Page 12 of The Stone Witch of Florence
ELEVEN
A GOOD GIRL, SO TO SPEAK
1335, City of Genoa
Q uite a bit of time had passed since Ginevra’s first encounter with the malocchio , but in those years, the coral figa stayed bright red and kept Ginevra in health and safe from the Eye, just as Monna Vermilia promised it would. No longer did she have to close her eyes and concentrate to know how the strings connected one thing to another. She had become fluent in their silent language of cause and effect. But at fifteen, for the first time, her attentions and desires were not wholly devoted to her work with Monna Vermilia. Now when she walked down the little streets along the harbor, she was noticed by the sailors and loaf-abouts. And sometimes she noticed them back. Vermilia listened every day to Ginevra recounting their unoriginal and libidinous comments as if they were rare poems penned by a courtier.
The older woman saw that soon Ginevra would want to marry one of these fools if nothing more interesting happened. This was a treacherous time of life for a young woman, when she was susceptible to finding worthy qualities in men who had none. The time had come, she realized, to push Ginevra toward her full potential. Vermilia went to Ginevra’s father, Gasparo, and said, “Look here—you haven’t any money, and your daughter is a good girl, so to speak, and does not deserve to become a slave wife to whatever miserable rope-maker will be content with the public dowry.”
“What should I do?” asked the poor Gasparo, concerned in earnest for his child.
Vermilia patted his hand sympathetically. “Don’t worry, I will tell you: My cousin is an abbess at a convent called Sant’Elisabetta, operated by the Augustinians as a charity for women who were formerly prostitutes but now are nuns. She could make use of a girl such as Ginevra. There, she may learn and practice the healing arts without causing a scandal. Your daughter will make her own living, and she need not settle on the first circumstance that presents itself.”
Gasparo conferred with his wife, Camiola, and they both agreed they did not want their daughter to be married to a miserable rope-maker. So Vermilia went to the monk she had seduced and had him write out the letter of introduction. She then helped Gasparo arrange for Ginevra to travel with a group of pilgrims who were making a southward journey the following week and would stop at the merchant republic of Florence.
Ginevra was not entirely in favor of this turn of events—she could not imagine being apart from Vermilia, being apart from her parents. But even though she wore the coral mano figa , she had not forgotten the Eye and was afraid it would come back for her if she was ungrateful. So, she cried her tears quietly into her bed and made no protest as she prepared for the journey.
Camiola noticed Ginevra’s despair anyhow and went to her daughter and embraced her as she bundled her few belongings together. Ginevra began to weep and clutched at her mother’s sleeve. “Why do you send me away? Do you not love me now that I am grown?”
Tears came also to the corners of Camiola’s eyes. “Your absence will be a yoke upon my shoulders. But do not think about us—this convent will be a pleasant place, I am sure—go there and be a credit to them. Learn what the Florentine nuns will tell you, see what is in the wider world. Then when you come back to us, it will be because you chose to, and not because it is all you know.”
“But are there not convents enough here in Genoa?”
Camiola hugged her only living child closer to her and spoke slowly or else she, too, would weep freely. “This one must be special. Your teacher, Vermilia, is wise. She knows—and I even in my humbleness know—there are not so many ways for a woman to improve her lot. We must be willing to go farther, to search harder to find how we may realize our truest talents, and to please God with them.” Ginevra knew her mother was right and that it was not fair.
To solemnize their farewell, Monna Vermilia invited Ginevra to her home for a last supper of sorts. She had gathered a hundred tiny clams from the shore, and now threw them without mercy into a sputtering pot of lard and garlic. The delicate creatures stood no chance, and opened immediately to release their briny liquor into the frying pan. Vermilia dumped the whole lot of them into a great earthen bowl with much clacking of shells and splattering of fragrant broth.
Ginevra smiled weakly, and dipped a round of saltless bread into the broth. Vermilia did the same. In the silence of the shared meal, the immediacy of departure weighed heavily.
Ginevra put down her bread. “Oh, Monna, I cannot bear it!”
Vermilia reached across the table and held her arm tight. “Tonight we must be glad, we must enjoy each other, because I am old and will die before you return.”
“No! You are like Noah and will live to be nine hundred years old!”
“Who says I haven’t done that already, eh? God has no great plans for me, I saw it long ago—the morning you came to me with the malocchio , I asked the stone in my ring and it told me my time is approaching. So go, my dear, and look only forward, for you have had the best of me.”
Ginevra sat stunned. “I do not believe it. Show me the stone that could know such things.”
Vermilia sat still for a moment. “Very well, then, if it will make you accept it.” She took her ring off and placed it among the clamshells on the table.
“Where did it come from?” Ginevra asked, as if through interrogation, she might discredit the jewel.
“From my friend, the monk,” said Vermilia, “who pried it from the bindings of a book.”
“How can you believe what it says, then? It’s only a decoration, it knows nothing!”
“My poor girl, here—touch it.” Vermilia pressed the ring into her pupil’s palm and Ginevra knew it had been unearthed at an auspicious moment from a mine now forgotten. That it was blessed with words from a dead language and carved with symbols men stole from the old gods. She knew it did not lie.
Vermilia smiled as she took the ring from Ginevra’s still-open palm and shoved it back onto her own finger.
“I will send you letters,” the old woman promised, “for as long as I can. And the nuns will teach you how to read them. Here is the first one—give it to my cousin, called Sister Agnesa, it explains why I sent you.”
Ginevra took the letter. She wiped her eyes and stood and paced up and down the messy room where she’d spent so many days, and decided that, for Vermilia whom she loved, she would have to accept it. All of it. As best she could. “Death comes for us all,” she finally said.
“He does, indeed,” Vermilia agreed, still smiling.
Along with the letter of introduction, Vermilia entrusted Ginevra with a small, sealed package for her cousin the nun. Ginevra felt her coral amulet heat up as soon as the parcel was handed to her. “Be careful with this parcel,” said Vermilia with a wink, “it’s not tied so tightly.”
A few days into her journey, Ginevra stepped away from the pilgrims with the excuse of relieving herself, and untied the package. Inside was a handful of stones. Each was different—some appearing as common pebbles, others as rare jewels. Some were the color of bricks or honey or deepest green or purple like a drop of frozen wine. Others were striped, a few were speckled, and one or two were carved with foreign symbols. Ginevra suddenly felt very small and very young. Her coral glowed so much that its light showed through her clothing. Though it was a chilly afternoon, she could feel a warmth coming off the gems, as if they had been held tight in a hand. Surely, the nun wouldn’t notice if she took just one for herself? She picked out the most ordinary-looking stone: brown and rough. It rattled like a dried-out seedpod. She retied the package carefully, and hid the rattling stone among her things to keep as her own secret treasure.