The day before the Feast of the Assumption, Gabriele climbed through the window and walked over to my desk. Today he was wearing a white linen shirt open at the neck for his work in the sun, belted over dark brown leggings. His feet disappeared into shoes that tapered to a long point in the front. I had gotten so used to medieval fashion that seeing men in tights no longer struck me as odd. The outfits of fourteenth-century Italy could look pretty attractive, on the right man. Not everyone looks good in tights.
“Are you well, Monna Trovato? I regret we have not had ample time for conversation recently.” He was gracious, as usual, but I could still sense the burden of the unresolved summons weighing down on him.
“My hand is tired after five days of writing down every candle, banner, and coin each magistracy and representative of the contado territories owes, but otherwise I’m fine. And you?”
“Well, thank you, particularly so at this moment.” He smiled at me, a sincere smile radiating outward. It felt like the sun breaking through clouds.
“What have you been doing out there? You can’t still be working on the scaffolding after all this time.”
“Indeed. Since you express such interest, I was preparing the wall over the entryway to be plastered.”
“What does that entail?”
Gabriele looked at me as if he were assessing how much to describe. I’d seen that look on doctors’ faces as they prepared to explain something to a patient. How much does she really want to know, and how much can she understand?
“Moisture is the enemy of fresco painting—the force against which we painters gird our works to survive the centuries.” I couldn’t bear the thought that not a single brushstroke of the painting Gabriele was preparing would last, and it was strange to know this when he didn’t. My distress must have shown on my face.
“Your reaction is like a painter’s,” Gabriele said. “One might think you were no stranger to the brush.”
“You describe it vividly, that’s all. I’m no artist. How do you prevent it?”
“I prepare the surface of the wall with tar, then build drains and gutters to divert the collection of water. Now I am smoothing the surface to receive the intonaco.” He looked at me, waiting for signs of boredom.
I smiled. “Please continue.”
“I lay on successive layers of plaster, each more fine than the last. The final layer will be mixed with marble dust, and then the wall will be ready to welcome paint.” He said the last sentence as if he were describing a long-delayed romantic meeting.
“Do you know what you’re going to paint before you start?”
“I spend many days preparing studies before I approach the unpainted wall, and outline my intended image in red-brown sinopia, well before I begin to paint. But I can only plan so much. The full execution eludes me until the moment I lay pigment on wet plaster, feeling the brush move in my hand as if a force other than my own propels it. That is the moment I live for, and that I cannot explain. Perhaps this is more than you were prepared to absorb?” Gabriele smiled wryly.
“Not at all.” He was describing something I’d felt in surgery—a moment-to-moment knowledge of what to do that transcended planning. “When will you start painting?”
“After the Feast of the Assumption. Am I correct in assuming that you have never been in Siena for the festival of the Blessed Virgin?”
“You’re correct.”
“I would like to extend an invitation from my uncle Martellino to join our family in the procession of the Civetta contrada to the cathedral today, if you are at liberty.”
“Of course I’m free, and I’d love to come.” I beamed back at him. “Siena has become a second home for me, and visiting your family made me feel more welcome than anything I could have imagined.” I remembered Felice draping the Civetta scarf around my neck and putting her soft hand into mine.
“We will all be deeply honored to welcome you this evening, into our family and our contrada,” Gabriele said, with that killer bow he’d performed the first day we met. I suppressed the urge to say I had prior Civetta loyalties too.
“Thank you so much for the invitation. Where do I go? What should I bring? What time does the procession start?” Gabriele’s smile had broadened with each of my queries, and now he looked like he was about to laugh.
“I must ask that you repeat yourself, as my painter’s slow mind cannot possibly keep up with your scribe’s agile one. Will you indulge my deficiencies?”
“Where I come from, a lot of people talk fast.” I was thinking of New York City, but of course he couldn’t know that.
“What a dizzying place Lucca must be.”
We stared at each other happily until I realized I was supposed to ask my questions again.
“Sorry, I’ve forgotten my questions too. I guess scribes are no more agile than painters.”
“That is a matter for later discussion. I will come to fetch you at the Nones bells, and you need bring only yourself.” He bowed gracefully and stepped through the open window onto the scaffolding. The usual glazier had injured his hand and repairs were delayed; I hoped no one would fix the window anytime soon.
The streets were thronged with celebrants by the time the bells rang at midday, and more kept emerging from doorways, dressed in their festival best. Gabriele wore a brilliant red tunic edged in black and white, and a brimmed cap in the same Civetta colors that stood out against the silver of his hair. The family was waiting outside the bakery. Two people I hadn’t met before stood between Ysabella and her father. One was a self-satisfied-looking man whose smirk undermined his otherwise attractive features. His arm draped protectively over the shoulders of a woman whose tiny frame was overwhelmed by her pregnant belly. Gabriele introduced me.
“My good cousin Rinaldo Giacomo Accorsi, and his devoted wife, Bianca, it is my pleasure to introduce Beatrice Alessandra Trovato, the assistant scribe of the Ospedale. She has graciously accepted my invitation to join us today, and we are honored by her presence.” Martellino beamed at me and bowed. “It is our great pleasure to have you join us, Signora.”
Ysabella also welcomed me warmly, then reported on my missing dress. “I’m afraid your green gown is not laundered yet—our preparations for the festival have left many other more mundane tasks neglected. The blue does become you, though.” I tried to tell her that delivering it clean wasn’t necessary, but she silenced my protests.
Rinaldo stepped forward, releasing his grip on Bianca’s shoulders. “A woman scribe, how refreshing,” he said, “and from Lucca, little Ysabella tells me. You must tell us how it feels to be in a city so awe-inspiring, compared to what I am sure is a lovely, though modest place to live.” His exaggerated bow seemed more like mockery than a sign of respect. I decided I did not like him.
“We all need refreshment on such a hot day. I’m pleased to provide it.” I could see Rinaldo’s face working to figure out whether I was making fun of him.
Bianca opened her mouth but Rinaldo cut her off, patting her shoulder. “Bianca welcomes you as well. Her condition sometimes makes her slow to speak.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Bianca,” I said, addressing her directly. “How are you feeling?”