In contrast, there are a few memories that have become, if anything, almost more powerful. Like the stone carvings in the Ferrara cathedral. There must have been twelve of them, one for each month of the year, but if she closes her eyes there is one she can still see as clearly as if it were in front of her now. In it, a small naked child is crouching on all fours under a goat, suckling from the animal. She can see his mouth, clasped almost lewdly over the fat teat, the fullness of his stone cheeks, the roundness of his belly as the milk pours into it. It surprises her, the power of this memory, for in other ways she does not care much for children; certainly she is not one of those nuns who yearn for the babies they could never have, bringing in Jesus dolls in their dowry chests or imagining themselves taking the suckling baby from Mary’s arms and offering Him their own breasts instead. Nevertheless this less than holy child—with its evident greed for nourishment—has stayed with her.
She pushes back her books and closes her eyes. These are hardly thoughts befitting an infirmary sister with a history of convent infection to write up. If she cannot work she should be praying. Why is it that her mind spirals away from her so easily these days?
The voice of the Lord is powerful …
She closes her eyes.
The voice of the Lord is full of majesty …
By the time the knock comes at her door she has managed to pull herself deep enough inside the words, so that she at first does not hear it.
I will praise Thee, my Lord, with my whole heart.
It comes again, sharper.
She turns, and as she does so she wonders if it might be the novice. Since the day of Zuana’s illness and recovery in the dispensary they have not spoken a word to each other, and when their paths do cross, on their way to chapel or in the cloisters, the girl keeps her head bowed as if she is afraid to meet Zuana’s eyes. Over the years she has watched other young women come in angry and rebellious, hysterical even, only to soften gradually, but she has never seen a change as swift and strange as this. It is as if all the molten fury that had been erupting out of her has simply changed course and is now directed toward God. It should be cause for celebration but when she thinks about it— which she tries not to—it makes her uncomfortable. And that, in turn, adds to the restlessness to which she seems so prone these days.
The door opens. If it is the novice she will have to chide her for disrupting prayer, but she will still be pleased to see her. She thinks this at the same instant as she sees Madonna Chiara standing in the doorway.
“Good evening, sister.”
“Am I needed?” Zuana is already on her feet. “Is someone ill?”
“No, no …far from it. The convent is exceedingly well. As you can hear for yourself.”
“How is our guest?”
“The meeting between the families has ended and there are signs of progress. It is agreed that she will stay with us until Carnival is ended. The break between them may bring back a little …fondness.”
She does not need to add that this way, when Bendidio drinks himself stupid on the duke’s wine cellar, he will not have his wife to take it out on.
“I could look in on her again if you think it would help.”
“No. She is with Suora Umiliana at the moment, and Suora Apollonia has dispensation to join her afterward.” She pauses. “It seems they were not so close as children, but her troubles have made them fonder. It is a wonder to see. Thus doth the Lord bring comfort out of adversity.”
“For His mercy is everlasting, and His truth endureth to all generations”
“Indeed it does.” The abbess sounds mildly surprised. She glances down at the open books. “I have come to offer you some respite from your work, Suora Zuana. The rest of the convent is at recreation with their families, and it is only right that you should enjoy the same privilege.”
“Oh, no, I …I am …” The words well and content battle with each other to be the first out of her mouth, and as a result neither of them succeeds. The abbess, who cannot help but notice the struggle, smiles.
“What is the phrase that Suora Scholastica has written for the prologue to the play? As the body needs food to thrive, so the spirit also needs recreation and rest” She laughs. “You have not heard the speech? Oh, it is most charming and will bring us many pious plaudits, I am sure. I think even Suora Umiliana would find it hard to fault its advice.” She pauses. “So, if you have a cloak to protect you from the breeze, I wonder if you would like to see something that I think will bring you pleasure.”
“Thank you, Madonna,” Zuana says, for it is clear that the offer is also an order. “I would like that.”
Outside, the air is crisp and the sky clear. The final week of Carnival often marks the end of winter fogs, though Lent will deliver some bitter days of its own along the way. She follows the abbess across the cloisters and into the chapel. Inside, on the left behind the choir stalls, is the door to the bell tower. The abbess brings out a key and slips it into the lock.
“They are setting light to the Carnival bonfires. We will get a particularly good view of our great city from the top of the tower. God has given us a wondrously clear night for the proceedings.”
Aware of the privilege she is being offered, Zuana bows her head and starts to climb. Halfway up she reaches the wooden platform where the ropes for the great chapel bells hang down for the bell ringer. This is as far as any sister is allowed without special permission. If the nun in charge of the bells ever disobeys the injunction it remains her secret. Given the wrecked back and damaged hearing that come with the office, some compensation is perhaps deserved.
The abbess takes the lead. The bottom of her robe sends out a cloud of dust around her. The stone steps are narrower now, the walls and ceilings thick with cobwebs. Zuana has a sudden image of herself thrusting her hands into the corners and harvesting the gauze: the deathly stickiness of spiders’ silk mixed with honey has a reputation as a miraculous salve for flesh wounds. I will praise the Lord with all my heart and show forth His marvelous works. Even the best-trained apothecaries find some preparations difficult, however. Another day, perhaps.
They reach the top and step out into the open bell chamber. Their arrival disturbs a host of roosting pigeons, which rise up in a squawking fury of feathers and beating wings. The abbess waves her arms in wide circles, shooing them away, and the two women let out their own squawks of laughter as the birds swoop and clatter around their heads before lifting off and out into the air.
“I wonder how they stand the noise of the bells,” the abbess shouts above the flurry of their wings. “We should put up pigeon traps. The kitchen could use a few extra fowl in winter, though I cannot imagine Suora Federica coming up here to collect them.”
With the birds gone, the tower becomes theirs. The two great bells sit suspended above them, their fat clappers hanging heavy underneath. Around them the wall reaches to their waists, high enough to protect but low enough to reveal the city far below.
The abbess is right. The view is breathtaking. Zuana registers a sudden dizziness, less from the height than from the exhilaration of the perspective. In the twilight to the north and west she can see right across the old town, a jumble of burnt-ocher roof tiles and cobbled streets, to the great cathedral and its piazza, the two parts of the castle with its crenellated towers and moat, then out into the new Ferrara with its grid of wide modern streets and palaces laid out by the second Duke Ercole in his role as great humanist ruler and town planner. And all around them, massive brick walls mark the boundaries of the city.