Free Hidden Voices by Pat Lowery Collins Page A

so serious, I cannot help laughing.
    “What bird, Anetta? Do you see a plucked and limp little body somewhere?”
    “But all those feathers?”
    “Are from many wild pigeons. I have been picking up these feathers from the street for almost a year. Don’t you think it a clever idea?”
    “If you want to adorn yourself with all the filth to be found in the square.”
    “You give me no credit for my cleverness. I have washed each one with a soap made of lard and lye according to Cook’s recipe, and have dried them all in the sunlight.”
    “I suppose . . . if it entertains you. But it does seem quite frivolous at such a time as this when even the bells from the campanile in the Piazza San Marco sound like a dirge. Haven’t you noticed?”
    “I have noticed that we cannot continue to exist in this saddened condition, that we must begin to see goodness in the world again, to celebrate joyfulness. Doesn’t Father Vivaldi tell us this himself with his music?”
    “And doesn’t the Bible tell us that there is a time to mourn?”
    “And a time to set it aside. Truly, Anetta, though we have lost Maria and a few of the little girls, our own Luisa has been spared, and you must begin to hope again.”
    She looks confused and stricken, as if offered a sweet that is in the process of being snatched away.
    “You expect me to hope, when I haven’t laid eyes on Luisa for weeks?”
    “You’ve been told she is well again. Is that not enough?”
    “I will only believe it is true when I see for myself, when I know that her lovely lean body has not been wasted or her sublime voice lost.”
    “Of course, she will not be quite herself for a while. You must expect that. We must all expect it. For a while.”
    “For a little while or a long while? That is the answer no one will give me.”
    “And cannot,” I tell her. Then, changing to the only subject that might still capture her attention, I ask, “And what of Concerta? Is she happy and well?”
    Anetta responds as I thought she would, a smile creeping into her words.
    “And growing so fast she needs new linen shirts, larger flannel petticoats, and muslin slips. Even her caps and undercaps are becoming tight. When I have the time, I shall make her new ones with embroidery and knotted fringe.”
    “That will be lovely,” I assure her. “She is surely the best cared for infant in the nursery.”
    “Oh, I do not neglect the others.”
    She has misunderstood me.
    “Of course you don’t. I only meant —”
    “That is not to say that I wouldn’t if I could. She has become so like my own, my very own child. Sometimes . . .” she begins, but then stops herself and says, “I am being very silly. You would not want to know.”
    “Sometimes what, Anetta?”
    “Well . . . sometimes . . . I think of myself, Luisa, and Concerta living all together. In the country somewhere. In a little house. Living together in a little house.”
    “It is a fine dream.”
    “Yes. But I know it is only a dream.”
    “It is good to have one. A dream.”
    “Do you?”
    “Yes,” I tell her. But she doesn’t ask what it is, and I don’t offer it.
    My dream is of Carnival and my handsome wig-maker’s assistant. My dream must happen, and soon. I will make it happen.

T HE OSPEDALE ALWAYS CELEBRATES the Feast of Natale very simply. This year each girl received a packet of sweets and a new everyday pleated cap, for which we are grateful. And Father has written a small festive violin solo that he plays himself during our noon meal, which includes dishes that are far grander than usual. Cook carries out the steaming platters to a sideboard decorated with pine boughs. There is a goose stuffed with truffles, a roasted wild boar filled and basted with all manner of herbs, pasta with a hearty sauce, the usual
granturco,
or polenta, made from corn, and a very special side dish, sardines in a
saor
made of onions, vinegar, spices, pine nuts, and raisins. There are even cakes spread with apple jam and