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Authors: Marina Fiorato
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troubles.’
Simonetta was encouraged by such openness and explained her plight. Manodorata smoothed his beard with his gold hand as he listened, as if he could feel its fibres with his false fingertips. When she had done he was silent for a period, and Simonetta wondered what he would say. He surprised her.
‘I think that I must visit your property. For one thing, you must offer it to me as security in case you are unable to pay me.’ He held up his hand to silence her protests. ‘Such practice is normal. But for another, I may be able to think of a way to make the place pay. You see in order to keep it you may have to make the land work for you, and I must see if there is a way to do this. I will visit you in a sevennight, but there is a condition. Before that time you must have made some money for yourself. For it is also common practice to offer me a sum, or principal, for my help. I can see you are noble, and unused to work, but you must work if I am to help you.’
‘But how? What you ask is impossible! If I could get money I would not be here.’
‘Think hard. Is there no possible way, has no opportunitybeen presented you? Use your wits, for I only help those who help themselves.’
Of course she remembered. The parting shot that he had assailed her with, that had at that time been so disgusting to her; that mention of payment so offensive to a great lady, could now be her saviour. ‘There was…a man, who wanted to paint me. For the church, here in Saronno. But it was some little time ago. I have…changed. He may not want to paint me now.’ She thought she saw a flicker of amusement in the Jew’s eyes, for all that his mouth remained impassive.
‘I am not given to gallantry, Signora, but let me assure you that any man who has seen you would wish to paint you, if only he could.’ He stood abruptly, the interview over. ‘I will leave it to your best offices to decide. Come to me in a sevennight, with the money for your principal or not at all.’ He held out his golden hand, and saw her hesitate before she took it.
It was surprisingly warm to the touch – clearly its metals had been heated by the limb to which it was attached. Simonetta met his eyes and saw at once that in that moment of hesitation he had divined what she had been told. For the first time in their discourse he actually smiled and his face was transformed. ‘Don’t worry Signora,’ said the man they called Manodorata, ‘it won’t kill you.’
CHAPTER 8
Amaria Wakes
When Selvaggio opened his eyes at last, he could see nothing but wood.
At first he could not move his eyes. The wood was an inch from the end of his nose. Smooth, worn, polished with age. He could look neither left nor right for some moments so stared straight ahead, blinking. He must be in his coffin. He must be dead.
He did not expect death to feel like this. If he was dead, then why could he still feel? Why did his chest and stomach sting with raw pain? He tried to move; could not. Better to stay still, and look at his casket. Rest. He followed the grain of the wood with his eyes, flowing, beautiful lines, like a landscape in microcosm. Gentle inclines and long plains of a peaceful, fruitful land. Or the waves of a calm sea, rising and falling in unison, now and again punctuated with dark fishes that were the knots. He felt the grain draw him in, embrace him. He became one with the landscape. Dust to dust. Wood was beautiful , why had he not seen it before?Why could he only see it now, now that he was in his coffin, perhaps interred in the earth?
No, he could not be below ground, for there was light coming from somewhere, light that hurt his eyes. And somewhere too, over the landscape or across the sea, somewhere an angry fly buzzed and bounced at a casement, trying to get out, trapped too.
With a Herculean effort Selvaggio moved his eyes from left to right as his head beat time. Despite the pounding, searing headache he could now find his bearings: he was
Simonetta was encouraged by such openness and explained her plight. Manodorata smoothed his beard with his gold hand as he listened, as if he could feel its fibres with his false fingertips. When she had done he was silent for a period, and Simonetta wondered what he would say. He surprised her.
‘I think that I must visit your property. For one thing, you must offer it to me as security in case you are unable to pay me.’ He held up his hand to silence her protests. ‘Such practice is normal. But for another, I may be able to think of a way to make the place pay. You see in order to keep it you may have to make the land work for you, and I must see if there is a way to do this. I will visit you in a sevennight, but there is a condition. Before that time you must have made some money for yourself. For it is also common practice to offer me a sum, or principal, for my help. I can see you are noble, and unused to work, but you must work if I am to help you.’
‘But how? What you ask is impossible! If I could get money I would not be here.’
‘Think hard. Is there no possible way, has no opportunitybeen presented you? Use your wits, for I only help those who help themselves.’
Of course she remembered. The parting shot that he had assailed her with, that had at that time been so disgusting to her; that mention of payment so offensive to a great lady, could now be her saviour. ‘There was…a man, who wanted to paint me. For the church, here in Saronno. But it was some little time ago. I have…changed. He may not want to paint me now.’ She thought she saw a flicker of amusement in the Jew’s eyes, for all that his mouth remained impassive.
‘I am not given to gallantry, Signora, but let me assure you that any man who has seen you would wish to paint you, if only he could.’ He stood abruptly, the interview over. ‘I will leave it to your best offices to decide. Come to me in a sevennight, with the money for your principal or not at all.’ He held out his golden hand, and saw her hesitate before she took it.
It was surprisingly warm to the touch – clearly its metals had been heated by the limb to which it was attached. Simonetta met his eyes and saw at once that in that moment of hesitation he had divined what she had been told. For the first time in their discourse he actually smiled and his face was transformed. ‘Don’t worry Signora,’ said the man they called Manodorata, ‘it won’t kill you.’
CHAPTER 8
Amaria Wakes
When Selvaggio opened his eyes at last, he could see nothing but wood.
At first he could not move his eyes. The wood was an inch from the end of his nose. Smooth, worn, polished with age. He could look neither left nor right for some moments so stared straight ahead, blinking. He must be in his coffin. He must be dead.
He did not expect death to feel like this. If he was dead, then why could he still feel? Why did his chest and stomach sting with raw pain? He tried to move; could not. Better to stay still, and look at his casket. Rest. He followed the grain of the wood with his eyes, flowing, beautiful lines, like a landscape in microcosm. Gentle inclines and long plains of a peaceful, fruitful land. Or the waves of a calm sea, rising and falling in unison, now and again punctuated with dark fishes that were the knots. He felt the grain draw him in, embrace him. He became one with the landscape. Dust to dust. Wood was beautiful , why had he not seen it before?Why could he only see it now, now that he was in his coffin, perhaps interred in the earth?
No, he could not be below ground, for there was light coming from somewhere, light that hurt his eyes. And somewhere too, over the landscape or across the sea, somewhere an angry fly buzzed and bounced at a casement, trying to get out, trapped too.
With a Herculean effort Selvaggio moved his eyes from left to right as his head beat time. Despite the pounding, searing headache he could now find his bearings: he was
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