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.
“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!”
“Maria, the last thing you are is stupid. I also know what your father wanted. He wanted you to marry a guild member, continue to work in our trade yourself as you have done for so many years, and for you to bear sons who could carry on our craft. That is the unspoken promise of each member of our guild. I am sure you know that. If we don’t at least do that, our entire trade is in jeopardy.” He clasps his hands and wags them in my direction.
“My father would not have promised me to Pascal Grissoni under the circumstances. All I ever wanted was to stay here with my family and our battiloro! I am sure that is no secret by now,” I say. “Anyone who might have doubted that before certainly does not now.”
The gastaldo opens his palms toward me. “Maria, I understand. The battiloro was a good man, a fine craftsman. I was the first of our guild to argue that he be allowed as a full member of the goldbeater’s guild on the premise that his mentor was deceased and that he continued to work in the trade under your father’s roof. Many opposed the idea, and it took work on my part with the gastaldo of the gold beater’s guild. Even if he had survived and he had stayed under this roof, our guildsmen would have had trouble accepting it. You must understand that is the reality.”
“We do not know that he is not still in the pesthouse!” I gesture to the doorway.
“Maria,” the gastaldo says softly, “surely you must resign yourself to the reality that he perished with the others. There is no other answer. Otherwise where is he?” I look at a crack in the plaster wall and clench my throat, trying to push down the large lump that has formed there. The gastaldo continues. “In order to follow your father’s wishes to the letter of the law and keep your workshop and position in the guild, you must marry a guild member. That is what the others are saying.”
“Pascal Grissoni will not marry me!” I insist.
“Understood,” he says, raising his hand. “Your father only had your best interest at heart back when he arranged your apprenticeship with Master Trevisan, and when he asked me to help select a suitor among our guild members. He was trying to secure your future. It would be difficult to do better than Pascal Grissoni. You have seen his house and his pictures yourself.”
I nod. Of course I see the logic, but it does not account for the emptiness in my heart.
“Perhaps I should not tell you this, but Pascal Grissoni was not initially enticed by my insistence to pay a visit to Master Trevisan in order to meet you,” the gastaldo continues. “After all, your father was not in a position to make him a compelling offer of a dowry. The guild might have scrounged together a meager one, as we do in cases like this where our guild members cannot. Still, such an amount would not be considered an appealing arrangement for a man like Pascal Grissoni. But fortunately,” he says, a grin crossing his face, “the dowry seemed not to matter anymore once he laid eyes on you. I expected that might be the case.”
I feel my face flush. “But of course he is no longer interested. And I am no longer... unspoiled.” As I say the words I feel the pang of loss, and long to hold my son in my arms.
The gastaldo shrugs. “Pascal Grissoni is making a mistake, in my opinion, but I can only give my advice. I cannot force him.”
“What do you suggest that I do, then?”
The gastaldo paces in front of the window for a few long, silent moments. Then he stops to face me. “Maria, you know that I have been a widower for many years. I do not know if you remember my wife, Gerita. You were a small girl when the fever took her from us. I have never seen a good reason to marry again. My sons are big and able. They carry the burden of work in my studio and I find myself idle more often than I would like to admit. One might say... free. In fact, apart from my role as gastaldo, which will only be for another season, I am freer than ever. Free to start a new journey in my life.” His expression softens and he pulls the stool up close to sit in front of me.
I stare at him, unable to accept what he is suggesting.
“Keep your father’s workshop,” he says. “I am happy to work here with you. And I am certain that the guild would find the arrangement acceptable. Father Filippo would be overjoyed.” He lets loose a quick chuckle. “And no doubt my sons would be happy to rid themselves of me.” The gastaldo takes my hand and squeezes it gently. “The two of us together. Who might have foreseen it? I have known you since you were a little girl. I respected your father and knew him like my family. He respected me, too. You know that.”
“My father trusted you more than anyone in the guild,” I manage to say, but I cannot bring myself to meet his gaze now.
The gastaldo kneels in front of me and takes my hand in both of his. “Cara mia,” he says, “I understand the passions of the heart. Your son was born out of love. I know that. I can restore your legitimacy within the guild, and you will not have to leave your home again. I can help you if you will let me.” The gastaldo moves one hand to cover his heart and places the other on top of my hand. “I do not stand in judgment of you or your son,” he says. “Perhaps he will join us here, when he is old enough. If he grows up to be like his grandfather then he will be a worthy addition to our clutch of indoradòri. He will continue our legacy—mine, yours, and your father’s. Maria,” he says. “Think about it.”
I hear the gastaldo’s voice, but somewhere inside, a deep shudder runs unbidden through my body. My stomach turns, and I feel that I might vomit.
I finally manage to meet the gastaldo’s clear blue eyes, but when I do, I watch his expression transform from sincerity to concern.
“Maria. Are you all right?”
I nod, but a profound malaise has begun to creep into my bones.
“Of course it is a lot to consider,” he sighs and stands. “Bene. You know where to find me. I shall leave you in peace, my dear.”
After the gastaldo leaves the house, I return to my worktable and my boxes, but peace will not come. Instead, my heart races in my chest. By the time the sun has sunk below the still lagoon, I have begun to sweat, and no amount of well water will quench my thirst.