We stared at her.
“I mean”—she folded her arms—“why not just pray in their bedrooms or something?”
“Sibbs!” Katherine nudged her. “You are such a heathen.”
Sylvia blushed. “I just don’t understand,” she said, looking down into the courtyard. “What’s the use?”
We turned back to watch the sisters. But Sylvia’s question bothered me. What was the use in their silence? It must make it easier to be holy, I decided, if you have no other option.
Just before ten, we congregated at the top of the stairs for the opening ceremony. Everyone was swinging satchels or clutching notepads or nibbling pencils or adjusting ponytails. The bells rang and we all pulled our shoulders back. Even though we were already quiet, Ruth whispered, “Shh!”
We walked down the dark stairs and into the downstairs corridor. Donna Maria was standing by a pair of glass doors open onto the courtyard. Silently, we filed out into the sun. None of us had been permitted into the courtyard until then, and we took the privilege seriously.
Standing on the left was Mrs. Fortescue, the academy coordinator. Her silver hair was coiffed into a pageboy and she wore a navy sheath dress with matching jacket. A thrill went through the girls. We’d all met her in New York during our interviews and followed her florid signatures on our slips and brochures. It was like being presented to a respectable minor celebrity: a Rockefeller widow or an aging De Beers model. Standing behind her was a youngish priest in a black cassock, a white-haired woman wearing bright red lipstick, and an older man with graying sideburns and the dappled nose of a secret drinker.
“Two lines, two lines, please.” Mrs. Fortescue pointed in front of the palm tree, her handbag wobbling in the crook of her elbow. We arranged ourselves with the taller girls at the back, like a class photograph.
The priest stepped forward. “Good morning,” he said. “I am Father Gavanto. Welcome to the Accademia di Belle Arti di Pentila.” He ran his fingers through his hair with the twitchy, flustered gestures of seminary school. He gestured to Mrs. Fortescue. “We are lucky to have Signora Fortescue visit us today. Please applaud.”
We all applauded with genteel restraint.
Mrs. Fortescue stepped forward. “Ladies. I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing you at the beginning of your journey, and I’m delighted to welcome you here, at one of the most picturesque locales in Italy.”
Now that she had given us permission, we conspicuously took in the surroundings. The upper floor of the building was decorated with sun-bleached Mariani frescoes of golden leaves and green apples. A brittle swallow’s nest dangling from the eaves above the library shed feathers onto the flagstones.
Mrs. Fortescue gestured to the white-haired woman. “This is Signora Moretti.” The woman grinned and waved. “And this is Signor Patrizi.” She gestured to the older man, who bowed.
“You have all been particularly selected for this program as a result of your academic scholarship and excellent deportment as ambassadors for the United States of America. Over the next nine months, you will have to work hard and devote your utmost attention to your studies. And this time next year, you will join our esteemed alumni as a Pentilan scholar. Welcome, class of 1958.”
Greta began spontaneously to clap, and when none of us joined in, she buried her face in Sally’s shoulder, a blush spreading over her collarbone. We tittered at her affectionately.
“I will shortly read your class assignments. But first, some administrative matters. Should you have had any difficulty with your checks, I will be in the library between one and two this afternoon. If you have not signed your slips, please return those to me before the end of the day.”
“Now.” She took a breath. “A reminder of our rules. The Innocent Sisters of Pentila are our hosts, and we are grateful for their hospitality. Please remember to conduct yourselves with decorum at all times. In particular, you are expressly prohibited from trying to engage the sisters in conversation. The liaison for this year is—” She looked around and Signora Moretti filled in.
“Sister Teresa.”
Mrs. Fortescue nodded. “You may talk with Sister Teresa only when necessary, ladies. Any housekeeping matters should be referred to Donna Maria.”
We nodded solemnly.
“Breakfast is at seven a.m., and lunch is served at noon. Vespers is at four p.m. sharp. Supper is at six. You have permission to leave the premises to visit La Pentola, but make sure to be back by the ten p.m. curfew or you will incur a demerit. Three and you will be expelled from the academy.
“I remind you of the honor code you have all signed. We expect exemplary behavior from our scholars.” She raised an icy eyebrow. “No overnight visitors. The telephone is available for one hour a day. No smoking in the refectory. And absolutely no smoking in the chapel.” Katherine giggled at the back, and Mrs. Fortescue searched out her face in the crowd. “You laugh, my dear, but it has happened. Attendance at classes is mandatory unless you are taken ill. We insist upon good conduct—no cursing, modest dress, and no bikini suits in the courtyard.”
Apparently recent alumni of the academy had been rather wayward. I looked at Ruth and saw the line of her mouth setting in determination to shame the bikini-wearing, cursing, chapel-smoking girls of years past.
“I wish you luck.” Mrs. Fortescue smiled, and her face powder broke into fissures around her mouth. “If you do not need to attend my administration hours, I look forward to awarding you your certificates in May at graduation.”
She unfolded a piece of paper from her handbag and began to read our names. We were divided apparently at random, and we split off and filed in the direction of the classrooms. I scurried at once, not wanting Isabella to see me linger for her. I was assigned to the room Masaccio, which I knew to be on the left-hand side of the building.
The classroom was small and musty with the scent of stale pencil shavings. It was equipped with eight desks with inbuilt inkwells, and a set of glass doors at the far end opened onto the courtyard. A shelf along the left wall held the usual classroom detritus—glass jars filled with pencils, a pile of hardback Bibles, a busted plastic globe dangling from its hinge. On the wall was a framed painting of St. Teresa addressing a crowded marketplace following a “quickening.” She was raised on a dais overlooking a rabble of sailors and bearded Turks, so I supposed it to be somewhere in Sicily. A ray of light from a parted cloud outlined her garb with an aura, and a seam of gold ran from her lips. Over the course of the nine months, I came to know that painting so well I could have drawn it myself with my eyes closed.
Greta and Sally were already sitting at desks in the front row. Greta looked around expectantly as I entered. “Bridget, phew! I’m so glad!”
“Come, grab this one.” Sally slapped her palm on the desk next to her.