This story was inspired by Crivelli's Annunciation, a painting I saw in the National Gallery, London.
The birds chattered among themselves as a cloud moved into position.
"I understand your concern," said the Angel to Adorno, "but really it is all a matter of perspective."
Adorno chuckled, seeing the joke. All around him the new straight lines of the Garden stretched off into the distance. It was a drastic change from the natural, easy curves of the day before. The flowers had all gone.
"But surely, Your Divineness, the girl will be affected?"
"Not at all. Well, maybe a little," the Angel conceded.
"And my Garden?" Adorno looked down, fearing to show his all too worldly love for fleeting grass.
The Angel shrugged, which is an impressive gesture if you have wings.
"I am assured that it can be restored."
"I see. And ... the child? What of the child?"
The Angel turned and looked up at Guiseppi on the steps. The little boy scowled at him and threw an apple. Naturally it missed. Adorno had not thought Angels capable of wilful misunderstanding. Was it humour? He coughed and said, "No, Your Excellency, not that child. The Child."
The Angel waved a hand airily. "All shall be well."In the room above, the Peacock said to its owner, "I don't think that creature could fly with those wings. All is vanity."
"No more can you with yours. Now be quiet. I'm trying to listen."
The peacock sulked.
In the distance came the voice of Annick, reprimanding the builders. The crest of the new wall still oozed mortar, stickily. Flies were gathering. Adorno welcomed the shoddiness. It kept his wife from eavesdropping.
"I still don't understand. Why my daughter?"
The Angel regarded him gravely. "She is chosen."
"She could have had a lover. A husband. A child of her own! Who'd have her after all this?"
"She will be provided for."
"And that's another thing," said Annick, bustling up importantly. Adorno looked down at the marble in embarrassment. "It'll cost, a midwife and all. And one less pair of hands around the house. Who's to pay for that?"
"It is ordained, wife of Adorno," said the Angel. "You will not lose from this."
The wife of Adorno forgot herself so far as to stamp her foot. The Angel looked up at her reprovingly. She blushed and curtseyed and fled.
"Your wife is not content."
Adorno blushed too, undignified. "I do not think she understands."
"And do you?"
"No."
The Angel sighed a very human sigh. On the bridge above the terrace, the damnable couriers were at their business again. Adorno knew that this was not the time to call the guards.
"Are they talking about you?" asked the Peacock of its owner.
" I hope not. We'll see."
The Angel rearranged wings, in a glinting of bronze and gilt, and tried to explain. "Your daughter will have a child. This child is very important. It is an honour."
"Who will honour us for this?" Adorno said soberly. If his wife had spoken, it might have sounded shrewish.
"The child will be honoured in time.
""What time?"
"Our own time." Now the Angel looked resigned. "This is your town. It will grow. It will become famous. Is that not honour enough?""All because of this child." Adorno's tone was flat, because he dared not sound his disbelief.
"Mostly because of this child. You yourself will not be forgotten, " said the Angel reassuringly.
"Now you are just saying what every man longs to hear." Adorno was shocked, and smiled to cover his lack of reverence.
"Am I? It may be so."
In the room above, Magdelena shook out the rug. Now her father's self-esteem was being massaged. She had heard this many times. So this one had wings. And so? She threw the rug over the balustrade, and set the pot of rosemary to hold it against the growing breeze. She did not lean out, for then the two might see her.
"All is vanity," the Peacock said, fluttering aside from the dust.
"All is dirt, foolish bird. And one of these days you'll be bathed." She scooped water from the pitcher for the caged canaries, and flicked a wet hand in the Peacock's direction.The Peacock squawked, rousing Adorno from his contemplation of worldly fame and everlasting life. "So am I doomed for this?" he asked the Angel.
"I do not understand."
"Surely my reluctance is rebellion of the soul. I am questioning the will of God."
"Your ... doubt is not ill-placed. It shows a curious mind. Never fear. All shall be well."
"Magdelena is to bear a child!"
In the room above, the daughter of Adorno dropped the blue jug, making the birds flutter frenziedly. The Angel heard the shattering glass. Guiseppi on the stairs stared up at the canaries. Adorno had not heard.
"The time is not yet. You may still refuse."
"But if I do? What will become of us?"
"We do not seek revenge." The Angel smiled. It was not a human smile.
"If I refuse, all will be as it was?" Adorno said pleadingly.
"Even your Garden will be restored." The Angel fluttered a wing in the direction of the trees. "We will not need there to be lines."
Adorno frowned. "I don't know what to do," he said, almost to himself. He was tired. This moderate and sober and conscientious man: thus far his great decisions had been to rid the town of opium (the dealers muttered on the bridge behind him, waiting for the next carrier pigeon); the engagement of a municipal ratcatcher, at one sol a year (no rats yet nibbled the apple that Guiseppi had thrown); monetary provision for unmarried mothers, taken forcibly - if it must be so - from the declared father.
"And what of my reputation?" he blurted out. "I'll be the joke of the town! Adorno the scourge of those who love and leave! Who cannot find the father of his grandchild!"
The Angel rose. "I see you are not ready for this task."
"No! Wait!" cried Adorno, mayor and would-be saint. "For God I can endure. This is but life. Reality waits after."
"Indeed it does," the Angel said, and smiled. Wing feathers ruffled slightly in the breeze, gleaming.
"I am sorry. I have erred."
"And what of me?" Magdelena whispered to the Peacock. "How have I erred, to deserve this?"
"All is vanity," the Peacock repeated. Something glittered in the sky beyond the pillar. On the ceiling, the mosaics edged away from her gaze. She stared, wide-eyed. "Did you see that?"
"See what?"
"Oh!" Adorno's daughter stood, in a rustle of green silk, and ran softly to the chapel below. The Peacock preened itself, and chanted, "All is Vanity."
The birds twittered. The clouds swept east. The other cloud moved west.
"So tell me again. One last time." Adorno knelt, weary of all this confusion.
The Angel knelt down with him, quite humbly. The marble was hard and cold and pleasant to the knee. "Your daughter will bear a child, though needing to lie with no man for it. The child will change your world." The Angel stooped, and picked up the apple which Guiseppi had thrown. Adorno had thought it well out of reach. He shook his head.
"This apple is like your daughter now. Untouched, and yet it holds the seeds of what is not yet born." The Angel tossed the fruit to Guiseppi, who listened wide-eyed and uncomprehending on the steps. Adorno thought that he himself understood as little as the boy. The child caught the apple. "As for original sin, we shall not speak thereof," added the Angel, wishing that the mores of this time would allow the girl some word in this.Adorno had not thought of it that way.
"And when ...?" he asked, subdued.
The Angel looked at the sky. The wind was rising and clouds raced east across the sun. One cloud drifted steadily, contrarily west. "It is nearly time," said the Angel compassionately.
"Can I not see her first?" Adorno looked up, noticing the three men on the bridge pointing but ignoring them. A laden pigeon laboured towards them, against the wind. In the distance the trees were bowing together.
"There is no need. She does what she must do without your help."
From the end of the Garden, Annick stared at them. Her mouth was open as if she was trying to be heard, but there was no sound. No sound at all. Adorno turned again to the Angel, who said, "Do you consent?"
The mayor looked down at the marble; then, with resolution, up at the sky. "That is God's vessel there?"
"Yes," said the Angel, who hated lying. "That is the vessel of light."
"Then let there be light," replied Adorno, and grinned a death's head grin to show that he had made a joke.
The lines of the Garden were evaluated, the angles measured. Like a slow hand about the point, the beam was kindled.
"So you consent?"
"For my daughter's sake, I do."
Magdelena knelt in the chapel. Her head was bowed.
"But ..." Adorno began. The couriers on the bridge shouted that the wrath of God had come upon them. Adorno did not care, but hoped that it was true. He looked down again at the marble. How would he face her? The birds fluttered as if it was sunset. The Peacock, looking round, saw the light and defecated, frightened, whitening the rug and the ornate frieze.
The light came in from the sky and bounced off the pillar and passed delightfully through Magdelena's skull and down her spine, straight to her womb. She felt the love of God throughout her soul.
The Angel had risen, and was looking sadly in through the window grill. Questioning, embarrassed because of this ecstasy, she stared back at him. She could see her father kneeling, an old man, behind the metallic wings. She could see this child, too, might die.
"It is not God. Nor is it love. Pray now that it might be change," said the Angel.
And went away.
© Tanya Brown 1993