Chiara – Revenge and Triumph (6 page)

She rested for a while in the shade of a poplar, ate the three remaining eggs, and brushed off most of the mud from her hose. Swarms of buzzing insects drove her onward again.

As the sun approached its highest point, the landscape changed. The swamps and forests, and occasional pasture, where sheep grazed on the lush grass, guarded by shepherds, yielded to cultivated fields and orchards, with farmhouses, partially hidden behind shelter belts of poplars. Men, women and children, in colorful clothing, were tending the crops. By the time she passed the little church of San Piero a Grado, a constant stream of carts, riders and pedestrians, farmers and their wives returning from the city after selling their wares, was coming toward her, while there was only a trickle of pedestrians and a few riders going in her direction. She continued attracting curious glances and had questions shouted that she mostly ignored or answered with a smile, which seemed to disconcert the questioners into desisting.

In the distance, she could see several church spires, including the famous white tower of the Duomo of what surely must be Pisa. At the cluster of houses by San Giovanni al Gatano, the road joined the banks of a wide river which she guessed to be the Arno, with the Porta a Mare, the western city gate, coming into view. She slowed her pace, suddenly apprehensive. Would she get past the armed guards? All carts were stopped for inspection and assessment of customs. But they also seemed to scrutinize the people entering, occasionally stopping one or the other.

She took a few deep breaths and approached the gate. As she wanted to pass by the guard, he shouted: "Boy, where the hell do you think you’re going?"

She knew her anxiety showed and stuttered: "I, I, I am going home."

"And where‘s that?"

And now the easy quick wit of which she had always been so proud failed her. She did not know the name of a single street or quarter or church, nor could she think of one of the common names found in most cities, but then she was a simple lass from Elba, not a sophisticated city girl. Her only answer was to blush deeply and look to the ground.

"You’re a vagrant or runaway. Get thee gone. The illustrious city of Pisa isn’t for the likes of you. Go back to where you came from."

When she was slow to react, he shoved her with his pike. "
Via
,
via
!"

She turned from the gate, stifling her tears. What was she going to do now? She needed to get inside the city. There surely was a convent where the sisters would have pity on her and offer her food and shelter for a few days. They might even help her find a place to work for a living. She had to try again, but at another gate. Maybe she could discover the name of one of the churches just visible above the city walls and say her family lived nearby. A child or peasant on the outside might tell her.

Once past the bridge over the ditch that served as a moat outside the city walls, she took the road south that ran alongside it. She encountered few people, and the two children she questioned only looked at her puzzled and then ran away. At the other end of the walls she saw a forbidding fortress nestled into a wide bend of the Arno. To its left was another gate. Here the traffic was less busy than at the western gate, but as long as she did not know the name of a church, there was little point trying her luck a second time. She sat in the shade of a tree, waiting for something, something that might help her get in — a friendly looking person who might know the name of at least one church, or a large group of travelers she might join, pretending to be one of them.

It was getting late when she saw a party of colorfully dressed people coming toward her along the river road. The man in front was leading a donkey hitched to a cart piled high with all sorts of strange gadgets and utensils. An old woman sat on a board at its back. Behind followed two smaller carts. The first one, loaded with a fair-size, polished wooden box, was pulled along by two young men with a young woman at their side, the second by a middle-aged couple.

5

Pisa, early June 1347

There I was — I who only a few days earlier had been the pampered lady of the castle — called a vagrant and roughly shoved away from the western gate of Pisa, with no food, no money, nothing but the tattered garments I was wearing, getting ever more despondent. Was I going to spend another night in the open? I had heard of girls who only survived by selling their body. I shuddered at the thought that this might be my lot too. So, Cara Selva, when I saw a troupe of traveling players come down the road toward the city, they seemed God-sent. I did not even think twice to join them. My own clothing that had raised eyebrows before seemed to blend in perfectly with theirs. So I followed close behind and when they turned into the street leading to the eastern gate, I helped push the last cart up the slight incline — quite a strenuous job on the uneven cobble stones. While the man leading the donkey negotiated the entrance formalities with one of the guards, I lingered hidden behind the last cart. When the guard waved them in, I took up pushing again, pretending that it was hard, keeping my head lowered. I was anxious a guard would count the people in the group and raise objections that there was one extra person, but nobody even looked at me. I would never have imagined that it would be so easy to fool them.

To be safe, I tagged along until they had turned a fair stretch into Via San Martino, and we were well out of sight of the gate. At a moment when few people were around, I left the cart, intent on entering a side street that led down to the river.

"Ahi, ragazzo, thanks for helping." I heard a man call out. "Why don’t you join us for a drink? Our taverna is just around the corner."

"Pepino, she is a girl!" the woman standing next to him exclaimed, laughing.

I started walking away more quickly, not wanting any trouble now that I was hardly inside the city.

"Ahi, figliola, don’t be afraid. We mean you no harm," the woman called after me. "Come with us."

She sounded friendly, and I knew nobody in the city. They might give me advice on where I could find shelter. Still hesitant, I joined them. I guessed that both were in their mid forties.

"What is your name, carina?" she asked, as I walked beside her.

"Chiara, Signora," I did not want to reveal my family name.

"I guess you are not from Pisa or else there would have been no need to sneak into the city with us." She chuckled. "Quite clever, I must admit."

I went crimson. "They turned me away at the other gate," I explained.

"But why are you dressed as a boy? … Let me guess. You are running away, right? And the way you speak, you are not a peasant girl either. But no worry, we will not pry."

Was I so transparent that this woman who had never seen me before could guess everything about me within a moment?

"Yes, Signora. Grazie, Signora." I murmured, averting my gaze.

"I am Alda, and this bear here is my husband. Pepino to me, Pepe to all others. He is a dear, even if at his advanced age he still cannot tell a girl from a boy." She laughed again.

"But she is wearing boys’ clothes," he protested.

"Caro mio, do you believe everything you hear? … No? So why believe everything you see?" She turned to me. "He is though awfully clever with knives. You must come and watch ‘Il Spettacolo Magnifico’ when we do our tricks in the Piazza del Mercato tomorrow afternoon."

At the Taverna San Martino, after stowing away their belongings, the whole group gathered in the inside open court. I did my best not to devour the bread and sweet wine offered in big gulps, but even so Alda must have noticed my famished looks. She shoved more bread to me. I told her that I was looking for work.

"What kind of work?"

"Anything, but I thought that maybe I could find employment as a teacher. I can read and write in Latin."

"Have you done that before? … And do you have testimonials?"

"No, Signora —"

"Stop calling me Signora. My given name is perfectly good enough," she interrupted me.

"No, … Alda."

"Then you are unlikely to find that kind of employment. Anyway, in these sorts of boys clothing you will hardly find any kind of work, except selling your flesh, and you do not seem to be that kind of a girl."

I still remember how I blushed and lowered my gaze.

Our talk was interrupted by Lorenzo, the corago or leader of the troupe, who had climbed on a table and, holding a sheet of paper, began translating into the vernacular parts of Pisa’s recently promulgated ordinance on street players and other itinerants. I was very curious and listened carefully. Some rules limited the time and place — no performances on the eve of Sabbath and Sabbath itself, no performances before noon or an hour after sundown, no performances in front of churches or municipal buildings. Others, I felt, were unnecessarily restrictive, like no loud displays of any sort, no utterances that ridiculed representatives of the church or of the city government, or made fun of city ordinances. Why should these be excluded, I wondered, if they deserved it? Still others I approved of, such as no lewd displays, no blasphemy, and no swearing. The players greeted a few with loud protest or cynical laughter.

"Lorenzo will have to change the lines in his favorite plays," Alda remarked to Pepe.

"Or stage some of the more boring ones. That means fewer denari," he replied, shrugging.

I picked up the broadsheet that Lorenzo had left on the table. Even for my inexperienced eyes, the Latin used looked archaic and highly convoluted. Some rules were ambiguous and could be given more than one meaning. But I also noticed that Lorenzo had either misread or misinterpreted several points, and I wondered whether I should be so bold as to point them out. Alda surprised me again.

"Chiara, did Lorenzo translate it correctly?"

I could not help blushing. "No, not all of it."

"Then you must tell him. We do not want to get into trouble."

"No, I could not do that. It would not be proper."

"That may be true in the circles you were used to turn, but we all pick up each other’s mistakes and foibles without offense given or being taken. Come, I will go with you."

She put a hand on my shoulder and guided me over to where Lorenzo sat with a woman who looked ancient and had one front tooth missing.

"Lorenzo, this is Chiara, and she has a few things to tell you about the ordinances."

For a moment, he looked annoyed, then puzzled, and finally he grinned. "I see, in disguise. It suits you well. But tell me where I went wrong, because that must be it, otherwise Alda would hardly bother me about it."

"Ser Lorenzo, I am embarrassed, but —"

"No need. I should be."

"You read ‘no performances in front of churches and municipal buildings’, but it also says here, ‘unless prior written permission has been granted by the Podestà’. And you may also extend sessions beyond one hour after sunset — again if you obtain written permission from the Podestà’. And here, I think you left out another important thing, namely that this restriction only applies to representatives of the Pisan Government —"

"So we still may make fun of officials from other cities." He laughed heartily.

"But even the wording of ‘ridicule’ is ambiguous. It actually says ‘giving falsehoods to the honor and character of city officials’."

"Which could be interpreted that if there is truth to the matter and it is known, it is fine to point it out."

"Yes, but it could still be dangerous."

"Girl, you are a smart one. It would be good to have you around."

My heart jumped into my throat. "You mean, you would allow me to stay with you?" My voice was no more than a murmur.

Dear daughter, you may wonder why I tell you such detail about my encounter with these people. The reasons are simple. I took an instant liking to them. They were so refreshingly open and truthful, particularly Alda — yes, Alda, the dear woman who has become your own grandmother — and her husband, maybe a bit slow in understanding, but disarmingly honest, who was once a knife-thrower of great repute all throughout Tuscany and beyond, and who now spends most of his hours lovingly tending the flowers in our garden. I hope that by retelling how I met them and how they took care of me right away, you will love them even more.

But let me come back to Lorenzo. His answer was not a simple ‘yes’. It took a whole evening to convince all players to let me join. What tipped the balance in the end was my willingness, to everybody’s great surprise, to become Pepe’s target for his knife-throwing act.

My whole outlook to life changed that evening. I was going to live with them, be part of ‘Il Spettacolo Magnifico’, laugh and cry with them, spend money liberally when it was aplenty, go hungry when there was none, and most important, gain confidence in myself and my abilities. I became a different person, the person I am now.

* * *
 

Chiara searched Lorenzo’s eyes for an answer, full of trepidation that it would be yes.

"Not so fast, my girl," he said with a smile. "All members of my troupe have to agree."

Her hopes vanished as quickly as they had arisen, and her face must have shown it.

"Let’s first see what you can offer us besides reading Latin. I guess you can write it too, but can you do any tricks? Have you acted in a play?"