Chapter Eighty-nine

 

 

La Gran Signorina

 

 

Tristan felt himself fall into an ethereal state as he sensed himself being lifted and moved about as voices flittered in and out, intermittently exchanging suggestions and counsel. Then, he felt himself being laid on something soft, a bed he supposed, and all grew quiet.

After a time the ceiling above and the insides of his addled brain ceased swirling, and as he tried to clear his head, he heard an ancient voice hiss, “You don’t belong here! Oh, what curse has brought you here to Genoa!”

Gaining his elbows, he raised up, and in the dim candlelight of a strange room, he saw Duxia de Falaise glaring down at him from the side of the bed. Thinking himself in a dream, he shook his head trying to awaken himself, but quickly discovered that he was already awake. “D-Dux-ia?” he muttered, confused.

“Such depravity, so brazenly appearing here in Mala’s new world after all you’ve done!” the old woman rasped, her teeth clenched with hatred. “Have you come to spread your misery upon her as you have all others you’ve touched? Oh, I...”

The door opened and Tristan heard the approach of quiet footfalls as Duxia fell silent and another voice said. “Duxia, I don’t wish you to be here. Go and tend to the guests, and do not approach him again during his stay.”

Tristan recognized the voice though it was hushed, as Duxia looked down at him one last time, her eyes brimming with resentment. Then, silently, she left the room, closing the door behind her.

The person who had entered the room took a seat at the edge of the bed. “Tristan, can you hear me? It’s Mala.”

“Mala,” he replied, unable to find other words.

“Such a commotion you caused in the banquet hall. You ruined my grand entrance.” Her voice was not cross, and he sensed in her gaze an attempt at humor. “Imagine my surprise descending the stairs and learning it was you who had collapsed to floor.” Then she smiled. “I see that I still have quite an effect on you.”

Tristan attempted to return the smile, but the effort failed. “Yes,” he said. Then, gathering his senses, he looked at her and sighed. “You are as beautiful as ever; more beautiful than ever.”

Mala reached down and slowly passed her palm over Tristan’s forehead. “You look very different in your church garb and your tonsure. The last time I saw you like this was your ordination in Cluny. Though your eyes remain as piercing as ever, I think I liked the look you carried in the Loire Valley and at Marseilles far better.”

“Mar…seilles,” said Tristan, slipping back to a simpler time. Then his forehead furrowed as he realized that Marseilles had not been a simpler time at all… indeed, it marked the beginning of the downfall.

Witnessing his sudden exchange of expression, Mala took his hands in hers, guessing his thoughts. “Marseilles was the greatest moment of my life, Tristan, but I shattered it in a moment of misguided distrust, thinking you had betrayed me with another woman.”

“What?”

“Do you not remember being with a woman in the marketplace of Marseilles, and seeing Fernando and several of my musicians there? They saw the two of you in an embrace and led me to believe that you had been carrying on with her throughout your stay there, at the same time you were visiting me.”

Tristan tried to recall the incident; his memory was cloudy, then the face of Agnes Truffault fell into place and he said. “Oh, yes, but Mala, it was not as it appear...”

“I know. Now I know, and understand. Your brother explained it me a long time ago in Canossa.” Then her voice faltered a measure as she continued. “I must confess, I’ve carried the shame of my misjudgment in Marseilles within me for three years now.”

Tristan absorbed these words a moment, then slowly shook his head as his eyes closed. “Ah, you say the word “shame”. It is me who has lived in shame these past years; you, the child you bore and lost in the Alps, my deceit in slipping here and there to see you though I was a monk. I have tried desperately to make amends these last years by turning the remainder of my life into a living act of contrition by worshipping God and restoring the true Church to Rome and the Vatican. Your memory slips into my mind when I least suspect it and undoes all that I have sought to rebuild.”

Mala squeezed his fingers. “You did nothing wrong, Tristan, except fall in love with me, just like I fell in love with you. We were children when we met, I know, but God placed us in each other’s path twenty years ago, and brought us together at various and odd times. There must have been a purpose to it, don’t you think?”

“Or a curse, perhaps, as Duxia claims,” Tristan said, shaking his head.

“Never mind Duxia,” Mala said. “I love her beyond words. She has shared my misfortunes and done her best to advance me all these years. I also know about her misguided feelings about you since the day of your birth. Superstition drove her life in those days, and still does to an extent. She will bother you no longer while here at my estate.” Then she smiled. “General Bertucci has mentioned you a time or two since my acquaintance with him, but I had no idea he had invited you to visit him here in Genoa.”

“Yes, we were together in Tunis on occasion. How on earth did you two chance to come together?”

“Over business,” Mala said. “And over time we’ve become very close friends. I never had a father as you know, and he has begun to fill that role. I adore him, and he adores me.” Then she withdrew her hands and stood. “We have much to discuss and sort through,” she said. “I have over five hundred guests awaiting downstairs and must tend to them. Rest here tonight, Tristan, and we shall take back up in the morning.”