Nun (9781609459109) (5 page)

 

Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's.

You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's
.

 

The clouds were thinning out; those that remained were hurrying westward to recompose themselves. The air was tepid. Agata was outside, flattened against the cabin door, twisting and turning the fringe of her shawl. Her mourning black and the deep bluish rings under her eyes offset the raw beauty of her face. The halo of chestnut ringlets wafting around her forehead in sharp contrast with the heavy tresses that lay gleaming on her shoulders recalled her mother's sensuality as a young woman. The sailors cast sidelong glances at her—the lingering glances of young men. James Garson was watching her too. He was interested in her small, blue-veined hands. He'd noticed them when the steamer was still in port; he'd been waiting for the captain of the brigantine so that he could be introduced to the Padellani women, and he'd been looking into the waiting room from the dock. He could only make out shadows, except for that quivering hand pressed against the mist-pearled plate glass. It had communicated a sense of unease to him, a malaise that was confirmed shortly thereafter when the young woman had pressed her shoulders and head against the window, revealing through the glass wiped clean by her hand a minute, unsmiling profile. He only recognized her by her hands. The breeze was lashing; Agata, like everyone else, was staring eastward, holding her shawl tight around her shoulders with both arms crossed over her bosom. Her tapered fingers were stroking as if she wished to embrace herself.

A gleam of light shot across the sea, heralding the arrival of the sun. All eyes were leveled on the horizon line.

Then, came a voice:

 

When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey.

When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.

 

Agata's voice had grown imperceptibly louder, and now she was singing outright. No one seemed to notice.

“This is the most beautiful time of the day,” he said, addressing her in English, and then turned to face her. Agata seemed determined to watch the rising sun and paid him no mind. James Garson scolded himself for his bad manners and remembered that, when he was introduced to the group of female passengers, he had expressed his condolences to the Marescialla but not to Agata—he'd been struck dumb by the unmistakable sorrow of those oriental eyes. He hurried to offer his condolences now, adding that when he was a boy he'd met the field marshal's older brother. Agata politely accepted his condolences and thanked him for his hospitality. Then, she paused. “You gave us your cabin and you haven't slept all night, have you?” she asked him, and uncrossed her arms.

“I wouldn't have been able to sleep in any case, with that storm. I'm sorry only that my cabin lacks the comforts befitting your family and the luxury to which you are no doubt accustomed.” The Englishman had made an effort to bring a note of lighthearted frivolity into the conversation, but Agata chose to ignore it. In fact, she corrected him: “We aren't wealthy.” He looked at her, baffled, uncomprehending. “Not at all. In fact, we're poor,” she reiterated, and stared at him—a doleful, challenging stare. Unsure what to say, he murmured: “The Padellanis are a great Neapolitan family,” and kept his eyes focused on her. He was waiting for a reply, and it came. Agata believed that she had detected genuine compassion in this foreigner and, dismissing her natural reserve, she spoke to him about her beloved father, cadet son of his family, the economic hardships her family had suffered in order to scrape together her sisters' dowries, the opposition of the Lepres to her love for Giacomo, and the desperate attempts the elderly notary had made to obtain her hand in marriage for his grandson, and even her mother's scornful rejection of those overtures. “We really are poor women,” she said, with simplicity, and added: “Poverty itself wouldn't frighten me if I only had some books: I could read and educate myself, and then seek employment as a governess; that would be nice work.”

“Books?”

“My mother put up for sale those of my father's books that could hope to find a buyer. There were many other books, but he hadn't reported owning them, in violation with King Francis' law, so those books will have to be destroyed. Otherwise we'll have to pay large fines. I hid a few of them in my trunk, but only a very few. I wish I'd taken more of them with me.” She looked around her disconsolately, and added: “All of the English books were left at home, to be sold.” She fell silent, suddenly aware of how impudent she'd been, and did her best to steer the conversation back to a proper drawing room tone: “You must be very contented; before long now you'll see the love of your life again!”

“It's true, my fiancée is waiting for me in Naples . . . ” Leaning against the railing he looked out over the sea:

 

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desir'd and got, 'twas but a dreame of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking soules,

Which watch not one another out of feare;

For love, all love of other sights controules,

And makes one little roome, an every where
. . .

 

Agata had a very acute sense of hearing. Love. That was exactly what she had been thinking about all night long. She thought she'd figured out what it was, love: to feel one with one's beloved and to want only their happiness, even more than your own happiness. She looked out at the sea, one vast glittering field of waves caressed by the glancing rays; then her wandering gaze fell on the Englishman's blond hair and muscular silhouette: he too was looking out at the dawning of the day.

An orange ball was hanging just over the line of the horizon: the sun, whole and round, was gleaming gloriously over a sea that was finally bright blue. Agata relaxed into a long, closed-mouthed smile, and their eyes met. Then came a guttural clamor from inside the cabin: “Why is that door hanging open? Shut it now!” Nora had just awakened, and she wanted an explanation and an apology from Agata for the cold air pouring in through the open door.

O
n a sun-drenched day, the steamer chugged slowly into Naples harbor, steering for the Molo Angioino, and moored at the foot of the looming mass of the castle that was built at the behest of Charles of Anjou. It had docked at Sorrento where Donna Gesuela, as previously agreed, had sent word to the Padellanis of their impending arrival. Anna Carolina was weeping bitterly in the cabin; she had never wanted to leave Messina and she abhorred Naples. Agata, in contrast, had only the finest memories of the place. The first time she'd been there she was four; it was in 1830, after the death of Francis I, whom her father called the “gentleman king.” She remembered the enchanted atmosphere of the Gulf of Naples, the roofs, the domes, and the bell towers that loomed taller and bigger before her eyes as the ship drew closer to the kingdom's capital, sails bellying in the wind. “This great-hearted king had the courage to send away the Austrian army, which was here at a steep price to ‘protect' the kingdom, though in reality all it had ever done was alienate the kingdom's people. Since that day, the Neapolitan army,” and here her father thumped his chest in pride, “has protected the state better than they ever did.” Then, with a mischievous glance, he added, in a low voice: “And with the help of a few thousand Swiss! Let's see what this boy king winds up doing!”

 

The welcome given them by their Padellani relations deeply moved Donna Gesuela and left her daughters open-mouthed in astonishment. A sumptuous funeral carriage was awaiting the coffin on the dock, with a military honor guard in full regalia. Everyone was there: Sandra, Agata's third-eldest sister, with her husband Tommaso Aviello, their three married aunts with children and husbands and their cousin Michele, Prince Padellani, with his wife Ortensia; on his arm was Aunt Orsola, the dowager princess, Agata's godmother. Aunt Orsola embraced mother and daughters and announced that they would be her guests and would stay in her apartment in Palazzo Padellani. After the religious function, with the cardinal of Naples, Vincenzo Padellani, the field marshal's first cousin, officiating, the funeral procession made a slight detour in order to pass beneath the high walls of the convent of San Giorgio Stilita, where two of the aunts who had taken the habit now lived, born Antonina and Violante, now respectively Donna Maria Brigida and Donna Maria Crocifissa, the abbess. Agata had seen again—or met for the first time—other Padellani uncles and aunts and cousins, and she had exchanged a few shy words with His Eminence the Cardinal, who had expressly asked to have a conversation with her. He was a handsome middle-aged man with raven-black hair, imposing in his scarlet cassock; he had looked her up and down and, after questioning her, promised to find her a worthy confessor.

Donna Gesuela, caught up in the condolence visits and other duties, saw very little of her daughters. Tense and drained of all verve though she might be, she never let her appearance slip: she wore the widow's weeds with something bordering on flirtatious elegance and went out now accompanied by one relative, now by another, to discuss business or petition for an audience with the new king. Agata was beginning to understand that the king on whom so many were counting, and who was described as a benevolent and modernizing ruler, was actually a sanctimonious shut-in, remote from the populace and from the aristocracy. In order to approach him, it was necessary to penetrate an odious filter of chamberlains, courtiers, and majordomos. Her mother always returned home empty-handed, with neither a royal grace nor a pension. The sisters were often left alone in their aunt's apartment. Anna Carolina actually preferred things that way, since she was reluctant to socialize with her female cousins and almost never spoke, remembering as she did that they had made fun of her, the last time, for her Sicilian accent. Agata, on the other hand, had established a warm and intimate bond with her aunt Orsola and enjoyed the company of her peers, but she was reluctant to leave her sister alone. She had no inhibitions about her Neapolitan; she spoke the dialect well, albeit with a Messina accent: she was the daughter who had spent the most time chattering away with her father, who had refused to learn to speak Sicilian.

At the end of the second week, Aunt Orsola made it clear to her sister-in-law that she and her family couldn't stay any longer as her guests in the
palazzo
. The
piano nobile
, or master floor, where she had always lived, was now occupied by her stepson's family and she already felt like she'd been exiled to the third-floor apartment, where she claimed that she lacked enough room for them to stay on permanently. Actually, though, there was plenty of room, in Agata's opinion—it was just that her aunt didn't want them in her house: they were poor relations, and therefore a source of embarrassment.

 

In mid-October 1839, the Padellani women went to live in an apartment on the top floor of Palazzo Tozzi. The apartment was above the building's cornice and directly beneath the roof. It was rented to them by their aunt, Clementina Padellani, and her husband, the Marchese Tozzi. They lived on the main floor—the
piano nobile
—with their daughters, Eleonora and Severina, who were the same age as Anna Carolina and Agata. It was a small, shabby apartment, but the rent was low and Donna Gesuela was happy to take it.

Palazzo Tozzi was enormous. The front hallway was as large as a cathedral and required two doormen, so many people came and went. It lacked the lovely terraces of Messina, with a view of the Strait and Calabria in the distance; still, the terrace on the
piano nobile
, which overlooked the vast inner courtyard, was luminous and covered with climbing vines and plants. From the courtyard a great many staircases ran up. At the far end of the courtyard was the master staircase, scissors-shaped, made of spectacular white marble. Then there were two others, broad and with marble handrails, and they looked like a master staircase you might see in Messina, and there were others still, modest and almost concealed, for the servants or for apartments like the one they were living in. Right at the foot of the staircase leading up to their apartment was a camellia plant shaped like an elongated egg, with fleshy glistening leaves, concealing the entrance from all eyes. The chief doorman had taken a liking to Nora and he explained to her that the old Marchese Tozzi had built that apartment in empty roof space and by borrowing a room from his own living quarters for a
femmena
—a woman—who had cast a spell on him; once he was a widower he brought her to live in the
palazzo
, up where they were living now. She had borne him two daughters. He went up to eat with her every day at noon, and that's why there was a fine kitchen and a handsome drawing room—the bedrooms that the women slept in, in contrast, were what you'd expect to find in the worst parts of Naples. That
femmena
kept him tied to her by the magic of food. Her minestrone was better than any other soups in Naples. When she died, the apartment was given to obnoxious widows and old maids: it was so high up that it was difficult to go there to visit, and they invariably died alone and forgotten.

All the rooms, except for the kitchen, overlooked a cramped inner courtyard and were lacking light. Nora slept in the kitchen, and the dining room did double duty as Agata's bedroom. In the large, beautifully furnished parlor, there was an interior window overlooking a narrow airshaft, which was connected via mysterious passageways to the choir of the convent of the Poor Clares, adjoining the
palazzo
. The melodious chants of the nuns wafted up the airshaft.

All things considered, the three women were satisfied with their independent living quarters. At first, the hospitality of their Padellani relations had been warm if overwhelming. The family had behaved impeccably at the funeral and during the brief period of mourning visits at the
palazzo
. After that, however, their relations had vanished from view one by one, offering Donna Gesuela neither consolation nor assistance. In fact, she had been forced to struggle along on her own in her quest for a gracious royal pension bestowed by the king. Visits from their female cousins grew less and less frequent and invitations downstairs to the
piano nobile
of Palazzo Tozzi were now a rarity; Agata had the unmistakable impression that even there, they were treated as inconvenient relations. No one had offered any real help. Their aunts the nuns, her father's younger sisters, had been especially affectionate but they too, however lavish their monastic dowry might have been, still offered only pastries and prayers.

Aunt Orsola's brother, the Admiral Pietraperciata, began to pay visits to the house. He came dressed to the nines to play cards with Donna Gesuela in the late afternoon. Even though she invited him to stay for dinner, the admiral always declined, knowing full well that the invitation was extended merely out of politesse. Before he was due to arrive, Donna Gesuela lightened her face with rice powder and touched up her ringlets under her widow's bonnet; she did her very best to entertain and please him, offering him hot chocolate and the biscottini made of semolina and almond flour that Nora baked in an iron box, which she called her oven, set to cook on the embers. The admiral couldn't resist those delicacies. Every so often Agata was given permission to remain in the drawing room, but she knew that her presence there wasn't welcome and so she left; all the same, the admiral took an interest in her and brought her books to read; once he brought her a book that James Garson had sent her:
Pride and Prejudice
. Agata, caught off guard, didn't know what she should do. Her mother explained that the Garsons were old family friends of Aunt Orsola's and urged her daughter to accept the gift.

 

The daughters were accustomed to their mother's sudden mood swings; but after the funeral she truly became erratic. Donna Gesuela was afflicted with melancholy and at times she made irrational and contradictory decisions. She'd go out mornings and afternoons, without telling anyone where she was going. She'd come home exhausted and every evening, after dinner, she'd sip
amaro
to assist her digestion. While waiting for the relief of the belch, she repeated the same litany over and over: “No pension and no assistance from all these people that your father entertained as if they were royalty, when we were still rich. What ingrates they are, these Neapolitans!” There was little they could say to comfort her. Anna Carolina didn't even try: she was always on the verge of tears and she spent her days embroidering the linen of her trousseau and sighing. Agata wanted to wrap her arms around her mother, she wanted to offer to help, even go out and find a job, but she was afraid that she would meet with rejection. And so, like her sister, she listened and said nothing. Agata read a great deal and she studied the schoolbooks that she'd brought with her. She hadn't read many novels, because most of the books in their house belonged to their father, who didn't like to read novels. She was enchanted by the Bennet family.

The two girls spent most of their time alone. When their Tozzi female cousins invited Agata down to the
piano nobile
, she was only too happy to go. They had fun playing together, even though, on her mother's orders, Agata—still in mourning—was to be excluded not only from all receptions and festivities but even from visits of her cousins' girlfriends. Agata therefore had to observe the comings and goings of the
palazzo
from behind the scenes.

When Anna Carolina wasn't doing her embroidery, she spent time with a cousin her age who, like her, was engaged to be married. All they did together was dream listlessly about their respective fiancés. Agata thought about Giacomo, too, though she'd had no word from him, but she never talked about him. The only person she would have liked to talk about Giacomo with was her sister Sandra, of whom she was very fond. But she saw very little of Sandra, because Tommaso Aviello–a successful lawyer who was disliked by his Padellani relations because he was a commoner and a Carbonaro–did not meet with her mother's approval. In that period Donna Gesuela forbade Agata to spend time with Sandra, because of a disagreement with her son-in-law. When Agata was finished with her own chores, she would go and help Nora–and Nora needed the help, overburdened with work as she was. Her mother let her do as she liked, but she had made it very clear that Agata was not to let anyone see or know that a Padellani was doing a servant's housework.

When she could wangle her mother into giving her permission, Agata would go out to do a little shopping, without ever venturing far from the
palazzo
. The streets of Naples were crowded, and the traffic was chaotic: she would have been all too happy to go home to live in her own beloved city.

 

One day her mother received a letter from Cavaliere Carnevale. She had written to him, explaining their financial hardships and suggesting that Anna Carolina's dowry might perhaps be paid out in annual installments. The reply came promptly and unequivocally: the dowry was to be paid in a lump sum, prior to the wedding, as had been agreed with the field marshal. That was a grim day. Anna Carolina went into one of her nervous fits; then, tearful and overheated, she collapsed on her bed and had to be fanned at length by Nora. Her mother stayed to watch her for a while, thoughtfully. Then Donna Gesuela put on her finest clothing and went out.

In the days that followed, she continued to behave the same way: every morning she left their apartment and frequently didn't even come home for lunch. When she returned, she was exhausted, sinking into an easy chair and loosening her sash, complaining that she couldn't stand all those meals that were making her fat, even though she felt as if she were starving inside. She was seeking help in putting together a dowry for her daughter, and everyone she turned to acted as if they were touched, deeply touched, and then gave her nothing but lunch! Agata was heartbroken for her, but her mother steered clear of her. In the meanwhile, Eleonora and Severina, having learned about the problems with the dowry, tormented Anna Carolina by asking her if she'd set a date for her wedding yet. Anna Carolina became increasingly hysterical, and refused to leave the apartment or see her cousins. And so they began inviting Agata downstairs instead.