Hidden Voices (24 page)

“Is it Salvatore, then?”

“No. Not Salvatore. How could it be Salvatore! Not anyone. I am not ready yet to attach myself to any man.”
Nor may I ever be.

His look of instant dejection turns to one of so much hope that I try to think of other ways to discourage him gently, but am too weary by half.

“When you are ready,” he says softly, while tenderly lifting the hair from my neck that had been caught under the cape. “When you need me, I will be there.”

O
N THE DAY THAT SIGNORA COMES
for Catina, I fear that she will want me to return with her as well. It is a long trip, and I cannot believe that Signora Mandano will wish to make it twice. Knowing of my worry, Signora Ricci keeps delivering assurances that I am eating well again, sleeping soundly, and benefiting in many other ways.

Signora Mandano sighs languorously after viewing the verdant sloping vineyards and filling her lungs with country air.

“I could use a
villeggiatura
myself one day,” she says. “Perhaps when I return for you, Luisa, I will stay a few days.”

“It would give us great pleasure,” says Signora Ricci. I let out a breath of relief at the thought that she is planning to return and that I will be staying.

Signora Mandano hands me a letter from Anetta, and I go to put it under my feather bed so that I may read it when I’m alone. Catina is folding the last of her things into her valise as I enter the room.

I am sad to see Catina making herself ready for the journey back. She is so accepting of each turn of events, never complaining or wishing that things could be otherwise, as most children would, that it makes me sadder still. If she would but fly into a tantrum, it might be easier to let her go. Always selfless, her only concern is for me and that I profit from this vacation and am returned to better health.

“Think of it, Luisa. Because of this lovely little trip, I have seen much more of the world than I ever expected. I do thank you for watching out for me and for the beautiful day in the apple orchard.”

She hugs Signora Ricci with arms that seem even thinner than when we started out, and plants a kiss upon my cheek that feels like the brush of a bird’s wing.

“Things will be all right again. You’ll see,” she says to me in her confident way, as if I were the one being taken back to Venice. Then, like a pronouncement from a messenger from heaven, she adds, “You mustn’t be so much afraid.”

She is right to have noticed my fear. Although I never speak of it, it is always with me. I am afraid for Catina and her fragile hold on life. I am afraid that I will never sing again. She seems aware of both these things without a word from me. What I have also not shared with Catina or Signora Ricci is that it is no longer this pastoral place alone that draws me to it, but the beautiful boy — known to me now as Alessandro — for he has become — how can I explain it — both destination and twin to my very soul. Each day I rise joyfully with the expectation of seeing him again, and all my hours are spent in pleasant companionship with him. We laugh at things together; we exclaim at the same sights and sounds; I help him with simple tasks; on some afternoons we rest against each other in the clean straw of the little barn. Even the apple of his eye, Evangelina, has become so used to me that she will let me milk her with almost no complaint.

Sometimes Alessandro says my name and I his, and we look at each other in amazement. What angels planned for us to meet? How did God create one person to be so absolutely perfect for another?

“Like Eve, you were taken from my rib,” he jokes. But it seems so nearly true, I am quite ready to accept his reasoning.

“What if we had never met?” I say to him one day as we are resting, his arm serving as pillow for my head. He is so near that I feel the warmth of him from head to foot, and without any warning a song comes to my lips and escapes in pure tones I’d never thought to find within myself again.

Surprised, I sit straight up, and he turns upon his side, resting on an elbow.

“What was that?” he exclaims, laughing. “Where did it come from?”

“When I was small, my mother used to say it came from heaven. Since my illness, I think it has been waiting in some anteroom for quite a time.”

“I have not heard such singing in my life. It is as if an angel warbled in my ear. Go on. Go on. Please do not stop.”

And so I sing a little sonatina I remember. It flows as fluidly from me as if a little brook has bubbled up. The trills, the
rallentandi,
the high notes — they are all there within my grasp just as before. What saint has intervened and brought my voice to life again I cannot guess.

Afterward, Alessandro puts one hand up to my cheek and touches it as if I’m made of something that will break. In just moments he has lost his caution, however, and pulls me to him in a way he has not done before. We are so close at first, I cannot breathe. But then he strokes me with such gentleness, it seems most natural to remove clothing that would serve to separate us. And when he shows me how well our bodies fit together and how we can delight in each other in this way, it is but proof of how our souls have been already joined.

Heading to the farmhouse for the evening meal, I am so filled with joyfulness that I must remind myself I must not sing. For Signora Ricci would indeed tell someone at the Ospedale, and my days here would be shortened. The thought of leaving Alessandro so soon is something that I cannot bear. When, at length, such a thing must happen, perhaps I will have learned to be braver. And though Catina cautioned me to fear less, she could not have known that I would substitute my greatest fear with one that would transcend the other two.

Supper with the Riccis is quiet without Catina. Signore has little to say on any occasion, and Signora is busy filling our plates and recounting the high points of her own day. I listen as best I can to problems with the workers, the plight of a runaway goat, and how surprised Signora has been by the small crop of potatoes. The minestrone is heavy with vegetables of every sort under a dusting of cheese, and the polenta is much lighter and more flavorful than Cook’s. There is a delicious mixture of what Signora calls
frutti di mare,
with every manner of fresh food from the sea. A compote of newly picked peaches ends the meal, which has filled me so completely that I feel ready for sleep. It isn’t until I am making preparations for bed, however, that I recall Anetta’s letter and take it from beneath the feather bed and over to the small oil lamp, which is my only light.

Anetta’s hand is large and bold, like herself, and seeing it inscribed across the pages, I can easily conjure her countenance, which, I realize with some surprise, I’ve genuinely missed. The letter is a great deal longer than my own was and, gratefully, filled with much news. It is only right that Father Vivaldi has at last written a concerto for her instrument. How strange to think of Beatrice ever leaving the protection of the Pietà. Stranger still to imagine Anetta being courted by a duke. I cannot think that she will take his attentions seriously. In the remote possibility that she does, I hope it will be years before the gentleman comes to collect her. For she and I do share a bond now, that neither of us has sought. It seems we are the only two people on this earth who are concerned for Rosalba, and the two most helpless to do a thing about it.

S
INCE I CANNOT COOK OR SEW
or do any of the things they seem to expect of me, I have been assigned the job of emptying the slops. In truth, Pasquale helps me with this odious job from time to time, but claims he cannot do it overmuch or it will seem that I am idle. To think that at the Ospedale, I found it almost more than I could bear to dispose of my own waste. This family’s gargantuan appetites and penchant for onions, garlic, and all manner of beans makes the task especially foul. And the constant feeling of late that I am about to spill the turbulent and minuscule contents of my own stomach is no assist to me. There is no garderobe, so I must stack the chamber pots within the tiny hallway until their contents can be dumped into a pail and carried down the stairs.

Pasquale does commiserate with me as best he can and spends much time procuring songs for me to sing and learning their accompaniment in order to ensure that I may stay here. It is unimaginable that I have traded the sweet confines of the Pietà for this! It is a punishment severe enough to make me realize how great is my guilt. Pasquale claims I can’t be faulted for a foolish heart or someone else’s evil deed, but I’ve not told him of my countless schemes to free myself from all the duties that seemed so unpleasant then but that I know now were for my utmost good. Because of my inability to hold almost any food within my stomach for very long, I have not blossomed yet into the portly likes of women with child whom I see daily on the streets. It is a blessing to have someone else to share my secret with, however. Left all alone with it, I do not know what I would do.

It has become my habit to nap each afternoon upon the bed I share with Lydia at night. At such times I can claim the whole of it, as she is off to market or deep in conversation with those who also use our well and
campo.

Afterward, learning the songs is pleasant enough as is listening to Pasquale upon the lute. He has a talent for the instrument, but I can’t help thinking that if he’d had instruction, his fingering would be the more precise. While Salvatore is off somewhere, as is usual, romancing harlots or engaged in games of chance, Pasquale talks with me of things he couldn’t otherwise.

At first when he describes his dreams of how he’ll care for me and this new soul I carry, I argue that it can’t be so, that I will manage on my own. He always continues, however, as if there is nothing I can say to discourage him, and I soon learn to hold my tongue and listen, for the picture that he paints is very comforting — a man, a wife, a tiny babe, a little house along one of the small canals. Sometimes he adds a boat, our own domesticated goat, a caged canary for the child. He owns a music shop, and we entertain our friends at sprightly musicals. I play my oboe in the drawing rooms of noblemen.

But when not caught up in his fantasies, the brutal facts of my existence accost my thoughts, and I see no real opportunity for any other life than what we know. A child raised in this same squalor, no matter how well loved, can never have the possibilities and guidance that I took for granted. If there is barely enough money to feed and clothe me, how would there be enough for my
bambina
’s needs as well? I do sense the baby is a girl, perhaps because I am so used to them and would not have the faintest notion how to raise a boy. This is my second secret and one I do not feel the need to share with anyone except Anetta or Luisa, if ever I am given such a chance. Their reaction to my sudden disappearance and the fact that I have not returned can barely be imagined. Can they even guess what has become of me? My greatest sorrow is that I have caused them pain and cannot share my life with them again. At such moments I am like a dry well that has no tributaries feeding it, no aquifer from which to draw the waters of my life.

“Child,” says Lydia as she bustles in with her basket of day-old vegetables and fruit. Her selection is always peculiar and consists of whatever was overripe but not yet rotting. I am reminded of the burgeoning fruit bowl at the Pietà that sat upon the sideboard in the refectory and that we were allowed to pick from at any hour of the day.

“Child,” she says again. I have relinquished my name to her long ago, but she chooses not to use it. “Surely you can wash these snap beans and collard greens. Surely you know how to do that!”

I take them from her basket and into the room that serves as kitchen. They are so wilted as to be unappetizing and have a sad little smell that turns my stomach even further around. Sprinkling them with water does not revive them in the slightest. Why not let them die in peace? But Lydia makes a fire in the woodstove, puts them in a pot, and boils them to death, covering their remains with one of her thick unidentifiable sauces.

When I eat only the bread, which, too, is stale but at least edible, she calls down curses upon the Ospedale for producing anyone so finicky. Tonight Pasquale has procured some milk for me — from cow or goat, it matters not. I lap it like a hungry cat, and it sits well with me.