Trevisan in San Marco, and that… that she wanted me to know that she carried my child.” The battiloro pauses and huffs, reliving the scene in his mind. “And then he was gone, just like that. Unbelievable.”
I marvel, realizing that my plan to get word to reach Cristiano had worked after all.
“For a long time after that boat disappeared,” Cristiano continues, “I wondered if I had imagined the whole thing, if it was all just inside my head.” He runs his palm over his scalp.
“It was real,” I say in earnest. “I tried my best to get a message to you. It was the only way I could think of, but I did not think that the message reached you.”
Cristiano continues. “What he told me… That you were safe, that you were carrying my child. That is what I kept turning over in my head while I was in the pesthouse. It was difficult for me to believe and surely impossible to verify. But as I considered it I felt in my heart that it was true.”
For a fleeting moment, his face brightens and he places a tender kiss on my head. “Somehow I felt it here,” he says, pressing his fingers to his heart, “that you were communicating with me from somewhere else in the city. Then your father got sick, I left, and within a few days I was on that ferry.” A shadow crosses his face and he falls silent. Both of us had survived the pesthouses, and there was no need to say more.
“Maria,” he says, “I swear the only thing that kept me alive, that gave me hope, was the idea that I might see you, that what that strange boatman told me might be true. That you were out there somewhere in the city carrying my son, and that we might find each other once this horrid thing was over. I am just sorry that your father and cousin did not come out on the other side.” He grasps my hands. “I never saw them in the lazzaretto. They were just… gone.”
Cristiano flips onto his back and stares at the wooden beams above our heads. We lay silent for a long time, our bodies pressed together in the hot air. I say nothing, but stare at his face, soaking up the knowledge and the realization that he is still here.
I hear Zenobia walk from the courtyard and into the shadows of the house. She takes the copper pot from the chain and returns to the courtyard with it.
Cristiano takes my hand and squeezes it between his palms. “And now it’s your turn,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“You must tell me what you have been doing all these long months. How did you manage as a pregnant woman on your own in this Most Serene Republic of ours?” I hear the sarcasm in his voice. “And Madre di Dio, what has happened to your hair?” He laughs, a loud bark.
I run my hand across my shorn locks. “Let us say that things got complicated after my father turned me out.”
“He was not trying to turn you out, Maria. He was trying to have you married.”
I nod. “Yes. He almost succeeded.”
“As much as your father’s decision pained me,” he says, “I know that he wanted you to prosper. He thought that the gold would die.”
“But the gold,” I say. “It is not dead. You shall see.”
“I hope you are right,” he says, “for I know nothing else.”
“We have a lot of work to do, you and I.” I prop myself up on my elbows and reach for Cristiano’s hands. “Do not ever leave this house again.”
He looks into my eyes. “Maria,” he says. “The last thing I want to do is leave here. But what future can we have? Who will accept me?”
“You have been working here legitimately for many months,” I say. “No one doubts your strength or your skill. They respected my father and me. They respect your work. Besides, you belong here with me. And our son,” I say.
“What priest will marry us?” he asks.
“I do not care,” I say. “We have been through too much to let them stop us from living here together.”
The shadow that falls across Cristiano’s face this time is profound. He sits on the edge of the bed, and from this vantage point, I see how frail his body has become, the outline of his ribs visible under his linen shirt. He presses his face in his hands, and I know that as much as we both want it, it will not come without a price.
Chapter 53
The air has turned crisp and leaves have begun to fade into pale shades of orange and yellow when I cross the bridge away from the ferry station. The plague ferries have disappeared from the lagoon, and the traghetti are operating regular passenger boats again. I have stepped off the ferry, placing a bagattino in the hand of the ferryman. It seems an extravagance, but I am feeling buoyed. We have sold three gilded boxes in the last two months.
I move through the maze of alleys toward the convent where my aunt is cloistered. I veer onto a street of fine shops, the domain of hat makers, tailors, and purveyors of wigs, all there to feed the appetite for self-ornamentation among our rich. Has it only been weeks since the barriers have been destroyed with hammers and axes? Our Most Serene City seems to have come back to life from the brink of death.
On a stand outside her shop door, a milliner assembles a display of felt and velvet hats, each festooned with combinations of bird feathers. She gives me a half-smile and looks down at the plain, brown grain sack in my arms. Little does she know that it conceals a small treasure.
In the convent visitors’ parlor, I hear my aunt’s leather soles slap on the marble floor as she rushes from the adjacent corridor. Then her wide smile appears through the wrought-iron bars.
“Cara! Thanks be to God!” she exclaims, pressing her hand through the iron toward me. I watch a tear escape the corner of her eye. “When they told me your name was on the plague registries I nearly died of anguish myself! What were you thinking? Madre de Dio! You were safe here, Maria! You were insane to have gone outside of these walls!”
“A miracle, zia,” I say. “A series of miracles.”
After her initial tirade, my aunt struggles to calm herself. “Santa Maria! How are you managing?”
I consider whether to tell her that many of my father’s old patrons remain afraid to come to the quarter, and that, pestilence or not, many others would not patronize a workshop operated by a woman and a Saracen anyway. Our colleagues, our neighbors, our acquaintances, our patrons… They have all shown their true selves. We cling to the ones who continue to offer their steadfast support in spite of our unusual arrangement.
I am relieved to know that our gastaldo is one of them. We have not spoken again about his proposal of marriage. As soon as the battiloro and I both returned alive from the pesthouse, the gastaldo removed himself from my private business completely, speaking to me only of matters of our guild rather than matters of the heart.
“We are doing well enough,” I say finally. It is not the whole truth, but neither is it a lie. “The Health Office provided some linens and a small stipend for new clothes, for I returned home with nothing,” I finger the white trim on a camicia I have purchased in the market. “And the battiloro’s mother is helping us.”
The truth is that Zenobia has been a great gift from God, taking over the duties of the household while Cristiano and I work to get the gilding studio running again. Zenobia delights in the company of her son, and she has folded into my father’s house as if she had been there all along. I have only known her a short time but already I feel a deep affection for her.
Over the course of the last weeks, Zenobia has told me of how she learned of her son’s fate, and how she located me. “After you came to me at the laundry,” she told me, “I tried to discover the painter’s house where you were lodged. I finally got the information from one of the gilders outside the quarter. But when I got to the house the lady—she was heavy with
child—said that you were no longer there. She looked down her nose at me and was quick to close the door.”
The painter’s wife.
“But then,” she said, “as I was leaving, a young man came out. He told me that you had taken your vows at Santa Maria delle Vergini. But when I went there they told me you had left the convent to return to your father’s house. But by the time I got here, cara, you were already one foot in the pesthouse.”
In the visitors’ parlor, my aunt sets her clear green eyes on me. “You have not changed your mind about coming back to the convent.”
I shake my head. Of this I am certain.
She purses her lips together and nods. “Understood. But it will not be an easy time for you,” she says.
“That much is clear.” I manage a laugh. “But we have begun to receive commissions for our gilded boxes,” I say. “Things are improving.”
“And the painter and his wife?”
“They have sent us commissions for several boxes for their own patrons. And the gondola makers have brought us new lanterns. It is enough for us to have bought some gold ingots. It has also given me a chance to put into practice all that I learned in the painter’s studio. The boxes are becoming popular as gifts for the newly married and the newly born. Word is beginning to spread. That reminds me,” I say. “I have brought you something.”
From my plain grain sack, I remove a small, beautifully gilded box. I have made a special one for my aunt, fashioning a scene of the birth of Saint Anne from the molds Master Trevisan left in my father’s workshop. I have covered the entire box with pure gold leaf. “For you,” I say. It will not fit through the iron bars. “I will make sure the sisters at the gate get it to you.”
My aunt’s hands fly to her mouth in appreciation. “Che bella,” she says under her breath. “Fit for a bride.”
“Even a bride of Christ,” I say, and my aunt laughs and claps her hands. “At least now you will have a proper gift from your family like the other sisters. You must show it to Lauretta.”
I open the box, and my aunt gasps at the purple silk lining. From the box I produce two small prayer books. “When I was cleaning out father’s studio, I found these by Paolo’s bed,” I say. “They were left behind in the house. I do not know why they did not burn them or take them away. Perhaps the inspectors did not find them. Not even the looters found them.”
“O Grazie a Dio!” she exclaims. “I gave him these prayer books when he was just a small boy. He took them with him from the convent when he came to live with you.” Her eyes well with tears and I press the small books through the grate.
“I hope you understand, zia. I am happy in my father’s studio. I am happy with Cristiano. I am happy working the gold again. It is what I was meant to do,” I say.
My aunt nods. “I do understand,” she says. “You were right to follow your heart. Now it is up to you to carry on your father’s legacy.”
I stand. “Forgive me for not spending more time, zia, but you must understand that I cannot wait another moment to go to the nursery. Today I am taking my son home.”
Chapter 54
I am scraping golden flakes from a palette knife when the neighbor’s boy knocks on our door to tell us that they are ready for us in the parish church. The knock interrupts my singing.
“Tell the gastaldo we are coming,” I say, then set down my tools and pick up the verse of the song again. The melodies flow out of me unencumbered these days.
On the table before me stand several rows of gilded boxes, each adorned with molded decoration, each one scented. The entire studio is filled with the aroma of musk and civet. No two boxes are the same. We have created different compositions across the surface of each box, using the scenes from Master Trevisan’s book for inspiration.
Zenobia has gotten involved in the production of the boxes, too, but only when she is not showering the baby with attention. She sits in a chair by the small wooden crib that a neighbor has brought to us, making careful stitches into a swath of purple silk. She has shown great skill with the fabric linings that go inside the boxes, as well as affixing the small locks that the blacksmith has crafted for us. While she works, she keeps her eye on Giuseppe, looking for any sign that he is stirring awake.
I take a moment to stop and appreciate the surprising bounty in our house over just a few short weeks. I survey our production on my father’s worktable, and I realize that all of the boxes are already spoken for. The money we earn from selling the boxes will fill the root cellar for the winter. More patrons have heard of our unusual scented boxes with the gilded relief decoration, and they are coming to place their requests.
We have placed one of the boxes on the meager mantel above our hearth, and I have begun to collect sheaves of gold leaf inside it. It is a paltry sum compared to the dowry box on Master Trevisan’s mantel, but day by day, our material wealth increases. No matter. Now I know that as long as my new family is by my side—Cristiano, the baby, and Zenobia—my treasure lies inside the walls of my house and nowhere else.
I push the back door open, into our canal-side courtyard. The now-feral cats have disappeared, and, under Zenobia’s care, the small garden has begun to show signs of life. Best of all, Cristiano has returned to the goldbeating table. Through the day, we hear his hammer ring on the gold, but sometimes I must go out to see him, just to make sure he is really there, that he is not part of some fantastic dream that lives only in my head.
I come up behind him and lace my arms around his waist. He lays his hammer down, then turns to me. Thanks be to God, Cristiano has regained his strength. The dark circles under his eyes have disappeared and the color has returned to his cheeks. He is still thin as a poker but is eating like a horse. I too feel myself returning to health at long last.
“They are ready for us.” Zenobia appears in the courtyard holding her grandson in her arms. She looks beautiful, her skin oiled, her new dress hanging elegantly from her tall frame. Zenobia holds little Giuseppe, freshly awake, in her arms, joyfully nudging his cheeks with her nose.
As content as he is with Zenobia, as soon as Giuseppe sees his father he begins to squirm. Cristiano lifts the boy into the air, then clutches him to his chest with his broad hands. The baby presses his face into Cristiano’s linen shirt and settles into the crook of his arm. In return, he gives his father a smile that would melt the most hardened heart.
“Look at these two beautiful ladies we have the privilege to escort to the guild meeting,” Cristiano whispers to the baby.
I have done my best to look presentable. I have put lemon juice on my hair to brighten it, and have soaked it in boiled water infused with rosemary and lavender so that it smells good. My hair has begun to grow, and I have woven some strands of gold that I have fashioned with my own hands into it. I have aired out my new dress and have even woven some of the gilded threads into the neckline.
Together, the four of us pour into the alley and make our way toward the campo, where, not long ago, our neighbors’ belongings were burning on the pyre. I have seen the neighborhood representatives with their iron crowbars, removing the wooden crosses from the doors at last. The winter has returned but the pestilence has not. For now, all of us are well.
Near the square, market sellers have begun to lift the canvas covers from their tables, to unfasten the iron locks and open the battens that have covered their shop windows for several long months. The cool air has brought in fresh relief for those of us in the quarter who have suffered unthinkable trials.
The few of us who have returned healed from the pesthouses have formed our own odd community. It is among those neighbors—bound by our shared experience—that Cristiano has found supporters. A few of them have whispered to us that they accept our strange union, even if most do not.
Today’s gathering is important, one of just two that will take place all year. Right now, each one of Our Most Serene Republic�
�s painters and gilders is preparing to assemble in the guild chapel inside the church of San Luca. Today, the men will install new officers they have elected by popular vote. All of us expect our gastaldo to be reelected for a fourth time.
Shoulder to shoulder, we follow one of the narrow, parallel canals for San Luca, the official meeting place of our guild. We move into a more haphazardly laid-out neighborhood to the south, which teems with merchants of all stripes. In addition to the small storefronts spilling over with goods from fruit to birdcages and leather belts, some of the boats docked along the quaysides have pushed back their covers to sell spices, dishes, rugs, and medicinal plants. The quarter has finally come back to life.
In the square before the church, I recognize the familiar faces of our fellow guildsmen. A knot of men pushes into the portals of the church, their voices and laughter echoing off the stones. Near one of the doorways, I catch sight of Master Trevisan and his wife along with their new baby girl wrapped against her mother’s body, the two younger children hanging onto their mother’s skirts. I reach out and caress the head of our baby, still settled happily in his father’s arms. My beautiful boy. My heart swells. I wonder if Signora Trevisan’s heart is as full as my own.
Across the square I recognize the elegant figure of Pascal Grissoni. At his side is a young girl, the wide-eyed daughter of another one of our guildsmen, who stands protectively on her other side. Pascal and the girl are engaged to be married, I am told. I watch her with some fascination for a while, marveling at how dramatically all of our fates have shifted over the past months.
Then the gastaldo’s face appears before me. He grasps my battiloro’s shoulder, then gives me a smile. “The heir to the gilder’s workshop!” the gastaldo says, running his hand across Giuseppe’s little head of fuzzy hair.
The Painter's Apprentice Page 32
