We all obeyed, bowing our heads; I dared to peer from beneath half-closed lids. The priest and Domenico entered, the latter closing the large brass door behind him. Both hurried over to stand by Fra Girolamo. They pushed their way to stand on my mother’s right side, as close to the object of their adoration as possible; the act displaced Zalumma and me, forcing us down toward my mother’s legs.
My father-his eyes red-rimmed-lowered his head, but his eyes were open, his gaze vigilant and fierce. He stood on my mother’s left, with Pico beside him.
After a long pause, Savonarola’s eyebrows knit together. “God has spoken to me. Unexpiated sin has led to this woman’s malady-a sin too long secret and buried; it has tainted her soul. I shall pray for God to open her heart and remove her burden, that she may be freed from any influence of the Evil One.” He lifted his face and, in a lower tone, asked my father, “Do you know, sir, of a grievous sin she may have been unwilling to confess?”
My father glanced up at him with unalloyed surprise; sudden emotion so overwhelmed him that he could not speak, could only let go an anguished sob.
Pico faced him. “Antonio, my friend, you must trust in Fra Girolamo. God has brought us all here for a purpose. This is all for Madonna Lucrezia’s good.”
“Does anyone lack faith? Does anyone wish to leave?” Fra Girolamo stared at us each in turn.
“I shall pray with you!” said the priest, excited.
Savonarola gave him a look of warning. “Those who wish may lay hands upon her with me and follow silently with my prayer.”
“Only pray no harm comes to her,” my father said urgently. “Only pray that God heals her!”
Savonarola answered with a stare that quieted him at once. The priest and Fra Domenico quickly laid their palms upon my mother’s upper arms and waist; my father put a hand upon her right arm, along with Pico. Zalumma and I could do no more than rest our hands upon my mother’s ankles.
The little monk lifted his hands, pressed them more firmly against my mother’s shoulders, then squeezed his eyes shut. “O Lord!” he exclaimed, in the thunderous tone he had used when preaching. “You see before you a woman, a miserable sinner…”
Beneath his hands, my mother stirred. Her eyelids fluttered. Hoarsely, she whispered, “Antonio?”
He took her hand and spoke softly. “Lucrezia, I am here. All will be well. Fra Girolamo is praying for your healing. Rest, and have faith.”
During their gentle exchange, the friar continued his prayer. “There is darkness buried here, an opening for Satan. Lord! It has left her body stolen, wrenched from her…”
My mother’s eyes widened from fright. Though drowsy, she sensed Savonarola’s grip tightening on her shoulders; she moved weakly as if to shake off all the hands holding her down. “Antonio! What is he saying? What has happened?”
At that very moment, the priest-who had begun to tremble with righteous fervor-cried out: “Devils possess her, O Lord!”
“Yes!” Domenico rumbled, in a great, deep voice. “Devils, Lord!”
“Stop,” my mother whispered.
Zalumma interrupted, her words swift and sharp, directed mostly at the priest, but also at Savonarola. She pressed against Domenico’s great, broad back, trying to reach her mistress. “Stop! You are frightening her! She must stay calm!”
“All will be well, Lucrezia,” my father said. “All will be well…”
Savonarola paid no one heed; his earnest conversation was between himself and God. “O Lord! None can save her but You. I am not worthy to face You myself, but I beg most humbly: Save her from her sins. Heal her…”
The pockmarked priest, lost in his own frenzy, continued the prayer as if it were his own. “Free her from Satan’s grip! Hear me, Devil! It is not I but God Who commands you-leave this woman! In the name of Christ Jesus, leave her body and set her free!”
Fra Domenico, prompted to righteous zeal by the priest’s words, leaned down and seized both my mother’s arms with undue force. Spraying spittle, he shouted directly into her face: “Go, Devil, in the name of Christ!”
“Help me,” my mother called out weakly. “Antonio, in the name of God…”
At the same time, my father gripped Fra Domenico’s thick wrists, shouting, “Unhand her! Let her go!”
Savonarola’s tone rose sharply, a rebuke to the priest, to Domenico, to my father. “We ask for healing here, for forgiveness of sin. Only then, Lord, will the Evil One loosen his hold upon her-”
“Stop this!” Zalumma commanded, at the cacophony of prayer. “Can’t you see what you are doing to her?”
My mother’s body went rigid. Her jaw began to work, her limbs to pound against the wooden table. Her head jerked from side to side; blood from her injured tongue sprayed the men.
Zalumma and I tried to move to our positions of emergency, but the monks and priests would not let me near my mother’s head. With Zalumma, I lay down across my mother’s legs-but Fra Domenico pushed us away with one great backward sweep of his arm, without looking at us. My father bent over my mother and put an arm beneath her shoulder.
“You see, Babbo, the Devil shows himself!” Domenico crowed in triumph, and laughed. “Begone! You have no power here!”
“Let us pray to God,” Fra Girolamo thundered. “O Lord, we beg you for this woman’s freedom from sin, from the influence of the Evil One; we ask for her healing. If there be any obstacle, reveal it now, Lord!”
“Satan begone,” the priest countered, with equal volume and fervor. “Leave, in the name of the Father!”
Fra Domenico, his dull features alight with frightening conviction, was caught between the prayers of prior and priest. Echoing his master’s words, he cried out, “Reveal it now, O Lord! Leave, Satan, in the name of the Son!”
As he uttered the words, my mother’s body heaved upward in spasm, so violently that the men lost their hold upon her. An odd silence ensued; the priest and Savonarola, startled, ceased praying. In response, Domenico brought the heels of his massive hands downward, with full force, upon my mother’s heart.
“Leave, in the name of the Spirit!”
In the unexpected quiet, I heard a soft but horrible noise: a snap dulled by the cover of flesh, the sound of my mother’s breastbone breaking. I screamed, scarcely aware of Zalumma’s own shrieks, of my father’s furious roar.
My mother’s eyes bulged. Blood welled up from deep within her and spilled from the corners of her mouth down the sides of her cheeks, into her ears. She tried to cough and instead inhaled blood; there followed the wrenching sound of gurgling, of one desperately seeking air and finding only liquid. She was drowning.
My father wrested Domenico away from my mother, then returned to her side. Without thought, I threw myself against the stolid monk and pummeled him with my fists, vaguely aware that Zalumma, too, was striking him.
Coming to myself, I moved to my mother’s side. There I bent low, my elbows resting on the table, my face close to my mother’s, near my father’s. Zalumma was beside me, her shoulder pressed against mine.
The monks had altogether abandoned her. Fra Girolamo had removed his hands and was staring down at her with an expression of frank confusion and dismay; the priest had withdrawn in fear and was crossing himself repeatedly. Pico, too, stood at a distance, trying to make sense of the dreadful turn of events.
Only my father remained at my mother’s side. “Lucrezia!” he cried. “Oh God, Lucrezia, speak!”
But my mother could not. The movement of her limbs grew weaker and weaker until at last they stilled. Her face had taken on the color of a dove’s breast; blood bubbled from her lips as she fought to draw air. I tried to help in the only way I knew: I pressed my face close to hers and said that I loved her, and all would be well.
I watched as the light of terror faded from her eyes along with life itself, and I saw the instant her stare grew dull and fixed.
XVIII
