The Woman in the Painting. Kerry Postle

away. I moved out of the spring morning sun, into the shade of a nearby bridge. I sat down, legs pulled up, chin resting on my knees. I felt despair as I looked at the mud-coloured water of the river. I imagined myself lost in its depths, and as I did so green tendrils rose up to greet me, waving back and forth across the liquid surface. They looked enticing as they beckoned me, over and over. I closed my eyes, but there my father’s words tormented me as I pictured Luca’s face.

      I forced my eyelids open. But there was to be no escape. Watery arms were still there calling me to them. I thought of the cool release they might provide. A cessation of this agony. No more worries about money. No more guilt about family. No more shame, no more fears about who I was.

      ‘This is it,’ a comforting voice whispered inside my head, ‘this is where you’re going to die.’ A physical urge pushed me to the river’s edge. This would be my choice. Soon I would be free, wrapped in loving green arms in a soothing watery bed.

      I walked into the shallows. The bottom of the river was slippery. I proceeded carefully. The water lapped around my ankles, my calves, my knees. I welcomed its coldness as it took my breath away. I remembered Luca. He too had made me breathless for a few precious moments. I walked further in. I longed for the river to wash away the memory of his touch. Soon the agony of the burning plain would be extinguished forever. Sodom would be no more a part of me.

      Slowly the fire raging within my head subsided and Luca’s face receded the deeper I went in. But the voices still plagued me. ‘You don’t belong here!’ ‘You’re not one of them.’ Voices. They swam round in my head. Familiar. Harsh. But then, a kind voice broke its way through.

      ‘Pietro! It’s Pietro, isn’t it? What are you doing down here?’

      I heard the voice again. ‘Pietro! You’re in far enough. Don’t go any deeper. What are you doing?’ For a moment I thought it too was inside my head. But then a hand grabbed at my shirt. It pulled me back. The voice came again. ‘Do you have a wish to die, you fool of a boy? What are you playing at?’

      I turned around to see the cross face of Margarita Luti. The feisty girl from the workshop, the gentle girl who had come to my aid. When was it? The previous day? It seemed a lifetime ago. Margarita Luti. A good person. Perhaps the only one who would be pleased to hear about my chance meeting with Raphael. But did I even care about that anymore? I’d been through so much. I couldn’t imagine how I would ever get back to what I’d thought of as my life. I fell back into the water. My head went under. I floundered for a while, splashing and spluttering, until this time my saviour threw an arm around my neck and dragged me to the riverbank. I crawled out and lay panting on the ground.

      ‘Lucky for you I came up here to wash!’ she said. ‘Most people like to go further down where it’s not so dangerous. But it’s too public for me there. Near the bridge, it’s more private.’ She went silent for the briefest of moments. She pulled down her sleeves, brushed down her skirt to make sure her ankles were covered. ‘You daft bugger!’

      I cringed at the word but saw from her face that she meant nothing by it. She sat herself next to me, not caring if she soiled her skirt. She pulled me to her. Though my heart thumped in my chest I allowed her to cradle my head in her lap like a baby’s. I started to cry like one. I owed my life to her. ‘You daft little sod!’ she said.

      *

      When I woke up the blue of the sky had deepened but there was a chill in the air. My head was still in Margarita’s lap and despite my clothes and hair now being dry my bones felt damp. I gave a little shiver. I pulled myself up to sitting and mumbled an apology. ‘You should have woken me.’

      ‘I couldn’t. You were so peaceful. And I reckoned you needed the sleep.’

      I twitched uncomfortably, my eyes staring down at the damp earth upon which we were sitting. ‘Well, thank you. Thank you again.’ I looked up at her. Kind eyes met mine.

      She ruffled my hair like she’d done before.

      ‘So what happened?’

      ‘I … I … I …’

      ‘There’s no need to say a word,’ she said. ‘I can see you’re not made of the same clay as other men.’ I had a vague memory that she’d said I was like her only the day before, which I preferred. The mention of clay made me think of my father. It made me feel uneasy. Exposed. Unloved. ‘Now come with me.’

      I pushed myself to my feet and followed her. I had nowhere else to go.

      *

      We went back up on the road. The sight of a band of men stopping well-dressed nobles caused me to clutch my one remaining silver button tightly in my grimy palm. Margarita laughed. ‘We’ve got no need to be frightened of them. Look at us. We’ve got nothing to detract from the glory of God. Not a bauble, bead or shiny buckle between us. My, you’ve even lost most of the buttons from your jacket.’

      It was the sumptuary police, and they were having a word with a well-dressed woman. Margarita was right. We had nothing on her. The three rows of pearls and one gold chain that she wore around the fleshy cushion of her neck were impossible to miss. I looked at her clothes – a black velvet gown with an embroidered edge. Expensive. From her belt hung a large purse of crimson velvet embellished with tiny pearls. The sumptuary laws were strict – a citizen could not wear clothes or jewels that were overly ostentatious and that might be seen to distract the human eye from what should be its sole purpose: the contemplation of God. This woman was clearly flouting them.

      We crept past. Not a soul, sumptuary or otherwise, turned to look at us.

      ‘Pass that necklace over to us. It will help feed the poor.’

      ‘But this is an outrage.’

      ‘As is your wearing such shows of wealth around your neck.’

      ‘You cannot take it.’

      ‘We can and we will …’

      ‘Being poor is not without its benefits,’ Margarita whispered. ‘Dressing like this,’ she said, taking her clean but well-worn skirt into her hands, ‘always grants us safe passage. And don’t worry about her.’ Margarita had mistaken my expression of alarm for concern. ‘Somebody will come by and pay off her fine soon enough. And think how she’ll have swelled the coffers of the Vatican in the process so that the Pope and his humble cardinals can carry on living like kings and princes. Sumptuary laws indeed! Out of one pot and into another.’

      I followed Margarita over the Ponte Sisto, glancing down at the Tiber with relief. Life was drawing itself back into me as I breathed in the air. It tasted pleasant and sweet. I prayed it would stay that way. We trailed our way around winding lanes, full of pedlars, traders, carts, mules and assorted livestock. Stone-faced women barged into us, who, on contact with Margarita, changed from grumpy, old harridans to warm-hearted mothers. They gathered her to them and smothered her with their fulsome bosoms before rushing off in pursuit of their real offspring, who were weaving around the ankles of all and sundry.

      This world was opening itself up, welcoming her in. She grabbed hold of my arm. She was taking me in with her. The smell was of spices, raw meat, cooked meat, cheese, unwashed bodies: a heady concoction. Sounds came from within buildings as well as without. Shouts, cries, laughter, singing, braying, tweeting, lutes playing.

      ‘Look out!’ At the sudden call from above, a space cleared in the street below. Margarita grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away just in time. Slop! The contents of a chamber pot steamed in the hastily made clearing. I glanced up to see an unkempt woman retreating from the balcony, offending chamber pot, now empty, in hand. ‘That’s mad Lavinia,’ Margarita explained. All human life was here. We were in Trastevere.

      We made our way along Via Santa Dorotea. Progress was slow. This was Margarita’s neighbourhood – that much was clear. Everyone greeted her and wanted to find out how she was, where she’d been, and what she was doing with me. ‘I saved him from drowning in the river.’ She laughed, patting me on the shoulder. ‘Who would believe it?’ Certainly not them. They laughed back,