The air has turned as heavy as a leaden blanket, still and moist, sweltering. Do the others feel it, too, or am I the only one who has soaked through my linens? I dip a small pail into the canal behind the house, and splash water on the dreary little patch of garden that I am trying to resurrect from having gone to seed, a hopeless exercise for the month of August. Soon enough, the stench of rotting vegetables in the canal and the row of latrines behind our block overwhelms my senses. Another wave of dizziness, and I feel I will drop to my knees.
I return to the dim stillness of the house and lie on the pallet I have made on the floor. The striped cat is already there, curled into a tight knot. When I lie down, he raises his head and peers at me through the narrow slits of his green eyes. Then he stretches and begins to gnaw at the fur on one of his hind legs. I place my hand on his scrawny back, and he settles into a curl again, uttering a soft murmur through his nose.
From my vantage point, I can see the wooden boxes that the carpenter has delivered to me. They are lined up on the table, waiting for the work of my hands. I must begin, I think, just as soon as I can drag myself from here. An unquenchable thirst has overtaken me, but I cannot imagine how I would walk all the way to the wellhead in the campo, much less walk back with buckets laden with water.
There are no more curious guildsmen or wives at my door who might bring me water. Even the gastaldo, who has shown more compassion for me than anyone might expect, has left me alone for two days. He knows that I know where to find him, and he has given me space to consider his proposal. I close my eyes, and in the silence, I do consider the gastaldo’s request.
It makes perfect sense for me to accept his proposal. Of course it does. I would be well fed, well taken care of for the rest of my days. When my son comes of age, I can pull him from the convent as our apprentice, our heir. My father might even be proud of me, I think, if that is even possible under the circumstances. I cannot imagine that I would feel anything close to the fire that I felt with Cristiano, not with the gastaldo, not with Pascal Grissoni, not with anyone else. But in my heart I also know that when people say I cannot do this on my own, they are probably right.
Still, I have delayed my response. The hours stretch out. I know in my heart that the right thing to do is to go see the gastaldo, to accept his proposal. I cannot put it off much longer. I will do just that, I think, as soon as the profound ache in my head subsides.
I feel the chills come again, but there are no blankets. What has happened to them? I cannot seem to think straight. Has someone taken all the linens from the house?
I must ask my father or Paolo. Have they gone somewhere? I do not recall.
When I open my eyes I do not know if it is night or day, nor how much time has elapsed since I lay down with the striped cat, who has now disappeared.
At one point, I see the gastaldo’s face float before me, his brow furrowed and his mouth pitched into a deep frown. I feel his broad hand brush across my forehead.
“Yes,” I say to him, but I barely hear my own voice and he does not seem to hear me at all.
My head… My eyes close again.
The next time I open my eyes, I hear the soft, liquid voice of the battiloro’s mother. “Come back, child.” Zenobia. Is she speaking to me or to little Giuseppe?
I feel her strong hands rub an oily substance on the soles of my feet. Her hands on my feet feel wonderful, but the concoction smells sharply of onion and vinegar and I press my hand over my nose. I want to thank her, to tell her how beautiful her grandson is.
My son. Where is he?
“Giuseppino!” I try to push myself up to sitting.
“Shhhh…” I hear Zenobia say, then her voice and her touch fade away.
The next time I open my eyes I expect to see my gastaldo or Zenobia before me again. Instead, it is Father Filippo, and he looks very sad indeed.