The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (42 page)

“This is for the poor,” he said, watching the blind priest’s blue eyes widen at the touch of smooth silk.

“My son!” said the priest, his fingers running across the fabric. “It—is costly. It feels like the lining of a drappellone for the Palio!”

“For the Palio? Yes, perhaps it will be someday. A good destiny for it—it should fetch a good price and feed many orphans. Arrivederci, Father.”

Giacomo di Torreforte converted his apartments into a studio. He told his brothers that they would manage Monte dei Paschi, and that he would hear their report each month. At his instruction, the usual stipends from Monte dei Paschi to the poor, the hospitals, and the orphanages were resumed. The di Torreforte family could raise their heads once more in the streets of Siena.

Giacomo locked himself into his studio and began to paint. To paint her.

The colors were bright, the lines muted. He adopted the Senese style of the old masters. The black mantle and white veil of a tertiary matched the colors of the Senese republic. In her hand was a lily, the sign of innocence and purity
. . .
and of rebirth.

For weeks, di Torreforte refused to leave his apartments. He did not bathe, only splashing cold water on his face. Ants crawled over crusts of bread on platters, flies rubbed their greedy forelegs over rinds of fruit.

He refused entry to anyone. He worked alone.

The saint held the lily in her left hand, her right hand extended toward the lips of a young girl. The maiden looked up into the great saint’s face, her hands crossed over her heart, accepting the blessings bestowed upon her.

One day, a visitor arrived at the door of the palazzo on Via di Giglio in a carriage that was rickety with age and neglect. He lowered himself painfully from the carriage with help from a peasant.

The man was stooped and balding. His hands, spotted with purple blotches, were twisted into claws. He struggled to grasp the great iron ring of the knocker, letting it fall on the metal door.

“May I help you?” said a manservant opening the door.

“I have come to visit Master di Torreforte,” rasped the visitor. He craned his neck, trying to see the servant.

“Is he expecting you?” said the servant, knowing well that di Torreforte received no one, not even his family members.

“Tell him
. . .
tell him Giorgio Brunelli has come to call. Tell him! I have not much time left on this Earth, and we should bid farewell face to face.”

Di Torreforte’s brother Simone heard Giorgio’s reply. He stepped into the entry hall to greet the visitor.

“Come, signore. Sit here. Massimo, send for some wine and panforte for our guest.”

“I will not trouble you long,” said Giorgio. He turned his eyes up to Simone di Torreforte, unable to move his neck. “I only wish a few words with your brother.”

“Of course, I understand,” said Simone. “But my brother. I—he is not receiving, I fear. He does not speak with us. He has locked himself in the garret upstairs, where he paints all day and throughout the night.”

“Painting?” said Giorgio. “He still paints?”

“He stopped for a year after my father’s death. But then one day, he came home and renounced his duties as the head of the bank. Since that day, he has become a hermit, seeing no one.”

A tremor coursed through the left side of Giorgio’s face. “I must talk to him.”

“Signore, I swear to you. He receives no guests—”

“Except for this one,” said a voice.

Di Torreforte, bearded and gaunt, appeared at the top of the stairs. His bony fingers grasped the wrought-iron railing for support.

“Bring my guest to the studio,” said di Torreforte, his voice thick from disuse. “I will await him there.”

C
HAPTER
90

Siena

M
ARCH
1591

Two days after the visit of Giorgio Brunelli, Giacomo di Torreforte returned to the Basilica San Domenico.

“Buona sera,”
said di Torreforte, grasping the old priest’s hand. He watched the blind man’s mouth curve up in a wide smile.

“Have you found peace, son?” asked the priest, staring in his direction. “Has your father’s soul comforted you, Giacomo? The dead can soothe the living.”

Di Torreforte’s face fell as he heard the priest’s words. He felt his heart tighten in anguish.

“Peace?” said di Torreforte, examining the word as one would inspect a strange insect. “What is peace? My sins are too great for there ever to be peace in my lifetime.”

“You must confess your sins, my son.”

“Oh, Father!” said Giacomo, looking up at the basilica’s ceiling. His words echoed in the vast space. “There is no way to tell you the wrongs I have committed. If I could, I would surely do it.”

“You speak under the roof of the Lord,” said the priest. “Take care you do not tell a falsehood. Confession will give you a portion of peace and God’s absolution. And it is your religious duty.”

Giacomo closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead.

“If I tell my sins, you will surely hate me, Father.”

“I have heard many sins and always given God’s absolution. It is my obligation to offer forgiveness, not blame. Come with me.”

Giacomo di Torreforte followed the priest into the small wooden confessional.

“Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned. Against you
. . .
and Siena.”

Giacomo saw a slight movement through the grille as the priest’s back stiffened.

When Giacomo began his confession, he watched for a sign that the priest would absolve and even console him. But as the confession continued and the priest heard the name Virginia Tacci, he sunk into himself like a mollusk into its shell.

“You must give me absolution,” prompted Giacomo as finished his long tale. “I have unburdened myself with this confession to you and God.”

“Bless you, my son,” muttered the priest, his voice barely audible. “I absolve you
. . .
in God’s name.”

Giacomo placed his fingers on the grille, looking at the priest. “But you
. . .
you
do not forgive me!”

“It is God who must forgive you,” said the priest. “Not I.” A silence stretched out in the dark of the confessional. “How can I forgive?” the old man said finally, his joints creaking as he rose.

“I am Senese.”

Giacomo wandered the streets of Siena for the rest of the day, his collar turned up against a cold March wind. Eventually, he stood in the shadow of the Torre del Mangia, where he watched families mingle, eating hot chestnuts and drinking mulled wine, though already talking of the approaching spring. Children chased the pigeons across the shell-shaped piazza, laughing joyously. Everywhere Giacomo walked, he heard talk of the next Palio, contradas boasting of their strategies to win.

They might be talking of Virginia now. They would be talking of her chance to win. I have robbed Virginia and Siena of that.

As an arc of pigeons flew over Il Campo, Giacomo walked toward the southeast section of the piazza entering the Via del Porrione, the entrance to Contrada della Torre and the small Jewish ghetto within its territory.

The narrow streets were filled with the aroma of a foreign cookery: garlic, oil, and anchovies, scented with herbs he could not name.

He walked past the synagogue, where an old man with a thick white beard sat on his heels, talking to an adolescent boy.

“You must give back the coin,” said the man. “God will forgive you, but you must make right the wrong you have done.”

The pair looked up at the Christian, who was listening intently to their conversation.

“Go now!” said the man, touching the boy’s arm. “Do what is right.”

The boy scrambled to his feet and set off running. The old man rose, rubbing his back.

“If only all sins were so easily remedied,” said Giacomo.

The man shrugged.

“And why should they not be?”

Giacomo exhaled sharply, a sound of despair. “Some are simply too ugly to confront.”

“Those are the best to remedy,” said the man. He narrowed his eyes and jutted out his chin, challenging Giacomo. His white beard bristled.

“It is just—” said Giacomo. “I have just come from praying at my father’s tomb at San Domenico.”

“Ah,” said the man, bowing his head in respect.

“He died months ago,” said Giacomo. “And now
. . .
”

Giacomo was not about to confess to this Jew that his father’s spirit hovered over him.

“It is a powerful bond, a man and his father,” said the man. “I lost my father many years ago in the fight against Florence. He died of starvation during the siege.”

Giacomo stared at the Jew.

“You look surprised,” said the man. “My family has been here in Siena for three centuries. We fought alongside our fellow Senese, starved with our brothers. There is no difference between Jew and Christian in a siege. We all suffered and fought in her defense.”

He took a little dig at the air with his chin, glaring at Giacomo. “I may be more Senese than you, my friend.”

Under any other circumstances, Giacomo would have struck the impertinent Jew. He remembered how proud he was of his Florentine roots, how bewildering his father had become, claiming Siena as home. Siena the conquered.

Why should I care about being identified as a Senese? I am Florentine!

But something felt wrong within.

“Am I right?” asked the man.

Giacomo’s mouth collapsed, his two eyebrows colliding in sorrow. Tears flooded his eyes.

“Come with me,” the man said, grasping Giacomo by the elbow, his hostility changing to concern. “I can offer you a moment of privacy.”

Giacomo followed him into the darkness of the synagogue. Few candles were lit, despite the approaching twilight.

“Can I enter here?” Giacomo suddenly felt like an intruder.

The man shrugged. “I have invited you. This is God’s house.”

“Are you
. . .
the rabbi?” The word felt strange in Giacomo’s mouth.

Again, the man shrugged.

“Here. Sit on the bench, I will leave you in peace,” he said, turning to leave.

“There shall never be peace for me,” said Giacomo, plunging his head into his hands. The man hesitated.

“Yes,” he said. “I am the rabbi of this congregation. Tell me why you will never know peace.”

Giacomo’s words rushed out, unconsidered, unchecked. “Because I can never wash clean the sins I have committed. When you said you were more Senese than I, you were right! I have betrayed Siena, my God, my conscience.”

The rabbi sat down beside him, making the joints of the bench groan.

“Siena?”

“I cannot explain. It is too much of a burden even for a priest to hear. At least a Senese priest, as I have just discovered. I confessed my sin, and he turned away in hatred. I shall burn in hell for all eternity.”

The rabbi smiled. “Hell? Is that all?” he said.

Giacomo uncovered his face, still wet with tears.

“What?” he said, glaring at the rabbi. “What worse fate is there, Rabbi?”

The rabbi made a swift huffing sound, dismissing his remark. Giacomo felt his rage growing in the darkness of the synagogue.

“We Jews do not believe in your heaven or hell. We do not live only to be rewarded after our deaths. We are called to do good because it is our obligation to do right in the world, as God commanded. We look for no further reward.”

“You—you do not believe in hell?”

“Hell is what we create on Earth. There is nothing in the Torah—what you call the Old Testament—that describes this ‘hell’ you Christians fear.”

Giacomo’s brow creased.

“And heaven? Do you not believe in the angels on high?”

The rabbi shook his head. “No, not the angels you believe in. Human souls with fluttering wings and halos. Very pretty indeed. No, death is permanent. We have a deep respect for it. And also for life.”

Giacomo blinked in the dim light. The candles had a queer scent he could not recognize.

“How can you not believe in heaven, where Jesus sits at the right hand of God?”

“Jesus was a good Jew, he believed in doing good on Earth: charity, healing, honoring the commandments. But heaven with clouds and cherubs? A fairy tale gone too far.”

Giacomo was too bewildered to speak.

“Jews do not invest in dreams of heaven.”

“What is the point in living, then?” asked Giacomo, exasperated.

The rabbi smiled. “You do God an injustice, signore. There is much to do here on Earth. To live
right
. To do right, despite all odds. To appreciate the great gift of life that God has given us. That is the point of living. Not because there is a sweet at the end of the journey to entice little children to behave properly.”

“Rabbi!” said Giacomo, raking his fingers through his hair. “There are wrongs far too twisted to make right. Ever. A priest has just told me as much.”

“Pfff!” said the rabbi. “You forget the history of the Jewish people. We have forgiven—but not forgotten!—many sins. A Senese priest, on the other hand
. . .
” He opened his hands in supplication. “Well. We Senese are a proud people.”

Giacomo felt an urge to laugh, though he was speaking of his eternal damnation. This rabbi was strangely disarming.

“You confuse me, Rabbi. Our own priest cannot forgive me. You tell me there is no hell, but no heaven either. What is the use of confession, then?”

The rabbi took a deep breath, expelling it noisily through his tufted nostrils.

“Good question, signore. Have you considered rectifying your wrongs, rather than simply confessing them? Perhaps that would assuage the guilt. We Jews believe in
tikkun olam
. It means ‘repairing the world.’ We have an obligation, all of us, to heal wrongs.”

“There is no way I can ever right this wrong. And if I were to tell you my transgressions, you would howl for my arrest.”

“
Allora!
Fine
. . .
do not tell me,” said the rabbi, opening his hands with a shrug. “Confession is a cheap substitute for retribution. Charter your own way out of your darkness. Then settle your accounts with God.”

Giacomo raised his head, looking at the rabbi.

“Who
. . .
are you?”

“I am called Rabbi Mortimer Borghi. I do not know your name.”

“Giacomo. Giacomo di Torreforte.”

“Ah!”
chuckled the rabbi. “Signor Monte dei Paschi!”

“I am a very poor businessman,” said Giacomo. “I have left the family business in the hands of my more capable brothers.”

The rabbi considered this.

“Then who are you, Giacomo di Torreforte?”

Such impertinence!
Di Torreforte swung his face toward the man.

“I am an artist,” he said defiantly.

“An artist,” said the rabbi, nodding his head. “A good one?”

Giacomo considered the question.

“Once I thought there was nothing in the world more important than my painting.” He knew it wasn’t really an answer to the question, but it was all he had to offer. “Now I paint with an obsession, trying to find—something! I do not know what I chase. But I am haunted.”

“Yes. Then you understand passion, my friend! You know human nature,” said the rabbi. “You must recognize the grip that passion—for good or for evil—can have on the human soul. You must understand the darkness that is part of us. Understanding is the light to give you passage out of this black hole.”

Giacomo did not say anything. He had a fleeting memory of a painting. The lines of a reclining beauty in ecstasy, ravaged by a swan.

“Our eternal mistake is to deny the darkness in each of us. All of us. When we confront darkness without recognizing its universal nature, we are catapulted into chaos. We abandon our compass, which shows all directions, not just one.

“The Old Testament is brimming with cruelty as well as mercy. Darkness and light live in each of us, awakened by passion. Such strong emotion can persuade us to do the very worst
. . .
or the very best. Passion can hurl us into the blinding light.”

Giacomo said nothing. He looked around the house of worship. It was a simple room. Plain.

How different this synagogue was from the cathedral! Where were the gold altarpieces, the precious jeweled chalice, the masterpieces of art?

Even the smell was different. Beeswax from the candles and an ancient scent, musty and dense.

“My friend. My advice to you is to right your wrong, no matter how ugly it may be. You have taken an eye—replace it. A tooth, a life—make retribution. Not because you will be a hero, not because you will go to heaven. Because
. . .
voi dovete
.”

Voi dovete
. . .
you should. You must.