I recognize the battiloro’s mother from across the square.
We hardly know one another, yet as soon as our eyes meet we cleave to one another with all of our strength. I feel the tautness of Zenobia’s wiry frame, her muscled arms, her strong back built through years of labor. We cling to one another with everything we have, with all the despair and fear in us. I do not care what the others in the crowd think of the slight, secretly pregnant white woman with orange hair embracing the tall, black washerwoman. I have called for her and she has come. It is all that matters.
When I went looking for her at the Rialto washhouse she was not there, and for a while I feared that I had lost track of her, that she had disappeared like so many in this city who are already invisible. I feared that she had slipped through my hands like Cristiano himself, lost without a trace. But a kind laundress took me aside and promised that she would get word to Zenobia, that she would pass on my message to meet me at San Rocco for the plague mass at midnight.
“You have news of Cristiano?” I wonder if she hears the desperation in my voice.
She shakes her head. “I only know what the washerwomen from your quarter have told me. That the workshop has a cross on the door. That they have most likely been transported to the pesthouse. You?”
I shake my head. “I know nothing. I have been to the Sanità, but they have no record of him. Only my father and my cousin. It is as if he has vanished.”
“The lazzaretto is the only place he can be, child. I have seen a few more plague outbreaks than you have. This is what they do.”
“I tried to inquire there, too, but they turned me away.”
“You went to the lazzaretto?”
I nod. “They turned me back. Of course they did. How silly of me to think I could get inside.”
Zenobia takes a deep breath and looks into my eyes. “You love him.”
“With all of my soul,” I say.
“Come.” Zenobia grasps my hand in hers, and I feel the tight, comforting grip of someone stronger, more confident than I. She pulls me through the throngs of people who have made their way to the San Polo quarter, and into the burgeoning crowd that has amassed in the square around the church of San Rocco.
There is no moon. People fill in the spaces around us, some carrying lanterns with them, lit up like fireflies in the dark. Normally such a crowd would form a raucous frenzy, but tonight, it is silent enough to hear the shuffling feet of those who have come to ask God to spare their husbands, wives, parents, children, brothers, sisters, and friends from the indiscriminate hand of the pestilence. We have all gathered for one purpose: to pray for a miracle, to return our people to health, to atone for whatever wrongdoing has brought this horror on Our Most Serene Republic.
Inside the church thousands of small flames illuminate the vaults of gilded mosaic. There is the sound of people plunking coins inside metal boxes and the sonorous din of monks intoning the prayers in the lofts above our heads.
Not long before my birth, I have been told, the bones of San Rocco were brought to Our Most Serene Republic on a great ship. It was San Rocco himself who, on a pilgrimage from the Frankish kingdoms to Rome, healed plague sufferers, and even saved himself from the pestilence. Now, the relics of San Rocco lie below the altar, and all of us direct our prayers to he who, it is believed, holds the singular power to deliver us from the scourge.
Inside the church the crowd grows louder, as small conversations, pleas, prayers, gasps, and cries echo throughout. Behind us someone has led a donkey into the aisle, and a scuffle breaks out as the beast is shooed outside. I pull a coin from my pocket and place it inside the metal box for candles. I light the wick and place my candle on the metal stake alongside many others placed there, sending up illumination that makes the mosaic tiles above our heads sparkle and shine.
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.”
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 but 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.”