SWNOVELS Chapter Chapter Three
“You’ll rest,” Cecco insisted. “I don’t want you to lift a finger. I’ll hire a girl to help Apollonia with the house.”
I didn’t think the extravagance was necessary, at least not so soon. But Cecco was so thrilled by the midwife’s confirmation of my pregnancy that I didn’t raise a word of protest.
If that’s what he wants, I will do it.
It would horrify my mother to find me lounging on a sofa while others toiled for my benefit, but this was my husband’s house.
Thoughts of her bolstered my longing, and I asked if Mother could visit during my pregnancy. Cecco insisted that having her here was too great a risk.
“How could we ask her to join in our charade?” he murmured, confused by the suggestion.
And before I suggested that I might visit her instead, I swallowed the whole idea.
Good to his word, Cecco hired a girl, Mella, who visited the house three times a week to wash the clothes, linens, and floors. I spent the next seven months in a perpetual state of leisure. Cecco shot stern looks if I should walk around the house or take to the stairs without necessity, but I was in Heaven. And as winter gave birth to spring, I observed the first warm days arrive to melt the mountain snows and breathe life back into the town.
On the first day of June, a knock came on our front door. I was unprepared to receive company, wearing little more than a dressing gown. Apollonia let someone into the sitting room without first calling to me. Confused by the irregularity, I came downstairs to find a heavy-set man dressed in fine black clothing with a silk collar as white as fresh snow.
“Good morning, Signora Alfonsi,” he smiled with untenable familiarity.
“Forgive me, Signore…?”
“Father Piero,” he answered with his deep, raspy voice. “It is you who must forgive me for pushing in unannounced. Signore Alfonsi told me you’ve been unable to attend Mass, first because of illness and now because of your fragile condition. I thought I would take the liberty to visit you privately and see if I may be of service.”
I couldn’t imagine what he meant by the statement. Though I eventually realized the man was a priest; that ‘Father’ was what they called themselves. I had never been inside a church before in my life. Religion, like family surnames, had never been part of my upbringing. There had been men, clad as he was, who delivered charity during the darkest days of winter in the farming village of Dazio, but they had never erected a church. Religion was a luxury few there could find time for. It was impracticable and unsuitable for those who struggled merely to survive.
But in the prosperous town of Morbegno, I was known as the daughter of a Sondrio merchant. And so there was no room for such a vacancy in my story.
“That’s very kind of you,” I smiled.
I called Apollonia to bring refreshments. Already attending to the task, a tray arrived within seconds filled with sliced bread and a cup of red wine.
“Thank you, my child,” the priest told her. “Now, if you will excuse us.”
Without hesitation, nor so much as a glance in my direction, Apollonia left me alone with the strange man.
He said a few words I didn’t understand and then asked, “What sins have you to confess?”
I knew the word ‘sins’ from general conversation and the gravitas it held for most people. I’d seen people furrow their brow or reproach some unpleasant, regrettable behavior they deemed as “sinful.” But I didn’t know the religious or academic definition of the ‘sins’ that Father Piero now asked me to confide.
One more thing for Cecco to explain, I thought.
“I’ve been overeating,” I ventured.
“A little bird like yourself? Surely, you’re no glutton.”
“It’s true,” I pushed. “I eat all day long. I eat meats and cheeses until I can stomach no more. Whatever Apollonia prepares for me, I devour it. Probably more than my husband eats, and he’s twice my size.”
The priest let out a small laugh and shut his eyes to contain his pleasure as if I’d said something ridiculous.
“You are with child, my dear,” he managed, and he held his hands toward me as if to stress the size of my stomach. “It is no sin that you should eat. You’re feeding two mouths, are you not?”
I hadn’t expected the man’s humorous tone. It surprised me to find that I liked him, as nervous as his presence and questions made me.
“What else?” he asked as his smile settled.
I struggled to think of something unpleasant that I might cite, unsure of what might satisfy him.
“I’ve not visited church since moving to Morbegno,” I confessed.
“Signore Alfonsi has already explained the necessity for your absence,” he shook his head sharply, accenting his heavy jowls. “I scolded him for not attending without you, but that is no fault of yours. You’ve not been well and are under orders by his physician to remain indoor. That is why I have come to you, my child, so you may unburden yourself and receive Christ’s love with a pure soul.”
“Thank you, Father,” I answered instinctively.
“What other sins have you to confess?” he asked.
“I am unsure,” I admitted after struggling in silence.
“Very well,” he nodded. “You will recite a full rosary as penance.”
The priest closed his eyes, raised his right hand as if to address me, then spoke in a foreign tongue.
“Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges. Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
I’d never heard such a language. The words were sharp and focused, yet melodic like a song. Their sound—the elegant pitch that bathed each syllable—stunned me. Now and then, several words seemed familiar, though I presumed I was hearing into them. Whether it was simple fancy or my genuine intuition, Father Piero’s foreign speech mesmerized me.
When he finished, he opened his eyes as if expecting a response. Oblivious as to what I might say or do, I raised my hand and made the sign of the cross, just as I’d seen the people of Morbegno do. Though I didn’t understand what the simple gesture meant, its effect on Father Piero was undeniable. He gave a nod of reverent satisfaction then sat forward to proceed with another recitation of his elegant language.
This time, he delivered the words in a song. The priest’s voice rose and fell, producing his poetry with a tremulous meter. I couldn’t draw my eyes away. He then reached for the bread on the tray beside him, pulled off a small piece, and held it with both hands as if to address it. After another volley of words, he raised the bread momentarily, lowered it to pull it apart, and placed half in his mouth.
Father Piero reached forward and extended the rest of the bread as if to feed me, and I instinctively opened my mouth to receive it. The gesture was inconceivable. The man fed me like a parent might feed a toddler.
The priest then recited another passage that saw him raise the cup of wine and take a sip. He then brought the cup forward, and I drank just enough to wet my lips.
Setting it down, he offered a final song before gesturing with his hand to make the sign of the cross, which I mimicked in kind.
When he exhaled at the end of his ritual, I held his gaze with a serene smile.
“Thank you, Father.”
“You did what?” he whispered gravely.
Cecco’s eyes bulged in shock at my story. He soon paced back and forth to examine his thoughts at measure. He behaved as if we were in danger.
“And he said that I must recite a full rosary,” I eventually confirmed. “Is that important? What must I say?”
“You don’t know even that much?” he shot back.
I said nothing in response. Cecco knew that my parents were not religious. I remembered how he’d complained the afternoon of our wedding that there had not been a priest to officiate the ceremony.
“You must learn,” he decided, “but no one can know, so I must teach you in private.”
The next day, he brought me a rosary, a set of wooden beads with a cross at the end, styled as a necklace. Upon the cross, the figure of a man was nailed in gruesome detail. I thought it a ghastly depiction, but Cecco insisted it was beautiful—a reverential depiction of God in mortal form as he suffered for the everlasting life of all who loved him. My husband spoke as if the very notion could move him to tears, which made the revelations even more surprising and profound to me.
Cecco had never once discussed religion in my presence, nor commented on the enormity of the matter, which now seemed oddly paramount to him. Had he ever visited a church once during the past months of our marriage? I’d never seen him make the sign of the cross—I had learned to do so by observing other people.
Nevertheless, he taught me the method for using the beads to carry out my assigned penance.
“There are two prayers you must learn,” he said. “The first is the Lord’s prayer. The second is the prayer of the Virgin.”
After helping me memorize both prayers’ words, Cecco showed me which beads represented the appropriate prayer. The cycle of spoken prayers must be recited in sequence to complete the rosary. I spent the evening with the beads and completed my penance as anyone born to the Church might have.
Though I never discussed my accomplishment with Sofia, I desperately wanted to bring the subject up. Did she know the prayers? Though Apollonia was of the same class as my parents, she’d grown up here in this fancy town with its magnificent monuments and institutions. The whole idea absorbed me.
After dinner that night, I went to bed early, hoping to escape the discomfort of my pregnancy. Even with a full month still ahead of me, it was difficult to stay in any one position for more than a few minutes.
Barely an hour into my rest, I woke up needing to empty my bladder. When I’d relieved myself, the thirst in my throat foiled my attempt to return to sleep.
I made my way downstairs, ambling quietly through the darkened house on my way to the kitchen. Before arriving at the threshold, I heard sounds coming from the room and paused with concern. Had someone broken into the house?
Stepping forward two feet, I turned my head to peer into the kitchen, where I saw Cecco and Apollonia engaged in fornication over a table. My husband penetrated her with his cock from behind in a manner he’d never done with me. They reminded me of the animals on the farm, their rhythm frenzied and urgent.
My heart at once pounded through my frame, and I struggled just to breathe. Pain shot through me without warning. I attempted to scream but barely released a whisper on account of the crippling pain. Warm water leaked from between my legs and fell to the floor.
Again, the pain shot through me, this time contracting every muscle in my abdomen with one intolerable seizure, and I released a wounded cry so loud, I must’ve woken the neighborhood.