With a two-pronged fork, I pluck what I believe to be kidneys from a rock hen and place them on the rim of the earthenware plate before me. As much as there is something brash and raw about Antonella’s character, she takes great care with dishes she prepares in Master Trevisan’s kitchen. She has done her utmost to make the bird look appetizing, dressing it with soft sage leaves and a sliver of citrus, and spooning warm farro paste alongside it in an artful arrangement. The aroma of roasted onions and poultry fills the first floor of the painter’s house. We do not eat like this in my father’s house and normally I would approach such a meal with delight, but tonight I have little appetite. As much care as Antonella has taken, the sight of the creature’s innards exposed, its limbs akimbo, the bumps where its feathers have been plucked, make me squeamish.
There is a visitor.
Master Trevisan has introduced the man to me as Pascal Grissoni, a fellow painter, and has led him to sit across from me at the table. The man is pulling apart the limbs of the rock hen with enthusiasm, so I steal a closer look. He is around Trevisan’s age, I judge, with hair in dark waves brushed back from his temples. Beyond the door I hear Antonella’s voice and the low rumble of the boatman’s response; they are eating their own meal at the rickety table in the kitchen. I hear soft conversation broken by the occasional crackle of laughter.
“Grissoni is a pupil of Master Titian,” Trevisan addresses me from the head of the table.
“But I have my own studio,” the visiting painter says, puffing out his chest.
“Of course,” says Trevisan. “Forgive me for giving the wrong impression. Master Grissoni is an accomplished painter of mythological subjects, not to mention portraits. He has a long list of patrician patrons. He has decided to give up the panels in favor of the new canvas.”
“Canvas!” the painter’s wife exclaims. “There is no more wood?”
The visiting painter laughs. “There is plenty of wood, signora. Master Titian has enough panels to last a lifetime and I can get one any time I want. He owns a lumberyard and a piece of forest in Cadore. But I have traveled with a contingent of painters from our guild to the Low Countries.” Grissoni sets down his fork and leans into the table. “You must go there to fully understand it, signora. The guildsmen there are painting on canvases stretched over wooden frames. Truth be told, they are using canvas almost exclusively. Have no doubt, signora. Our patrons are beginning to ask us for canvas and I feel that the wooden panels shall fall from favor.” Grissoni picks up his fork again and digs into his plate.
“We must see this, Master Trevisan,” the journeyman says. He has already polished off nearly everything on his plate, pushing the last bits of onion and bird onto his fork with his fingers and shoveling them into his mouth.
Pascal Grissoni nods. “You should. In the Low Countries they have recognized the advantages of canvas over the wooden panels. It is lighter, and of course it does not warp. And the painters there are beginning to use oil-based paints over egg tempera. I am convinced that it is a better conduit for the pigments.”
“But canvas…” I say, and suddenly everyone’s eyes are on me. “It is too flimsy to support gold ground.”
“Indeed,” the visiting painter says. From the corner of my eye I see Master Trevisan study his meal. Everyone at the table falls silent.
The painter’s wife breaks the awkward quiet. “Signor Grissoni, Maria’s father is a well-respected master gilder.”
Pascal Grissoni nods. “So our gastaldo has told me,” he says, meeting my eyes briefly and smiling across the table. I feel my heart begin to pound, as the realization hits that this meal was planned with me in mind.
I do not touch my food.
Instead, I focus my gaze on the beautiful baby girl across the table from me. The painter’s wife cuts the meat into tiny cubes and places them in front of her daughter, who chews and looks at her mother with eager, bright eyes. She works to grasp a small piece of poultry between her pudgy thumb and forefinger as her mother wipes her mouth. Beside her, Trevisan’s young son pushes the bird around idly with his fork.
“We have news to share.” The painter wipes his bushy mustache with a piece of linen, then looks at his wife as if to ask for permission to speak again. Her face flushes momentarily, then she gives a firm grin and nods.
“My Donata is carrying a baby,” he says, beaming and grasping his wife’s hand in his. She smiles and blushes in full now.
I hope that in the flickering candlelight they cannot see the look on my face.
“Auguri, Master Trevisan,” says Pascal Grissoni, and raises his glass.
The journeyman beams. “Fantastic news!” he says, then looks at me, his eyes large and innocent, looking for agreement. “Isn’t that wonderful, Maria?”
I feel at a loss for words, but they are all looking at me again and I feel I must say something. “Che meraviglia,” I manage to say. I pick up my brass goblet and put it carefully to my lips, hoping they will not see my hand shake.
“That is the right word for it,” the painter’s wife says, nodding at me from across the table. “A miracle for certain. Truth be told, since little Besina was born I have not been successful in bringing a live child into the world. We have lost two pregnancies in quick succession. But maybe this time it will take hold.”
“Yes, hopefully a boy this time, a boy to inherit my studio,” the painter says.
“You already have one,” the painter’s wife says, ruffling little Gianluca’s hair. “And anyway, girls are capable of working alongside their fathers,” she reminds him. “Am I right, Maria?” She looks at me and nods.
“Of course,” the painter says. “I did not mean to offend you,” he says to me. “It is just that... Well, from the point of view of inheriting a studio...”
“My father’s studio is my own,” I say, interrupting him. “Of that I am certain.”
“Of course it is. Up until you marry,” says Trevisan’s wife, her eyes skirting over to Pascal Grissoni and then to her children, as if she does not know where to settle her gaze.
Strained silence falls over the table again. “Well,” says the journeyman, “that may be true since your father does not have a son. But he already has two men working with him, does he not?”
“Yes,” I say, “my cousin and the battiloro, but I am the blood child. “Surely that carries more weight.” It is the first time I have put forth this long-held opinion, and also the first time I doubt it.
“For certain trades perhaps you are right,” Pascal Grissoni says. “But it is the dream of everyone to have a son to pass the studio onto—and the name.”
I am not hearing them now. I am only thinking about the life forming inside my own body.
“To bring a son into the world,” says Trevisan, “is a feeling that cannot be described. It must only be experienced firsthand.”
“Maria, you have hardly eaten a bite,” the painter’s wife says. “Are you feeling ill again?”
I shake my head and blush, trying to find the words.
“Oh dear!” she scolds her husband, shooing him with a linen napkin. “You have caused her to be upset with all this talk about girls not being able to inherit their father’s studios.”
“Si figuri, signora,” I say, mustering a smile. “The meal is delicious as always. I am afraid I am still not feeling very well.”
In truth, I feel horrible. I dream of climbing under the warm blankets on the bed and pulling them over my head, closing my eyes, and never waking up. As dinner mercifully ends, I excuse myself, and watch the look of disappointment pass over the visiting painter’s face as I nod my farewells and push the door into the kitchen.
I place my plate on the wooden block near the hearth. At the cramped table near the door to the boat slip, Antonella and the boatman sit across from one another, their heads together. When I enter they immediately break apart. Antonella rises and reaches for my plate.
“It was delicious—thank you,” I say, heading toward the stairs.
“One would hardly know; you barely touched it. Master Trevisan spends enough on food. Seems a waste to feed it to the cats in the alley.”
I ignore her comment and climb the stairs. She shrugs and takes a piece of meat from my plate, stuffing it in her mouth.
As much as my desire for the mercy of sleep, it is hard work moving my legs up the steep back staircase to the servant’s quarters in the painter’s house. I grip the rickety handrail for support and stop every once in a while as I feel that I will vomit.
When I reach the room, I quickly remove my dress and pull the linen shift over my head. I push myself under the woolen blankets and the nausea abates. I am already asleep by the time my head settles on the mattress.
Hours later, after Antonella has finished with her chores and enters the room, I awaken feeling disoriented. For a moment I perceive that I am in my own bed in my father’s studio until a new wave of nausea overtakes me, and I sit up on the edge of the bed. As soon as I am vertical it wells up, and I am lucky enough to slide the copper chamber pot from under the bed before I vomit into it. I stand and open the window, dumping the contents into the canal four stories below. I feel heat spread across my cheeks as Antonella watches me cross the room to rinse the pot with the water from the pitcher.
“I am sorry,” I say, sliding the metal pot back under the bed. I feel the cold air swirl around my ankles and I push myself back under the pile of woolen blankets. “If I could stop myself from vomiting I promise I would.”
“You are sick. It is normal for women in your condition. I have been cleaning a mess from the painter’s bedchamber for weeks now. You and the painter’s wife must have conceived around the same time.”
“You are not very good at keeping secrets about other women’s bodies,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
I turn to face her in the bed. “You told him!”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” she says.
“That boatman. He knows. You are the only one other than myself who is aware of... things.”
“It may have slipped out,” she admits.
“Why would you do that?” My voice rises to a loud whisper.
“I imagine that it will not be hidden much longer, cara mia. Hard to keep a secret such as that.”
Antonella and I lie in silence for a long time, pretending to sleep but both painfully awake and staring at the ceiling. I watch the reflection of moonlight on the canal make wavering patterns on the ceiling, and I think about the irony of the painter’s wife having a baby in the painter’s studio, and myself outcast from my own, my family and my man unaware of my situation.
“Who is the father?”
Antonella’s whispered question sounds loud and important in the dark silence of the bedchamber.
I shake my head even though she cannot see me in the dark. Then I turn my back to her and close my eyes, feeling them sting against the heels of my hands.