Girl Reading (6 page)

In the dormitory, Laura finds Imelda and Gisila sitting on a bed, their heads close together in conference as they wind laundered cloth strips.

Imelda whispers to Gisila, whose uncontrollable giggle turns into a pig snort.

Laura almost pauses to greet them, but even as she slows her pace their laughter dies. Suddenly they are absorbed in their work.

It would not hurt Laura, not normally. She would take solace in her prayers and think about the life she will have at Santa Marta. She is finding this more difficult of late. Because she is in halves.

A word, Laura Agnelli!

The shouted demand is from Rettore Giovanni di Tese Tolomei, whose pompous girth has appeared as abruptly in the girls’ quarters as if he had followed Laura there. She turns to go with him, passes by the other two but a few steps before their joke resumes. Imelda sniggers into the back of her hand. Gisila drops her head onto her friend’s shoulder, limp with laughter, tears forming on her lashes.

She has had enough practice at finding her way through Siena’s streets in the dark, and takes the precaution of covering her head so that her red hair does not give her away at a distance. She knows from experience which entrances will still be unlocked and, once inside, which are the quietest passageways leading back to the dormitory.

The hospital is never entirely asleep. Individual candles are kept lit in alcoves; oblates keep watch in the wards and the pilgrims’ hall; voices are still audible, though fewer, muted, more urgent. Night is a dangerous time for the weak.

Laura traces her way close to walls and peers around corners before moving on. She has not been seen so far, but is not complacent either. She has tried to imagine what would happen if she met Imelda, or one of the other orphans, creeping around out of bed too . . . and done her best not to dwell on the consequences if she were caught by a sister or Signor Rettore.

She listens. Blood thuds in her ears. Footsteps ahead send her back in the direction she came from and toward a main corridor. Rather than risk it, she is compelled down a stairway and when she hears them approaching once more—whether or not her mind is playing tricks on her—goes deeper into the underbelly of the hospital. The swinging flare of a lamp sends her hurrying away.

She tries to dampen her tread as she traverses the labyrinthine passages hastens down steps behind pillars makes stealthy progress. The tunnels are twisted and unfamiliar here.

She stayed out longer than she intended; it is so late it is almost early. Fatigue and fright and frustration and the need for prayer like thirst. She stops. She leans against an archway to steady her nerves, to get her bearings, to console her heart. It is futile to feel distress, or indulge unwanted thoughts at this particular moment: getting back to the dormitory undiscovered is what matters; ignore the rest of her troubles if she can.

Laura Agnelli looks about her. She decides on reflection she has been here before, years ago, can find a route that will bring her close to the girls’ quarters from beneath. Here at least is one solution.

As to the rest (Laura summons her strength), I will try again soon.

And it is when she resolves this that she realizes she has arrived almost at the door of the hospital’s oratory. She lingers; turns away from it; is instinctively tugged back.

The rules are plain: the oratory is out of bounds.

Is it possible that a benevolent hand has steered her here? that a few minutes of solace and solitude will provide Laura with the guidance she needs?

She peeked within it once, when she was small, but has never been inside because she was never invited—or desperate—and remembers the ghost stories they told one another about the place,
as children, for the cemetery and the charnel house are right next to it. These features made it fascinating and forbidding.

But the terrors are real enough now. And Laura Agnelli enters the oratory at last.

It is unlike any space in the sprawling warren of Santa Maria della Scala. Hewn. Enclosed. It exudes a dim glow of its own, a pulsation, a palpable intention, is ancient and potent as though the very walls had cognizance. This power presses upon Laura Agnelli, compresses her, makes her tingle. Is it evil? Is it sacred? Is this awe, or ecstasy?

The oratory is a stone vault with a simple altar, relics, bones, skulls, fragments of wood set in cases and embellished stands. A smaller doorway in the opposite wall is partially open. Beyond it, luminous and inviting warmth, an angelic figure retreating into the next chamber—its brilliance makes Laura shield her vision briefly.

Laura is lowering her head and following before the folly of disturbing the room’s occupant prevents her—

She is in a narrow recess wide enough for a single person, a niche of several yards, and there at the end is a woman kneeling at a second tiny altar. A stranger. Her presence is somehow wrong, impossible, as if she does not belong here but has come for a special purpose. It is arresting.

Absorbed in her meditations, it takes minutes for the woman to perceive Laura. When she does notice, she does not speak. Instead, the lady symbolically covers her mouth . . . then makes confusing movements with her hands, as though they contained a message.

She has fire in her. Laura can see the flames in the blacks of her eyes, can feel the heat emanate.

If this is a spirit sent to warn her, or a saint sent to comfort, then Laura is unprepared for it and baffled by the whole encounter. She leaves the oratory without uttering a single word of prayer, without the answers she craves.

* * *

Dawn rays find the edges of feet suspended in midair, fingers curled and stiff, a shape like a rag draped over a branch. Dew forms on the skin like stone. There she is, surprisingly small, discovered first by the sun, then by birds to be pecked at, then by a cart, then a staring multitude. The act was done with a red cord, it becomes apparent. There is one just like it tied around a curtain in the women’s chapel of the hospital.

Laura opens her eyes, wakes without so much as a sigh, the vision still vivid. In the dark, the familiar outlines of sleeping girls huddled together and the sounds of their breathing flowing like a river. A stab of panic: which one of them did she dream about? In the haze of partial sleep she forgets. As she drifts off with the swell, she remembers; it is only herself, and there is no need to warn anyone.

Out of breath, she climbs the stairwell and pauses outside the room—tries the door, squeezes it open without the hinges squeaking.

The artist is standing by the window eating olives from a small dish, the people of Siena going about their day below.

It confirms her anxiety to find him thus, because each and every day previously he has been at work with his back to the world and paid her no heed. But now he watches her secure the lock with unabashed interest. There is a moment . . . maybe while she waits for him to summon his rage, or he waits for her to volunteer an apology. He breaks the silence first.

I bought us some olives from the Campo. I had to buy some eggs to make paint because I tend to run out without Lippo around to remind me. I am very fond of olives. Are you?

Laura Agnelli nods faintly, yes, she is.

Then it is good you came when you did, or I would have eaten them all, then there would have been none left for you. Here, you had better have some.

She cautiously takes one without eating it.

Simone pops another in his mouth, making a noise of pleasure at the flavor, takes the stone out, drops it on another plate. He wipes his finger on his tunic.

You did not come yesterday. (It is a statement of fact, and he declares it that way.) I waited the whole day for you to come, but you did not. It was disconcerting. In fact, I got no work done. I was going to send someone to Santa Maria to find out why, in case you had been taken ill, you see? Giovanna talked me out of it. She said if you were indisposed, someone from the hospital would have been dispatched to tell me about it and there was probably another explanation. That made sense. I said, then Laura is surely missing, and we should raise the alarm so she can be found! I was adamant.

Laura lifts her horrified gaze.

But Giovanna said we should not do that either—that if your absence was for a different reason, I ought not to draw attention to it in case it caused you difficulties. She said you would probably turn up in your own time if we left you alone. And look . . . she was right. Giovanna knows much more about girls your age than I do.

Laura exhales, closing her eyes. I am sorry, Maestro Simone, to have caused you inconvenience.

Giovanna calls me
prickly.
She says I do not inspire confidences from the young. Huh. Eat your olives.

Simone gives Laura what is left, beckons her to take a seat, not in her usual corner but beside him for a while.

You disappeared for an entire day. I am not cross about it, but a child whose whereabouts are unknown is a cause of concern for any Christian.

Ashen, she apologizes again.

At least you are here now, and your behavior has been impeccable so far. I dined with the good rector at his palace last week. He artfully conveyed to me that he has a small mouse who squeaks all the newsworthy events into his ear every evening. He has really asked you, then . . . ?

Regularly.

I thought so. What a rascal. And what an appetite, for food and for intelligence. Somehow he has heard I am considering traveling to Avignon. He is trying to persuade me to petition the Holy Father for privileges for Santa Maria della Scala. He thinks I would make a good ambassador, and he has now offered as an incentive a new commission, to paint an exterior fresco for the hospital. A grand artwork, outside, where everyone can see it and admire it all the time.

It sounds marvelous.

Bah!—Simone flicks his wrist in a noncommittal gesture—he is appealing to my vanity. The hospital, the cathedral, and the Nine are as bad as one another, what with their sumptuous art and their colossal architecture. They are all posturing schoolboys. Sometimes I think the wars we make with Florence are a blessing in disguise because if we did not fight the Florentines, we would descend into war with ourselves. However, he was vague on the details of the altarpiece, which I am pleased about, Laura, especially when he was trying to create the impression you were his informant. You have done well to resist his coercion to reveal what you know.

I have an oath in heaven. It was not difficult, anyway, as I know so little.

Are you curious to know more?

Signor Memmi said I was not to ask questions unnecessarily, so I have not.

I see. Keeping your word is important to you.

I think it is important to anybody who is God-fearing.

I hear you are to become a nun someday?

Yes, Signore, at the convent of Santa Marta. At least, I hope so.

Ah—Abbess Emilia Pannocchieschi d’Elci.

You know her?

A very strict woman. Very devout. Extremely kind. You are fortunate if she takes you under her wing. She thinks novices should know scripture. Do you know scripture, Laura Agnelli?

How can I answer without sounding proud? or ignorant?

Be truthful. Do you read it regularly?

Laura fidgets. Ye-es. Some, at any rate. My Latin is not good, but I can usually identify the passages I need and have committed many more to memory. I often recite. I—cannot write.

Assuredly a woman has no occasion for writing?

No, I suppose not.

But many nuns are literate. If it holds a genuine attraction for you, perhaps you will have the chance to learn reading and writing at Santa Marta? Hmm?

Laura’s blush deepens.

I think the rector unwittingly did me a favor when he inflicted you upon us. My wife tells me you are troubled at the prospect of your likeness being in the painting. I did not take it seriously before. Now I have talked with you, I understand a little better. You are naturally closed like a bud. (Simone Martini brings his hands together, fingertips pointed upward as though in prayer, palms cupped as though protecting hidden contents.) I wish I could dispel some of your concerns. If you would care to look, I can show you some aspects of the panel, although you will have to use your imagination for some of it.

She frowns. Are you not worried I will betray what I see to the rector?

No. Neither should you be.

Simone retrieves some of the vellum leaves from the rest, studies
of figures and objects, definite shapes and contours and pigments. I have settled upon these elements. Here.

She hesitates.

Go on, it will do us both some good. I would like to share the fruits of my creativity with someone trustworthy, for a change. Tell me what you see. Think of it as practice for when you are discussing theological questions at the convent.

Laura leans over to examine them. White lilies in an ornate gold vase.

Yes. Why?

White lilies are a symbol of purity and virginity. They are an obvious choice to represent the Blessed Virgin.

Quite right. A peasant could understand that, and it is a painting as much for him as for the bishop. They are pretty to look at as well, do you agree?

Yes. Very pleasing.

Do you have any other thoughts on the subject of lilies?

Laura says she does not.

They are a symbol of virginity, innocence, and heavenly purity, as you mentioned, but some would say that lilies are . . . naughty flowers, that they suggest illicit passion and temptation. Have you heard that before?

No. People who say that are wrong. It is a flower of Our Lady!

Not necessarily. There are examples in pagan religions of this being the case, religions older than ours. Have you really smelled a lily before, Laura? It has an intoxicating and powerful fragrance, and the shape is uniquely alluring. I can see perfectly well how other cultures have bestowed it with more dubious connotations than ours. So I, as the painter, need to consider whether the lily is truly appropriate for inclusion. And I think, on balance, it is, because through Our Lady as Theotokos, sin
is overcome.
Furthermore, lilies are used figuratively to remind us to trust in God’s will
and providence.
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they toil not, neither do they spin.
We are told Mary was troubled and afraid when first the angel appeared, then she surrendered herself as the Lord’s handmaid. These particular flowers add this wisdom to the Annunciation story.