Simple Prayers (30 page)

When she reentered the hovel Valentina was still asleep — though in a different spot, having obviously awakened in pain during the night. Piarina went to where she lay, her breathing heavy, her face sallow and drawn from the fever moving through her. She thought of all the times she'd sat at her knees, how hard she'd tried to please her, how much the beatings had hurt. And she knew that she still loved her; and she knew that she still hated her; and she knew that, try though she might, she could not forgive her. So she wiped away the bit of spittle that trickled from the corner of her mouth and crept to the hearth where her cure sat simmering.

She couldn't give it to Ermenegilda, and she wouldn't give it to Valentina. So the only thing to do was to spill it off into the fire. After lifting the cauldron from its hook, she lowered it to the floor; then she tilted it onto its side, and the hot, sticky liquid began slowly to drain away. No more than a few drops had poured off, however, when the door to the hovel flew open.

“Wait!”

The sound of Ermenegilda's voice arrested Piarina's movements. Without releasing the cauldron, she turned toward the door as her old friend moved swiftly to her side.

“You can't,” said Ermenegilda. “It isn't right.”

Piarina looked down at the cauldron, perched on its edge, its contents ready to run off into the flames. Then — her doe eyes sparkling with a last trace of hope — she looked back at Ermenegilda and, one last time, pointed her finger at her.

Ermenegilda closed her eyes. “That isn't what I mean.”

Piarina turned back to the hearth and began to tilt the cauldron over again.

“All right,” said Ermenegilda. “All right. Get it ready.”

Piarina flushed with joy as she lowered the cauldron back to the ground. Then she scampered to the table, fetched a small clay bowl, returned with it to the fire, ladled the contents of the cauldron inside it, and presented it without ceremony to Ermenegilda.

Ermenegilda placed her hands over Piarina's as they grasped the bowl. A tremendous heat passed between them, a current of love kindled strong by sickness. But instead of drawing it into herself, Ermenegilda pushed the bowl toward Piarina.

“You take it,” she said. “Please, Piarina.”

Piarina quivered at Ermenegilda's suggestion. She dropped her head and shook it furiously; she tried to pull away. But Ermenegilda kept her hands tight over her hands and would not let her escape.

“This thing won't leave many behind,” said Ermenegilda. “Who knows what an awful world it's going to be? But whatever's left, whatever it comes to, they'e going to need all the magic they can get. You made the cure, Piarina. You'e the one who should take it.”

Piarina looked into the bowl she clutched between her hands. She thought of how much concentration had gone into her struggle to find the ingredients, how much pain had been channeled into her efforts to produce the cure. And she saw that it had never once occurred to her to use that cure for herself. Her gifts, in all their magic, had always been for others; her spirit had grown so accustomed to bruising it did not recognize the chance to be healed.

“Take the life you offered me, Piarina,” said Ermenegilda. “I don't want it. Take it for yourself.”

Piarina felt the heat in her hands pass up through her arms and spread throughout her body. Ermenegilda released her grasp. Then the lucent child drew the bowl to her lips and drank the mixture off. When she'd finished the last of it, Ermenegilda lifted her up into her arms and carried her to the bed.

“Rest awhile,” she said as she tucked her in. “I'l be back.”

And she left the hovel.

Piarina lay with her eyes closed and listened to her mother's snoring. She felt the heat rise up to her head and spread down through her belly and into her legs. And gradually, as the heat intensified, she felt a light begin to radiate inside her. At first it was not much more than her usual glow, but it grew and grew until she shone so brightly that the hovel began to vibrate. Valentina groaned; she tried to cover her eyes; she complained that the glare was keeping her from sleeping. But Piarina couldn't hear her. She could only feel the light.

Growing brighter. And brighter. And brighter. And brighter.

And brighter.

THERE WAS NO LIGHT
to guide Gianluca on the night he fled from Miriam's alcove; his body raced forward without knowing where it was going while his mind stayed rooted upon a single, unbearable image: the look of death that had fallen over Miriam's face. He ran until he reached the village center, where his eyes fixed upon the statue of Miriam and her child. Unable to bear this any more than he had been able to bear the sight of the actual pair, he hastened to the entrance of the
campanìl
and began climbing the makeshift stairs that led to the bells. When he reached the belfry he tore the central bell from its place and, holding tightly to the base of the stone archway opening out of the southern wall, began dashing to bits the wooden framework he'd just raced up. The power of his blows was so great that the entire stairway buckled and caved in within a matter of seconds. Gianluca hurled the bronze bell in after the wreckage; then he stood upon the ledge beneath the archway and began to howl.

It was not a howling like the howling of the night of the storm. Where that had been a catharsis, this was purely rage. He could not accept what was happening to his island, and he could not keep himself from venting his fury that it was happening.

By the time Piero reached the
campanìl,
Gianluca had already begun his savage cries; he stood there, inches from the base of the tower, as the terrible sounds rang out over the pestilent night. When he went to the entrance to try to climb after him, however, he found that Gianluca had destroyed the internal structure completely, making it impossible for him to follow behind him. So he closed his eyes and hugged the stone walls — the great wails riding over the
campo
expressing the rage that he himself could not. He stayed that way until the moon rose. Then he left the tower and returned to Beppe Guancio's hovel to sit out his lonely vigil over the dying island.

MIRIAM SAT BEFORE
the altar and watched the candles. The pain was like a fire upon her now, but if she breathed evenly and watched the candles, she could bear it. Nicolo lay in her arms, looking up at her with wide eyes; Maria Luigi lay moaning in the next room. And though Miriam wished that she could go to her and comfort her in her pain, she knew that if she tried to move, Beelzebub's dance would come upon her instantaneously.

As she sat there, her eyes upon the flames, she thought about her time on Riva di Pignoli. She thought about the kindness of Fausto and Maria Luigi, the diligence of Siora Scabbri's chickens, the despair of the villagers who had gathered outside her window. And she thought about Piero and Gianluca. How faithful they'd been, how generous and devoted, despite her unwillingness to choose between them. She realized that though her mind had been fixed upon what she thought she could teach them, in reality they had taught her more. About constancy. And compassion. And the intricate threads that ran between passion and piety.

As the pain grew stronger, Miriam thought about the longing that had followed her through her life. Not even Nicolo had been able to draw off its pressure, and she realized, as she sat there, that she had spent her entire life trying to absorb it, remove it, deny it. “Take it away,” she'd cried to her mother and father. “Take it away,” she'd begged the ass, the men, her child. But the longing had disappeared only for brief transcendent moments that made its return that much more unbearable.

She closed her eyes and felt the candlelight burn warm against her eyelids and felt the weight of Nicolo in her arms. She shifted him into her left arm and held him close to her body, while with her right hand she reached down to retrieve a small bundle that was lodged beneath one of the pillows that supported her. It was a scarf of white linen embossed with leaves that contained a small gold wedding band: the last of the objects contained in the parcel she had brought with her to the island. Her mother had given it to her just before she died, and though Miriam had carried it with her wherever she went, she'd never actually thought she would wear it.

She drew the bundle up to her breast and placed it upon Nicolo's swaddled legs; then she drew back the folds of fabric to reveal the ring. She took it between her thumb and forefinger and held it up before her — a perfect circle of bright metal that reflected the flickering light. It seemed as strange to her as if she'd never seen it before or had never understood its purpose. She knew that purpose now, however, and with a simple movement slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand.

Miriam felt, as she sat on the floor of the alcove with the pain coursing through her like hot wax, that it was finally time to give in to her longing. To let it expand into a white-hot yearning, to let that yearning transform into something with no name at all. She felt her chest begin to pound. She felt the heat rise to her shoulders, her cheeks, her ears. Her eyes, though already open, seemed to open again — she saw the statue of the Virgin, the bowl of water, the bolts and bolts of cloth, as if she were seeing them for the very first time. And though their forms were precise — almost rigid — they poured out of themselves with an amazing fullness. And Miriam knew that if she concentrated, this moment would last forever.

Just as she was about to give over to her state, she felt a tugging at the satin that wrapped about her shoulders. She looked down, and through the sea of light that enshrouded her she saw the face of Nicolo, knotted in fear and confusion. He seemed far, far away, an object of another world. But she managed to bridge the distance with the fingers of her right hand and smooth the lines of worry from his brow.

“It's all right,” she whispered. “I'l be waiting for you.”

In that moment Miriam understood that the longing she had felt throughout her life had been the longing to return to God. And as her body began to spasm, and she entered that final dance, she knew that it was safe to leave Nicolo and follow the brilliant starburst to its source.

AS THE LIGHT
in Miriam's alcove expanded, so did the light in Piarina's little body. One fed the other, until the shabby hovel that housed the prescient child shone brighter than a bonfire in autumn. Valentina stayed huddled in the corner, her arms pulled up tight over her head, while Piarina slept and glowed and slept and glowed and slept. Eventually she was awakened by Ermenegilda, who returned to the hovel pushing a wheelbarrow and carrying a fine lace dress.

“I brought you this,” she said to Piarina, covering her eyes slightly as she held up the dress. “I used to wear it when I was your age.”

The dress, though made for a child, was easily four times Piarina's. size — but she let Ermenegilda slip it over her head and spread it out around her until her tiny body was lost beneath its folds. Then Ermenegilda, who was so covered with sores that she could barely move without crying out, knelt down beside the bed, placed her head on Piarina's chest, and sang her a last lullaby before leaving. They formed a stark tableau — Ermenegilda and Piarina in each other's arms, Valentina alone in the corner — until the song was over and Ermenegilda rose to go.

“One last thing,” she said as she steadied herself against the wall behind the bed. “I'd like to take back the boxes.”

Piarina nodded, and Ermenegilda began gathering up the coffers and caddies that were scattered throughout the hovel and placing them in the wheelbarrow. When she'd gathered them all she turned back to Piarina.

“
Addio, cara mia,”
she whispered.

Piarina raised her hands to her cheeks and patted them in farewell. Then Ermenegilda turned and left.

The light inside Piarina continued to burn brighter. Valentina tried to hide from it, but when the radiance had risen to an almost blinding level, she forced herself up, splashed some water on her throat and forehead, and looked about the room. When she saw that the light was coming from Piarina, she covered her eyes and staggered to the bed.

“You'e glowing,” she said.

Piarina nodded.

“What does that mean?”

Piarina gestured toward the empty bowl beside the hearth.

“You mean you took it?”

Piarina nodded again and reached up to take Valentina's hand.

“Well,
sangue di Dio,”
said Valentina. “You'e not so stupid after all.”

Piarina laid her head back, still holding her mother's hand; Valentina eased herself down to the floor and leaned against the bed frame. Piarina watched the light intensify, watched it fill in the cracks between the roof beams and glint around the edges of the straw; Valentina kept her eyes closed tight against the ever-increasing splendor.

They stayed that way for a long while. Then Piarina suddenly bolted forward as Valentina felt an explosion of heat surround her. And at precisely the same moment that Miriam felt her longing flood to light on the opposite side of the island, the tiny hovel that housed Piarina and Valentina trembled — like a splinter in an earthquake — and burst into flames.

ALBERTINO WAS IN
so much pain, he could not lie down. So he wrapped himself up in one of the Vedova Stampanini's blankets and scuttled about his room like a distracted pigeon. He tried not to think about Gianluca, whose howls from the height of the
campanìl
threatened to shatter his heart. He tried not to think about Ermenegilda — he'd gone to the Ca’Torta, but no one would answer the door; he'd climbed to her third-floor window, but the room was empty. He didn't want to think about what that emptiness signified, but he feared in his heart he would never see her again.

He therefore thought it was the effects of the fever when he heard her voice cry “Albertino!” and he turned to the east wall to see her moving across the radicchio patch toward his room. She was pushing the wheelbarrow filled with his boxes, and there was a look of exaltation on her face that belied her ghostly pallor. When she reached the near edge of the radicchio patch, she let go of the wheelbarrow and ran toward Albertino, who dropped his blanket and raced to meet her at the wall. Their bodies were on fire with the pestilence, but they grasped at each other and pressed themselves together in an extravagant, hungry kiss.