Simple Prayers (17 page)

And always, at the moment of the glow, she would feel a keen awareness of the child. Expanding like a sea sponge placed in well water. Absorbing warmth, and life, from the inside of her womb. And since the glow was so lovely, and since she was afraid that when the child moved out of her and into the world it would end, Miriam waited as long as she could to tell the people of Riva di Pignoli that she was pregnant. Because somehow the thought of telling them made the birth, and the loss of the shimmer, seem that much closer. She waited until her loose white gown could no longer camouflage the thickening of her waistline. She waited until her place in the hearts of the villagers was so secure, they would never be able to set her on a raft and send her out into the lagoon to give birth to her baby alone.

“
Non preoccuparti,”
she said, giving a stroke to her belly and then reaching up to the cutting table to pull herself to a standing position. “Perhaps we'l get a glimpse of it later.”

She placed
The Praise and Glory of the Virgin
on a crate near the entrance to the alcove, then reached for the dark blue mantle Maria Luigi had made her for the coming winter. She could wait no longer, she thought. No matter that the villagers might be shocked, that the veil of light might blacken into shadows and come no more. The time had come to share her secret with the people of Riva di Pignoli. And as she walked out into the morning light, she felt nothing so much as a tremendous sense of relief.

ON THE MORNING
of the
pranzo della vendemia,
Piero rose as usual to find Piarina sitting quietly atop the
campanìl.
When he fetched the ladder, however, and climbed up to bring her down, Piarina wouldn't budge.

“It's almost dawn, Piarina,” he said to her. “You'd better get home before your mother wakes up.”

Piarina blinked twice and brushed a pigeon off her left knee. “A lark's wing,” she said. “A piece of wet parchment.”

Piero, like everyone else on Riva di Pignoli, knew that Piarina spoke only when she was summoning up a cure. So as he felt particularly well that morning, and as he did not wish to force her to move against her will, he simply climbed back down the ladder and left her there.

There was much to do to get ready. Piero wanted it to be a simple affair; he did not want this celebration to eclipse the fact that there was still a tremendous amount of work ahead. But the people of Riva di Pignoli were so flushed with the bounty of their extraordinary spring and summer, they gave it a bit more zest than Piero had intended. Maria Luigi brought eight lace cloths to cover the tables. The villagers brought their own bowls and plates, but the Vedova Scarpa supplied two silver pitchers for wine (which she had not used since her husband, Luigi, mysteriously rowed off into the lagoon some twenty-six years earlier), and Orsina, though she refused to attend, sent several dozen pewter goblets to pour it into. Giuseppe Navo and Gesmundo Barbon provided the fish, which the Vedova Stampanini and Siora Bertinelli prepared; there would be
brodetto di merluzzo, baccala, seppie,
cauliflower, turnips, and a series of
dolci
made from every kind of fruit Gianluca and Albertino could deliver. Silvano Rizzardello offered to play his lute, and Cherubino Lunardi promised to bring his reed pipe.

By late morning the field was abuzz and an atmosphere of boisterous good cheer had ascended. Paolo Guarnieri and Brunetto Fucci spent close to an hour placing the tables at even distances across the grassy field. When Armida Barbon arrived, however, she insisted they be placed lengthwise from east to west in order to guarantee good fortune for the
pranzo.
For much of the time the villagers bustled back and forth as if they were not quite certain what to do with themselves. But when Beppe Guancio arrived in a cloud of nutmeg and coriander, carrying the cauldron of steaming soup from the Vedova Stampanini's hearth, the milling ceased and the celebration began.

“What have you come up with this time?” asked Fausto Moretti, always eager to taste the Vedova's culinary magic.

“Just an old cod broth,” said the Vedova. “Don't get your hopes up.”

“She calls it an old cod broth,” muttered Giuseppe Navo, “but she makes it taste like sweet-sea nectar!”

As the soup was ladled out into the variously shaped vessels, the villagers began to seat themselves at the tables. There were no assigned places, and when seats were taken they were rarely held for long; someone was always rising to refill his plate or to share a sprightly story with another table.

“Bindaccio Ferrelli claims he met a Venetian last week who saw a horse for the first time,” said Siora Scabbri.

“What did he say?”

“He didn't say anything. But before he got on, he raised his handkerchief to test which way the wind was blowing!”

The energy grew more expansive as the meal went on. Armando Guarnieri went from table to table demonstrating his impression of the doge being attacked by a fleet of Barbary pirates. Maria Patrizia Lunardi got an attack of hiccups that lasted for over an hour. The Rizzardello twins hollowed out the
pan di caja,
placed one loaf each upon their heads, and began running, in opposite directions, around the base of the Chiesa di Maria del Mare.

Everyone took note of Piarina — it would have been difficult to ignore her as she hovered silently over the supper from her post atop the
campanìl.
There was little Piarina could do, however, that could surprise the people of Riva di Pignoli. Ever since she had begun curing their San Barnaba fever or drying up their aguey eyes, she'd sat sweetly outside the circle of their speculation. For the most part they now assumed that she had been set atop the tower as a part of the harvest celebration. The Vedova Scarpa whispered that Piero had chosen her especially to be the first to ring the bells. It was only when Valentina appeared, red-faced and ranting at the edge of the field, that they realized something unusual was taking place.

“
Cinque,
Piarina!” she shouted as she raised her right arm high into the air. “That's how long I'm going to give you to get your skinny little rump off the top of that tower and down here on the ground.
Uno. Do. Tre. QuÀtro. Cinque
!”

Everyone looked up to see how Piarina would respond, but she merely sat there — wide-eyed, loose-limbed, lost inside a distant reality.

“Don't you ignore me, girl!” cried Valentina as she moved closer to the crowd. “I said get down here! And I don't give a pounded crayfish tail who hears me say it!”

Piarina remained motionless; the villagers remained rapt. And then, in her faint, otherworldly voice, she cried:

“A heron's claw … a gram of angelica …”

Valentina marched straight to the base of the tower. “Don't you start talking birds and black spices to me! I know your tricks, and I don't need no home remedy. I said get down here!”

But Piarina remained where she was, and Valentina had no choice but to back down. Without even casting a glance at the fascinated observers of her wrath, she gave a sharp kick to the tower and then stormed her way back to her hovel.

Valentina's wild display became the talk of the supper. The people of Riva di Pignoli had had more than a few suspicions as to what went on between her and Piarina, but they had never seen it brought so dramatically to light. They wondered whether Piarina planned to stay at the top of the tower forever; they wondered what her words were meant to cure.

“Seems to me she's awfully clever to get where Valentina can't reach her,” said Armida Barbon to Siora Scabbri as they helped replenish the pitchers of wine.

“A body can sit atop a tower only so long,” said Siora Scabbri. “Even Piarina'l have to come down sooner or later.”

“Wonder what the cure's for,” said Giuseppe Navo to Ugolino Ramponi as they stood urinating behind a pine tree fifty paces from the supper.

“Maybe she's come up with a curse to make Valentina's other hand fall off,” said Ugolino Ramponi.

The conversation gradually wound its way back to a more casual array of topics. Maria Patrizia Lunardi and Miriam helped clear away the plates, scraping the uneaten food scraps into a bucket for the pigs and then wiping them down with a muslin rag and returning them to the tables for the
dolci.
While the Vedova Stampanini served heaping portions of gooseberry tart and peach-pear-strawberry pudding, Siora Guarnieri recited a poem she'd written:

When the grape descends

And the summer ends

And the fruit trees grin

And the days grow thin

And the leaves turn gold

And the air turns cold —

Harvest, harvest, harvest, harvest, harvest.

Just as the meal was ending, Ermenegilda and the three Marias appeared from behind the sloping herb patch that lined the north wall of the Chiesa di Maria del Mare. They walked in a straight line between the tower and the tables, neither slowing their pace nor in any way acknowledging the festivities. But though Ermenegilda, in her fixedness, did not see Piarina, and Piarina, in her dazzlement, did not see Ermenegilda, it took Gianluca, Giuseppe Navo, and Silvano Rizzardello to hold down Albertino. Long after the Torta girls had passed, he was still wrestling with them to let him follow after Ermenegilda.

Of all people, Gianluca understood his brother's distress. For if Albertino had to bear the momentary apparition of the object of his deepest desire, Gianluca had to sit, and eat, and endeavor to retain his sanity, as the object of his stood a falcon's cry away throughout the entire afternoon. Gianluca's feelings for Miriam had only become more complicated since she'd begun talking with him; the exchanges they shared increased his understanding of God, but the nearness of her body still inflamed him. And though they were now on more intimate terms than Gianluca had ever expected, the meaning of their relationship was confused by the fact that she was every bit as intimate with Piero. On a Monday she might appear at the Vedova Stampanini's hovel and walk with Gianluca to market. On a Wednesday she might bring Piero a dozen fresh eggs on her way home from the henhouse. Gianluca fought against his innate sensuality in an effort to feel holy. Piero grasped at his ingrained religiosity in the hopes of not feeling his desire. And neither one of them considered that, but for the flip of a florin, their situations were essentially the same.

It was therefore somewhat ironic when the impassioned monk and the illuminated satyr joined forces for the raising of the bells. Piero would have liked to be able to raise them himself, but as they were far too heavy he agreed to let Gianluca help him. Late in the afternoon they climbed the ladder and lowered themselves into the belfry; once there, they attached the hoisting ropes to the pulleys, and while Paolo Guarnieri, Beppe Guancio, and Cherubino Lunardi heaved down on the ropes, they hoisted up the bells and fastened them carefully in place. Despite their animosity they worked together as a team, a pair of interlocking wheels in the simple machinery that would ring their island to life.

When the last bell was lifted into place, and Piero and Gianluca appeared at the window of the belfry, the crowd below burst out in a rousing cheer.

“May they ring in another spring like the one we had this year!” cried Armando Guarnieri.

“May they only ring out the hours,” cried Siora Scabbri. “And spare us the noise of anybody's death!”

The prayers and benedictions rippled through the crowd; there were wishes for fat cows and flaky pie crusts and golden afternoons to lie on the docks and daydream. To Gianluca and Piero, however, they were only a mass of voices playing a playful
contratemtpo
to the sweet sound-lessness of Miriam's beauty.

“What do
you
wish for, Miriam?” asked the Vedova Scarpa. “From the looks on their faces, it seems as if they'e raised them just for you!”

“Tell us, Miriam,” called Gianluca.

“What do you wish them to bring us?” cried Piero.

Miriam closed her eyes and tried to resist giving way to the glow. She could feel it pressing in at the edges of her being — she knew that with the slightest encouragement she might relinquish all form and cast herself into a sea of pulsing light. Yet she couldn't help feeling that at that moment it would have been an act of cowardice. The village was offering her the chance to share her secret with them, and even the radiance was not enough to keep her silent.

“A baby,” she said in an even voice. “I wish them to ring in the birth of a healthy baby.”

“What a lovely thought!” said Siora Bertinelli. “That's just what Riva di Pignoli needs!”

“I wish I'd had a bell to ring each of mine in,” said the Vedova Stampanini, “and a bell to ring each one out.”

“The trouble is,” said Maria Luigi, “no one's having babies these days. I'e got five
strasordenari
christening gowns at home, and I can't even give them away!”

Miriam raised her hand to her belly and whispered good-bye to the light. “I'l take one, Maria Luigi,” she said. “I'm going to have a baby this winter.”

If in that moment winter had come, as miraculously as the previous spring had come — bringing frost, and chill, and a spreading, dulling darkness — it could not have frozen the crowd at the
pranzo della vendemia
any more completely than Miriam's words. So startled, so silenced, was the entire gathering, they did not even notice when Piarina slipped down off the edge of the tower, crawled into the belfry behind Gianluca and Piero, and reached for the thick, twisted cords that hung from the bells. They only noticed when the birds took flight as the thundering peals sang out across the island.

Ringing Birth! and Death! and Freedom!

Ringing Father! Son! and Holy Ghost!

Ringing Spring is gone! The leaves have fallen! and
Finalmente,
Riva di Pignoli is here!

Chapter 10

T
HE ANNOUNCEMENT
Miriam made at the
pranzo della vendemia
had a profound effect on the people of Riva di Pignoli. Siora Guarnieri covered her eyes when Miriam passed by her at the market. Cherubino Lunardi stopped buying Siora Scabbri's eggs. Ugolino Ramponi crept up to Maria Luigi's hovel one foggy midnight and tacked a dead partridge to the door. Most of the villagers, however, seemed to take it less as a judgment of Miriam than as a simple proof that nothing was as it seemed — that angels without wings were not really angels at all.