Simple Prayers (9 page)

“That,” said Fausto Moretti, “is not entirely true.”

“If the spring was twenty-seven days late,” said Piero, “it was trying to tell us something. It was an omen.”

“What was it saying, Piero?” asked Albertino.

“‘Exist!’” cried Piero. “It was telling us to confirm the fact that we exist!”

“And how,” asked Ugolino Ramponi, “do we do that?”

Piero stood very still as he looked out over the faces of the crowd. Then he reached his hand into the basin of shellfish and drew out a great pink lobster. With a quick jerk of his body he threw it high into the market air — above the faded canopies of the flowering stalls — above the aureate glow of the setting sun — until it reached its zenith, far over the island's rooftops, and then fell with a giant smack into Beppe Guancio's waiting hands.

“
Numero uno,”
he said. “We build a
campanil
for the Chiesa di Maria del Mare.”

“A
campanil
?” said Siora Bertinelli. “What do we need with bells ringing all day long?”

“
Numero do.
We build a
campo
at the foot of the
campanil.”

“A
campo
!” said Maria Luigi. “What's the matter, Piero — San Marco isn't good enough for you?”

“
Numero tre.
We build a monument at the center of the
campo,
at the foot of the
campanil,
to symbolize Riva di Pignoli forever.”

“With you as sculptor, Piero?” said Siora Guarnieri.

“We don't need any more dragons, Piero!” said Gesmundo Barbon.

“Who's worried about dragons?” said Siora Scabbri. “I'm worried about what else Piero might erect!”

The market exploded in laughter.

“And who's supposed to pay for all this?” asked Ugolino Ramponi.

“It won't cost twenty denari if we gather the materials ourselves,” said Piero. “And if we each work a little.”

The people of the market grew quiet as they began to consider Piero's proposal. On the heels of the delirious spring almost anything seemed possible; the color of the fields and the sweet honey in the air seemed to disintegrate their reason. Piero watched their faces as they tried to picture what he had described: Siora Scabbri chewing vigorously on the inside of her cheek; Ugolino Ramponi screwing his nose up as if he smelled something bad; Beppe Guancio staring dumb-faced and dreamy at the muck that splattered his feet. Yet the face that stayed in Piero's mind — the face that edged him forward and fueled his objective — was the washed-out face of the body he'd buried in the field of wild thyme.

“It's too difficult, Piero,” said Gesmundo Barbon. “We'e got enough to do to keep up with the work we already have.”

“With a spring like this,” said Gianluca, “it's all we can do to harvest the vegetables.”

Piero moved in toward the center of the crowd.

“Then why not build it to say
grazie
?” he said. “If God has been so good to you, in the face of so much trouble, why not extend His house and grant His island a place for its people to congregate?”

The villagers were quiet again; Piero could feel them considering what he had just said.

“I could get the stones for the
campanìl,”
said Giuseppe Navo.

“I could get the beams,” said Paolo Guarnieri. “My cousin Francesca's husband works at the Arsenale. That's how I got the wood to build the smoke shed.”

“I could help you build it,” offered Albertino.

“You'e not even back half a day and already you'e giving your time away?” said Gianluca.

“It's for the island,” said Albertino. “It's to see that we get a summer, and an autumn, and a winter. You can't be too careful, Gianluca.”

Gianluca thought about this for a moment — looking first at Albertino, then at Piero, and finally at the dazzling sea of vegetables that spread out around him. “All right,” he said. “All right. I'l help, too. If you'll just shut up and let us get back to work!”

Piero assented, and the market gradually wound its way back to the bright rejoicing he'd interrupted a few minutes earlier. Now, however, the rejoicing contained an element it had not contained before: for the first time in their lives, the people of Riva di Pignoli were thinking about how Riva di Pignoli looked to the rest of the world. And spring or no spring, such thinking was bound to change things.

ERMENEGILDA TOOK HER ANGER, wrapped it neatly in bolts of the best imported silk, and presented it to Piarina.

“Take it back,” she said. “The fruit, the fields, the grass, the trees, the vegetables.
Especially
the vegetables.”

Piarina felt grateful to be mute — for had she had ten thousand words at her disposal, she would not have known what to say. When Ermenegilda had asked for the spring, she had covered herself in candle wax to bring it. But she had no means to take it away again. Piarina could cure, but she could not condemn. She could bring health, and growth, but she could not take away the life she'd given the land.

When she realized Ermenegilda was in earnest, Piarina went and picked a flower from the cluster of wild iris that grew along the path to her hovel and carried it back to where she stood. Look, her eyes seemed to say. Look how beautiful it is. How fragile, and full of joy. How could I ever damage even a single petal?

Ermenegilda looked at the flower, and its spread-open petals made her think of herself in the graveyard. She could not bear such a painful reminder of how her love had been rejected —so she broke off its head, crushed it hard in her fist, and hurled it upon the ground. Then she went to the pear tree and tore a pear from its branches. After forcing it apart with her fingers, she proceeded to squash it to pulp against the side of the hovel. Next she went to the herb garden. Valentina had planted only basil and thyme, but Ermenegilda ripped them both out cleanly by the roots and threw them into the well.

When she was done, she looked at Piarina to offer her a final chance. But Piarina could only hang her head and try to hold back her tears. So Ermenegilda snatched up her anger, tucked it under her arm, and stormed back off to the Ca’Torta.

After she'd gone, Piarina stared at the crushed iris head that lay at her bare feet. She traced her finger through the squashed pear pulp that dripped down the side of the hovel. She fetched a ladle and scooped out the leaves of the herbs that were thrown in the well. Then she took a basket, placed all the items inside, and sat at the edge of the compost heap, rocking them gently in her abandoned arms.

Chapter 6

T
HE VIGOROUS
, sleek-muscled spring kept on without hesitation; the people of Riva di Pignoli soon relaxed into an acceptance of plenty and a deep sense of well-being. The joy they felt for the landscape spilled over into the plans for the
campanìl
— work could not actually begin until the stones and the rigging and the lumber were gathered, but preparations soon swept across the island. A schedule was devised that would allow each member of the village one morning and one afternoon a week to help with the labor: the young and strong, like Gianluca, could do the hoisting and the heavy lifting; the more frail, like the Vedova Stampanini, could help mend the ropes or pick twigs out of the mortar. It would certainly not rise overnight, but Piero believed that if they started by Pentecost, they could finish by the Naming of the Virgin, leaving enough time to complete the
campo
and monument by Christmas.

Piero's attention became so focused upon the creation of the new town center, all other concerns fell away. He fixed himself upon the stump of an old pine tree not far from the doors of the church and virtually willed the new structure into existence. He ate there and slept there, wholly convinced that if he imagined each detail of the final result, it could not help but come into being. So intent, so obsessive, so fixed within his aim was he, he might have remained there until the last stone was laid had it not been for the sudden appearance of Miriam — like a flash of summer lightning — on Midsummer's Eve.

No one actually saw her arrive. No strange ships stopped along the island's tattered shore, no mythic birds swooped down to drop her from their talons. But nearly everyone took note of her arrival. In the first place they were all in the bath, Midsummer's Eve being one of the two nights a year they allowed themselves this privilege. In the second place they had never seen such an absolute stranger give off such an absolute sense she'd been among them all their lives. Nearly everyone stood dripping at the window of his hut as she moved up the Calle Alberi Grandi in the loose white dress that, had it not cut so freely across her voluptuous figure, might easily have been her bridal gown. Nearly everyone stared dazzled at the honey-and-apricot tresses that fell over the slender shoulders, the full, sensuous mouth that was parted in childlike wonder, and the lucid, topaz eyes that seemed focused on some inner destination. Nearly everyone tried to guess what she carried in the small burlap bundle she clasped to her breast: Ugolino Ramponi claimed it was filled with gold florins; the Vedova Stampanini said it contained a hand-sown deerskin coverlet; Beppe Guancio insisted it held a wooden cask, which in turn held a velvet sack, which in turn held the Holy Infant's baby teeth. They watched as she reached the first cluster of pine trees that made the road curve about in a half-moon, stopped, removed her slipper, and shook out a bright blue stone. They watched as she crossed the field in front of Maria Luigi's hovel, picked some flowers from Maria Luigi's windows, knocked on the door, handed the flowers to Fausto, and asked if she might live with him. Fausto was stunned — he thought a brace of summer thrush had fluttered into his doorway — but without a word he ushered her in, escorted her to the small alcove where Maria Luigi's cottons and muslins lay folded and draped, and told her to make herself a place among the needlework. When Maria Luigi came in, Fausto took her to the alcove, where Miriam lay sleeping on a bolt of Turkish linen. Maria Luigi simply covered her with an embroidered shawl and then went into the kitchen to take her bath, convinced that her humble goodness had finally merited the visitation of an angel.

The following morning, when Piero caught sight of that angel as she approached the Chiesa di Maria del Mare, his first thought was of an image from a Chinese picture book Fra Danilo had once given him. On facing pages, in brilliant blues and flashing reds and golds, were a wild-eyed tiger chasing a beautiful princess and a beautiful princess taming a wild-eyed tiger. Piero was struck by the sense that at one and the same moment this delicate creature was all four figures: tiger stalking, tiger tamed, princess chased, princess governing. When she disappeared for a moment behind the cluster of pine trees, he felt as if he'd tumbled from a trance. When she cleared the trees and approached the barren stump where he sat musing, he knew that the trance was what had possessed him while she was absent, and that her smile was the first real waking he had ever known.

“Excuse me,” she said in a clear voice. “I would like to know if I might use the
chiesa.”

“The Chiesa di Maria del Mare is always open,” said Piero. “God welcomes you whenever you wish to enter.”

“Thank you,” she said, lifting her eyes to his briefly before turning to leave.

“Where have you come from?” said Piero, stopping her.

“A village called Abrodando. In the mountains.”

“It sounds far.”

“It is far.”

“What brings you to Riva di Pignoli?”

Miriam paused. “It's a beautiful island,” she said. “Perhaps I craved the silence.”

“I see.”

“Or the water.”

“Of course.”

She smiled the faintest of smiles, her face remaining relaxed but something behind it softening. “Or perhaps I just like pignoli,” she said.

“Pignoli,” said Piero. “Well, we certainly have lots of pignoli.”

She looked at him again with a look he could not decipher; an extraordinary radiance seemed to flicker behind her eyes. Then she drew her arms across her bosom and glanced over toward the tiny chapel. “I would like to pray now,” she said. “If you will excuse me.”

“Of course,” said Piero.

She turned and walked through the feathery grass toward the Chiesa di Maria del Mare. Piero sat and closed his own eyes then — half-certain that she did not really exist, that she was only another of his smoky, mystic visions. But when he opened them and looked across the field to see her pale hand reach up to the door — and her firm legs move across the threshold — and her full hips sway beneath her gown — he knew that she was undeniably real.

In that moment Piero understood that dragons and phalluses — and maybe even God — were suddenly, hopelessly, behind him.

PIRINA STILL BELIEVD
in God. But when Ermenegilda stopped coming to see her, after she refused to take away the spring, she began to wonder if the flickering candles could sustain her. Life without Ermenegilda was awful; the absence of the great girl's affection was like a bite taken out of her heart. But Piarina's sorrow did not reach its apex over Ermenegilda. For when Ermenegilda stopped coming to see her —and stopped bringing otter-fur capes and roasted finches and wide-necked vessels overflowing with shimmering coins — Valentina began beating her again. It was not the first time she had resumed her casual violence after a protracted period of grace. But this time Piarina's reaction was different. This time Piarina knew what it meant to be held in someone's arms, and warbled faded lullabies, and stroked like a newborn lamb. So although she showed no outward reaction when Valentina once again began cuffing and slamming and whacking her, inside she began to imagine ways to murder her.

At first these thoughts came only in dreams. Piarina would wake in the night from having poisoned Valentina's pudding or having knocked her unconscious with the skillet while she laced her boots. Soon she began to fear going to sleep at night; when darkness fell she would lay sharp stones on her side of the bed or stick her toes into cold porridge. Anything to avoid the ghastly acts she might perform once her mind let go of wakefulness. But sooner or later she would always succumb — bent over the broth pot or crouched down beside the salting box — and another dream would sketch its sticky plan across her brain. Pushing Valentina into the fire as she stirred the bean paste. Chopping her into pieces with the pickax as she scattered the morning straw.