(If you should
push your charm
out here in view
of all of Rome
you risk my father’s wrath
and never seeing me again.
If you should
bid me sit, ignore
the lands I’ve only just
discovered in the dead
of night, my knees
pressed close together, tight,
you risk my own implosion.)
I only meant to go to Mass.
A flood of meaning
flows through his own
amused gaze.
Tuzia huffs.
I watch a calculation
pass across the charmer’s face.
Tuzia is a servant.
Never has she dined
with cardinals, princes.
She has no talents
that could cast a spell
upon a Pope
like some among us.
Yet she is the key
to what he wants.
Agostino inclines his head.
My apologies.
But as we have a chaperone
of such esteem,
surely we can ride
together? A woman like yourself
would never allow
dishonor to fall upon
her charge.
I wait for Tuzia’s scoff.
Instead she shrinks into herself,
gives the smallest
hint of smile.
We do not wish to be
uncharitable, good sir.
And then to me, she says,
Make room
for Signor Tassi.
36.
Firewood scrapes my arms
as I haul it to the still-dark kitchen
before my brothers stir,
demand their breakfast.
I barely feel the weight, though.
It’s nothing to the weight
of Tino, ever in my thoughts.
No longer am I painting
every moment that I breathe.
Now attention wanders,
senses rebel,
focus is a point on the horizon
far too distant to identify.
I drag myself up to the studio,
not thinking forward
to what I plan to paint,
but backward to what Tino said
when last I saw him.
Like when we pulled up
to San Giovanni,
he leapt out of the carriage,
winked,
and said,
Now you’ll have
something to confess.
I force him from my mind.
At least I force him
to the background.
He will not consume
my every thought.
I am a painter.
I will paint.
37.
I’ve only just begun
to feel the flow
of heart to canvas
when boots come clomping
up the stairs.
Tino bursts into the room,
a hurricane of energy
that just might knock
the brush from my hand.
I have it!
He knows full well
he’s interrupted
but lacks the tiniest hint
of remorse in his twinkling eyes.
I make a show of setting down
my brush, my palette,
my plans for the afternoon.
You have
the terrible habit
of bursting in here
like a thunderclap.
Are thunderstorms not thrilling?
You have my attention.
I push my skirts down to my ankles
and turn away from the canvas.
(Only for Tino
from the canvas.)
What is it?
The answer
to all
your problems.
I snort,
distinctly unladylike.
Tino stretches out his arm,
inviting me to take his hands.
I hold mine up to show:
they’re covered in paint.
He scowls, lunges forward,
pulls me to standing by my waist.
I mean to focus on his words
but his fingers linger.
The answer to all your problems,
and a fair few of mine.
We stand so close
I could time my breaths
to his if I needed a guide.
I might.
But Tino puts
some distance
between us,
looks me squarely in the eye—
Your father
does not
value your skills.
This is not news.
I wait.
I am falling behind
on the Quirinal commission.
My breath catches.
I do not wish
to be the reason
his career falls flat.
I’m sorry.
You should be!
He points an accusing finger,
but his eyes dance again.
Through your fault entirely
I am captivated by you,
at all hours of the day,
when I ought to be chained
to my easel doing the bidding
of the scandalously wealthy.
I can breathe again,
but only just.
I thought you had
a point somewhere?
Ah yes!
He holds up a triumphant finger: one.
Horrid father!
And a second.
Pressing responsibilities . . .
He trails off,
lost for his third point,
gazes around.
If I were to paint Tino’s portrait
I’d have to decide:
Portray the angles of his jaw,
the fire in his gaze, the pure,
absolute beauty.
Or choose, instead,
the gleeful smile, the dancing eyes,
the clown whose day is not complete
until he’s put a smile on my face.
Oh yes! The third thing:
dreary studio.
You’re working
in a dungeon, darling.
Even you cannot
illuminate it.
I turn back to the canvas,
so he might not see
the flush upon my cheeks.
Thrilled at darling,
mortified at dreary.
We’ve discussed the studio before.
There’s nothing I can do.
And yet I’m still ashamed.
Then he’s behind me,
warm hands on my shoulders,
breath against my cheek,
setting me ablaze.
I think you’d enjoy my studio.
Much more natural light than this one.
Prepare
I’m going to blow out the candle now, darling. But you mustn’t be afraid. You make your own light. And even when I’ve gone to sleep, you’ll have my stories, yes?
When I wake up frightened, I think on Judith—also afraid, in the dark, very nearly alone, but not completely. Judith surveys the room, lit only by flickering candlelight.
For the first time since Malachi’s death, her heart is moved to action, to purpose, to hope.
“Pack that loaf of bread by the hearth. And get a jug of wine.”
Clear, tangible actions lift the weight that has pressed down upon her heart every second since she became a widow. In this moment, she does not need to ponder who she is without Malachi or where she will go from here. She only needs to pack the necessary items. And what else will she and Abra need, besides their wits, and more courage than they’ve ever had to summon?
Abra sighs. “It’s a long way to travel with heavy provisions. If they don’t kill us, I’m sure they’ll feed us.”
It isn’t that Judith doesn’t understand where Abra is coming from. Judith’s plans are outrageous, by any measure. Dangerous. Almost guaranteed to end in death. That’s why Judith makes clear that her faithful maidservant is not required to accompany her.
Judith, though, has no choice in the matter. She must do this for Malachi, and all young lovers barely beginning their lives together, so others will not be wrenched apart by swords and greed and military might.
“You think I’m rushing off in the heat of passion. But this is me, making sure to be prepared. Isn’t that wise?”
Abra scoffs as she shoves the bread into a basket. “You’re dreaming of being a hero.”
(And do you know, my love, there’s nothing wrong with that.)
Judith slams the jug of wine onto the table with so much force she checks to see it hasn’t cracked before she carries on.
“My husband’s dead, Abra. The bricks of our home were not yet dry when they sent him out to keep our village safe. And now his sacrifice will mean nothing—unless I act.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. I know what they’ll say. ‘That girl and her temper.’ For I’m a little girl when they want to belittle me, a woman when they want me to bear a child. But my womb will be no use to anyone if all Bethulia perishes beneath Assyrian swords.”
“Your womb will also be useless if you are killed.” Abra shrugs. “Your womb is of little interest to me either way. But I’m somewhat fond of how you prattle on.”
Abra doesn’t always mind her station. But that’s what Judith loves about her. Abra challenges her right up until she says, “Yes, ma’am.”
Judith finds her heaviest cloak and motions for Abra to fetch hers.
Abra stares back in her simple, tattered tunic. “This is all I have.”
Judith despises feeling foolish. But of course that’s all Abra has. She is a servant, even though most of the time, Judith thinks of her as just another woman, struggling through.
“You’ll take my cloak, then,” she says, ashamed she hasn’t paid better attention to Abra’s needs.
Abra grins. “Already playing the hero?”
Judith fastens the cloak around her servant’s shoulders. “If you’re not careful, I’ll leave you with the Assyrians. Now: this is your last chance. I won’t order you to come.”
There is a moment’s hesitation, during which Judith fights against the panic that she might set out to do this thing alone, without the only person who can always steady her hand.
But Abra smiles again—not so wide this time, but true. “What?” she says. “And miss my share of the hero’s welcome?”
With that, there are no more words to be said. Judith hands the basket to Abra, bearing the weight of the wine jug herself. Then the two women slip out into the night and beyond their city’s walls.
38.
Susanna should not be smuggled
like a stolen treasure
unfit for light of day.
And so I leave
my painting out
exposed
when Father mounts the stairs.
I almost hope for praise
(portrait of
a little girl
as pride and joy)
but all he says is,
You’re not doing
what I asked you.
Why?
I do not say:
Because so far today
like every other day
I’ve made (your) breakfast
painted (your) commissions
hung (your) laundry
sketched (your) projects
made (your) lunch
with never a second
for my own work?
Because I might have a moment
to consider my own work
if the menial tasks
were left to you,
who cannot paint
with any heart at all?
Instead:
I’m trying something new.
Tino saw the promise—
You may be Signor Tassi’s student
but you are not
his daughter
and this is not
his studio.
No, but if I left
for his studio . . .
How would my father
feel if those words
fell from my lips?
Perhaps relieved.
I would be off his hands.
He would like to see me married,
someone else’s yoke.
And yet without me,
how would he get by?
I’ll boil the glue
before the day is over.
You’ll do it now.
You cannot shirk
the less appealing
aspects of our craft,
simply because you think
them beneath you.
I could recite
his next words
by heart
but that will only
make the lecture
longer.
There is no glory
in scraping
boiled rabbit hide
across your canvas.
But there is a better
finished product.
Grinding the pigments
not to your liking?
You must prefer
a gritty paint.
These are your options:
You’ll cook
and sew
and wipe a baby’s ass
or you’ll do what I say
when I say to do it.
No one else
is going to teach you
how to paint.
39.
No one else
is going to inhale
the fumes of boiling
rabbit hide, or strain
the putrid chunks until
they’re fit to smear across a canvas.
No one else
is going to haul
the cauldron full
of finished glue,
a witch’s brew
from kitchen up to studio.
But I’m the witch,
a girl transforming
one thing to another without
an explanation for the wonders
that appear upon her canvas.
It must be sorcery.
Muscles screaming
as I reach the top,
I take a breath
and rest my head
against the wall,
careful not to burn
my hand against
the scalding iron at my side.
I’ve grown accustomed
to the lack of light
inside our studio.
But from this angle
of fatigue a ray
slants through
the window
to bounce across the surface
of the foul, gelatinous
potion I’ve just brewed.
Beneath the light, it’s a golden sea,
tranquil but for the slightest breeze.
A place where magic hums
beneath the surface, mermaids,
water sprites, and queens
of gleaming realms.
The only spell
cast by natural light
illuminating what it finds.
In Tino’s studio,
the natural light
just might find me.
40.
And yet in
his studio
he’d always be
the brighter light,
and I, reflecting
off him,
could never
shine so bright.
But still I’d shine.
41.
I’ve never seen inside
his studio.
But there are many things
a woman never sees
until she’s joined unto a man.
42.
I replay
our last conversation
again and again and again,
a series of sketches
that never seem
to take shape
in a final
form.
Sketch:
Tino proposes
we share a studio.
Sketch:
Tino chooses me,
offers what he’s never
offered to another.
Sketch:
I am chosen.
Not mere convenience,
scraping by.
Sketch:
Tino believes
I might inspire,
even teach him
what I know,
what he cannot.
Sketch:
I lose control
of proper speech
and fluster
bluster
muster up
no words at all
before my father
interrupts us.
43.
There is no sketching
what I’ll say
when next he comes.
At the sound of his approach
I organize my brushes,
as though that will make
order of my jumbled thoughts.
He doesn’t bring it up,
gets straight to work,
shows me where
I need more shade.
When I am past pretending
I care at all for shadows,
I adopt a teasing voice—
one I’d never use
if anyone were listening.
(There’s a lot
you can get away with
when no one else is watching.)