I am scraping golden flakes from a palette knife when the neighbor’s boy knocks on our door to tell us that they are ready for us in the parish church. The knock interrupts my singing.
“Tell the gastaldo we are coming,” I say, then set down my tools and pick up the verse of the song again. The melodies flow out of me unencumbered these days.
On the table before me stand several rows of gilded boxes, each adorned with molded decoration, each one scented. The entire studio is filled with the aroma of musk and civet. No two boxes are the same. We have created different compositions across the surface of each box, using the scenes from Master Trevisan’s book for inspiration.
Zenobia has gotten involved in the production of the boxes, too, but only when she is not showering the baby with attention. She sits in a chair by the small wooden crib that a neighbor has brought to us, making careful stitches into a swath of purple silk. She has shown great skill with the fabric linings that go inside the boxes, as well as affixing the small locks that the blacksmith has crafted for us. While she works, she keeps her eye on Giuseppe, looking for any sign that he is stirring awake.
I take a moment to stop and appreciate the surprising bounty in our house over just a few short weeks. I survey our production on my father’s worktable, and I realize that all of the boxes are already spoken for. The money we earn from selling the boxes will fill the root cellar for the winter. More patrons have heard of our unusual scented boxes with the gilded relief decoration, and they are coming to place their requests.
We have placed one of the boxes on the meager mantel above our hearth, and I have begun to collect sheaves of gold leaf inside it. It is a paltry sum compared to the dowry box on Master Trevisan’s mantel, but day by day, our material wealth increases. No matter. Now I know that as long as my new family is by my side—Cristiano, the baby, and Zenobia—my treasure lies inside the walls of my house and nowhere else.
I push the back door open, into our canal-side courtyard. The now-feral cats have disappeared, and, under Zenobia’s care, the small garden has begun to show signs of life. Best of all, Cristiano has returned to the goldbeating table. Through the day, we hear his hammer ring on the gold, but sometimes I must go out to see him, just to make sure he is really there, that he is not part of some fantastic dream that lives only in my head.
I come up behind him and lace my arms around his waist. He lays his hammer down, then turns to me. Thanks be to God, Cristiano has regained his strength. The dark circles under his eyes have disappeared and the color has returned to his cheeks. He is still thin as a poker but is eating like a horse. I too feel myself returning to health at long last.
“They are ready for us.” Zenobia appears in the courtyard holding her grandson in her arms. She looks beautiful, her skin oiled, her new dress hanging elegantly from her tall frame. Zenobia holds little Giuseppe, freshly awake, in her arms, joyfully nudging his cheeks with her nose.
As content as he is with Zenobia, as soon as Giuseppe sees his father he begins to squirm. Cristiano lifts the boy into the air, then clutches him to his chest with his broad hands. The baby presses his face into Cristiano’s linen shirt and settles into the crook of his arm. In return, he gives his father a smile that would melt the most hardened heart.
“Look at these two beautiful ladies we have the privilege to escort to the guild meeting,” Cristiano whispers to the baby.
I have done my best to look presentable. I have put lemon juice on my hair to brighten it, and have soaked it in boiled water infused with rosemary and lavender so that it smells good. My hair has begun to grow, and I have woven some strands of gold that I have fashioned with my own hands into it. I have aired out my new dress and have even woven some of the gilded threads into the neckline.
Together, the four of us pour into the alley and make our way toward the campo, where, not long ago, our neighbors’ belongings were burning on the pyre. I have seen the neighborhood representatives with their iron crowbars, removing the wooden crosses from the doors at last. The winter has returned but the pestilence has not. For now, all of us are well.
Near the square, market sellers have begun to lift the canvas covers from their tables, to unfasten the iron locks and open the battens that have covered their shop windows for several long months. The cool air has brought in fresh relief for those of us in the quarter who have suffered unthinkable trials.
The few of us who have returned healed from the pesthouses have formed our own odd community. It is among those neighbors—bound by our shared experience—that Cristiano has found supporters. A few of them have whispered to us that they accept our strange union, even if most do not.
Today’s gathering is important, one of just two that will take place all year. Right now, each one of Our Most Serene Republic’s painters and gilders is preparing to assemble in the guild chapel inside the church of San Luca. Today, the men will install new officers they have elected by popular vote. All of us expect our gastaldo to be reelected for a fourth time.
Shoulder to shoulder, we follow one of the narrow, parallel canals for San Luca, the official meeting place of our guild. We move into a more haphazardly laid-out neighborhood to the south, which teems with merchants of all stripes. In addition to the small storefronts spilling over with goods from fruit to birdcages and leather belts, some of the boats docked along the quaysides have pushed back their covers to sell spices, dishes, rugs, and medicinal plants. The quarter has finally come back to life.
In the square before the church, I recognize the familiar faces of our fellow guildsmen. A knot of men pushes into the portals of the church, their voices and laughter echoing off the stones. Near one of the doorways, I catch sight of Master Trevisan and his wife along with their new baby girl wrapped against her mother’s body, the two younger children hanging onto their mother’s skirts. I reach out and caress the head of our baby, still settled happily in his father’s arms. My beautiful boy. My heart swells. I wonder if Signora Trevisan’s heart is as full as my own.
Across the square I recognize the elegant figure of Pascal Grissoni. At his side is a young girl, the wide-eyed daughter of another one of our guildsmen, who stands protectively on her other side. Pascal and the girl are engaged to be married, I am told. I watch her with some fascination for a while, marveling at how dramatically all of our fates have shifted over the past months.
Then the gastaldo’s face appears before me. He grasps my battiloro’s shoulder, then gives me a smile. “The heir to the gilder’s workshop!” the gastaldo says, running his hand across Giuseppe’s little head of fuzzy hair.
At the meeting, the gastaldo says, he will ensure that my bereavement payment is arranged so that it goes to Giuseppe instead of me. “No one can argue that your father’s workshop—and everything else that is rightfully his under the law—cannot go to his grandson.” He smiles. “It is clearly written in our rule book. Our little Giuseppino is the rightful heir.”
“It is thanks to you that we are here today. I am grateful,” I say. In the past month, the gastaldo has worked with his counterpart in the goldbeating guild to ensure that Cristiano is considered a full member, not as one of the lavoranti or garzoni, but as a full maestro. Nowhere else in the city are the members of two trades housed under the same roof, he has told us. An unconventional alliance, to be sure. We are unusual in more ways than one.
“I have something for you,” the gastaldo says. He pulls a small, paper-wrapped package from the front of his doublet and hands it to Cristiano. Cristiano tears the paper. Inside there is an exquisite gilded rattle fashioned into the shape of a gold-beater’s hammer. He picks it up and it makes a pleasant rattling sound.
“Pebbles from the beach at the Lido,” the gastaldo laughs. “It seems you have inspired me to improvise, Maria.”
I gasp. “It’s beautiful, gastaldo. I have no words.”
Cristiano places the hammer in the baby’s hand, and Giuesppe’s pudgy fingers grasp the handle. He holds it up to the sky, and his eyes grow wide. He moves the hammer around. His lips part and his eyes squint, and then he makes the most beautiful smile I have ever seen.
The gastaldo throws his head back and laughs.
“I think he likes it, gastaldo,” Cristiano says.
“Of course he does. How could he not?” says the gastaldo, ruffling the boy’s hair again. “He has gold running through his veins.”
