The Madonna of the Almonds by Marina Fiorato

impatiently at the back of the church while the congregationgawped at the half-finished works that were appearing. Luini never took part in such observances, never uttered a response or knelt in prayer; he was merely anxious for the ritual to be over so that he could carry on. It was a source of great wonder to Anselmo that Luini could depict these scenes of such holiness, and give his figures faces of such sweetness with such an intense fervour of devotion, without having any belief himself. In fact his notions were, to be charitable, classical; and to be harsh, pagan.
    Anselmo sat with Luini so often as he worked, and they conversed so much that the priest began to believe that he might be able to bring some small influence to bear upon his new friend. He felt drawn to the man – so talented yet so lost, a creature of God yet a stranger to Him. He wanted, in short, to save Bernardino’s soul, and to give Bernardino, through his teachings, some understanding of the divinity of man and his work. In this he was destined to be completely disappointed.
    ‘Bernardino, Saint Jerome held it that the painterly arts are the most divine of all, in that they draw the eyes of the faithful up towards God.’
    Bernardino smiled and carried on painting. He knew the game well by now, and knew how he must answer. Anselmo would try to guide Luini, and Luini would attempt to shock Anselmo, and both would fail utterly. ‘In ancient Rome, Caesar’s painters used to capture the essence of the orgy for his friezes by having slaves copulate in frontof them.’
    Anselmo tried again. ‘In the Vatican, there is a painting of the Virgin which is imbued with such divinity that she weeps real tears for the sins of man. This is just one example of how a talent such as yours can transform the lives of the faithful, if such works are painted with a Godly heart.’
    ‘The ancient Mayan peoples used to wall up live virgins in the foundations of their temples. Plenty of tears shed that day.’
    ‘In Constantinople there is a depiction of the Marriage at Cana which flows with real wine. It was painted by a monk who attributes the miracle to his own scourging and penitent prayers.’
    Bernardino turned around on his plank which wobbled precariously. He stuck his brush behind his ear and drank from a skin of water at his waist. He looked down fondly at the rotund priest who had kept him company these many days and hours. ‘Are you saying, padre , that if I were to become devout, my painting would be better?’
    Anselmo sat on the chancel steps, and his tonsured circle disappeared as he raised his head to his friend where he hung suspended above. ‘Truly, my son, you are prodigiously talented. But it is your own soul I fear for. And perhaps there may be some improvement even in your work, for only God creates perfection.’
    ‘Rubbish. My work is already perfect. You’re wasting your time,’ countered Bernardino shortly. ‘Painting is closerto science than religion. A painter without perspective is a Doctor without grammar. I see in measurements and equations; I need no spiritual crutch. I find comfort in a good wine and heaven in the arms of a bad woman.’ He smacked his lips with relish. ‘Is that the purpose of these catechisms? To convert me?’
    Anselmo smiled. ‘Why else would I come? ’Tis not for your company, that is sure.’
    Bernardino turned back to the figure of Saint Agatha. ‘I assume that you were here to stare at the female form, as is the manner of the scurrilous priest. But you will be cheated – tomorrow Saint Agatha will be robed and there will be no more meat for your licentiousness.’
    Anselmo shook his head. He could never confide in Bernardino that, in his opinion, the male form held a great deal more charm than the female. But for him, such comparisons were merely aesthetic, barred as he was by his orders from any pleasures of the flesh. He was happy in his celibate state, but he knew Bernardino was not. Such musings