Within a few months Paola had grown ripe with child, but their babe would never cry or find solace at his mother’s breast. When Paola and their son died, Gabriele had returned to his art with greater intensity. He never spoke of Paola, despite his family’s attempts to draw him out, or to find him a new source of feminine distraction.
But Gabriele’s muse, to his consternation, did not have Paola’s face. The woman he had painted on the riverbank watching Saint Christopher carry the Christ child came from some shadowy place of visions, not memory. He felt irrationally guilty, as if an imagined woman emerging from the spirit world could signify an infidelity to a wife nearly three years gone.
The sound of bells reminded him of his cousin Ysabella’s promise of supper. He turned away from the performance and hurried back to his uncle’s house.
“Gabriele has deigned to grace us with his artist’s presence!” Ysabella’s words were softened by her wide smile. She stopped short to look at Gabriele.
“Change your sleeves, else you’ll cover us all with paint.” He looked down at himself, seeing the spattering and smears of color along his arms and hands.
“Of course, Queen Ysabella,” he said, bowing, and made his way through the shuttered bakery storefront of the house. Gabriele unbuttoned his dirty sleeves at the shoulder as he mounted the stairs to his third-floor bedchamber under the roof, where he attached clean sleeves. His tunic would have to do for now.
“Don’t forget to wash your hands.” Ysabella’s voice carried up the narrow staircase. As he came down the stairs, Ysabella was smearing the shoulder of mutton with a paste of chopped parsley as the fat dripped and sputtered into the fire.
“You would make a Franciscan into a glutton with your cooking,” Gabriele said appreciatively. His uncle Martellino entered the kitchen, hands on his belly.
“She’s already managed that with her father! But I was no Franciscan to begin with.” His broad smile creased his face.
“Where is our Bianca?” Gabriele asked.
“Upstairs praying to Saint Nicholas again to protect her unborn child,” said Ysabella, pulling a pan of roasted onions from the fire, edges curled and darkened by the heat.
“You will see how it feels when your time comes,” Martellino said. Ysabella shook her head but held her tongue. She clearly had no intention of acting like her brother’s wife now or ever; Gabriele had never seen two women less alike.
The heavy wooden door slammed open against the wall, and Bianca’s husband, Rinaldo, entered the house with his usual excess of noise.
“When do we eat?” Rinaldo bellowed. “The price of wheat has risen again, and a day at the bank always makes me ravenous.”
“Food never comes fast enough for you, Rinaldo,” Ysabella retorted, stirring vinegar into the roasted onions and shaking salt over the bowl.
“No one will want a bride with that tongue.” Rinaldo stared pointedly at his father.
“I am certain that your sister will find a husband happy to hear what she has to say,” Martellino said tolerantly. “What man would not put up with any amount of haggling for such meals as this?” He put his hand on Ysabella’s shoulder to calm her obvious irritation. “And until such time as she does find a husband, we will certainly benefit from her ample skill in the kitchen. Your mother would be proud of you, my angel.”
Bianca chose that moment to lower herself painfully down the steep staircase.
“Sit, Bianca, lest our child appear before his time.” Rinaldo strode to Bianca’s side, leading her to a bench at the table.
Gabriele sighed inwardly as Rinaldo sat beside him; they would be sharing a tagliere tonight. Most diners gracefully shared the wooden platter, but grace was not in Rinaldo’s nature. Gabriele imagined he might not be eating much this evening, for Rinaldo’s speed at the table was difficult to match.
The meal began with a brief prayer, then bunches of taut purple grapes to open the palate, followed by the fragrant salad of roasted onions. Martellino kept Rinaldo distracted with questions about new regulations from the city council for pricing loaves, allowing Gabriele to cut off a sizeable chunk of mutton before Rinaldo could attack it. Ysabella spoke into the contented silence before sweetmeats appeared.
“The crowds at the mercato were buzzing with news,” Ysabella said. “I Noveschi granted the Ospedale communal funds to commission another painting to honor Santa Maria.”
Bianca fingered a gold chain she wore around her neck. “There is talk about Simone’s pupils, but others say the Lorenzetti brothers . . .”
“Gabriele is the obvious choice,” Ysabella insisted. She slammed a wedge of creamy white cheese emphatically down on a board on the table, spearing it with a knife.
Martellino cut a slice from the cheese and chewed as he spoke. “We know our Gabriele’s merit, but the rector of the Ospedale will have to decide for himself. And you, silent one, have you nothing to say about all this?”
Gabriele could feel his pulse beating at the angle of his jaw. He and the other members of Martini’s studium had struggled to keep the work flowing after their master’s death. He needed to pay the calzoleria to resole his shoes, and it had been some time since he had contributed his share to Martellino’s household expenses.
“I will submit my name to be considered for the commission,” Gabriele said levelly as he rose from the table. “And an example of my work stands before the rector, each time he enters the doors of the Ospedale. I hope that will guide him.”
“No sweetmeats for you, Gabriele?” Ysabella looked incredulous. Her figure was a testament to her love of sweets.
“I have eaten enough to fill my stomach, despite obstacles.” Gabriele’s face remained impassive, making his words seem innocuous. Rinaldo, oblivious, wiped the bottom of the almond bowl with his fingers for the last grains of sugar. Gabriele pushed his chair into the table. “I hope you will excuse me. A day on the scaffolding has made me long for bed.”
Upstairs in the top-floor chamber where his sketches and studies beckoned from the plaster walls, Gabriele pulled his tunic over his head, then his white cotton shirt. He hung the clothes on the pole protruding from the wall, extinguished the burning candle in its holder, and climbed up onto the large bed, where he said a prayer before he lay down to sleep.
“God in heaven, let the fifth fresco be mine, that I might serve you and Santa Maria in its painting,” he whispered, closing his eyes. In the dark behind his lids, the image came alive: the Virgin ascending to heaven, borne by four angels with golden wings. As Gabriele’s breathing slowed into the rhythm that precedes dreams, he saw the face of the woman he had painted on the riverbank, her gray-blue eyes the color of the sea.
So from her gesture, through her eyes infused in my imagination, did mine own take shape;
and I fixed mine eyes upon the sun, transcending our wont . . .
I shall make her an angel at the Virgin’s side, Gabriele thought, half dreaming. He smelled damp plaster as he drifted off to sleep.