Beatrice and Benedick

Beatrice and Benedick by Marina Fiorato Page B

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Authors: Marina Fiorato
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my hair coming down my back, I was ripe for our next bout. But his mien was frosty, as if an ill wind had blown him back from the sea. His first words told me he had seen my long conference with the poet at the table.
    â€˜Where is your scribbling friend? Does he tire of the dance? Or is he waiting for an ink-a-pace?’
    I ignored his poor jest. ‘I suppose you mean Signor Michelangelo Crollalanza.’
    He snorted. ‘
Gesumaria.
His name is more of a mouthful than my dinner was.’
    â€˜And where are your costly friends? I hope they had a satisfactory conference on the Far.’
    â€˜I do not know,’ he admitted stiffly, ‘for I was charged with guarding the shore path, to see that nobody came near.’
    â€˜Doubtless a very
important
office.’
    â€˜Indeed.’
    At this point in the dance I had to walk about him behind his back, and it was just as well, for I had a smile to hide.
    When I returned to face him the subject had changed with the tempo and he returned to his theme. ‘Who names their son Michelangelo? Do his parents hope he too will become a dauber of chapels?’
    â€˜You may ask his mother if you like. She is somewhere in the measure.’
    I turned around under his raised hand, and caught a glimpse of Signora Crollalanza’s flying ringlets. As I peered at her I saw that she was without a partner, but was alone in the centre of the floor, whirling and whirling like a dervish, her flame-coloured skirts flying out to describe a circle. She was the sun in the centre of the sky, and, like sunflowers, many heads turned to regard her. She looked wonderful, and free. I would have remarked upon this singular sight, even though Signor Benedick was being such a crosspatch at present, but events interrupted our measure.
    The Archbishop of Monreale made his way through the dance with his entourage, deliberately disrupting the measure. There was confusion as the couples stumbled and stopped, and the pipers struck discords and silenced themselves. The archbishop stopped before Guglielma Crollalanza. She ceased her whirling and met his eye. I felt the weight of an old enmity in their glance.
    â€˜Wives,’ he quoted so the whole company could hear, ‘be subject to your husbands as you are to the Lord.’
    There was no novelty in his homily, and the text was commonly heard at weddings; but the tone of its conveyance chilled me to the very bone. It did not seem to be generally meant but directed at this woman and this one alone, this woman who was here without her husband, and who dared to dance alone.
    But Guglielma seemed sanguine – she merely smiled a little, and then bowed to the archbishop, folding from the waist like a man, as if he had favoured her with a compliment. He looked at her with scorn and then raised his voice to where Duke Egeon was seated in his stone chair on the dais.
    â€˜Your pardon, my lord, but this measure is not to my taste.’ And he and his retinue left the place.
    Immediately there was a lightening of the mood, and the company looked to their host. The old duke waved his hand and called in his querulous voice: ‘Strike up, pipers!’
    Leonato, who had been looking on with a shocked countenance, took his wife from the floor.
    As we began to dance again, Benedick was seemingly unmoved by what he had seen, but I had been deeply affected. I gave myself a little shake. My partner looked at me with amusement, and spoke in more friendly tones. ‘You cannot wonder at such a correction, considering the archbishop’s sermon.’
    I looked at him over my shoulder as the ladies took a turn. ‘You think him right in his censure?’ I asked.
    He shrugged. ‘A man and a woman should stand up together. We all have our roles to play.’
    â€˜He said that too,’ I exclaimed.
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Michelangelo Crollalanza. The poet.’
    Anger shuttered his face once more. ‘Then if
he
said as much,

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