Nun (9781609459109) (17 page)

I
t had been decided well in advance that Agata would leave the convent to go to the Aviello home on exactly June 3, 1845.

Ever since it had become clear to the people closest to Donna Maria Crocifissa that the abbess did not have long to live, Angiola Maria had paid closer attention to the gossip of the cloister and, through trusted servingwomen, had maintained contacts and exchanges with the outside world. Among the novices, a wide array of rumors were circulating—that Agata's mother had been given a sharp discount on her dowry as well as favorable terms on the payment of the installments, that her simple profession had been moved up for the convenience of a very important visitor, that a foreign power was interested in her, and even that the cardinal had paid the monastic dowry for his young relative in full. Angiola Maria warned Agata of what she was hearing, and encouraged her not to let the backbiters and gossips embitter her; she stayed especially close to Agata, when she could, and she had made Agata promise to report to her anything odd that might happen.

The evening before she was scheduled to leave the convent, Agata worked late in the pharmacy to make sure that she left everything in order. Angiola Maria had urged her to go, assuring her that she would make sure everything was taken care of and that she would bring her an infusion of herbal tea to help her sleep.

Agata said goodbye to the abbess and the nuns she loved the best. She still had to fill her trunks with all her possessions: she was afraid that someone might rummage through her things if she left them in her cell. Suddenly, she remembered that she had forgotten to say goodbye to Donna Maria Brigida, her now demented aunt. She found her curled up in the arms of her favorite servingwoman, Nina, a small pile of bones in a nightshirt, like a little naked baby bird, slumbering as she sucked her thumb. When Agata went back to her cell, she noticed on the night table, next to little boxes of herbal teas, packets of officinal herbs, and jars of tinctures to take as gifts for her sisters, a glass with a warm amber beverage. She felt sure that this was a kind thought on the part of Angiola Maria; deeply moved, she decided to write her a thank you note immediately. It was a time-consuming task, and it absorbed her attention—she had to use very clear handwriting and simple words for the functionally illiterate lay sister: she didn't hear the knock on the door, nor did she hear the door being opened.

 

Agata was trying to come up with just the right word. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to take a break and sip some of that herbal tea. She reached out and picked up the glass. Like a vise grip, a powerful hand grabbed her arm and another hand yanked the glass out of her fingers; she resisted the unseen aggressor and the glass slipped out of her grip, shattering on the floor. Now Angiola Maria, down on all fours, was gathering up the shards of glass and crying. Agata was completely bewildered. Then she noticed a tray on the bed, a tray that Angiola Maria had been carrying: on it was another glass of herbal tea, almost the same color as the one she'd been about to drink, and then she understood. There was someone who wanted to hurt her. Angiola Maria tasted a bit of the liquid that had spilled on the ground. “That's poison. I have more than just an idea of who it might have been.” She assured Agata that nothing like this would ever happen again, she would put a stop to it. She stayed to help Agata close and fasten her trunks and she watched as she drank the herbal tea. It had a wonderful effect. Agata fell asleep immediately.

 

Agata and Sandra were heading for the Aviello home, riding in the enclosed carriage that Aunt Orsola had once again put at their service. Agata looked out the window without pushing the curtain aside; the world appeared opaque. She was curious, but she was anxious, too. Naples had changed, and it was prettier now. The gaslights along the streets, a system that the French had put in, had been inaugurated six years earlier; now all the main streets had their own handsome lamp posts. People were dressed in a fashion she'd never seen; everyone looked a little better off. Gleaming and sumptuous new carriages rolled through the streets, there were more shops, fewer beggars; many of the façades of the
palazzi
had been rebuilt and new buildings were under construction. Sandra gripped her hand tightly; she told her that her mother and Carmela were waiting for her at home, while General Cecconi would arrive next week from Palermo, aboard the steamboat
Rubattino
. Then she fell silent. Agata turned to look at her; her sister's eyes looked dead.

The concierge of the
palazzo
in which the Aviellos lived opened the carriage door with a sweeping bow. Dazzled by the light glancing off the white stone façade, and intimidated by the sight of men loitering on the sidewalk and inside in the courtyard, Agata hesitated. Then Sandra took her by the arm and they started upstairs. Her mother gave her a hug as if she'd just left an hour ago; her only comment was on how tall Agata had become–and she really had grown–with no reference to the past or the future. Carmela, now quite the young woman, latched onto her sister and followed her around like her shadow all day. Agata saw the signs of the passage of time on the faces of all three women: her mother's lovely body had filled out almost to stoutness; sumptuously dressed, the Generalessa–as she was now called–still cut a very fine figure, but every so often a shadow passed over her eyes, and she clutched her bejeweled fingers together as if she were trying to hurt herself. Sandra had lost weight. Sloppily dressed and tense, she seemed pensive; but when the two sisters' eyes met, Sandra still had a ready smile. Carmela had become a blooming thirteen-year-old girl with distinctively provincial manners, distinctly similar to her mother's.

Those two weeks were supposed to be the final test of a postulant's rejection of the worldly life, but actually for the first week Agata lived a semi-cloistered existence. She wasn't allowed to go out into the city, or take walks or carriage rides. She received a few visits from relatives curious about her dowry—she was thought of as Messinese and therefore different—but no one was really interested in her.

When no visitors were scheduled to come, her mother and sisters went out, leaving Agata alone in the apartment. She was glad of it, because she already missed her solitude. She hesitantly approached the piano, and played somewhat gingerly; little by little she gained confidence and familiarity, but she was still far from the fluency she had once possessed. She read everything that came within reach and, when they were alone, she talked with her brother-in-law. At the age of forty, Tommaso Aviello was a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair. Agata remembered him as someone who believed passionately in the pillars of Carboneria—the equality and dignity of all Italians, united in a state governed by a constitutional monarchy—and who was proud that in 1820 the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies was the first nation on earth to hold an election with universal suffrage, even for illiterates. She considered him a dreamer with his feet on the ground who managed to keep his sense of humor as well as a perceptive lawyer who was able to analyze and solve even the most complicated situations.

But now, Tommaso was discouraged. He had hoped that the king might understand that he had a chance to unify the peninsula by expanding his kingdom northward. But instead the king had retreated behind a wall of surly isolationism and, unsure of the loyalty of the royal armies, he had humiliated his soldiers and officers by hiring mercenaries and running up debts with the Rothschild banking house. He had gradually undermined the liberties that had been won by his people, while his police and secret services increased their ranks and their power with their successes: Mazzini's popularity was plummeting, the Giovine Italia, the movement that he had founded, had been unsuccessful in not one but three attempted insurrectional coups, and Naples was no longer the headquarters of the Carboneria. Tommaso was afraid that the movement to which he had dedicated his life was about to be stamped out throughout Italy.

 

Then Tommaso screwed up his courage and began talking about Gioberti's
Primato degli italiani
, the possibility of a customs union and federation between the Italian states with the Papal State at its head—but the pope was a reactionary. “Something is going to have to happen, the people are suffering and nationalism can no longer be suffocated. Naples is still teeming with secret societies. The king, humiliated by the English who rule the seas and control all commerce, behaves like their underling—he must shake off their rule; he will do it!” Tommaso seemed hopeful. After a while, though, he plunged back into his dark pessimism. “The internal situation is precarious. Like so many others, I'm going to have to consider exile. I may go to Tuscany. I've lost nearly all my clients, and I have a family to feed.” More than once he told Agata that he mistrusted General Cecconi, who had once been a reactionary, and was now making gestures of interest in the Carboneria. He was certainly a police spy.

 

Despite his bitter outbursts, Tommaso often went out alone, and when he did there was a bounce to his step; when he returned he was always in a good mood. Agata thought that it would be hard to rely on a man who went from depressed to exalted like that; she was worried about Sandra.

 

The arrival of General Cecconi, an older man with a handsome appearance, a snowy white beard and whiskers and bushy black eyebrows, brought about a change in her mother—Gesuela was wreathed in smiles, her voice was contented, and she hurried to satisfy all her husband's slightest whims. She stayed at home and received visits from relatives and friends, where Agata was expected to look on. The general was utterly indifferent to Agata and Carmela, while he never missed an opportunity to talk to Tommaso and express gallant compliments to Sandra.

Agata happened to catch Sandra sobbing. She was sitting in an armchair, almost indifferent to Agata's presence. Sandra seemed to be seeking some form of liberation. Agata didn't ask, but Carmela later confided that Sandra was unhappy because her husband no longer loved her—she had heard her mother say it.

Agata found social conversations intolerable, along with affected manners and even the company of her family. She even began to miss the quiet of the cloister. And she began to yearn for it, desperately, when, during a visit to her Aunt Orsola, her mother informed her of the plans that her cousin the prince had made.

“Michele and Ortensia are going to hold a grand reception for an English duke of royal blood, who has come expressly to attend the ceremony for your simple profession,” her mother told her as they were eating ice cream.

“And just how did this Englishman find out about my simple profession?” Agata asked, suspiciously.

“Come, come, don't put on such a face! The princes of Opiri have many connections with foreign royals, lots of them come to Naples. Michele must have spoken to them about you.” Gesuela looked to her sister-in-law for assistance, but none was forthcoming. Then, seeing that her daughter was anxious, she added: “It's an honor, for all of us. I expect you to make me very proud of you.” Now General Cecconi weighed in; with his massive voice he explained to Agata that the recent resumption of diplomatic contacts with England and other European nations had increased the number and quality of foreign travelers to Naples and even to Palermo—royal yachts were frequent guests in the ports of the kingdom and many prestigious visitors came to winter in the new grand hotels or were invited to stay as guests in the
palazzi
of the nobility or else of wealthy businessmen and entrepreneurs. The general looked around haughtily and pretended not to notice Tommaso's behavior: the minute he had begun speaking, Tommaso had turned his head to look out the window and seemed to be staring at the roof of the
palazzo
across the way.

Aunt Orsola, who until then had been off to one side, broke the silence: she offered to give Agata a chaste evening dress for the reception, and also said that she'd like to lend her a parure of amethyst and gold filigree. She asked if her niece could sleep at her house, the night of the reception.

Agata was not allowed to wear jewelry, and she was required to wear the dark outfit of the postulant, a short veil on her hair and on her feet the black leather monastic shoes, Gesuela replied, in a resentful tone of voice. Her husband intervened again, and persuaded her to grant at least her sister-in-law's last request. That night, Agata could sleep at her aunt's house.

 

The reception held by the princes of Opiri was magnificent. The enfilade of drawing rooms on the
piano nobile
of Palazzo Padellani, all opened for the occasion, reiterated infinitely in the large plate glass mirrors at the two extremities of the rooms, increased the luminosity of the bronze and crystal chandeliers in the style of the Emperor Napoleon—a gift from Murat to the prince of Opiri. Agata walked through the throng of guests flanked by the master and mistress of the house; after her, they were only waiting for the arrival of His Britannic Royal Highness. Dazzled by everything and deafened by the music of the quartet that was playing in the main ballroom, by the buzz of distant conversations, by the voices and the laughter of the groups near her, Agata could sense that she was about to swoon; but then she resolved to be strong and continued on. She moved mechanically and obeyed anyone who was near her—her cousins, her aunt Orsola, or anyone else. The sumptuousness of the
palazzo
decorated for gala festivities and the elegance of the guests made no particular impression on her, nor did the abundance of food. She exchanged kisses and hugs with strange women bedecked with jewels; she greeted with a grimace that was meant as a smile men who came close to look at her, and then in embarrassment extended their hands. Like a trained monkey, she bestowed a
buona sera
here, another
buona sera
there, a
grazie
,
prego
, and an
arrivederci
, and she responded to the compliments and best wishes of people she'd never seen in her life.