The Lens and the Looker (Book #1 of The Verona Trilogy) Page 6

  "Really, Carmella, I've never met a farm girl so squeamish about a little blood," the Signora said.

  As they made their way down the narrow city streets, they passed many people. Some were cleaning out their houses with the doors and windows open to the air, or standing about, having conversations with their neighbors. There were also itinerant vendors and hawkers going door to door and selling their wares or just shouting about what they had to sell. One vendor in particular was standing in the middle of the road. He wore his goods about himself from head to foot.

  "Ah, there's Sancho," the Signora said, "my husband's salesman." Sancho had spectacles tied with string all over his threadbare doublet, some single lens, some double. Around his neck hung an open display box with more spectacles in segregated compartments. His red liripipe was wrapped around his head like a turban. He was speaking in an animated fashion to a magnificently dressed gentleman. "Look who he's speaking with," the Signora continued. "It's the Podesta della Scalla himself."

  Sancho greeted the Signora effusively and she curtsied to della Scalla. The gentleman was wearing a black roll-brim hat made of fine velvet. His face was lean, with a long, delicate nose. He had sorrowful eyes and a wide, thin mouth. His hair was blunt-cut at his jaw line. His well-fit doublet, braies and chausses were made from the same fabric as the hat. Everything was trimmed with gold thread. Underneath the doublet was a beautiful linen tunic. Around his neck was a heavy gold chain and jeweled medallion. His boots were soft, black leather.

  "Signora Cagliari," Podesta della Scalla said, "so nice to see you. I was just hearing from your man that my new discs for the eyes are ready."

  "Podesta Mastino della Scalla, it is nice to see you too. Yes, my husband finished your very special order yesterday. They sit waiting for you. Oh, but my husband said you are in Padua till week's end."

  "My business was concluded early and so I am at hand in our fair Verona."

  "Wait till you see your discs for the eyes, Excellency," Sancho, the salesman said in his high-pitched, nasal voice. "My Master made them with the most beautifully polished tortoiseshell frames I have ever laid my eyes on. He imported them all the way from Venice, just for you. Shall I deliver them or would you like to take them from the Master's hand?"

  "I have business to take care of at the palace this morning, but I shall attend to your Master's shop just after noon."

  "My husband took extra pains in the polishing of your lenses, Excellency. They lie upon a velvet cloth on his work table. Oh, Signor, this is Carmella, my new house girl."

  Sancho beamed at this bit of news. "Ohhhhhhh, greetings Carmella. Welcome to the family."

  Shamira bit her bottom lip.

  The Podesta nodded graciously at Shamira. "Welcome to my Verona, Carmella. Yes, you are indeed with a very good family."

  "Yeah. Like . . . hi."

  "We must get back home to prepare dinner, Excellency," the Signora said. "I shall tell my husband to expect you."

  "Very well, Signora," Podesta della Scalla said. "I look forward to seeing my beautiful spectacles."

  Chapter 12

  "Maruccio, what have you done?" the Master shouted. "Those were the Podesta's discs for the eyes! What, what have you got to say for yourself?"

  Lincoln looked down at the shards of broken crystal strewn about the floor. Only one of the lenses was ruined and the frames were still intact. He looked up at the contorted face of the Master.

  "It could have been worse?" he suggested, trying to joke. "Sorry?" he added, trying to see if that was the right thing to say. But when Lincoln looked into the Master's eyes, he could see this was not the same, friendly person of a few moments earlier. This was a very angry man.

  "The Podesta's discs for the eyes! You have broken the Podesta's discs for the eyes!" he cried, visibly shaking. "The finest lenses I ever made, and look . . ." The Master bent down and picked up the frames, holding them right under Lincoln's nose. The glass shards of the broken lens cut into the enactor's finger and big, red drops of blood appeared close to Lincoln's face. The big man ignored the blood and the pain that must have come with it. He just glared at Lincoln and continued screaming. "An apprentice does what he's told. An apprentice does not fool around with valuable things. An apprentice is lucky to have a master who will feed and protect him."

  "THEN FEED ME!" Lincoln screamed back. "I'm starving!"

  The Master grabbed the front of Lincoln's tunic in a big ball. It partially choked the young teen. His eyes bulged out at the now grossly contorted face of the enactor. "You will do what I say and you will do it when I say so." He pushed Lincoln back against the wall. "Do you understand me?" Lincoln didn't, couldn't answer. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" the Master repeated.

  Hansum was at the enactor's side. "Please, Master Cagliari. He made a foolish mistake. He won't do it again. I'll watch out for him. Please."

  The big man stood with the fierce look still in his eye. Then Lincoln heard a voice in his ear. It was Pan, close enough by in Hansum's shoulder to send him a sonic message.

  "Master Lincoln, please relax. This is not the way to get the better of these people. You are playing right into their hands. Relax, Young Master, relax! Say you're sorry."

  "Say I'm sorry?" Lincoln replied out loud. "He's chokin' me."

  "What?" the Master asked.

  "Say you're sorry, foolish Young Master. Say it like you mean it. Say, Master Cagliari, please forgive me. I am sorry."

  "No way!" Lincoln said.

  "What did you say?" the Master asked. "What did he say?"

  "I think he means he's sorry, Master Cagliari," Hansum said. "Isn't that what you mean?" he added suggestively.

  "Say it!" whispered Pan. "Say what I told you to, if you want to disrupt in the end."

  "I'm, I'm sorry, Master Cagliari," Lincoln said flatly. "Please. Please forgive me."

  Master Cagliari relaxed his grip, though not his scowl. He eyed Lincoln suspiciously. "Pick up a broom and clean up properly. You're not to touch anything to do with making lenses till I say. You, Romero, you will act as my assistant. We must make a replacement lens. The Podesta returns at the end of the week and I want him to have the finest discs for the eyes."

  Over the next half hour, an increasingly hungry Lincoln watched Hansum work with Master Cagliari. The Master worked smoothly and methodically. And as one process was completed, there was Hansum, proper tool in hand, ready to hand it over.

  Chapter 13

  "An oncia of black peppercorns, cinnamon stick, peeled ginger, half a quarter oncia of cloves and a quarter of saffron stamens." These were the ingredients the Signora had instructed Shamira to grind in a big stone mortar. Pestle in hand, Shamira worked with the same unwavering attention she would if she were doing one of her drawings. This was so she didn't have to look up and watch the enactor cut up the chicken. She couldn't believe how gooey, sticky and disgusting the yellow chicken fat was on the Signora's hands.

  "Carmella, don't grind the spices into a powder. Flaky. The mixture, she should be flaky."

  Shamira looked up cautiously and saw that the Signora had finished cutting up the chicken and was wiping her hands. 'There's no way I'm going to be able to eat this meal,' she thought.

  Like Lincoln, Shamira also had to be shown how to build a fire. The fireplace was wide and high, but not very deep. There was a built-in brick shelf with a hand-wrought metal grate. Signora Cagliari had a large cast-iron skillet heating on it. She scooped in two large spoonfuls of a congealed grayish substance, which melted and bubbled quickly.

  "What's that?" Shamira asked, crinkling her nose.

  "You don't even know what lard is?"

  "Laaarrrrd?" she repeated, saying the word as it might taste. "What is it?"

  "Fat. Fat from the cow and pig and chicken. To cook in. Oh, Carmella."

  Shamira watched as the Signora put the chicken into the bubbling pan, moving each piece around so it didn't burn. She poked the fire till it turned into a homogeneous bed of coals. Soon the chic
ken parts didn't look like torn pieces of flesh, but were golden-brown. Signora Cagliari then took a pitcher of water and poured it in the pan till it was halfway up the meat. She covered the pan with a heavy lid and left it to simmer.

  For the next step, Shamira was told to measure out the better part of a cup of raw almonds and was shown how to hold and use a very sharp knife to chop them without cutting herself. Then she cut up a handful of fennel and parsley. While Shamira was prepping all this, the Signora began a woman-to-woman talk with her.

  "Carmella, I can see you are not a stupida girl, but you don't know much about cooking or keeping a house, eh? I will teach you if you let me."

  "Sure. Yeah. That's fine." Since all of this was a History Camp ruse, Shamira didn't see the point in getting into any lengthy conversation about it. 'Just agree with everything,' she thought. But she had to admit that this medieval cooking, except for the raw chicken, appeared to be quite creative, almost like drawing. They mixed the chopped almonds, fennel and parsley in a bowl. The Signora added some of the spice mixture Shamira had been grinding.

  "Carmella, we save this mixture in a special spice jar with a cork in it. We'll use it in lotsa recipes. For when the meat, she's not as fresh as today, the spices, you know, hide the bad meat taste." Shamira grimaced at the thought of eating meat that was turning.

  When the chicken was ready, the Signora removed the frying pan lid and, using a long fork, transferred the chicken onto a plate on top of the hearth. The chicken looked much better than earlier, but Shamira still had in her mind the image of the squawking, feathered animal a short while earlier.

  "Now, Carmella, add the fennel, almonds and spices into the broth and stir." While Shamira did this, the enactor added wood to the fire. As the heat increased, the mixture of vegetables and spices began to bubble and thicken. Shamira inhaled deeply. The house smelled fabulous. Then Signora had Shamira slide the pan to the side of the grate to take it off of the hottest part of the coals. "Leave the lid off so the sauce she becomes nice and thick. We pour it over the chicken when we serve the men, eh? Now, let's warm the bread and set the table."

  This was going to be a big meal. The Signora had explained how there were usually only two meals per day, the morning dinner meal being the biggest. When people got up, they sometimes would have a little something, repast, it was called. But now they were piling the table with olives, olive oil, cheeses and two of the big loaves of bread.

  Chapter 14

  "Frickin', frackin', stupid situation," Lincoln mumbled as he tagged behind the others toward the house. Hansum, supposedly now the Master's favorite, walked directly behind the big guy.

  "Come on," the Master said, turning and looking at Lincoln. "Don't dawdle. We must get back to work right after dinner. To make up for your mistake." Lincoln shook with anger, his fists balled up at his sides.

  "Hold your tongue, Master Lincoln, hold your tongue," he heard Pan's voice whisper in his ear.

  "Stupid History Camp!" Lincoln mumbled again under his breath. Then, as they got to the house, Lincoln's nose caught a whiff of the food. His stomach growled noisily. Then he watched the Master open the door to the house and stop. The big man nodded at Hansum to go in, but when Lincoln went to follow, he felt the Master's big hand on his chest.

  "Maruccio, why should I feed you?" he asked.

  "Cause I'm hungry, that's why." He looked past the Master and saw a nicely set table with big loaves of bread on it. With the door open, the smell of the beautifully cooked chicken intensified his hunger.

  "Have you earned your food?" the Master challenged, stepping to block Lincoln's view of the table. "Have you earned your daily bread?"

  "I'm hungry. You gotta feed me and make sure I don't get hurt."

  "Is that what you think?" the Master asked. Then, with a jerk of his head, he let him pass.

  ***

  Shamira looked up as the boys entered the room. She could tell something had changed, but nobody said a word. The Mistress put another chicken piece on a plate and Shamira had to get back to ladling the now thick gravy.

  The Master plopped down in his chair at the head of the table.

  "So, how was the first morning?" the Signora asked in a singsong manner.

  "I don't want to talk about it," the Master said gruffly. "It'll ruin my dinner. Sit, all of you. Maruccio's hungry. Romero, sit by me," he said, pointing to the table's bench to his left. "You," he said to Lincoln, "the end of the bench." The Signora stood, fork in hand, surveying the frosty mood in the room. "Woman, are you going to stand there till the Messiah returns?" the Master shouted.

  "Carmella, apply the gravy," the Mistress said, hastily putting another plate in front Shamira. "Hurry up. Hurry." Shamira began ladling. The Master looked at what was being served.

  "Chicken? Why such a sumptuous dinner?" he asked.

  "Why not?" the Signora said haughtily.

  The Master grunted. Then he poured olive oil on the side of his plate, took a slice of the bread and pulled it through the oil. He put it in his mouth. "Hmm. Goot," he said somewhat mollified.

  "Giuseppe, the prayer!" the Signora scolded.

  "God knows I'm grateful and God knows I'm hungry," the Master answered. But still he took his hands away from the plate and wiped them on his pants. He bowed his head. "God, thank you for the food on this table. Thank you for the hands that made it. Thank you for the hands to earn . . . " The big man looked up and saw the children weren't praying. Bang! went his palm on the table. "Give thanks!" he shouted. Everyone's head went down. "God knows some at the table don't deserve the rewards in front of them, but it is by your good graces and charity that we give them another chance. Amen. Okay, everyone eat!"

  Chapter 15

  Shamira watched the Signora looking oddly at the Master for saying such a strange prayer, but he just ignored her and started eating. He pointed at the boys' dishes, signaling for them to dig in. The boys looked hungrily at the food, which, Shamira had to admit, really did look good. Lincoln seemed intrigued by what the Master had done with the bread and oil. He reached across the table, took the oil, poured some on his plate, dipped the bread in it and shoved it in his mouth.

  "Mmmmmm. This is good," he said, and took another piece of bread.

  Hansum went to cut up his chicken.

  "There's no forks," he said. Nobody answered. Then he saw the Master take his knife and cut his chicken into large chunks and pick up one of the pieces with his hand. He placed it on a piece of bread, wiped the bread through more of the gravy and put it in his mouth. Hansum did the same. "Mmmm," he sighed. "Just like at the Ristorante Medioevale dell'Alimento in Florence, the medieval restua. . ." The Master and Signora continued eating, again ignoring his slip.

  Shamira's imagination still held her back from trying the chicken. But she was hungry, so she took bread and dipped its edge in the gravy. It was delicious. She looked at the others' plates and saw that their chicken was white and juicy, not pink and bloody. Her courage fortified, she cut off a small piece of the bird and put it in her mouth with her fingers. The image of the headless chicken quickly passed from her mind and she ate heartily.

  The food put everyone in a better mood. Lincoln hadn't even tried his chicken yet, but was eating piece after piece of bread, soaking each with many ounces of the beautiful, rich olive oil.

  "Oh goodness," the Signora said. "I've forgotten the wine."

  "Wine?" Hansum questioned, his eyebrows rising.

  "For us?" Lincoln asked.

  "Of course," the Signora replied as she got up and took a ceramic pitcher from the shelf. She handed it to Shamira. "Carmella, pour wine for everyone."

  "That you don't have to tell me twice," she answered, smiling.

  "Maybe this place ain't that bad after all," Lincoln said as the wooden cup in front of him was half filled with the deep, red-colored liquid. He picked up the glass and put it to his mouth. Bang! went the Master's hand on the table again.

  "What? A prayer for the wine?" Lincol
n asked, his upper lip now sporting a red moustache.

  "Dear Maruccio," the Signora said, walking over to Lincoln, "into the blood of Cristo we always add the spirit of Christians from all over the world." She had a second pitcher in her hand. From it she poured a clear liquid into Lincoln's cup.

  "I drank blood?" he asked, aghast.

  "No, no," Hansum said. "I think they're referring to the wine as a symbol of blood for the old Christian God Jesus. And to water as his followers, Christians."

  "Si, we mix our spirit with the blood of the one true God," the Master said, crossing himself.

  "You're putting water in the wine?" Shamira asked.

  "Of course, dear," the Signora said, now serving the Master. As she poured water into his mug, he put his hand up after only a few drops. "The Master likes more spirit in his spirit."

  The teenagers finished their wine quickly, and were surprised when neither of the adults seemed to care when they refilled their glasses. Lincoln still hadn't touched his chicken. But he had eaten almost a half loaf of bread himself, all soaked heavily in olive oil and washed it all down with red wine.

  The table became silent for the most part, except for the sound of happy eating and drinking.

  "Oh, some news, husband," the Signora said. "In the market this morning, Carmella and I saw Sancho."

  "How's his stock?" he grunted, without pausing his meal.

  "It looked somewhat depleted."

  "Good," the Master said, masticating on a good-sized chunk of chicken and gulping down more wine.

  "You'll never guess who was with him there. Podesta della Scalla himself, back from Padua early."

  The Master stopped eating. He stiffened. "And?"

  "He was thrilled to hear that his discs for the eyes were completed. I invited him to come here this afternoon, my husband. Just after midday." She acted as if she were expecting an enthusiastic response to such good news.

  BANG! The Master slammed both of his big hands on the table. Shamira and Hansum stopped eating at the noise and Lincoln, who had finally had his fill of bread and wine, was just about to poke a knife into his chicken. The Master angrily reached across the length of the table, grabbed Lincoln's plate and snatched it from beneath his nose.