The Madonna of the Almonds (8 page)

The green almonds were ripening. The drupes dangled, their hard husks mature, beginning to split to reveal the nutmeat. They hung, waiting, on their boughs. The verdant leaves, lance shaped and serrated, shifted in the autumn breeze. A hand passed through the fruits, feeling their weight, disturbing their leaves, letting them go again to fall and swing on their branches like a ring of bells. The hand caught the light of the low sun, and glowed gold.

Manodorata turned to Simonetta. ‘And this is all? No olives, no vines? No livestock?’

Simonetta shook her head. Only now did she realise how profligate Lorenzo and she had been with their wealth. They had thought only of ornament, not practicality – of what was beautiful, not useful. The trees themselves were here by happy accident – one tree had been brought home from the Holy Land by a long dead di Saronno returning from Jerusalem, and had fathered many more to supply the groaning groves where they now stood.

Manodorata dropped his golden hand to his side and shook his head. He made an incongruous picture here among the trees – for he seemed an urban creature, more at home in the filigree cloisters of his home or the black and gold of his temple. In the rural setting he became the bear warlock that all feared – his huge furs brushing the fallen leaves as he moved. The almond walks were empty, for there were no servants to tend these paths. Raffaella and Gregorio, when they heard the Jew was to visit, took themselves off to the market. They could not stay while the Devil was abroad.

Manodorata walked on for a little and then turned to face Simonetta. ‘
Shakad
,’ he said, and before she could enquire, ‘almonds.’ His disparaging tone dismissed the grove with the single word.

‘You know these fruits?’ Simonetta registered surprise. Then cursed herself. Why should such a man be ignorant of this simple crop?

‘Of course. I had not thought they would grow here in the frozen north.’

‘’Tis an accident of topography. Lorenzo’s…my ancestors brought them back from Crusade, and this warm plain in the lee of the mountains seems to suit the bitter variety very well.’

He nodded, and she could not be sure if he had heard her or no.

‘In Hebrew we call them
shakad
. The name is very expressive:
it means ‘to watch for’, hence ‘to make haste’; a fitting homily for your situation, don’t you find? You have been watching for long enough. Now, it is time to make haste.’

She would not answer, discomfited by his prickly humour. So he, too, had seen her at her window; watching day after day.

He went on in softer tones, almost to himself: ‘In Palestine the blossoms appear in January, herald the wakening up of Creation. Beautiful blossoms, of white and rose.’

She could see that her strange saviour had left her side and was far away in the East.

‘The rod of Aaron was an Almond twig, and the fruit of the Almond decorates the golden candlestick employed in the tabernacle. The Jews still carry rods of Almond blossom to the synagogues on great festivals.’

Simonetta could think of nothing to say, desperate as she was not to betray her utter ignorance of such rites. Almost every word was strange to her; such observances incomprehensible. But Manodorata moved on, into a more businesslike mode.

‘And do you harvest these
almonds
? Are they of any use?’

Simonetta shrugged. ‘The men and maids used to pick them each autumn and store them in the cellar where we kept our treasure,’ she smiled. ‘There’s an old story that, years ago, two servants from this very house fell in love during
the almond harvest. Orsolina and Giuseppe were their names. They picked the nuts and made some sweet biscuits, called
amaretti
, as a gift to honour the Cardinal of Milan, and gave them to him in the sanctuary church in Saronno, in order that he might bless their union.’ Her smile faded as she thought of her wedding in that very place – a joyful union now turned to dust. She looked up at Manodorata to see if he had read her thoughts, but he wore a faraway expression and a wry smile.

‘Yes, well, no-one is likely to make sweetmeats for the
current
Cardinal, that’s certain.’

‘What do you mean?’

Manodorata recollected himself. ‘Nothing. I spoke out of turn. Please continue with your instruction.’

She turned her thoughts strictly back to the matter in hand. ‘Almonds can be pickled, or used to flavour meat and pastries. The English make a delicacy called Marchpane. Or they can even be eaten alone.’

‘And are they nourishing? Do they have a goodly taste or medicinal properties?’

Simonetta reached up and plucked one of the almonds. Expertly she pulled the green casing back with her hunting knife and proffered it to Manodorata. ‘Try for yourself, Signore.’

Manodorata looked on the nut for some heartbeats before he reached for it with his fleshy hand. He placed it in his mouth and chewed on it for a while, then, as his face
changed, he drew out a silken kerchief and delicately spat the nut into it. ‘Jacob’s bones! It tastes of wood.’

Simonetta smiled. ‘So I thought too when I tasted one at first. But they have a sweetness and texture which can be quite pleasing.’ Manodorata drew on his glove with his teeth. He sniffed fastidiously, as if doubting the charms of this delicacy. ‘Take me to the house,’ he said in commanding tones. ‘I wish to look at your accounts and maps.’

Simonetta looked down. She had promised Raffaella that she would meet the Jew in the gardens and not let him cross the threshold lest the house become accursed. She had made the assurance to keep the peace rather than to give credence to her maid’s superstitions, but was in the habit of keeping her word. She attempted to change the subject rather than anger her guest. ‘Are these trees and their fruits truly useless then?’

‘It would seem so,’ replied Manodorata, ‘but there is good acreage here. If we clear this land and plant olives there may be money to be made. Grapes will take too long to answer, for there needs to be many years of growth before a return can be expected. This timber seems sound though – it can be sold for firewood, or for the machines of the war, which seems to have abated for now, but will return soon like the turn of a coin.’

Simonetta looked sadly at the doomed trees. She reached out her long fingers and caressed the bark of the nearest one. It shivered a little under her touch and wept tears of
dew onto her hand. She would be sorry to see them fall under the axe, as they were so woven into Castello’s heritage. They seemed a part of the di Saronno name – even the family arms featured three almonds. And then she remembered. Such a pennant would Lorenzo had worn when he died. The pain made her grasp the trunk till the bark hurt her fingertips.
Lorenzo
. What would you say if you knew what was proposed?

When she spoke it was with a lightness of tone to belie what she felt. ‘My husband once told me a tale of the Greek princess Phyllis, who fell in love with a soldier called Demophon. She was left waiting at the altar on her wedding day by her intended and Phyllis waited for years for him to return from the wars, but finally hanged herself from an almond tree.’ Simonetta remembered when she too had thought that the wood of suicides might be for her also. ‘In sympathy, the gods transformed Phyllis into the very bough from which she hung. When the remorseful Demophon returned, he found Phyllis as a leafless, flowerless tree. He embraced the tree and all at once it burst into bloom, demonstrating that love and faith could not be conquered by death. Even now, in the land of Greece the almond tree is a symbol of hope.’

Manodorata looked at her closely and his strange grey eyes softened. ‘I perceive both a lie and a truth in this tale. Your husband will never return, but love and faith cannot be conquered by death. My people know this more
than most.’ He seemed lost in thought, then turned up the almond walk towards the house. ‘Come, walk with me. In return for your tale I will tell you another.’

Simonetta kept pace with him, side by side as he talked.

‘Far away and long ago there was a place called Masada. It was built by a King called Herod – the one who in your scriptures, sought the death of the man you call Jesus. Masada was a fortress of great strength, but also great beauty, as it was set on a mountain overlooking a land-locked ocean they call the Dead Sea. It was, for many years, a Roman garrison until it was captured by a people known as the Zealots.’

‘Jews?’ questioned Simonetta.

‘Jews. When their city of Jerusalem fell into Roman hands, the Zealots took refuge in Masada. The Romans responded by besieging the fortress. The Zealots fought bravely but could do nothing against the might of Rome. They realized that their defeat was near. Their leader, Eleazar Ben Yair, ordered that all Zealots were to be killed. Ten men were appointed to kill the others, then one of the remaining ten was to kill the other nine and then commit suicide.’

Simonetta stopped in her tracks, shocked beyond belief. But Manodorata paced onwards and continued.

‘With the fall of Masada, the state of Israel – the land we had been promised – came to an end. And ever since we have been scattered all over the world, hated and derided,
yet still existing. Our death, and the deaths of our brethren through the ages, have been a testament to the enduring nature of our love and faith. For it did not end with Masada. In York, Jews were penned into Clifford’s tower and burnt, every one. In Mainz, after the first crusade, our community there were driven into the city square and each Jew beheaded. In Spain, even more recently, I myself…’ he stopped as if he recollected something, and changed tack. ‘Well, you know what they say of my kind even here in this fair and
civilized
town.’ He smiled at her wryly and she looked away, thinking of Raffaella and Gregorio.

‘But
why
do they hate you so?’

Manodorata shrugged. ‘Some Christians blame the Jews for the death of Christ. One such was Saint Agostino of Hippo, whose bones lie in Peter’s church in Pavia.’

Simonetta nodded slowly. ‘I have seen his tomb there. He is venerated as a great teacher.’

Manodorata raised his dark brows. ‘Yes. He is commonly depicted with a flaming, arrow-pierced heart in his hand, symbolizing the intensity of his piety. And yet, to
my
people, he is a purveyor of great ignorance, for Christ himself was a
Jew
, and was killed by the
Romans
under Pilate, as your scripture clearly records. You might say that
your
ancestors were more culpable than
mine
. Yet the accusation has dogged us through the centuries. Here in this town I am hated for a similar charge of murder.’

Simonetta chilled, and suddenly regretted her isolation.
‘Murder?’ It was little more than a croak.

‘I killed a man’s wife.’

Simonetta spun round, searching Manodorata’s face for the signs of a black jest. They were there, for the thin lips lifted again.

‘My offence was nothing more than crossing the square on the same eve as her, walking widdershins, on a night when the moon was fat and full. The dame took the milk fever, sickened and died. Her husband now throws stones at my children in the street.’ Simonetta tried to speak, but he went on. ‘I do not seek sympathy. The burden of my tale is this: some of the earliest of my peoples – the Zealots – were besieged by the earliest of yours – the Romans. And yet, here we are. We live, we breathe. You have had a husband, and I,’ the eyes softened again, ‘I have a wife. And, forgive me, but you are young. It may still be that you will love again.’

‘That will never be,’ said Simonetta shortly, and marched a little ahead.

Manodorata smiled a little for he saw more than he said. He followed her and took her arm and turned her round to him. ‘Tell me, Signora, do you pray?’

‘Pray?’

‘You are a Christian. Do you pray, and attend mass?’

‘Yes…that is, I used to.’

‘Yet now you look to classical legends for your comfort? Perhaps it would be better to look to your God?’

‘
You
can say that? You who have been so persecuted by Christians through the ages? And are persecuted still?’

Manodorata shook his head. ‘The offences done to me were done by man, not God. Your faith will help you if you return to it. I hold no hatred for your Christ, only for those who do ill in his name.’

Simonetta was amazed. She had never known such forgiveness, and knew well that Gregorio, Raffaella and the Jew-hating citizens of Saronno would never show such compassion or understanding of another religion. She felt that she wanted to atone for the wrongs done to this man and his people, but what could she do? He turned his gaze upon her, his grey eyes penetrating her thoughts.

‘You can do much by doing little. If you treat me with civility, invite me into your house, such small steps will change worlds.’ He offered her his arm as if challenging her to show her goodwill. She took it gladly as they walked to the house. Raffaella and Gregorio may have returned by now and could be watching from the windows but she cared not. As she walked through the loggia and led Manodorata over her threshold, she felt an inner thankfulness. In a heart that felt by turns either the killing cold of the loss of Lorenzo, or the burning heat of Bernardino’s gaze as he painted her, she now felt new warmth; that she had found a friend.

Amaria remembered always the first sound that Selvaggio made. He had been with them for some weeks, and had, as his health improved, appointed himself some small tasks around the house and yard that might help those that had helped him. He never uttered, but his actions spoke for a good heart as he chopped wood, tended the chickens or fed the pig. He fitted into the lives of the two women in a way so unobtrusive, yet so fitting, that they would scarcely have been able to tell of the change, yet they would miss him immeasurably if he was absent. The two of them felt it acutely if he went for water, or off to market, and left them even for a brace of hours. They watched him constantly; Nonna to see her son again, and Amaria through a fascination she could not define. They clothed him in Filippo’s ancient garb, fed him and tended to his needs like a child, yet he began to look after them as they had looked after him. It seemed he could no more write than he could speak, for they had tried him with a slice of wood and a charred twig.
His only sound was that of his breathing, and sometimes as they sat by the fireside Amaria listened for the air drawing in and out of his body, like the tides of the ocean she had never seen. Always at these times he had in his damaged hands a piece of wood and Filippo’s knife. He seemed fascinated by the turn of the grain, the feel of the material in his hands. He clung to the sticks and logs that he carved as if he held on to something that was fundamental, elemental; he worked with the wood so obsessively that Nonna and Amaria privily agreed that he must have had something to do with carpentry in his former life. (They did not know, then, that wood had nothing to do with his old life but had merely been his first sight in this new world of his.) He would carve awkward lumpen shapes at first, which he cast into the fire. But as the days wore on he began to develop his skills, and fashion little mannikins to delight Amaria. At the end of each evening she would hide what he had made in her skirts and keep every one; secretly populating her closet with an ever-growing wooden throng. She could watch Selvaggio for hours, and did so. She talked to him almost ceaselessly, and when he laughed, as he began to do, he was a strange sight; for his face and body convulsed as most men’s do in mirth, yet no sound came.

But sound came at last. Selvaggio had taken it upon himself to stop the hole in the door where a knot had fallen out and the wind whistled through. As he hammered a new plank in place, he struck his hand and gave a cry. Amaria
rushed to his side as he dropped the hammer and took the wounded hand; they looked at each other incredulously and laughed – hers musical and his silent as ever. Amaria led him to the hearthside by his wounded hand, and sat him down as she fetched the salve to stop the blood. ‘Try again!’ she said excitedly, ‘it may be that you are able to speak to us. Try again!’

He seemed to forget the pain of his hand as he contorted his mouth and tried to replicate the cry. After a few attempts he began to make a sound, a flat, guttural ‘o’ like the call of a woodchuck. Amaria laughed and clapped her hands. Selvaggio rose from the chair, unable to sit still in his excitement, and danced round the room waving his hands, the untied bandage flying from one of them. Amaria whirled like a top, skirts flying, also chanting ‘o o o’ and it was thus that Nonna found them when she returned. When she heard the sound that Selvaggio made she was almost moved to join in, but her age and dignity prevented her – that and the small voice in her heart that whispered that it was the beginning of his going away.

Amaria Sant’Ambrogio now embarked on the task of a lifetime – that of teaching a savage to speak. All her warmth and effusion and the happy nature of her character, was given full reign and she entered into the task with patience and pleasure. Forever a talker herself, she delighted in hearing his syllables painfully and slowly develop. From ‘o’ it was
but a short step to ‘i’, from thence to ‘e’ until all the vowels were in place. The chatterer now listened patiently for his rejoinder, she that made noise was silent while he struggled; the speaker became the listener. Nonna watched Amaria school Selvaggio, noting the girl’s new maturity; she had grown indeed in the labour she had set herself; no longer the breathless, chattering adolescent, she was displaying a new quality; an almost maternal, nurturing care and attention that complemented her womanly beauty. Nonna could see how well Amaria’s new poise suited her, even with the critical, fond eye of a grandmother. So Heaven only knew what havoc this new Amaria could wreak on the heart of a lost young man, a man without name or family. In Amaria he could find, at once, a mother and a lover, a passionate heart and a pair of comforting arms. She was all life and health and warmth, where he had known cold death. Nonna watched her granddaughter school Selvaggio with joy and foreboding.

Still, the old lady could not but rejoice when Selvaggio spoke his first words. She had returned from gathering wood to find the two young people bursting with suppressed excitement. They had rehearsed something for her and she sat at the hearth to watch them perform, as one who sits down to enjoy a
Commedia
. They knelt facing each other, as if about to plight their troths, and Amaria pointed to her hand.

‘
Mano
,’ said Selvaggio. Nonna made as if to rise from her
chair at the miracle but there was more. Amaria pointed to her heart.

‘
Cuore
,’ said the wildman.

Lastly, but quite distinctly, he said ‘
bocca
,’ as Amaria pointed to her mouth. Nonna embraced them both, thanked God, and kept her counsel.

From that moment Amaria patiently taught him the names of all the parts of the body and all the things in the house, and had him repeat them over until he could perfectly express the word for olive, or cauldron, or fire. Then they went further afield. She took him to Pavia and had him name each one of the town’s hundred towers. They went within the incensed gloom of the great red Duomo, and named all the Saints that glowed in the cathedral candlelight, their faithful faces shuttered and their right hands raised to heaven. There among them all was her own personal patron Saint Ambrose, who looked particularly benevolent that day, as his daughter introduced her wildman to him. They walked together down the Via Cavallotti, dodging the geese and oxen going to market, and went into the church of San Michele. Here Amaria’s knowledge was defeated, for even she could not put a name to the strange half-beasts and dragon-fishes that swarmed and curled on the friezes and capitals, doing battle with humans for their souls. They crossed the
Ponte Coperto
and paused to peep into the workshops or watch the traffic of the water. As they watched the exotic, laden spiceships traverse the waters of
the Ticino, Amaria wondered which of the four points of the compass Selvaggio was from. Then Amaria took Selvaggio to the woods to name the birds and the flowers and the trees and the herbs. Once they went to the place where she had found him first, the
pozzo dei mariti
, and smiled at the single girls loitering there, ostensibly to draw water. They laughed together like children as they caught young green frogs in a bottle for Nonna’s famous Pavian speciality,
risotto
con le rane
. Amaria felt great joy as Selvaggio spoke to her, as he began to fix his sentences together like a babe, then a child, then a young man. His tones were low and his voice had a crack to it as if his throat had been hurt by whatever had befallen him. But it was a pleasing rasp, and his accents became pure Milanese, though a hesitance and stammer remained, never to be gone.

Selvaggio would sit by the hearth talking to Amaria as she cooked their simple fare, and all three spoke together in the evenings when they shared a stew and a cup of wine by the fire. He remembered nothing of his name or his fate, or from whence he had come. Nonna questioned him closely, but try as he might he could not recall how he had received his wounds or the horrors he must have seen. Selvaggio returned, when questioned, to his metaphor of the wood that had been his first thought in his conscious state.

‘Does a piece of wood know that it has once been a tree?’ he asked, picking a rough hewn log from the woodpile and turning it in his hand. ‘No, it does not remember
where it stood, in plain or forest, nor the winds that rocked it, the rains that soaked it; nor yet the sun that warmed it. It does not remember that it shed leaves in the winter and grew them again with the spring, many many seasons round, as the rings grew in its belly. And yet
we
know that it did live this life, and yet here, now, it is just a log. I am here, too, and once I was somewhere else, but where that was I know not. I do not even know how many summers I have seen, nor where in the world I stood when I was alive.’

Nonna nodded and began to feel safe, that Selvaggio was truly theirs and would not leave.

Amaria, in her sunny acceptance of him, had never doubted he would stay and certainly wished him to never leave her side. As he began to converse with her she found him exactly after her own heart; his tastes and preferences were hers. He loved the woods and the wells far more than the wonders of the town; he took more pleasure in the silver turn of a fish in the river than the fantastical frescoed sea-creatures of San Michele. He loved nature and cared not for art; he loved the simple act of carving wood, or the simple taste of rough wine. He gained enormous satisfaction from squeezing the fine fat vegetables in the market, choosing the best for the pot with the small coin than they had; admiring the purple sheen of a
melanzana
, blood-bright tomatoes or the pebble-green olives. These vegetables, grown from the earth which his blood had nourished, were more beautiful to him than the finest stained glass which pierced the
gloom of the cathedral. Nothing of the higher arts could touch him – music hardly penetrated his ears; yet he loved the song of the wind on the river. The awesome bulk of the Duomo did not impress him; yet he craned his head back till his neck ached to admire the tallest trees in the forest. And Selvaggio turned his head from the female icons of San Pietro, to sneak a lingering glance at Amaria’s rapt face. The Saints wore closed expressions, their eyes and their bones were dead, yet Amaria lived, and glowed more with mature beauty with each passing day. Selvaggio’s heart now beat to the rhythms of the earth, no courtly measure.

The pair walked about town, more sedately now, conversing on all subjects, always in each other’s company. Silvana, Amaria’s intimate friend, was quite put out; her erstwhile companion and the savage were together so much that Selvaggio’s tongue was not the only one which learned to wag. But the pair knew nothing of it, and were all ease and friendliness, until the day that the sister began to see the brother in a new way.

She saw him in the yard one morning, without his shirt, as he dipped to the stoup and scooped the freezing water onto his face and body. He wet his hair and she saw the shapes of the muscle under the skin, the scars newly healed, and the mapping of the veins standing on his arms like the vessels of a leaf. As if he felt her eyes upon him he lifted his dripping head and shot her through with a look, at once warm
and quizzical. The winter sun turned to spring in his eyes, which were grass-green as new shoots. She stepped back into the welcoming embrace of the black shadow of the doorway, and bit her lip. Her face heated, her heart thudded in her throat, and she felt she could hardly stand.