Page 4 of This Vicious Hunger
Chapter Three
Although my first meeting with Dr. Petaccia isn’t until midmorning, I awaken at dawn, my limbs thrumming restlessly, the nightmare scent of smoke still in my nostrils from the dreams that twisted from one to another all night long. It’s always smoke, the tickle of dust in my throat turning to ash as the walls crumble around me—my own golden cradle licked with the flames of death until I awaken gasping for breath.
My bedroom is dim and relatively cool, but I can tell from the warmth of the light that the day is already stifling. I stare at the ceiling for long minutes, where I fancy that the cracks in the paint and plaster look almost like the curling tendrils of a passion vine.
I have no idea what to expect from this doctor who holds my future in his hands. I never even knew he existed. For all my father’s talk of the university, he never mentioned him in any of his stories—only lamented his damned inability to produce a son, which makes so much sense now that I know about the scholarship.
Perhaps I should feel betrayed. All these years there has been a way out for me, a future that didn’t involve a lifetime of husbands or marriage or undertaking… I might not have felt so trapped ifI’d known—though, of course, I would never have been able to take this path without Aurelio’s death, and it’s not as if I could ever have predicted such a thing.
That thought sends a nervous shiver through me and I shake it off.
It’s not that I would expect any different from Aurelio’s mother, really. Her only interest was first finding her son a wife—even if said wife’s background and rumours about her lack of suitors did raise a few eyebrows—and then keeping her spoiled son happy. How was she to know she held my future in her hands? Why should she care?
My father, though… I’m disappointed that he never fought for me. If the doctor was persuaded by Madame LeVand as she said, what’s to say my father couldn’t have achieved the same? This is the thought that needles me as I stare at my ceiling: perhaps my father was so caught up in his dismay at not having a son that he never stopped to wonder what his daughter might do.
Eventually I can lie still no longer. It isn’t in my nature to dwell, but since Aurelio died it’s all I have been able to do. I fling open the shutters and let fresh waves of sunlight into the room, shielding my eyes from the early golden rays. The view from this window when I arrived last night was disappointing, barely a view at all in the unfamiliar dusk. This morning I’m greeted by a much more welcome sight; beyond the isolation of my rooms, through that little square window, my desk is situated so that I may look upon a garden as I study.
The garden is lush and overgrown, surrounded by high walls topped with wrought iron and coiling plants, running in both directions as far as I can see. There is a tower at its verdant heart, the stone pale and shining, its base awash with colourful blooms and climbing vines. The area outside the garden closest to mywindow is sparse and scrubby against the retaining wall, the cobbles turning slowly to spiky grass and dusty dirt, in strong contrast to inside the walls, where I admire the riot of trailing leaves, flowers that look like bells and stars and sunbursts all tangled together. Despite my passion for all things green on this earth, I cannot identify most of the plants from this distance, and a sudden longing to catalogue them makes my heart thump with excitement.
I think of my father’s small garden and wonder what he would make of this place—and if it was here when he was. I think not, or else he would have included it in his stories. He never exactly encouraged my love of plants, but nor did he ever guard his knowledge.
I dress with a wild smile on my lips. I have not unpacked more than the basics from my trunk, but the simple walking dress I’ve chosen is one I hope will make a good impression; it is modest, with a high neck and long sleeves, made from pale sage silk and printed with a gentle, repeating vine-like pattern. The wrap that goes with it is too warm for this weather, so I abandon it to the trunk. I can’t do much with my hair except attempt to tame the rough-shorn curls with some water and a comb, though I forgo the headscarf in favour of letting my scalp drink in the sunlight.
I’d like to explore near the garden, but the pull of my stomach guides me instead towards the campus. Last night’s supper was meagre and I have nothing left to satisfy my hunger. But then, it feels as though I have been starved for months—all the meals I ate during my life as Aurelio’s wife could probably have fit onto the small desk in my new rooms—so the hunger isn’t entirely new.
Ignoring the advice of the registrar, I decide to walk to the campus, enjoying the feel of the hot sun on my back and neck, the stiffness easing in my legs. Everything here is dust and terra cotta, sodifferent from the damp green hills of my childhood. Aurelio grew up in the city, all cobbles and carriages, restaurants and boutiques and the opera; this was the life I’d come to accept would be mine for the rest of my time, and I’m not ashamed to say I did not like it and I’m almost relieved to not have to pretend any more. Although I’d still prefer my childhood hills, my heart soars at this freedom and space. I’ll gladly take dust and terra cotta if I never have to see a city again.
I picture Aurelio’s face as I think this, imagine the curl of his lip if I’d said anything like it in public, but the smile I might get in the privacy of our home would have been different; he liked to tease me, to call me hisbellezza, his cutie—though only when I said something that would make his family regret their choice. I’m still not quite sure whether his amusement was at me, or at the turn of his life ending with me.
As I walk, I know that his mother is wrong; this life is not what my husband would have wanted for me after his death. He would have railed against it, fought tooth and nail to keep me trapped in morning rooms and parlours, drinking tea with neighbours I didn’t care for—anywhere but here. Even the nunnery would have been far preferable. The thought fills me with bitter joy.
I stretch my legs longer, walk faster, until my heart pounds and my cheeks flush in the heat. By the time I reach the campus my forehead is dripping with sweat but I feel positively alive. Forget the city, and forget the sepulchre; this morning there is only me and the sun and the hot, lemon-scented air.
The feeling doesn’t last. It’s early enough that the dim, vaulted dining hall is still only half-full, countless scholars staring glassy-eyed into their coffee or stirring mushed eggs around their plates, but the server girl at the door can’t decide if there’s a table free for me to eat at.
“I’m a scholar,” I say, smiling politely to show I’m not making fun. From the suspicion in her eyes it’s clear she doesn’t believe me. She can’t be much younger than me, rosy-cheeked with her dark hair pulled back into a tight braid. “Really,” I insist.
“Really?” She raises an eyebrow, taking in my dress, my hands—their new softness from my weeks of marriage no doubt a mark in my favour—my shorn hair, and my ring finger, which are no doubt both marks against me. Nobody likes to be reminded of the proximity of grief, least of all the young and beautiful. I fight the urge to twist my wedding band, a still-new nervous habit I can’t quite bring myself to drop. Perhaps I should take it off.
“Really,” I repeat. “Do you have the authority to seat me or do you need to ask your mother? I’m starving and I’d appreciate it if you’d let me eat while you sort it out.”
The girl is not as surprised at the haughtiness in my tone as I am. It spurs her into action and she dips her head as if I’ve uttered the magic words—which, I suppose, I have. She leads me to a small table away from the men, unburdened from the fog of cigarette smoke by an open window, taking my order of coffee, cereal, and figs, plus rusk and hazelnut cream, without meeting my eyes. When she is gone I stare at the polished, slightly sticky wood of the table, my hands spread on top. They are shaking.
Thirteen weeks, it turns out, is more than long enough to become one of them. The wealthy. I spent my entire short marriage to Aurelio believing I could never be like him, could never adjust to a life with servants and six types of wine with dinner, gaudy gowns and endless supplies of hot bathwater. Four months ago I would have been just like that poor server girl, and I would never have spoken to her with such disdain. And now here I am.
I pick at my breakfast when it arrives, delivered by anotherserver, whose gaze I avoid. Suddenly I’m not hungry at all. I crumble the hard rusk bread into dust on my plate, dipping a finger into the hazelnut cream before deciding to stick to coffee.
By the time I finish my sad meal the dining hall is filling up—though I note that my little corner by the window is still empty. Men of all ages trudge in, some in groups and some alone. Some eat heartily and others sip their coffee with an air of importance, all of them pointedly not looking at me. The scholars and professors eat together here; I don’t know enough to know whether this is normal elsewhere or only here, but I can tell the professors by their robes. Some wear regular clothes, or plain black robes; others have their collars and cuffs adorned in a variety of colours: green, ochre, brown, mauve.
As I get ready to leave the hall, I cast my eyes about the room, wondering if any of these men is to be my new mentor. Of course it’s no use, I have no idea what Dr. Petaccia looks like, nor would it be appropriate of me to approach him before our meeting. Still, I don’t like waiting—and I definitely don’t like feeling like an outcast. I wonder if I should have worn something less pretty; perhaps then they’d all take me more seriously. I almost laugh.
Outside the sun is unrelenting, the cobbles radiating heat through my thin-soled shoes. I raise a hand to my eyes, trying to work out which of the buildings crowding the dining hall is the library, or which path between them will lead to the square I landed at yesterday so I canfindthe blasted library. This place is so large I can’t imagine I will ever find my way about. Panic rises in my chest. Maybe I’m not cut out for this environment if I can’t even remember my way around, but I stamp on the feeling.Don’t be silly, I tell myself.This is your home now whether you feel like it or not. You’d better get used to being a little lost.
I square my shoulders, deciding to head to the left, when I’m thrown backwards as a man on a bicycle hurtles across my path, his arm outstretched to push me away. His knuckles connect with the softness of my diaphragm. I stumble, my heels catching on the uneven cobbles, my stomach lurching and the breath knocked from my lungs. I let out an indignant cry but manage to keep myself upright.
The man on the bicycle doesn’t stop. Another scholar on his way to breakfast guffaws. I shoot him an icy look that consumes much of my remaining energy. He takes in my now-dusty dress and my bare head and his expression morphs into something more like scorn. I imagine what he’s thinking:What’s a silly, mournful woman like you doing in a serious place like this? You should be at home with children or a husband—or be content to arrange funeral flowers until your dear dead husband’s deathday, when you can hurry up and get a new one.I square my shoulders but keep my mouth shut.
“Apologies, lady,” he says with a noncommittal shrug. “But perhaps you’d better look where you’re going next time. Us scholars have got more important things to do than watch out for you. This is a college, not a salon.”
