Читать книгу Painting Mona Lisa - Jeanne Kalogridis - Страница 25

My mother fell heavily against me. I crumpled beneath her, colliding with my father as I did. I snatched a fleeting impression of Pico pulling him back before I reached the cold, unforgiving marble. I landed on my side, simultaneously striking my head, my shoulder and my hip.

Then came flashes of green velvet and white ermine, the hems of women’s skirts and the boots of men. I heard whispers, exclamations and Zalumma’s shouts.

My mother lay atop me, her side pressed to mine. Her limbs thrashed; her elbow spasmed and dug into my ribs. At the same time, my mother’s teeth champed; the air released each time she opened her mouth whistled in my ear. The sound terrified me: I should have been holding her head, making sure she did not bite her tongue or otherwise harm herself.

Zalumma’s loud commands suddenly became intelligible. ‘Grab her arms! Pull her out!’

Strong hands seized my wrists, lifted my arms above my head. I was rolled onto my back. My mother’s head fell onto my breast; her teeth snapped fiercely together. All the while, her arms and legs pummelled me; her hand swiped beneath my chin and drew away a piece of flesh beneath her fingernail.

Near my feet, invisible, Zalumma bellowed: ‘Pull her out!’

My father at once came to himself. With uncanny force, he clasped my upraised arms and dragged me out from under my mother’s writhing body. The movement caused an excruciating surge of pain in my ribs.

But the instant I was free, it was forgotten. I did not acknowledge my father’s aid; instead, I clambered to my knees and turned to my struggling mother. Zalumma had already crawled forward and used her body to weigh down her mistress’ kicking legs.

I found the furred edge of my mother’s cape and jammed it between her gnashing teeth. My intervention came late: She had bitten through her tongue, with frightening result. Blood stained her lips and teeth, cheek and chin; the white ermine round her face was spattered with crimson. Though I held her head fast, it jerked so violently in my hands that her cap fell back beneath her. My fingers soon were interlaced in her soft dark hair; the careful coils arranged earlier that morning by Zalumma frayed into tangles.

‘It is the Devil!’ A man stepped forward – young, red-haired, with pock-marked skin; I recognized him as the priest from Santa Maria del Fiore. ‘I saw her do this before, in the Duomo. She is possessed; the evil inside her cannot bear to stand upright in the house of God.’