Free The Madonna of the Almonds by Marina Fiorato Page B

giving her the best cuts of the little meat they had, or the heel of the bread, or the last of the wine. Nonna had even tried to give up her own bed for Amaria when the girl grew too big for her truckle; their one upstairs room was a little dorter up a winding stair, warmed by the fire below – but this Amaria had refused, respecting her grandmother’sage and need for the comfort of the bed, and she curled up in a sheepskin on the floor.
    Amaria had grown, an only child, without ever having to concede to a demanding sibling, or shift for herself in any way. She had never been responsible for tending anything more worthy than these chickens that now pecked and scratched at her feet. She had made children of them, they had been her dolls in a house too poor for toys. She had always turned her back when Nonna strangled one for the pot. And now the red hen, her particular pet, must go; and she must dispatch it. Without fuss, she cornered the witless, unsuspecting bird and caught it in her skirts. Nonna had never asked her to kill one of the birds before, but today was different; there was someone else in need, and Nonna needed Amaria to rise to the occasion. And she would. She took the red hen in her two hands and cracked its neck.
    On the way back into the house with the warm bird dangling from her hands, she held her head a little higher. In those short moments in the yard she had grown up. Nonna had looked after her. Well she, Amaria Sant’Ambrogio, would look after Selvaggio.

CHAPTER 9
The Miracles of the Faithless
    When Father Anselmo watched Bernardino work he felt he was witnessing a miracle. His duties in these troubled times were often heartbreaking and onerous, so when he was not offering alms to the poor, comforting the bereaved or taking funeral masses for the dead soldiers, he refreshed his spirits by watching Bernardino attack the white walls of his church and bring them to life.
    The priest watched as Luini cleaned the walls down with water and vinegar as assiduously as any washerwoman. Anselmo was there when Bernardino strode around with a rope and a stick, making measurements which he marked directly on the walls. He was there when Bernardino mixed his base plaster with chalk and tempera of egg. He was there when the first of the miracles began – the drawing of the cartoons with broad strokes of charcoal – from the black sweeping lines sprung wondrous monochrome depiction of Saints and sinners, angels and demons, apostles and heretics. And at length, as the colours began to be added, whatmarvels did Anselmo behold then! He watched as Bernardino first laid down his shadows with pure colour laid on thick. Such strong reds, such blues, such greens and golds that Anselmo had not known existed in God’s spectrum! Bernardino made his paints himself as da Vinci had taught him, using the fruits of nature, but surely nature had never seen colours this vivid? Even the brightest flower or the gaudiest parrot would fade beneath the work of Bernardino! And after, for the definition, the lights of the same colour were thinly used and mixed with a little white. Then, what tender, muted tones of pure pastel appeared: mild blues of a summer sky, the faint blush of a rose and the lambent yellow of an egg yolk. Never had Anselmo seen such scenes, so carefully finished, so warm in colour. Such wonders Bernardino painted, as he balanced precariously on a rickety scaffold of planks and ropes, his brushes and palettes hanging about him on an ingenious system of belts and straps. Bernardino worked in just a shirt and hose, the shirt soon becoming as multi-coloured as stained glass as Bernardino wiped his fingers impatiently on its fabric. On warm days he would yank the shirt impatiently from his body when he grew hot from his work. At such times his very flesh assumed these tribal markings, his muscles giving them animation as if he wore the feathers of a bird of paradise.
    When mass was taken each day Bernardino fidgeted