Except …except, Zuana thinks, while I know this young woman to be a dissembler of extraordinary talent, there is no deception in what we are seeing now, surely? How could there be? Installed in her choir seat she looks so small, curled in on herself, eyes dull, her expression almost dreamy. If, on top of her drug-induced voiding, she is starving herself more than the allotted penance, there will be precious little stamina for deception in her now. A better confessor would never have imposed such a rigorous penance, for young girls are known to be more susceptible to the drama of fasting than their older counterparts.
Still, it is possible some good will come of it. She thinks of Suora Magdalena, dried up in her bed like a piece of salted meat. While she represents the extreme, degrees of hunger are necessary—even beneficial—to convent life. In readiness for the host, Zuana herself has not eaten since last night, and there is a familiar, almost pleasurable hollowness in her stomach. For those who find themselves distracted by the world around them, fasting can be a wondrous tool. Indeed, this is the time of year for it: Lent after Carnival. Carne vale, farewell to the flesh. Most of the nuns will be feeling the growl of hunger in their stomachs at some time in the weeks to come. Disciplining the body to free the souclass="underline" with the convent still so upside down there will be those who will actively look forward to fasting as a way of returning to a state of greater calm.
When they are all seated, Father Romero enters, flanked by the sacristan sister and the chosen choir nun who will aid him in the business of the mass. In contrast to the ceremony celebrated in the public church, mass in the convent chapel is an intimate affair: a simple altar set below the great crucifix, with the nuns gathered in their choir stalls close by; the greatest privilege as well as the greatest pleasure.
If they are honest they might admit that it is not, alas, always a transcendent experience. Father Romero’s surplice, embroidered by the sisters themselves, is so heavy with gold thread that he can barely walk underneath it. Zuana watches him fumbling with the objects on the altar. In the sixteen years she has been here there has been only one confessor whose inner light matched the gold on his robes. He had lasted a mere seven months, taken when a sudden wave of pestilence hit the city, and in the years that followed they had all been either too fierce or too feeble. In the lives of the convent saints, the journey of the most holy women is marked by the wisdom and charity of their confessors. How would Caterina of Siena have learned to speak so clearly to the world if her first human listener had not been Father Raymond de Capua? But here they must fend for themselves spiritually—what is it that Suora Umiliana says? — “like lambs bleating with hunger in need of a pasture to nurture them.” Though Zuana does not want to live in a convent run with her strictness and ferocity there are nevertheless moments when the novice mistress’s eloquence speaks to her. How many other choir nuns, she wonders, may have felt the same?
The service begins. While Father Romero’s voice is cracked and wheezy, the nuns’ responses are full and joyful and the chapel resounds with eager voices.
“God be with you.”
“And with you also.”
And despite Father Romero, surely He is.
Zuana bows her head. She has lived among these women for almost seventeen years. Recently even her father’s voice has been growing quieter compared with theirs. The thought does not frighten her as it once did. The abbess is right: through the rhythm and discipline of prayer eventually comes acceptance. How many of them could that be said of? She glances across the stalls and senses Suora Umiliana’s eye upon her. Ah, she always has an uncanny way of knowing who is not properly concentrating.
Zuana gives her attention to the altar. They are reaching the moment of the blessing of the Eucharist.
“This is my body.”
“This is my blood.”
She glances up at the great crucifix, the trickle of blood unfurling like a scarlet ribbon from His punctured side. And as she studies it, the body seems to tremble forward against the nails. Zuana narrows her eyes to look more clearly. I am tired, she thinks. It makes my vision untrustworthy. She glances around her but, with the exception of Agnesina, whose faulty vision makes even the closest things unreliable to the eye and who is now staring fixedly upward, no one else seems to have noticed. The bell rings, and all of them bow their heads for the elevation of the communion.
Father Romero turns to face the nuns. The moment has come. The women file out of their seats toward the altar, led by the abbess. She is grace itself at such times, hands folded, back straight, gliding more than walking. Those who follow try to match her, though with the elder nuns it turns to shuffling soon enough. They kneel one by one in front of the stooped figure, heads back, mouths wide open, like hungry birds waiting for the mother’s food. It is as well that Father Romero keeps good hold of the chalice, for a few of them are almost greedy for the wine. His blood. His body. How could you not want more of it? When Zuana’s turn comes she clasps her hands and empties her mind.
“Accept the body and blood of Christ.”
“Amen.”
The wafer slides onto her tongue. She feels its cool familiar weight, the way it slowly starts to disintegrate as it mixes with her saliva. To take the Lord thy God inside you. To be filled with His grace. His sacrifice. His love. The essence of goodness. There is no simpler or greater miracle.
She returns to her place in the choir stalls, head bowed, eager to hold on to the loss of self for as long as she can. At the altar Suora Umiliana kneels, followed by each of her novices in turn.
It is not clear exactly at what moment it happens, whether Serafina is actually receiving the eucharist or if the priest has already moved on to the next young girl. What everybody does agree on is that the noise comes first: a sharp angry crack, as if the very flagstones of the church are splitting open; indeed, those who have lived through such quaking of the earth swear they even felt a shiver. But the ground stays firm enough. It is the world above that changes.
“Aaah!”
“Our Lord …Jesus!”
“The cross. The cross!”
Above their heads the left hand of Christ has pulled away from the horizontal bar of the crucifix and the torso lurches forward. For a second it seems as if the whole body might tear itself off the wood, but the right hand and the feet stay anchored, so that He remains, hanging, suspended, His left arm stuck out into the air, the nail still embedded in His palm, His face staring down in agony toward the altar. At the same time a thin rain of wood dust pours from the exposed hole, showering Father Romero’s robes and head. The priest gives a strangled cry and his hands let go of the psalter and chalice. They bounce off the stones, scattering the remaining host and spilling the wine across the floor. And suddenly everyone is wailing and screaming so that it feels as if the beginning of the end of the world might be nigh, right there in the sanctuary of Santa Caterina’s convent chapel.
In the vacuum left by Father Romeo’s dithering, the abbess is immediately in charge. She retrieves the chalice and sets it back on the altar, though she does not touch the hosts, for even she is not so blessed.
“Sisters, sisters, be calm.” Her voice is clear and penetrating. “There is no danger. One of the nails on the crucifix has come loose, that is all. But we must be alert in case Christ’s dear body falls farther onto us. Return to your cells, all of you. Suora Umiliana, will you guide the novices out of chapel?”
But Umiliana is still on her knees and does not move.
“Suora Umiliana. Look to your novices.”
It might have ended there, for when she chooses, Madonna Chiara delivers not only comfort but unmistakable authority. Yet even as she says it the chapel door is opening and the figure of the conversa Letizia stands inside, the morning light bright behind her.