A week later I overheard the men talking as they prepared to leave the site at sundown.
"As soon as the master's gone we'll jump him, agreed? Get that mask off and see what's underneath."
"Yes—and give the clever little bugger a few tokens of our appreciation!"
"If any of you have got any sense you'll leave him alone. Don't you realize who he is yet?"
As Calandrino's voice cut in and silenced the rest for a moment, I listened to the taut anticipation that had suddenly settled on the group.
"You saying you know who he is?" That was Paolo, admittedly never overly quick on the uptake.
"Mother of God!" Calandrino paused a moment to hawk and spit. "I should have thought it was obvious to anyone with a half a brain by now. How long is it since the master took an apprentice… must be ten years at least!"
"So?"
"So no one else thinks it just a little odd when the old man turns up with a boy in a mask and starts behaving like a hen with one chick?"
"You're not suggesting—"
"Yes I am suggesting! Christ, why not? The master was no more above a bit of skirt in his prime than anyone else, right? And when a man with a clutch of daughters gets himself a son on the wrong side of the blanket it goes against the grain to leave him there. But he's a Freemason, isn't he… mighty respectable, past master and all that… can't have it all around the lodge that he's no better than the rest of us! So he thinks maybe a mask is going to cover everything, including his past. Well, you've seen them together—think about it! It makes good sense and just goes to prove what I've been saying for the past six months now—the master's been one brick short of a load ever since the old lady died and he had to send the girl away!"
"Santa Maria!"
"Exactly! I'm telling you, the whole pack of us could find ourselves turned off if anyone else sets about that lad. I say we're best keeping well out of it. No good ever comes of meddling in a master's affairs… and the boy's no trouble if you leave him alone. Does more than his fair share without complaining to the old man that he's been put upon…"
I stood listening with a curious mixture of emotions while my men continued to drag my good name cheerfully through the mire. I wasn't sure how I felt about this. I had half a mind to stride out from behind the wall that was concealing me and turn them all off for their insolent assumptions; but I was not unaware that my silence now could be Erik's shield. Simply by saying nothing and allowing this monstrous slander to put down roots I could protect him from further pain at their hands. I could buy the boy a little more time to find his feet and perhaps lose the instinctive belief that the whole world was his enemy. For some reason he had had the astonishing stroke of luck not to be recognized for his performance at the Trastevere fair. Perhaps, when performing, he had worn some fantastic mask more in keeping with the status of a magician… perhaps there were days when he had simply chosen not to appear at all. I didn't know, I couldn't account for it; but I
was
aware that luck didn't come his way very often, and I didn't feel inclined to deprive him of its benefit now. And so I chose to hold my peace.
Even as I came to this decision I saw it was no great sacrifice. Rumor had presented me with a son and I could not quite find it in my heart to complain; I found that 1 did not begrudge the boy the silent protection of my name.
Once the men had left the site I withdrew from the shadows behind the half-built wall to watch Erik gathering up the tools that had been used that day—all the trowels, squares, plumb rules, and chisels which were my personal property and must be safely locked away in the masons' yard at night.
When he had finished he went over to inspect the work that had been completed, studying the beds as though he wished to commit the exact position of each mortared joint to memory. The light was failing rapidly now—it was the first week of October—and there was a threat of storm in the still air.
"Erik!"
He started so violently at the sound of my voice that I knew he had believed himself to be alone.
"Leave that now, boy, tomorrow is another day."
He stared at me in bewilderment; right to the very end that was a concept he never seemed able to understand.
"Rome wasn't built overnight, you know," I added, beckoning him to my side. "You need patience to master this trade. Come along now, it's time to go home."
I waited for him to pick his way across the site with the sling of tools over his shoulder. He moved like a cat, with a lithe, flowing grace that made him oddly pleasing to watch —in spite of his height he had none of the gawkishness normally associated with his age.
We fell into step together and began to walk through the steadily darkening streets toward the masons' yard. I couldn't see his face, so of course I can't swear to it, but I am sure he smiled at me for the first time that night.
I made no attempt to set boundaries or to limit the nature of the work I permitted him to tackle. Ignoring time-honored traditions and increasingly resentful workmen, I simply permitted him to develop at his own staggering pace. Within six months he could random-chisel, fine-chisel, rub, or work fair exactly to my specifications and I was already allowing him to set square ashlar. He could keep beds and joints full and square for their whole depth and preserve the outer arrises so that the work, when set, was close and solid throughout. And whether he was fixing arch springers or cutting grooves for lead flashings in a stone parapet, it was never necessary to inspect the quality of his finished work. He had only one standard. If he felt he had made a mistake he was never too proud to ask for my correction.
But he rarely made mistakes; and those few he did make were never repeated.
The question of indentures never arose between us. I knew by the end of the first month that I could never hope to imprison him with the age-old chains of my craft. So I gave him his freedom and was rewarded in my turn by the single-minded self-discipline of a boy who simply chose to serve me for a time upon his own unspoken terms; who, though he would not be my bondsman, never showed me anything less than absolute respect.
Slowly, over the months, I became aware of that respect changing steadily into guarded affection. As the winter drew on I found a series of minor tasks that would keep him at my side for another hour or so of an evening. I needed a fire built, the figures in the ledger kept up-to-date, estimates drafted; but in time I was able to dispense with these transparent ploys as he found the confidence to linger at my hearth of his own accord.
At the end of February, when the mild weather suddenly turned against us and put a stop to all outside work, I watched him grow restless and wondered uneasily if he intended to leave me. He asked if he might go and draw in Florence for a few weeks and I agreed without a murmur of protest, for I had always known it would not be possible to hold him against his will. As I watched him ride off into the snow I did not expect him to return. He had already told me that it was his intention one day to study the architecture of the whole world, and I felt that Rome must inevitably lead to Naples and Pompeü; Apulia to Bari; Athens to Egypt. That raging appetite for knowledge could not be contained beneath my roof, and I feared the wanderlust that would inexorably pull him ever farther from my restraining hand.
But in the last week of March he was back, pausing in the courtyard to unpack the dozens of sketches he had completed as proof of his industry. As I lay once more, in the early hours of the morning, listening to the distant notes of his violin, I realized how deeply I had missed his elusive presence in the house, the odd, haunting pleasure of his shy companionship.
One day he would leave and not return, I knew that was inevitable. But I found I could not bear to think ahead to a time when he would be gone from my life for good.
The year turned on its unfailing cycle and the approach of summer brought a series of humid, airless days that made me pressingly aware of my years and my failing health. In the first week of June Rome began to swelter with a merciless heat that sapped my strength and sent me staggering out into the courtyard one evening, coughing like a consumptive in a sanatorium, and desperately seeking air.
The lantern suspended from the outer wall showed me the ominous flecks of blood upon my handkerchief, and in the brief pause between the spasms I stared at them with grim resignation. Suddenly, without a sound, Erik was beside me and I saw that he, too, was staring at the bloodied linen with pained understanding.
"You are very ill, sir," he said with quiet concern.
I made a breathless philosophical gesture and stuffed the handkerchief into my pocket, because I saw that the sight of it distressed him.
"All masons come to this fate in time, Erik—there's no cure been found for a lung full of grit and dust. But I reckon I have a good year or two left in me yet—there's no cause to look so alarmed, boy."
He hesitated a moment and then produced a small vial which he had evidently been concealing behind his back.
"If you care to try this," he began diffidently, "I think you will find it gives some ease."
I took the vial from him and unstopped it, releasing a pungent, yet not unpleasing, aroma of herbs.
"Where did you come by this?" I inquired with puzzled interest.
"I made it," he confessed awkwardly. "I was taught by the Gypsies to understand herbal properties."
I took an experimental sip and pulled a face.
"Kill or cure, is it, lad?"
He laughed at that. More and more now he was beginning to accept my gentle teasing, learning to laugh at his own seriousness, even at his occasional mistakes.
"You should try the cure for gout," he volunteered unexpectedly. "That really is cause for complaint. It tastes like a skunk's urine and keeps a man on the privy for a week. It doesn't work either," he added as a wry afterthought.
I finished the potion and returned the empty vial to him with a smile.
"Perhaps you could give me a hand up those stairs now," I said.
"Oh yes." He sounded utterly startled by the suggestion. "Of course…"
He came forward to offer me his arm with a sort of dumbstruck wonder and I put my hand on his shoulder, permitting him to take my full weight on his slim, yet surprisingly strong, frame. When we reached my room he lowered me tenderly onto the bed and then knelt to remove my boots.
"Good night, sir," he said gently. "I hope you can rest now."
I was already pleasantly drowsy. Whatever he had given me was calming the spasm in my chest and acting like a powerful opiate. I saw him glance briefly around the chamber as though to make sure he had not overlooked anything that might appertain to my comfort. He went across to close the wooden shutters at the window, and when he returned to set a glass of water on the table beside the bed, I reached up on impulse to squeeze his cold hand.
"You're a good boy, Erik," I said fondly. "I'd like to think you won't ever let anyone persuade you otherwise."
He held on to my fingers for a moment, enclosing them between his palms, and I became aware that he had started to tremble. My God… the boy was crying… crying because I had spoken kindly and touched him with affection!
"Erik…" I whispered helplessly.
"I'm sorry!" he stammered, dropping my hand and stepping back from the bed hastily. "I'm very sorry! Please forgive me!"
And before I could say a word to stop him he fled from the room.
I lay back on the pillows, staring at the stuccoed ceiling. The turbulence of his fiercely repressed emotion made me wonder yet again how I was going to approach a situation that could not be avoided much longer.
For I had not been entirely honest with him when I led him to believe that I lived alone as a widower, attended only by an old woman who came in to cook and clean and the occasional dutiful visit from matronly daughters living some distance outside Rome. Eleven months had slipped away and still I had not found an appropriate moment to confess to my sin of omission.
It was June already and soon, very soon now, Luciana would be coming home for the summer.
When Luciana was three years old her mother and I had a row which must surely have been heard by the pope in the Vatican. It began with Angela—then an ungainly girl of thirteen—running onto the building site with her skirts flapping madly around fat ankles.
"Papa, Papa, come quickly! Mama's locked Luciana in the cellar and she's screaming the house down. She'll choke if she doesn't stop, Papa, but Mama says she won't let her out till suppertime."
I left the site with a face like thunder—all my men staring at me with roughly veiled sympathy. Even at three Luciana was already notorious in her own right.
I could hear the screaming when I was still two streets away, and I felt my temper rising as I stormed into the house.
"Don't you
dare
let her out, Giovanni!" Isabella shrieked as I made for the cellar. "Don't you dare undermine my authority with that wretched child again!"
I swung around at the top of the cellar steps as she caught at my arm.
"How dare you do this!" I shouted. "How dare you make me look a fool in front of my men! Locking a baby down in a dark cellar… you must be mad."
"She's not a baby, she's three years old, and if she doesn't learn to do as she's told soon, I promise you she won't live to be four. I've had enough of her tantrums, do you hear me, Giovanni? I have had
enough
! It's all your fault… you've ruined her, ruined her since the day she was born, and now no one can do a thing with her, including you."
I ran down to the cellar, kicked open the door, and picked up the sodden, hysterical bundle which lay in a pool of urine and vomit on the stone-flagged floor.
On the stairs I paused to fix Isabella with a look of contempt that made her shrink against the wall. I was so beside myself with fury that I thought I might actually strike her for the first time in our twenty-five years of marriage.
"It's not her fault that you couldn't give me a boy!" I said with bare control. "If you ever do this again perhaps I'll find someone else who can!"