Girl Reading (4 page)

When I am married I shall have servants, and if they displease me I shall not flog them but make them grind mountains of almonds, then I shall feed the almonds to the pigs.

Servants and pigs? Almonds to dispense as punishment? What a daydreamer you are, Imelda.

Why should I not? Look at what they make us do. We are no
better than slaves. As long as we are here, they own us body and soul. What have I to lose by indulging my dreams, when they take practically everything else?

We are the fortunate ones.

Are we? Do you think they love us as God’s children? We embody our parents’ sin. We are the offspring of harlots, beggars, and adulterers—and they treat us as such.

What happened to Guido? I thought you liked him. He certainly fancied you. Or is a boy raised at the hospital not good enough for you anymore?

I can do better than Guido. There are plenty of men outside this compound, you know. You just have to make sure you are not caught. (Laura quickens the rhythm of her labor to drown out Imelda’s nattering.) Guido is immature, and his breath smells horrible. Is it too much to ask for a husband who has whiskers and a kiss that does not suffocate me? I expect at least that of a man—and that he will have a legitimate lineage and a fat inheritance coming his way.

Gisila laughs at her friend’s bad temper. Then take comfort in your dreams. Think of the servants you will have one day, and how you can mistreat them, if it cheers you up. Think of your fine furs and your enormous house with a balcony, and your own mare to ride. Think of what your husband will look like, whether he will be dark or fair, whether he will be lean or broad. And think of your father-in-law, who will be elderly and who will dote on you.

I do, every day. If God loves me, he will send a rich man to save me from this hell. And when I am married, I shall definitely have a big—

Imelda stops short of naming the thing she will have, for the rector himself is visible in the passageway, speaking to a gentleman neither of them recognizes. The stranger is distinctly handsome, with black hair and brown eyes, dressed in a plaid kirtle and a red
chaperon, with a buckle on his belt that gleams. Gisila cannot resist it and whispers, Your prayers have been answered, Imelda; here he comes now to take you to his mansion.

Imelda presses her attractive mouth to stifle the giggle and permits herself a look of admiration at the man in conference with the rector, surely here to make a donation and so avoid paying unwanted duties. It is the rector’s method to show off the charity and industry of the hospital, to emphasize the spiritual benefits of generosity to Santa Maria, and to make people part with more than they initially intended. He is as skillful as a market pickpocket.

Then he does something surprising. He abandons his visitor momentarily in order to come over to the three girls (there is an increase in speed and purpose under his gaze). He clears his throat. Laura Agnelli, come with me, please.

Laura obediently wipes her hands on her apron, stands, follows.

Behind her back, the malign eyes of Imelda and Gisila meet, then separate. It is not unheard of that a man comes to the hospital and points to the young woman he wants as though selecting fish for the dinner table. Usually there is some semblance of paying court and an opportunity for the girl to refuse, followed by a wedding.
Usually.
However, Rettore Giovanni di Tese Tolomei is fond of saying the well-being of the hospital is more important than the well-being of any one individual—many times his actions have demonstrated the sincerity of his belief.

Imelda murmurs savagely, I thought she was going into a convent.

The rector presents Laura to the visitor, who looks her up and down and answers yes, she will do. The rector continues, Laura, you are to go with this man to his master. You are to do whatever they ask of you for as long as they have a use for you. They will give you your meals when you are there. You will be submissive,
patient, meek and conduct yourself as though the Blessed Virgin were standing at your side. This is a privilege and a test, and it will be a shame upon us all, not to mention a personal offense to me, if your behavior is not immaculate. In fact, it may have serious repercussions for your future. Do you understand?

Yes, Signor Rettore.

And Laura goes with the stranger. Perhaps, she acknowledges inwardly, into danger.

They do not walk far, up and down the city slopes, through the narrow streets, the stalls and relative safety of the Campo. He does not speak. It is when they go into a house and ascend a stairway into a private room (the door locked behind her) that Laura’s heart jumps and she sends silent prayers to the Virgin to protect her, and if she cannot protect her, then to limit her pain and suffering as far as possible, and if she cannot do that, then to grant Laura the strength to endure whatever is to take place.

The room is sparse though large, like a tradesman’s workshop or rented storeroom, with enormous windows letting in Siena’s glorious sky above and commotion beneath. It is occupied by a second man, significantly older, a hunched gnome who does not acknowledge them nor interrupt his inspection of documents. Laura looks for a bed, but there is none, just commonplace wooden furniture, scrolls, and tools—as though a great plan were being executed, a military campaign. That is Laura’s impression. The ugly man is the general, the handsome one his lieutenant.

The younger man says, Maestro, will you see if you approve?

Simone Martini answers with a growl and puts down his parchment. As before, Laura’s face and bearing are scrutinized, but this one pinches her chin to turn her head in profile and appears displeased with what he sees. To his subordinate he says, I have begun to think this is a terrible idea.

Signor Rettore was . . . um . . . quite
specific
that the girl ought
to come every morning after Lauds and not return home before dusk, unless called for.

(Laura blinks at this news.)

We must have her here all day, every day?

Except the Sabbath.

This is unacceptable. You did not counter him, Lippo?

(Laura notices the assistant’s fingers crossed behind his back.)

Well, it was not easily done.

Simone Martini is exasperated. Lippo, the keen and insecure patron will be constantly at your elbow, interfering, finding defects that do not exist. And now we have, in effect,
two.

Lippo Memmi replies with more conviction, It is not too late to refuse the commission. I for one will not care about displeasing the bishop. We can go to Florence or to Venice, where your genius will be appreciated.

Simone grumbles indistinctly and returns to his plans, which Lippo interprets as a direction to continue.

For Laura, Lippo has further instructions, picking up the rector’s refrain: You must sit in complete silence, for your very presence disturbs my master’s work. You must let no one in without the master or myself being present, and ensure always this door is locked. Do you fear God? I said, do you fear God?

Yes.

Do you fear the flames of hell and the trident of Lucifer?

Yes.

I hope so, because I am about to make you swear an oath of secrecy. If anyone inquires about our panel, or asks you to report what has taken place in this room, if anyone—the rector, the bishop, anybody from the Commune, the Nine, or the Opera del Duomo—asks you what is happening or is spoken about within these walls, you will cut out your own tongue before answering them and rot in hell when you do. Do you so swear?

Laura wavers. A promise of this kind is an extremely serious matter. If what you say is true, Signore, then what answer may I make to men such as these?

You may say the master works hard, and it appears to be going well, and that what you have seen of his design is extraordinary and confounds your understanding. You will furnish any details that distract from the substance of what they seek to know—describe the shoes my master is wearing, say whether it rained on your walk here, or that you had a splinter in your finger. You will tell them
anything
that protects the panel and my master from their scrutiny. Now, do you so swear?

Laura stammers, Yes, I swear—

Good.

—but there must be a mistake.

Child, they will all seek you out; yours are the most valuable eyes and ears in Siena. But remember, you belong to us. And while you are with us, you shall not chatter nor venture unnecessary questions; in fact, you would do well to make yourself invisible. Hush now, this is serious business.

A small chair has been set aside in the corner, and Lippo gestures for Laura to sit down. Uncertain what exactly is required of her, Laura Agnelli does so tentatively.

The two men turn away to confer in lowered voices. They discuss names and plot dates, and estimate quantities and measurements and sums of money, extravagant sums of money (initially she thought she misheard), the kind of money Laura has never seen and will never see. She waits to be given another instruction, has nothing to occupy her except to sit alternating her attention between the gentlemen and the bustle outside, which, unhappily, is out of sight unless she strains in her chair to peer over the sill. The older man is agitated; his fury sinks and rises over some problem or other, some unreasonable behavior that maddens him. The assistant
is unruffled by the master’s shouting, suggests a solution, a different solution, then a compromise. Then he makes a note of their decision and does calculations.

At midday, a maidservant brings a basket of bread and tomatoes. Laura lets her in. The maid greets Signor Martini and Signor Memmi—this is how Laura learns their names—leaves the food, and, to Laura’s dismay, departs forthwith.

Later Laura is sent home, unaccompanied.

And this is how the second day passes.

By the third day, Lippo Memmi is not present, sent away to procure materials and appoint workers. Simone Martini spends the day reading his books. The boredom makes Laura weary, but she does not complain. She has ample time to ponder how much longer she will be required to come here (a whole week? two?) and whether her role is simply to sit quietly and observe, or whether there is more to it that will be revealed later. At dusk, when Simone Martini lights a candle, she rises from her seat.

Maestro Simone, it is time for me to go, unless you have further use for me . . . ?

(This would be sarcasm if spoken by another girl, but Laura Agnelli does not mean it that way.)

The artist drags his attention from his research and appears startled to find her there. Yes, you may go.

She makes a small bow of respect.

What is your name, child?

Laura Agnelli.

Indeed, you are like a lamb, one that does not bleat. Tomorrow bring your spindle. You should not be idle.

* * *

Simone Martini has begun preparatory drawings; with each one his humor deteriorates further still. He sketches them out with a pen and red and black inks, bent like a monk in a scriptorium, his back giving him pain. Sometimes the
modelli
are more elaborate—he goes as far as making meticulous scale paintings. Laura watched with curiosity the first time he broke an egg into a cup, the familiar sound causing her to look up. He slithered the yolk in his fingers, pinched it, pierced the sac with a tiny blade, let the yellow liquid run out to mix with ground pigment. These are Simone’s experiments in color and design, but Laura knows them only as a flourish and a blur when he casts them aside as inadequate.

In the absence of Lippo, he finds reasons to bellow at Laura—for staring at him when she drifted off into a meditative state; for her stomach groaning the day she missed breakfast; for the clatter when she dropped her spindle on the floor. She begins to dread her next misdemeanor.

At noon, Laura rises to let in the maid but instead it is an elegant young lady, hair like the feathers on a rook, slim and exquisitely dressed, carrying an armful of cut lilies and a basket. Laura withdraws to her corner.

So this is where all the yarn comes from! I did not truly believe one person could make so much in a day.

Simone Martini huffs and Laura does not reply, assumes she is not meant to. The young woman lays down the bouquet, the heady aroma of the lilies overpowering the warm space, and unpacks the basket: swaths of lavish fabric and wrapped parcels, which Simone stirs himself to sort through. He frowns. Why did you not send the maid, Giovanna?

Because Antonia is busy. And I wanted to come myself. To see you, my lord. To eat with you.

And yet you have brought no food.

Giovanna tilts her head in reproach. I thought I would bring the things you asked for first, then go to the Campo to buy some. If it is not too distracting for you, you can tell me what you would most like to eat.

Laura expects this tartness to be answered in kind, but Simone Martini’s expression softens into paternal indulgence.

Figs, Giovanna, should do very well.

Figs. Then I shall bring you some. How is your work?

Simone sighs, waves the question away.

Giovanna picks up some of the studies—figures and triptychs—and looks them over. What is the matter with all these? Why can you not make a decision?

Do not concern yourself with it. Only one of us needs to be troubled.

Giovanna pouts, examines the sketches more closely, briefly glances at Laura, then murmurs, Not one of these Virgins is in the act of spinning.

Simone Martini takes them from her and shuffles the sheets together, grunting, I am getting to it.

My lord, the panel is within your reach. Your greatness is more than equal to this task. When it is finished, it will undoubtedly be the jewel of Siena. And yet . . . I must protest, if it is affecting your health, if the sacrifices you are making are too much for you—

Simone kisses Giovanna on the forehead and she leaves the rest unsaid. Laura senses this is a longstanding family argument, that he has mastered the girl’s grievances and has gently reminded her of it.

Then I will go to the Campo for you. Would you like to come with me?