The Florentine Quilt

20. Theodora

20

THEODORA

FLORENCE

OBSIDIAN: Spiritual communication, grounding, protection, truth-telling

L ike brushstrokes on canvas, the coperta comes to life, with Tristan’s story conveyed in centuries-old stitches embroidered in thread. Clear light spreads a path across the creamy aged fabric and directs my concentration to the largest panel so far—the meeting of Morholt and Tristan on the Isle of St Samson . The boat in the foreground has a full sail billowing towards the shore while Morholt waits, pointing his finger at Tristan defiantly. War was commonplace in medieval times. Part of daily life. Tragically , it still is today. A visceral dread hovers overs me as I work on this section; it’s like a battle raging beneath the surface.

Our fingers work nimbly at tasks that require fine manual dexterity, carefully piecing together small holes— lacunae —as we go. The high regard for our conservation methods is a language understood without words—pointing and gesturing is enough. But it’s impossible not to learn about others within the intimacy of our surroundings.

Did the women who made the coperta connect while they worked? Did they discuss their lives while outlining the trapunto, sharing hopes and fears for those they loved? I want to know more…

I sigh in relief as chatter breathes through the doors of the workroom, drowning out my inner monologue. My colleagues take up their positions. Maria chooses to sit on Domenica’s right, away from the talkative hand that bruised her shoulder at our first meeting.

Much of Domenica’s life is related with gusto, while others prefer to share news of family in photos across the table at coffee breaks. With a toss of unruly curls the colour of Tuscan soil, Domenica has emerged as the lioness of the team and entertains us with tales of her cheeky sons and their misdemeanours. She encourages our work with an infectious smile and peers down a fine aquiline nose to dispense advice on everything from cannelloni to Civitavecchia .

I’m more guarded and have revealed very little, only answering curious questions about pet kangaroos and my homeland.

Maria has expertise in some of the older Italian embroidery techniques, and I’m grateful to learn from her. She is the quiet achiever and my mother hen, often stealing into the textile department in silence after leaving gifts of fruit and vegetables in my locker, or a container of delicious ragù and homemade pasta with pecorino Romano . Perhaps she thinks I’m not eating properly, living on my own. Yesterday , she gave me a jar of hand cream as we walked to the station, understanding how the constant washing of our hands as we work dries them out. ‘ Olive oil is best. I make it for you.’ She smiled and kissed my cheek. Maybe some people are more attuned to nurture than others.

When we first met, a picture came to mind of Maria with a tear-stained face, lying prostrate across a bed. I couldn’t shake the ache in my bones, not sure if it showed the death of someone close to her, or whether it referred to ghosts from my past.

I take up my needle and try to tune in to the conversation. When they notice me listening, they make an effort to converse in English .

Domenica holds both hands up and shakes them to the sky. ‘ Australia …it would take too long to go there. Better for you to come here.’

‘ It’s as far for me.’ I smile.

The women laugh, understanding the humour. But Maria is quiet and barely looks up at the exchange.

Soon talk of a wedding sends Domenica’s hands gesticulating. Maria nods at her conversation from time to time. But my throat tightens in the strained atmosphere; a thick cloud of words is left unsaid.

‘ No ! This is wrong!’ Domenica lets go of her hold on the quilt and stands up. Her hands rest on her hips demonstratively. ‘ Maria ! How can you forgive her?’

A rapid volley of Italian continues.

Then Maria looks up, her eyes soulful as she directs her words to me. ‘ It is not right for her to holds the blame.’ She looks away, but I see her intake of breath.

‘ Mi dispiace . I mean no offence, Maria .’ Domenica tosses her head, and her hair ripples as she turns away.

They revert to rapid Italian , and I’m unable to understand. But Domenica’s face glows red and hot with anger. ‘ She was no good, Maria ! You know the truth.’ Her response is sibilant between her teeth. ‘ Her family perhaps…they are not to blame. But she was not a good woman.’

‘ My son, he choose her,’ Maria answers firmly. ‘ I accept his decision.’

‘ It’s lucky for you that she went!’ Domenica continues.

‘ No . Non fortunato .’ Maria’s head remains lowered. She draws thread through the fabric with a sigh and cuts it neatly.

Domenica takes her hands. ‘ Io sono stupido . I did not mean to be unkind.’

Maria pushes back from the worktable and packs away her tools. She flicks off the microscope and covers it. ‘ Mi dispiace . It is no good to pass on my sadness to this beautiful work. I go.’

I touch her shoulder. ‘ Maria —is there anything I can do?’ I feel her pain. Or is this reaction coming from the quilt?

‘ Non —è la mia tristezza . I take it home with me. Nothing to do. I be better tomorrow. Ciao , bella .’

The room is silent as we return to work with no further discussion of the wedding. When we go into the kitchen to prepare espresso for our break, Domenica explains why Maria was so upset.

‘ I thought Maria , she be better by now. Her son Paolo was killed in an accident ten years ago. He propose to his girlfriend, but she cheat to him. He find her in bed with the bastardo . He rage and threaten to kill them. Allora , the man was his friend—they go behind Paolo’s back. Then they argue, and Paolo chase him to the mountains. The lorry did not see the Vespa and Paolo —he crash in the rain. Maria , she forgive the puttana but never recover. Her only son.’

The turn in my gut brings Maria’s loss to mine. I gasp and hold back tears; a lump sticks in my throat. It doesn’t matter how it happens when you lose someone you love.

‘ Now her friend’s son is marrying the younger sister. And Maria —she is a saint. She forgive the family—but my heart breaks to see Maria’s pain. But she say, she is at peace with the girl and her family. Maria say the accident not her fault. Santa Maria , I would make her pay for what she did!’

Domenica’s eyes flash in anger. She’s a passionate woman who seeks vengeance. But the loss is Maria’s —and she is willing to forgive.

‘ Paolo’s girlfriend—did she marry the other man?’

‘ Si , and they have children now.’

Later , I check the stitches on the outline of the figure from yesterday. Tristan is newly knighted and facing Morholt with lances aimed and pointed, ready to ride into battle after pledging allegiance to his king. The four-leafed clover indicates Tristan will be victorious.

It’s disappointing that the well-known love story is missing. Sad . Tristezza is the Italian word for sadness.

How could Domenica expect Paolo to marry a woman who loved another man? Would any of them have been happy? And if King Mark had allowed Tristan and Isolde to be together, would they have lived happily ever after?

There’s no guarantee in life. Perhaps Maria accepts that sometimes promises are broken. Regardless , she has lost so much, and still understands what it is to forgive.

‘ We all react differently, Domenica , and you are a loyal friend to be concerned. I’m sure Maria will know what you have said is meant out of love.’

‘ You are wise, Theodora . How can someone your age know this?’ She rubs my hands in hers and kisses them. ‘ Passion runs deep in our veins—it bubbles from the springs and bursts from centre of the earth. You have it here too.’ She holds a fist to her heart. ‘ I know someone he hurt you, but I think there is another you long for. We have just one life. Take it and live well. Magari …and don’t wait forever.’

When she leans in to kiss my cheeks, I catch my breath in shock. Star said something similar when referring to Luke and his demands.

This Florentine quilt is affecting us all. It seems the essence of life—our hopes and dreams—are deeply ingrained in its fabric too.

I n a rare moment, Domenica takes a break from speaking and the room is silent. I focus on the section of embroidery I’m consolidating. Outside on the street, music is playing, and the soulful acoustic guitar reminds me of Tristan . He always asks about my progress here. I’m flattered he thinks of me at all.

He’s spent the last month at his London office. And with Rosie . Last night I flicked past the photos she shared on social media of the two enjoying a curry together in Soho . While the idea of them catching up is pleasant enough, I can’t deny a twinge of envy at the thought of them together without me.

I’m wrestling with an uncomfortable feeling while reinforcing the stitches on Tristan’s helmet. I can’t help but wonder if the man named after our knight, and our time near the Isles of Scilly , is the reason for my distraction. We’ve touched on some in-depth topics in our messages back and forth—last week I told him about Luke , and my reasons for not having children. I haven’t heard from him since. But it’s more likely the melancholy tone of the quilt and the knight’s quest that disturb me. I mustn’t let it shift my focus. I concentrate on blocking the battle scene. The slow and steady process soon calms and centres me.

Suddenly , a sharp pain burns my palm. I drop the needle I was threading and press two fingers on the spot.

‘ Are you all right, cara ?’ Maria questions and steps away from the microscope.

I can’t explain the fire that shoots through my hand like an injection of adrenaline. It’s throbbing. My heart beats fast and my throat constricts— I gasp for air. ‘ A cramp.’ I attempt a smile while stretching my hand.

‘ Go , Theodora . Take a break,’ Domenica insists.

In the bathroom, I run cold water over my hand. In a few minutes the heat that had flooded my body subsides.

On my way home, I think back to Signora Vecchia , and the measures she suggested for curbing this strange affliction that courses through me. I purchase a stick of sage from a vendor stand near the Fortezza and use the smoky fumes to cleanse my rooms of so-called negative energy. I’m not entirely convinced it can remove what affects me, but apparently people swear by it.

The next day, Maria arrives with another gift. ‘ For you, cara .’

She presents me with a polished black stone. ‘ Tormolina nera , tourmaline, for protections from the bad energies. From the poisons. Keep it in your pocket.’ She smiles.

The stone is warm and smooth in my hand. ‘ Thank you.’ I shake my head, grateful once again for her thoughtfulness.

Maria’s constant acts of kindness remind me a lot of Amelia . I wonder if a gift of tourmaline might have helped protect her from the difficulties she faced too.