The Woman in the Painting. Kerry Postle

      ‘Isn’t she the most lawless daughter?’ he appealed to those present, his palms held high, his head cocked to one side. No one replied. ‘Where’s your respect for your old father?’ His voice wavered in the air, the bullish confidence gone.

      ‘Did he come here himself?’ she asked.

      Her father looked sheepish.

      ‘He didn’t, did he? He thinks himself so high and mighty that he couldn’t bear to sully his fine clothes by coming here and asking for me in person.’ She was accusing.

      ‘He sent the money.’ Her father would not be deterred.

      Margarita inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes and opened them on the outward breath, staring at her father with the most uncomprehending of expressions.

      ‘The lad he sent,’ he blustered, his eyes wandering over to me, ‘he was well dressed. Very well dressed.’

      ‘I will not be bought.’

      Ah. The moment the words fell from her lips I remembered where I’d heard her use them before. And to whom: Sebastiano Luciani. So it was his messenger who had delivered the purse of money.

      A tut of exasperation gave way to a sigh of the deepest disappointment.

      ‘But, Marg …’

      ‘Father, don’t you see? He sends someone as his errand boy because he sees it as beneath him to come and barter with someone … like you … like us. For pity’s sake. He may be able to afford to buy up whatever he pleases but it matters little to me how rich he is. He will never be able to buy me. Nor will anyone else for that matter.’ She looked deep into her father’s eyes. He ran flour-tipped fingers through flour-covered hair. White powder fell like snow on his shoulders.

      ‘There are more important things in this life than money. You taught me that. Or have you now forgotten?’

      ‘You’ll be the death of me,’ her father tutted as the look of shame that passed across his face showed he accepted the rebuke. No one said a word, though disturbing noises emanated from deep within each of them. Whether caused by hunger or emotion it was difficult to tell. Although as they belched, farted, and whistled their thoughts through sucked-in cheeks I deduced it was most likely a combination of the two.

      ‘Do virtue and good name count for nothing? Self-respect? Honour?’

      Human once more, now that I’d let the pain back in, I was a confusion of emotions. Part of me was moved by the force of feeling in her voice and inspired by her beautiful words. But the greater part of me envied her deep sense of self because, after my long night of the soul spent down by the banks of the Tiber, I wondered if I still had one.

      I played with my button some more. Thought about Luca. Remembered his words about fine clothes and fancy morality.

      I possessed nothing other than the rags I was dressed in. The velvet purse was bulging and plush. My stomach rumbled like loose cartwheels over stony ground. What was the point in feeding my soul with words when my stomach cried out for food? I was starting to tire of my saviour’s show of self-satisfaction. I shook my head, dragged my thoughts to a better place. What was I thinking? I owed this girl my life. I coughed.

      Margarita gave me a pat on the arm. Her father grimaced. He could not say of me that I was well dressed. He pulled his daughter to him and whispered something in her ear.

      ‘Fine!’ she said as she reared back like a wild horse. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll let him finish his painting of me. But when he’s done there will be no further transactions between us.’

      The rumbling stomachs in the baker’s shop, mine included, breathed out as one, relieved at this compromise. Margarita pulled me after her. ‘I’ll light the candles,’ she said.

      She sat me down on a stool and hummed a pretty tune while she poured me some watered-down wine.

      ‘Over here, girl!’

      She shared it round as she lit the tallow candles. Their gentle light lifted her beauty from the natural to the heavenly; it made her father’s flour-dipped appearance seem soft, and refined.

      ‘You’ve made your father a happy man.’ He pulled Margarita to him and gave her a hug. His eyes were dancing with delight. Her father was not like mine.

      ‘Who’ve you dragged home now?’ I gave a start. It was time for introductions at last. I swept my hand over my hair again – it was still gritty but I hoped the candlelight would be forgiving.

      ‘My father, Francesco Luti. Baker,’ Margarita said to me. I stood up and bowed.

      ‘Pietro … Aaartist’s apprentice,’ I replied, managing to sink my stammer in one deep sound. The warmth from the ovens was starting to envelop me like a comforting blanket. The candlelit room felt inviting. I was glad to be here.

      ‘My Margarita’s brought home with her an artist’s apprentice,’ the baker said to his friends.

      ‘A young one, Margarita,’ he said to his daughter.

      ‘Are you shaving, boy?’

      His friends laughed.

      I fiddled with the button in my hand. The candlelight caught it. Margarita’s father scrutinised me as if calculating the weight of an invisible purse. His eyes ran over what I was wearing: dark green velvet jacket, white shirt and once brightly coloured hose. Creased, stained, ripped, and smelling of the river maybe, but in the gentle light some quality was still discernible. As I looked around at the attire of Signore Luti’s local customers I hoped that, even dishevelled, he might see me as a cut above. He did. I glimpsed a squint of appreciation in his eyes.

      ‘These two loaves are for you,’ he said to me.

      I sensed hackles rise all around.

      Sensing it too, Margarita intervened. ‘There’s enough bread for all of you. Take it and get yourselves home to your families.’ Her voice was authoritative but not unfeeling.

      ‘But I’ve not finished my …’ one of them started to say but the baker’s daughter was having none of it.

      ‘Come, Alessandro,’ she said, taking the cup from the man’s hand and replacing it with a loaf. ‘Olivia won’t thank me for letting you return home smelling of the grape, but she’ll be happy when you’ve come back with the grain. It’s as precious as gold in the city these days and you know it. Here.’

      ‘But they haven’t paid.’

      Margarita went over and tapped the black velvet purse, immediately silencing her father.

      ‘Now isn’t this nice,’ he said, throwing a warm arm around my shoulder when the last of his friends had gone. ‘Just the three of us. No special woman in your life?’ Margarita glowered a warning at her father. I cast my eyes to the floury floor.

       Chapter 9

      ‘She’ll make a good wife,’ her father told me as she cleaned the jugs of wine away and disappeared out the back.

      ‘God, it’s disgusting out here, Father,’ her voice shouted through. ‘You’ll kill us all off if you’re not careful!’

      ‘Place wouldn’t work if it wasn’t for our Margarita,’ the short, round baker with red cheeks told me. That he was Margarita’s father was hard to see. The years had not been kind to him.

      ‘Of course, I can’t leave it to her. All this.’ My heavy eyes followed his hand as it showed me his kingdom. ‘Not unless she’s married. I keep telling her. I won’t be able to hold on to it forever. I could go at any second, feeling a bit strange now as a matter of fact,’ and with that he sat on a bag full of flour propped up against the wall. ‘And then what would she do?’ I had no need to answer. The man rambled on, his voice strangely comforting