“One,” said Ermenegilda. “Only one.”
Piarina nodded.
“You mean you can only save one person.”
Piarina nodded again, and again she pointed to Ermenegilda.
“You can only save one person and you want it to be me.” Ermenegilda closed her eyes. “And what about you?”
Piarina raised her tunic, and when Ermenegilda opened her eyes she saw that she was covered with the black blotches, the black swellings, and a series of open, running sores.
“
Dio mi!
” cried Ermenegilda. “Why didn't you let us know?”
Piarina hung her head, and patted the cauldron, and pointed to Ermenegilda.
“You wanted to save me!” cried Ermenegilda. “I know! But what about yourself? Why would I want to live if it takes you, too?”
Piarina stirred no more, patted no more, pointed no more. Ermenegilda, wet with tears, put her great arms around her and whispered into her hair.
“If you won't be here, I'l want to be with him. If he won't be here, I won't want to be here, either.”
Then she withdrew herself from the embrace and ran out of the hovel, leaving Piarina frozen before the fire.
A few moments passed. Silence filled the hovel. Then a voice from the shadows rose up in a raspy whisper.
“Piarina! I'm thirsty! Fetch me some water!”
Piarina was startled by the sound of her mother's voice; she'd almost forgotten she was there. But when she turned and saw her huddled by the wall, she suddenly realized what she would have to do. She only wondered, with their history behind them, if she could possibly find the forgiveness to do it.
WHEN THE SWELLING
in her side had become the size of a melon and the greenish black blotches had begun to spread across her arms and throat, Miriam sent word, through Maria Luigi, for Piero and Gianluca to come visit her. She was aware that most of the island had contracted the pestilence by now, but still she did not want them to see that she was sick. So she wrapped herself in bolts and bolts of Maria Luigi's blue satin, then propped herself against a stack of cotton with Nicolo in her arms.
When Piero arrived at Maria Luigi's hovel, he was horrified to find the group of angry villagers gathered beneath Miriam's window. If anyone were to blame for this sickness, it was he; the thought that these people had chosen Miriam for their hatred made a wave of nausea pass through him. He tried to disband them; he pleaded with them to take their pain back to their beds. But they only ignored him and continued their tireless chanting.
Piero entered the hovel and made his way to the alcove. When he came upon the small space illuminated by the glowing candles, he almost forgot the horror that had taken over the island. Miriam and Nicolo looked so perfectly at peace, the candlelight on the blue satin was so gentle and soothing, he was able for a moment to free his mind from images of sickness and death. It was only when he actually saw Miriam's face — pale and shadowed and robbed of its delicate bloom — that he knew the horror was unavoidable.
“Thank you for coming,” Miriam said as he entered. “Please — sit anywhere.”
Piero crossed to the far wall and lowered himself to the straw. As he glanced around the room his eyes came to rest upon the statue of the Virgin, burnished yellow and gold from the light of the shimmering candles.
“This is very nice,” he said.
“It's what sustains me,” said Miriam.
Piero thought of his own statue of the Virgin — his statue of Miriam and Nicolo — and of the hope he'd had for the future of the island.
“Tell me how things are,” said Miriam.
Piero tried to block out the cries outside the window. “It's all across the island,” he said. “There's no one to help with those that are dying and no one to administer to the sick.”
Miriam closed her eyes. “I hear they'e calling it‘Beelzebub's dance,’” she said.
“There's a moment — a frenzy that comes — at the end.”
“I know. I'e seen it with Fausto. It's awful.”
“Giuseppe Navo's been out to Burano, Pescatorno, Ponte di Schiavi. They have it, too. It's all across the lagoon. All over the mainland.”
Piero and Miriam were silent for a moment, the cries outside the window like the patter of heavy rain. They tried to move beyond the violence in those cries, to concentrate on the candles, the satin, the energy between them. Then, suddenly, the sounds broke off in midcry — and the voice of Gianluca was heard.
“Get away from here!” he cried. “Go!
Now!
”
Piero and Miriam could hear no response — only the clanging of pots and the shuffling of feet as the ugly band dispersed. A moment later they heard the throwing open of the door to Maria Luigi's hovel and a faint cry from Maria Luigi at the hearth; then Gianluca appeared at the entrance to the alcove. He leaned against the wall — he was obviously in great pain — but his eyes were alive with their usual defiant luster.
“They won't bother you anymore,” he said. “I'l kill them if they do.”
“There's no point in killing them,” said Miriam. “They'l die soon enough on their own.”
“Perhaps it really is the end of the world,” said Piero.
Miriam lifted Nicolo, who in his usual manner had remained perfectly quiet, up against her shoulder. “It isn't the end of the world,” she said.
“How do you know?” said Gianluca.
She stroked the infant's curls in a slow, steady movement. “Because Nicolo is well,” she said. “He hasn't been touched by the sickness.”
“And what about you?” said Gianluca.
Miriam paused. “It started for me days ago. But Nicolo is well. And there are sure to be others like him.”
Piero looked away as Miriam said this; he did not have the courage to admit that, like Nicolo, the pestilence had passed him by. Miriam, however, saw his reaction and instantly interpreted its meaning.
“Is it true?”
“I think so.”
Miriam closed her eyes. “
Grazie, Dio
,” she said. “
Grazie
.”
“What are you talking about?” said Gianluca.
“Then that's been the answer all along,” said Miriam. “I couldn't imagine how Nicolo would survive if no one else were to survive. But you'l take care of him. You'l take him away to where there is no sickness.”
“I don't know that there is such a place,” said Piero. “But I'l try.”
“You bastard!” cried Gianluca.
“You must promise me that you will come for him as soon as I'm gone,” said Miriam.
“Don't talk like this!” cried Gianluca. “You aren't going to die of this!”
“I am going to die of it, Gianluca,” said Miriam. “Most of the island is going to die of it.”
“No!”
“Listen to me,” she said. “We have so little time.” She leaned forward and drew one of the tapers toward her so that its light cast a plain glow over her face. “I asked you here because our lives have been bound up together since I first came to Riva di Pignoli. I didn't choose it — but you didn't choose it, either. I asked you both to be father to my baby. The truth is that neither of you is his father. Nicolo was inside me when I came to Riva di Pignoli.” She paused for a moment as her words penetrated. “Now it looks as if only Piero will be able to raise my child. So I'm asking you to stay with me, Gianluca. Until one of us is seized by this terrible dance. Stay here, be here with me.”
Gianluca looked at her, her beauty couched beneath a death mask, her body illuminated by the countless flames that scattered the tiny space. It was difficult for him to comprehend that all the jealousy he had felt toward Piero had been unfounded. That there was a nameless, unknown other who had fathered Miriam's child. He tried to consider what she was offering him: even a few hours beside her would be more ecstasy than he could hope for, and if those hours were followed by death, it would be a magnificent farewell. But the thought that she might die first — that he might have to watch her grow frail and feverish and hurl herself into that final convulsion — was too much for him.
“No,” he said, in almost a whisper. “No.” Then he turned and stumbled across the hovel and out into the night.
Miriam closed her eyes and tried to breathe through her pain. “Go after him,” she said. “Please, Piero — see that he's all right.”
Piero remained frozen for a moment, his eyes fixed upon Miriam; then he rose and followed after Gianluca. He'd broken into a run now — Piero could just see him at the edge of his vision, racing out across the fields beside the Vedova Scarpa's hovel. Piero chased after him, aware of his pain, aware that his suffering went beyond his understanding. And aware that no matter how fast they ran, nor how far they got, they could never outdistance this terror that was following so close behind them.
B
Y THE END
of the first week there was not a hovel on the island that had not been touched by the sickness. The villagers who were still in the early stages of it tried to take those who had died across the water to be buried in the cemetery. When that became too difficult they put them in their gardens and their fields. Finally they could do no more than throw a piece of muslin or an old cloak over their faces and leave them where the final pangs had taken them. The smell was awful; the people lit bonfires of juniper and ash along the Calle Alberi Grandi, but the thick sweet smoke only intensified the odor of death.
A few of the villagers tried to come up with their own cures in feeble imitation of Piarina. Paolo Guarnieri ran about his hovel in circles holding a sprig of blessed thistle over his head. Siora Bertinelli rubbed a mixture of bogbean, spearmint leaf, and horseradish on her swellings, which made them burn so badly that she had to roll herself in a washtub lined with lard. Silvano Rizzardello — who had lost his wife and both his children in the very first days — crawled up on his roof and began covering himself with salt.
The Vedova Stampanini and Giuseppe Navo faced the specter of death with a feeling of familiarity. The Vedova had watched her ten children, her husband, and most of the people she had grown up with pass away; Giuseppe Navo had watched the Vedova as she had watched them. So now, as their own ends drew near, they decided to prepare a final meal — a last, lavish supper —before the ultimate throes of the sickness were upon them. Giuseppe ventured out into the lagoon and brought back a pair of gleaming
cefali.
The Vedova worked for hours making pureed beans with bacon, almond milk pudding,
sopa di pollo,
dried peas with anise, breadcrumb compote,
zampone,
and clove-and-ginger tarts. They laid it all out on the small table where they had shared so many meals and ate, in silence, for seven hours. Then they wrapped themselves up in each other's arms, convulsed in the dance like a pair of teenage lovers, and died.
The Vedova Scarpa had stayed inside her hovel since the meeting at the new village center. As the sickness came over her, however, she gathered her belongings into a burlap sack, donned the pale green gown she'd worn when she'd first met Luigi Scarpa, and went out to the western docks where he'd disappeared on a fishing expedition so many years ago. For the next three days she stood there holding a small net bag, in the hope that when she evaporated into spirit he would spot her, and hand her his catch, and guide her into heaven.
In the Ca’Torta all was silence. The three Marias were sunk in the fever, and Orsina lay groaning in her bed as she awaited Enrico's return. She'd ordered whatever servants were still mobile to remove everything from the bedchambers, the
androne,
the dining chamber, the
salone,
and the main portico, place it all in a pile at the center of the rose garden, and set it on fire — banking on the theory that it was never too late to relinquish one's attachment to material posessions, and that the Holy Spirit might still be embraced upon one's deathbed. She knew Enrico would come; no matter how hard he'd tried to avoid her company throughout the years of their marriage, he would never desert her in death. And sure enough, on the night after she took to her bed, he arrived at the door of their chamber — barefoot, in a hair shirt, and covered with the ugly black sores — and together they prayed that God would forgive them for a little excess.
Only Beppe Guancio and Romilda Rosetta thought to go to the Chiesa di Maria del Mare. Beppe got there first; he dragged himself from his bed when Piero went to see Miriam and stumbled through the fields to the tiny chapel. When he went inside he did not have the strength to light even one taper — but he knew that God could see him whether it was light or it was dark, so he tiptoed down the aisle and knelt before the altar and begged to be delivered from his pain.
Romilda Rosetta found her pain invigorating. From the moment the soreness started in her side, she viewed it as her final, most challenging trial. She stayed at the Ca’Torta while the sickness spread throughout her system, following Orsina's orders in the absence of Ermenegilda's. But when the pain became excruciating she went to the
chiesa,
crept unknowingly into the darkness behind the prostrate Beppe Guancio, and lay down in a gentle cross of supplication.
It was a gesture that nearly everyone on Riva di Pignoli, had they seen her perform it, would have understood. For when the flesh blackened, and opened, and oozed, there was no choice but to turn to the spirit. Romilda Rosetta had simply had a head start.
WHERE THE SICKNESS
made the other villagers’bodies grow heavy, it made Piarina feel lighter than ever; she practically floated through the door as she went outside for the first time since she'd fallen during the storm. Piarina had tried to induce herself to save Valentina — but after an entire day of prayer before the lone candle in the corner of the hovel, she still couldn't bring herself to do it. For months and months her mind had been filled with thoughts of murder; it was not so easy to wipe such things away. So when Valentina fell asleep she took the candle in her hand, went out to the edge of the island, and vowed to follow the circuit she'd traveled on the night she brought the spring until she found the grace to let her mother live.
She journeyed through the night, around and around the island, searching for the softness, the forgotten moment of tenderness, the sudden insight into her mother's nature that would allow her to reach past a lifetime of jabs and whacks and hold her to her heart. The Vedova Scarpa, who stood waiting at the docks for Luigi, was convinced it was not Piarina she saw but her ghost: the young girl's feet barely touched the ground, and her stick-bone body glowed brighter than the candle that guided her. Siora Bertinelli, who had gone to the eastern shore to soak her sores in the lagoon, claimed she saw Piarina walk on water: there was a point in the shore where the land curved in, creating a shallow cove where one could wade —Siora Bertinelli swore that Piarina ignored the indentation and continued straight across the surface of the lagoon. But circle as she might, Piarina could find nothing to help her. When dawn came she searched the grass and the trees and the line of the horizon for a shred or a speck to give her understanding. But all she could think of was how much the pain from the sickness felt like the pain from being beaten, so she finally gave up and went home.