Free The Madonna of the Almonds by Marina Fiorato Page A

tastes so good, it must be good for you, mustn’t it? Tonight I think we will kill a chicken. Nonna, we may, mayn’t we? I think it would benefit you, for our chickens are the best in Pavia, are they not, Nonna?’
    ‘Nothing like.’
    ‘Anyway, I think a good chicken broth will have you on your feet. And perhaps tomorrow I will find some roots in the forest, perhaps some rosemary for the polenta. Rosemary is a great healing herb, and I know a little of such things. Nonna always says I am quite the medico , she has so great an opinion of my physick.’
    ‘I never said anything of the sort.’
    ‘Or you ask Silvana. She’s my friend, you know. She had the gripes so terrible last spring that we thought she would die from them – yet my sage water saved her from certain doom. ’Tis true that her skin was something of the yellow hue for a sevennight, and her tongue swelled up somewhat, but afterward she felt better than new.’
    ‘’Tis only a pity that her tongue was not disabled forever. That would have been a cure indeed, for she talks only second to you, Amaria.’
    ‘By all the Saints, I forgot to tell you my name! We have not become properly acquainted. I am Amaria Sant’Ambrogio, and this is my Nonna. We found you in the woods. You were terrible bad, but we looked after youand now you look a great deal better. Don’t you think him improved, Nonna?’
    ‘There’s some danger yet, I’ll be bound.’
    ‘Can you tell us your name? Are you Milanese?’
    Nonna had heard enough. ‘Blessed Saint Ambrose, child! How can the fellow speak with a spoon of polenta in his mouth and your tattle in his ears? Give him some pause – space and silence will do more than all of your prompting.’
    Both women looked eagerly at their patient. He had taken a little food, and watched them closely throughout their exchange. His eyes looked amused. It seemed he understood, and he opened his lips a little to speak, but not a sound came. He looked distressed to be mute, and began to exert himself, but Nonna said, ‘Do not trouble. ’Tis full early to think of such things. When you are fed and recovered we will see what comes forth.’
    Amaria was unable to remain quiet for long. She looked him in the eyes, and spoke more slowly. ‘But you are able to understand us?’ she asked. ‘You speak Milanese? Can you nod?’
    Selvaggio nodded weakly, and seemed to fall back a little on the sheepskin. Nonna saw it all. ‘Leave him, child. Go strangle one of the birds – the red hen will do. This boy may rest awhile and we will make a broth for later.’
    When Amaria had gone Nonna smoothed the wildman’s coverlet as he slept again. She too would do everything in her power to heal him but now she knew he would liveshe was in no hurry. For as he grew well, and spoke, there must be questions, and answers, and plans and schemes; and he must, at last, go home to wherever he belonged. Nonna listened for Amaria’s receding footsteps then reached for Selvaggio’s hand. She folded his calloused swordhand in her knarled old fingers and held it tight as she had held Filippo’s before he left for battle. Nonna knew little of the wildman but she did know this – that she did not want him to go.
    Amaria was happy to leave – her heart was full, and she was determined to make her Selvaggio better. She began to chase the red hen around the yard, holding her skirts high, whooping and hollering like a child. Then she stopped suddenly. She should not shout: she might disturb Selvaggio’s rest. She dropped her skirts to a seemly level and slowed her steps. She smoothed her hair and tucked stray strands behind her ears. She had a job to do; a responsibility, and she must be equal to it. Amaria had never had anyone to look after before; she had been Nonna’s project, her dearest granddaughter, and had been tended and nurtured like a young flower. Despite their poverty Nonna had seen that Amaria never wanted for the things that she needed; always