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my face to be filled with the pure illumination of rapture when emptying the heavy slop buckets and scrubbing the stoop in front of the confessionals. At table, I refused all the nicest food and took the tiniest portions only of what was completely burned or bad to show that I was unworthy of any good thing. And I would offer half of my meagre rations to other nuns, who, bloated with delicacies, rejected it mockingly. Without finishing my food, I would rise and fetch a basin to wash the feet of other nuns in the refectory, just as Columba of Rieti had done before me. But my light sisters kicked me away, or giggled, ‘It tickles!’ and I was forced to desist.
    Any good Christian reading this will naturally be amazed to learn that soon after my arrival the priora herself spoke to me disrespectfully at the Chapter of Offences, the weekly meeting to discipline poor behaviour among the nuns. I was stupefied to hear the priora say to me, ‘Beware of pride, Sor Loreta,’ – for this was to be my new name – ‘that you take too much pleasure in humbling yourself.’
    ‘I am worthless in God’s eyes,’ I murmured. Someone stifled a laugh.
    ‘Your manner,’ the priora continued sternly, ‘shows you think yourself far from worthless, Sor Loreta. The sisters complain that you are arrogant and that you look down on them. You cannot be surprised that they find ways to make themselves feel better. You must have seen them imitating the way you keep licking your lips when you see the Host. That is an affectation I order you to leave off from.’
    I turned my deaf right ear towards her, and let her speak the nonsense that was in her heart harmlessly, thus avoiding two sins – hers in uttering it, and mine in hearing it.
    Gianni delle Boccole
    Swear my old Master Fernando give the boy babe one long look and betook imself to the furthest corner o the world. He were that shamed to be the author o sich an abdomenashun as Minguillo Fasan, Great Canary ovva God!
    A brace o weeks after the boy were borned come the news o the devasterating of Arequipa. My Master Fernando claimed that he must see to his warehouse n mines all ripped by the earthquake. And scarce were he back but he were oft agin, under the horsepiss of ‘busyness’, braving all the quarantys agin the Small-Pox n the Yellow Fever. And so twent on.
    We dint know scut bout it at the time, but much later twould come out that he had another reason to keep hurryin to Arequipa dint he.
    Minguillo Fasan
    Soon the sight of my father’s face was to my infant eyes more a memory than a habit.
    See how gravely he humiliated my mother by his repeated absences. Her female friends tittered, ‘And is Fernando returning soon?’
    ‘The damage . . .’ my mother mouthed vaguely.
    Yes, the damage. The earthquake in Arequipa might easily shoulder the blame for a number of sad deaths that the Methodical Reader shall shortly be recording in His daybook.
    The Suspicious Reader cocks an interrogative eyebrow. If my father had abridged his times abroad, for example, would Riva have lived to kindle the corridors and congeries of our home with giggles and pas-de-deux ?
    In fact, I suppose not.
    The truth is that even if he had stayed in Venice, my father would have done little to regulate my behaviour. In those rare times when he was among us, he could barely bring himself to speak to me. He issued no instructions for my handling. My mother showed even less interest. I was left to crawl around the palazzo , to eat whatever I snatched up from tray or table, and learn my manners from our guard-dogs, my scruples from our mosquitoes, and to infect the whole place with my curiosity.
    The servants followed the lead of my parents. Nobody in that whole place nourished a drop of respectful liking for me.They looked the other way ifthey saw me. Or they did what was needful and rushed off, not liking to be
    alone in my company.
    The Reader asks: did I care?
    I did not, and nor did I fail to thrive.
    Though