“I saw.” His eyes fill with awe, respect.
For a moment I am touched by it. Then, remembering my anger, I arch one brow at him. “'Twas hardly the act of a piece of pastry, was it?”
Benvolio blinks again. “I beg pardon, lady?” Of a sudden, a look of worry clouds his face. “You were hurt.”
His apparent distress surprises me. “Art thou recovered? Pray, art thou well?”
Before I can answer, he catches my hand and brings my fingers to his lips. 'Tis a soft kiss he makes, a breath, really.
“I would know your name, my lady.”
'Tis my turn to blink. “Hm?”
“Your name.” His eyes meet mine. They are indeed as gentle as I had first believed. Darkly brown in color, with golden flecks. “Tell me your name, I beg of thee.”
I have no intent to whisper, and yet I do. “You know my name.”
He shrugs. “Nay. I do not.”
'Tis a moment 'fore I realize he still cradles my fingers in his palm. I snatch them away, struggling to hold a thought. “But ⦠just now, your companion spoke ofâ”
“Spoke of one called Rosaline, aye. 'Tis the only female he can think upon. He fancies himself in love with the maid. He has only just learned from her uncle's servant that she is a Capulet, and still he is not deterred. Says she is the most beauteous creature in all of Verona, nay, in all the world. Clearly, he hath never caught a glimpse of thee.”
I am speechless.
Now something dawns upon him.
“Might I inquire as to what a well-bred lady such as thyself is doing here?” His wonder and concern are genuine.
“I am lost,” I say truthfully.
“Praise be to heaven, then, for allowing me to find thee.” He bends to retrieve the burlap sack, his eyes never leaving mine. “I shall see thee to safety.”
“I would be grateful.”
“Not near so grateful as I.”
I fall into step beside him. Confused falls short of describing my condition now, and it has nothing to do with the blow to my head. Benvolio, just minutes before, taunted Romeo for being so romantic. And yet he kisses my hand and speaks in words as sweet as any Romeo ever hath spoken.
Sweeter, even. For Benvolio's ring true.
“Where dost thou lead me?” I ask, when I notice that we are not, in fact, leaving this cruel vicinity but rather traveling deeper into its heart. Odd, but I am not in the least mistrustful, merely curious.
“I've an errand to undertake,” he replies.
We turn down a gloomy lane. An aged dog seeks refuge there in the shade. He emits a disheartened growl. Benvolio reaches into the sack and removes a leather flask. For a moment, I imagine he is going to offer me a sip of wine. But next from the sack comes a battered wooden bowl. Benvolio lowers himself to a crouch beside the languid mutt and places the bowl on the ground, murmuring softly all the while.
“Hot today, isn't it, boy? Smart dog, you are, Crab, to find thyself some shade.”
“Crab?” I ask.
Benvolio grins. “Aye, that is what the residents call him.”
I watch, my mouth a small circle of surprise, as Benvolio empties the contents of the pouchâ'tis waterâinto the bowl.
“I told thee I'd be back, didn't I, Crab?” Benvolio gives the dog's ears a scratch. “Now, drink up.”
The dog rises slowly on his feeble legs and begins to lap up the liquid. A contented rumble sounds in his throat. Somehow, he summons the energy to wag his scrawny tail.
“You are most welcome,” Benvolio says to the dog. He slings the sack o'er his shoulder once more and begins walking.
“That was your errand?” I ask, hoping he does not notice the catch in my voice.
“A piece of it,” he answers. “Come. I have one more visit to make.”
Toward the end of the alley we come to a flight of dirt-and-stone steps, carved into the earth alongside an uninhabitable building, leading down, it would seem, into the very bowels of hell. Benvolio descends, and I, without a heartbeat's hesitation, follow him.
At the bottom is a cracked and splintered wooden door; Benvolio raps on it. A muffled commotion can be heard on the other side. Then the door swings open, and I am looking at what is perhaps the most beautifulâalbeit the filthiestâlittle girl I have ever seen.
“Ben!” she cries, in a voice like music.
“Nonno
, âtis Ben â¦:' She frowns over Benvolio's shoulder at me. “And ⦠his wife?”
Benvolio laughs out loud, sweeping the child into his arms. “Ah, Vi. You know I have no wife.”
“Aye.” The girl beams. “Because you are waiting till I be old enough to marry!”
When she smiles, I judge her to be at least ten in years, for I see that most of her permanent teeth have come in. Those teeth are fine and straight, and her smile is glorious. Her hair, though long-unwashed, is thick and probably quite lovely when it is clean. It is pulled back from her cherubic face and tied with dirty string.
“By then, Viola,” Benvolio says, placing her down again, “every gentleman in Italy will have already begged thee for thy hand.” He feigns a pout. “Alas, I will surely be forgotten.”
“Never!” She giggles.
Benvolio steps within the dwelling. One could hardly call it tidy, but 'tis evident great effort has been made to keep it clean. Another child, a boy, comes barreling toward us, calling, “Ben! Ben!” He too is dirty and beautiful.
Now he and Viola throw themselves at Benvolio's shins and cling to his legs like two enormous cockleburs as he tramps across the room. They cry out in delight, enjoying the ride.
“This fellow here,” says Benvolio, ruffling the hair of one of his captors, “is Sebastian.” He leans down toward
the child and says in a loudish whisper, “Dost thou remember what I taught thee?”
Sebastian nods, releases himself from Benvolio's leg, and sweeps a deep bow in my direction.
“Good morrow, lady,” he says, though his nose is verily stuffed so as to distort his pronunciation.
“Good day to you, kind sir,” I say, inclining my head formally and trying desperately not to laugh. Benvolio's eyes are shining.
“And this princess who still dangles from my knee is Viola. They are
gemelli
. Twins.”
Viola promptly sticks her tongue out at me.
Undaunted, I respond in kind.
The child's eyes go wide at first, then she breaks into a fit of giggles, leaves hold of Benvolio, and dashes back across the room to throw herself into my arms. Instinctively, I scoop her up and hug her tightly as she kisses me loudly on the cheek.
“I like you!” she declares.
“I like you too,” I confess. I am struck by the resemblance she bears to Juliet when she was small.
“
Come si chiama
?”
My name; she asks my name. But surely I cannot say Rosaline, for then Benvolio will know me to be the one with whom Romeo believes himself smitten.
I am uncertain as to precisely why I prefer he not learn that truth just yet.
I am spared answering when Sebastian falls into a fit
of severe coughing. I put Viola down, go to him, and pat his back firmly but gently. He is so thin that I can feel the wet rattle of an infection right through his rib cage. Benvolio looks concerned but resigned, as does Viola. From this I understand that Sebastian's convulsive hacking is a sound not unfamiliar.
When at last the coughing tempest subsides, Sebastian snatches the bag from Benvolio. Viola lets out a shriek and pounces upon him, so that the two of them are rolling over each other on the floorâViola attempting to wrench free the burlap sack, Sebastian clutching it with all his meager strength.
“Children!” comes a deep voice from across the room.
“Basta!
Enough!”
At once the children cease their antics; they scramble to their feet. I turn to see an elderly man in the far corner. I did not notice him before in the dimness. He steps, with a pronounced limp, into what little light reaches the burrowlike dwelling.
Benvolio bows his head respectfully.
“Buongiorno, signior.”
“Buongiorno,
Benvolio.” The man turns to the children, who look properly contrite. “What have you to say to Benvolio?” he asks them.
“Grazie,
Benvolio,” says Viola.
“Grazie,”
Sebastion intones with a rasp.
“Now,” says the old man, a smile tugging at his thin mouth, “you may claim your prize.”
I wonder what that prize might be. Toys, perhaps? A
suit for Sebastian, and a gown for Viola? I find I am as anxious as the youngsters to discover the sack's contents.
Viola retrieves the bag, tugs it open.
'Tis ⦠food.
Food.
And plenty of it. Breadâthree fat, crusty loaves. And fruit. Vegetables of every sort, it seems, and a large wheel of cheese.
Â
Viola is quick to tear a sizeable chunck from one of the bread loaves. She is about to have a bite when the old man clears his throat. At once, the pretty child crosses the room in my direction. God's truth, as she stands before me, I can hear her stomach growl with hunger. And yet she offers the bread to me.
“Thank you, no,” I say o'er the thick lump of tears forming in my throat.
Viola glances at Benvolio; he shakes his head. Only now does she take a bite of the bread. Sebastian has helped himself to a generous-sized pear. I can't help but wonder where their parents are. I pray they are gone for the day to perform some chore. But eâen as I think it, I know 'tis not the case.
Â
Back on the street, I again take in the desolation of the place. I no longer feel fear. Rather, I am consumed by the hopelessness of it all.
“So, lady,” says Benvolio, a teasing lilt in his tone, “dost thou come here often?”
“Nay.” I smile in spite of myself. “Though 'tis evident that you, sir, are something of a regular.”
“I try,” he says, serious now. “Their father was a good man. He worked many years in our stables but fell ill two winters past; his wife caught the fever from him. She passed only a week after he did. The grandfather does his best to care for the children, but he is old and without means.
We walk a good distance in silence. When we pass the women in their doorways, neither of us speaks, but I am certain he is thinking the very thing that I amâ'twould be horrific if, one day in the future, Viola were found among their ranks.
Horrific. But likely.
I shudder. How is it that only an hour ago I could think of nothing but which costly gown I would wear to mine uncle's banquet?
At last we reach the safe boundary of the market square, though in far less time than I would have thought, or liked.
“I thank thee for escorting me, good Benvolio.”
“'Twas my privilege, lady.” He crooks an inquisitive grin at me. “Lady?”
“'Tis too bad that you will not be at the Capulet ball this eve,” I stammer, to avoid supplying the answer to his inquiry. “I would like to see thee there.”
His eyes darken. “You are to be a guest at the feast?”
I nod, as if in apology. “I am required to be. I am kin to Capulet.”
Benvolio thinks on this a moment, then surprises me with his laughter. “It seems my cousin Romeo and I have e'en more in common than I knew.”
I can only gulp at that.
“Tell me, why dost thou think I will not be at the ball?”
“Well, because thou art a Montague.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “'Tis a masquerade, is it not?”
“Aye, it is.”
“Well, then. What is the quandary? I can mingle with the guestsâyou, in particularâand no Capulet shall be the wiser.”
“Brave of thee!” I declare, smiling.
“No more brave than you, m'lady. You ken that I am aligned with the Montagues, and still you speak to me freely.”
I toss my head in a dismissive gesture. “To me, Montague is naught but a name. I have no fear of your friendship.”
“My friendship?” His frown deepens. “So that is all you wish of me?”
I laugh. “Yes, that is all, and so you may relax. 'Tis known to me you have no use for love or marriage.”
Again he looks confounded.
“I did overhear you earlier, talking to your friend, remember? You are scornful of love and other such silly sentiments. To be candid, I felt much the same myself until this day.”