Surely at some level she must know what she is doing. What, in effect, she has already done.
THE SERVICE MOVES triumphantly to its close. Yet as the last notes fade into silence—Serafina’s voice now plaited into, though not lost within, others—no one on either side of the grille moves.
The abbess, whose rising will mark the sign for others to do so, still sits in her seat. Around her the choir is caught, some looking down as they are instructed, others watching for the sign, a few staring more openly at the novice, who has dropped her hands and eyes and looks only at the floor.
The silence in the choir stall is matched by that in the body of the church. Not a sound can be heard through the grille now, no clearing of throats, no coughs or whispers. The good citizens of Ferrara are either unable or unwilling to accept that the experience is over.
Then, out of the silence, comes a man’s voice, clear and loud. A single word: “Brava!”
The shock of it runs through them all, so that now the abbess is spurred into movement and quickly the others follow.
And the girl? Well, for a moment the girl does nothing, just stands staring at the floor. But as those around her start to move she lifts her head up and for that second her eyes meet Zuana’s. What is it the elder woman sees there, exhilaration? Satisfaction? Even joy? Certainly. But also the unmistakable flash of triumph.
It is this last that Zuana registers most powerfully, for though the girl has reason to feel gratified by the impact she has made, she must surely also understand that she has pronounced her own life sentence. Because, whatever happens, they will never let her out now.
PART TWO
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SMELLS FROM the bakery are almost overwhelming. It has been building up over the last few days, this assault on the senses, from when the first trays of ginger biscuits, followed by cakes and herb breads, went into the ovens, releasing their yeasts and sugars through the cloisters. Some sisters have even confessed to salivating as they pass by the kitchens (winter meals can become sparse and repetitive), but their confession only makes others more aware of the sin in themselves, and impatience is the mildest of transgressions. They will all be allowed to taste the results soon enough.
In the kitchens, Suora Federica has been excused the more exhausting of the daily offices, as she and her cohort of nuns and converse struggle with the extra work needed to produce the specialties that will feed a small army of visitors. Packages are delivered to the gatehouse every other day, and the chief conversa in charge of provisions is run ragged with journeys to and from the river storerooms to collect deliveries and further supplies. That very morning two barrels of wine have arrived from a new benefactor. One is to be opened and decanted, the other put into storage. The abbess has sanctioned the use of Suora Ysbeta’s private store of glasses. As a nun from one of the great families she has a passion for Murano glass, as well as small dogs, and came with a dowry chest full of it. There has been the annual discussion in chapter as to how far the use of such luxuries might count as ostentation or even vanity, with the vote going—though less smoothly this year—in favor of the demands of hospitality. As a consolation to the novice mistress and her followers, it is decided that the glasses will be used only to serve benefactors and the highest rank of visitors, and that should there be any breakages the convent will not be responsible for replacing them.
Soon the gilded goblets will be sitting next to full jugs of wine on the covered trestle tables along one side of the parlatorio. The room has been transformed: the small organ has been moved from the music chamber into one corner, with two high-backed chairs placed nearby for the lute and harp players and space for the choir. There are candles (beeswax of the highest grade, from the stores) on spiked stands, and branches of evergreens with winter berries have been woven together with garlands of herbs across the ceiling, and fumigants in metal pomades hang suspended, ready to be lighted, the air already fragrant with their scents. The room gives off such an appearance of a great domestic salon that those sisters who entered the flock late enough to recall feast-day gatherings with their families are flooded with memories as they stand in the entrance and marvel.
One end of the refectory has been cordoned off, ready for the construction of a platform stage upon which the martyrdom of Santa Caterina of Alexandria will be performed before a specially invited female audience, and a storeroom nearby has been opened to hold props and costumes. Some are being made by the nuns themselves, but the more exacting—doublets and hose for the emperor’s courtiers, boots and swords for the nun soldiers, and the wheel itself, which must appear solid only to be broken by divine intervention before Santa Caterina can be tied to it—have to be brought in from outside, courtesy of the nuns’ families. Those sisters and novices involved in the play can often be found during recreation walking briskly in the garden or around the cloisters reciting their lines, either to themselves or to one another. Santa Caterina herself will be played by Suora Perseveranza, whose habit of self-mortification does not prevent her from the pleasure of occasional performance, to which, everyone agrees, she brings a tender verisimilitude. In years past her portrayals of such shining saints have brought tears—and flowing donations—from many of the female benefactors who have seen them.
After a long spell of bitter cold the city has grown a little warmer, though not enough to drive off the mists. The change has come too late for Zuana’s fingers, which are raw from mornings spent in the herb garden fixing burlap hoods over her more vulnerable plants. While the collection of garlands and herbs and the making of the decorations and the fumigants are her responsibility too, she has been afforded some help with this, though not of the caliber to which she had grown accustomed over the last months.
With everything finally prepared, the sisters of Santa Caterina can look back and feel satisfied with their work, not least because the weeks behind them have been difficult in many ways, peppered with events that have brought sorrow and crisis as well as celebration. Events in which Zuana has found herself more affected than most.
IT HAD STARTED a few days after the Feast of Saint Agnes, when young Suora Imbersaga, whose bleeding Zuana could not stanch, was finally taken by God. She had been growing weaker for some time, until one afternoon during Vespers she had fallen into unconsciousness. She had received extreme unction from Father Romero that evening after Compline (a heroic feat, considering his sleeping patterns) and had died before Matins when the convent was at its stillest, while in Suora Umiliana’s care.
When Zuana had come to relieve her fellow sister so she might get a few hours’ sleep before the office, she had found her kneeling by the body, hands clasped and tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. With no words allowed or needed, the two women had knelt together side by side, praying and keeping vigil until the bell called them to Matins. Zuana couldn’t help but wonder at the depth of the novice mistress’s devotion; no young nun could have asked for a more faithful companion for her last hours on earth.
Early next morning, the body was cleansed and dressed in fresh robes and, after the rest of the convent had paid their respects, buried in a simple wooden coffin in the small cemetery at the back of the gardens. A mass was said for her, in which Serafinas voice brought more sense of God’s grace than all of Father Romero’s mumbled words, and her obituary, composed by the abbess and inscribed in perfect letters in the convent necrology by Suora Scholastica (whose own dramatic composition was already being memorized by half a dozen eager players), spoke of her chastity, obedience, humility, and forbearance in the face of suffering.