Almost Famous Women (17 page)

Perhaps the abbess felt that I had served my time. Or perhaps Allegra had worn them down with her constant pleas. One month and thirteen days into my service in the Reparto Speciale, I was whisked to Allegra's bedside, where I found a cheerful four-year-old thumbing through a book.

I smiled, took her hand, and kissed her forehead. Tell me how you're feeling,
mia cara
, I said.

Can we go for another milk and
amaretti
? she asked.

And risk another swim in the fountain? I said. I think not.

Allegra smiled. Will you scratch my back? she asked, pointing to a place between her shoulders.

I knew that she would never love me, but I could delight, at least, in trust and familiarity.

We were allowed, then, to continue our daily visits before lunch. The abbess, I suppose, wanted to keep her sick, mercurial charge happy. Allegra and I always sat at the same table in the
empty cafeteria. We continued to write letters to her father. They grew in length and content, and, with some exceptions, I tried to remain true to the author's intent.

Dear Papa
, she instructed.
I now enjoy the spaghetti here. I have learned a great deal of Paradise and the angel Raphael. I would like very much for Mammina to bring me a toy and gold dress, and for you to visit and give me a hug and a kiss. How is your bad foot? I think I would like to have a bad foot too. Please visit your Allegra soon.

I kept her letters by my bedside. The abbess would not give me permission to post them—I asked monthly—though I could, she said, present them to Byron at his next visit. There were now close to fifty letters, detailing Allegra's wishes for toys, her changing dietary preferences, remedial spiritual insights, and desire for visits from her family.

As we continued to compose the letters, week after week, my hardest job was convincing Allegra her father would read them.

Why does Papa not write back? she asked.

The mail is unreliable, I told her. Your father is a busy man who travels widely. But I know he loves you, and thinks of you fondly.

In February, the abbess received word that Byron might visit. There is some risk, she said, that the birth mother is living in the area and planning to kidnap Allegra from the convent. You'll keep a close watch, please.

I realized that if someone were to take Allegra from the convent and offer her a better life, I would not be entirely happy. I felt agitated by the news, and guilty at my own agitation. I did not want to give her up.

If Byron's visit is not certain, I told the abbess, I beg you not to get Allegra's hopes up.

She looked sternly at me, and I could tell my advice was not welcome. Her face was something I could not understand. It was weathered, tired. The compassion in her eyes, if that's what it was, was faded and rooted in an ancient system.

It would be good for him to visit, she said. Good for the convent.

And certainly good for Allegra, I said. But—

Perhaps we could post one of Allegra's letters to him, the abbess said. As encouragement.

I'll bring one to you in the morning, I said, excusing myself.

He wants to win a little favor, does he? one of the sisters asked me, as I left the abbess's dark quarters.

There are many things he could have done for her favor in the last year, I said. Out of simple decency, if not love.

The sister looked shocked. Excuse me, I said, eager to move on from the topic. I should not have spoken so openly.

In my room that night, I leafed through the stack of letters I had penned for Allegra. She'd begun to sign her name and contribute her own words, her handwriting large and unsteady. She had a tendency to bear down too hard on the paper, leaving little tears that she worried over.

Will Papa mind? she'd ask. Should we begin again?

I imagined Byron reading the letters of his progeny, halfheartedly entertained. Perhaps the matters on a genius's mind are bigger than little girls and their wants, bigger than dresses and circuses and cookies, early spiritual reckonings.

Not satisfied with the letters I had, I found Allegra in the morning
as she was entering her classroom. Would you like to post a new letter to your papa? I asked.

Knowing this letter would reach him directly, I was determined to let her speak her mind. I promised myself that I would write down every word. Her teacher, one of the younger sisters, remained in the hallway, eager to help.

My dear Papa, Allegra said, stopping to hold her forehead.

I can't think, she said. My head hurts. What else should I say?

How about this? her teacher said.
It being fair time, I should like so much a visit from my papa as I have many wishes to satisfy. Won't you come to please your Allegrina, who loves you so?

In your own words, Allegra, I said. Your own words are best.

I like the way she said it, Allegra said, nodding to the sister, who, impressed with her own eloquence, moved into the classroom, beckoning Allegra to join her, and she did.

Allegra's second fever hit fast. She began complaining of headaches and pain in her knees. She was sent to bed and assigned a full-time nurse. A doctor was summoned.

In the weeks prior, the convent had given shelter to a group of twelve men sent to us by Austrian authorities, soldiers perhaps, revolutionaries even, who had been found in a leaking boat off the coast of Grado. They were deloused and provided food, water, and beds. The doctor brought in to tend Allegra and others who had begun to show signs of rashes and fevers worried of a typhus outbreak. The abbess, however, insisted that Allegra's illness was related to her ongoing malarial fevers. Still, she wrote to Byron, who had not come to visit his daughter the entire length of her stay in Bagnacavallo.

Now he will come, she assured me.

Those days, between my visits to Allegra's bed, prayer, and duties, I began to realize that I was more devoted to work than to Christ. I did, however, subscribe to the belief that I might find my own redemption through suffering, and looking at her sick body, I suffered. Listening to her groans of discomfort, I suffered. Feeling the weak grip of her fingers around mine, I suffered.

When will Papa come? she asked me.

He knows you are strong enough to wait, I said.

Byron did not come, nor did he write to us.

I spent long hours by Allegra's bedside, forgoing sleep as well as my duties. Her eyes rarely opened except when she asked for water. Her voice was small, and occasionally her arms flung themselves in unexpected directions during fitful sleep. I stroked her cheeks and told her stories from my childhood, the story of the shepherd from Bergamo.

Mammina, she said, her small lips devoid of all insolence and fight, just lips for drinking, lips for whispering small requests. Water. Papa.

Concerned that she did not show any signs of improving, the doctor ordered her bled. A vein in her right forearm was cut and ten ounces of blood were taken, then another fifteen in the evening. The process distressed me—it seemed to do nothing but weaken the child—so I left Allegra's bedside for the hour.

I set off for the café we had gone to together on her birthday. The same waiter was there, and I ordered an amaretti, removing the secret stash of lire from underneath my habit. I held the cookie
gingerly, afraid it would crumble, so eager to present it to Allegra intact, though I knew she might not eat it.

Across the piazza, the fountain looked lonely, sustaining itself with a steady stream of water, filling and refilling, the stone horse and his rider made whole by the company of birds.

I could not help but remember my last encounter with death. When my own family died, I was alone with them for two days. Then my husband's brother arrived to help me bury the bodies, which I had laid out across the table, touching and crying over them until I could not bear to enter the room. We went to the backyard together and began to make holes in the rocky soil.

Two hours later I broke my shovel on the rocks and started digging with my hands. I wanted, then, to make room for myself. I dug until my fingers bled, until they pulled me out of the hole and begged me to sleep, the moon cold in the sky above us.

As I sat looking at Allegra, the tips of my fingers began to ache, and I knew it would not be long.

For three days Allegra was in pain, twisting and retching, sweating, clutching at her sheets, her eyes crushed shut, her hands damp.

Give her space, I told the nurses. And quiet.

A vigil had formed in the infirmary, composed of eight sisters, three doctors, and the abbess. They prayed until I no longer heard words, just the rhythm of words. I did not see their faces, just the movement of their brown habits in my peripheral vision.

After the gas lamps were turned down, most went to their
rooms, but I stayed. I felt a strange burst of energy, the same energy I had felt in the days before my husband and daughter died, the compulsion to stay awake and soak in the last hours with those you love, to memorize the shapes of their bodies, the colors of their hair, their impression in the world.

Allegra, I said, touching her chest. Can you hear me?