Her aunt had slapped her across the face. Well, what else had Sofia expected to the confession of “blood” and “down there”? It was the sermon that came afterward that had taken her by surprise.
“Where is your head, wicked girl, whenever Genesis is read? Have you never heard of Eve’s wickedness? The curse, girl. The curse upon all daughters of Eve for our Mother’s sinfulness. Every moon, we are thus reminded of our fallen state and must pray to all-merciful God to release us from it quickly by His Grace.”
Sofia had only ever heard “in pain shalt thou bear” and “thy desire toward thy husband,” both clauses which she was determined she at least could thwart heaven and avoid. She had heard nothing about this. But of course she had only ever believed in a paradisiacal Eden about as much as she believed in Saint Mark: for people who needed that pabulum, not for her.
So every month thereafter she’d endured the slap and the sermon. It was the bleeding, in fact, that had started the flurry of letters between Venice and her father in Corfu that had eventually culminated in his ultimatum of marriage. And every month, as soon as they got up off their knees after asking forgiveness, Sofia gave the responsibility for her state up to her aunt in every way possible in such an intimate matter. Her aunt provided the clean linen rags, took the soiled ones away so her niece didn’t even have the bother of looking at them. Well, the nun enjoyed feeling sinful. Let her have her fill.
Sofia could see now that her long denial had left her singularly unprepared now that her aunt was gone. She was more helpless even than the curse gave cause to be, but there was nothing she could do about it but lie there in that strange bed and bleed.
The foreign smell of the inside of a rusting, copper kettle left carelessly damp swept up her body to her nostrils, violating her. There was pressure on her bladder and in her bowels. These comforts she had strength to deny and forestall, but not the orifice between. She had faced pirates and Turks, slavers and eunuchs, but before none of these had she felt dirtier, more a victim, more shamed, exposed, invalid, impotent, violated—and alone.
And she felt even more so with every drop that trickled uncontrollably down to ruin her shalvar —the beautiful silk shalvar she had loved so much because they made her feel so masculine. She could see now there was a reason why women wore skirts with nothing in between the legs. Her memory that the shalvar were red provided little comfort.
Turkish women must not be subject to the curse of Eve, she decided, if this is what they were allowed to wear. If this was so, she envied them all the more but was certain now she could never attain to their power.
In spite of herself, the poet might have said, she began to weep. But Sofia felt she had precious little self left at this point to spite. Anything that might have been self was slowly but surely bleeding from her. But weep, indeed, she did, hot, silent, choking tears in rhythm to her flow.
So Baffo’s daughter lay as the others in the room got up, got dressed and answered the call to prayer. So she lay as the palace around her roused, shook itself and took on its great, world-commanding business. So she lay, alone indeed, and hoping for death.
XXIV
Presently, someone entered the room. Sofia wanted to remain alone, for that at least was similar to death. But she could not prevent them. Yes, “them,” for there were at least two people. Women. She could hear them talking together, quick, playful banter of which she could not comprehend a word.
One of the voices stopped and called. Sofia knew the call was meant for her, but she couldn’t answer. Concentrating on bringing her sobs under control, she thought that if she could just lie as still as death now, they would not see she was there until death should come to hide her shame.
Hard-soled slippers clicked quick steps across the bare wooden floor. A hand touched her. It touched her again, shaking her. The voices exchanged quizzical comments. A firmer shaking. And then the quilt was yanked from her hands and off her face.
Sofia sat upright instantly, blinking against the morning sunlight that streaked across the room. Of the two faces peering down at her, one was familiar, the one in front, the one in charge. It was not, however, the woman with the piercing eyes as she had hoped—or feared with her worst fear. Instead, it was the woman that the piercing-eyed one had ordered to examine her the day before. A midwife, Sofia might call her, or granny woman.
As she swung her legs to the floor, Sofia immediately recalled her state. She could hardly ignore it. Activity pressed even more blood from her, like wringing did from a damp cloth. You’ve done it now, she told herself and then, more hopefully, If you’re careful and don’t move any more, they’ll never see. Don’t stand up — they can’t make you, two middle-aged women like this — and they’ll never know.
The midwife gave a brusque greeting and a rather sour smile. Sofia nodded and then repeated as best she could the two syllables the woman enunciated while patting her own chest. Baffo’s daughter took those syllables to be the woman’s name. It was a nickname actually, Ayva, which Sofia would learn meant “the Quince.” It was the only name necessary to distinguish the midwife
