“It’s not much of a letter,” Liza said, with a hint of derision.
Her knock had awoken Carolina only a few moments before. Carolina sat up in bed and pushed her hair away from her face. The room around her coalesced in her mind for a moment, flooded with morning light. Then it broke into pieces under an onslaught of memories: dark trees, black water, a frightened child. “Read it to me,” she said.
“Forgive me,” Liza read.
A moment passed. Carolina’s heart swelled with tears. She bit them back.
“That’s all?” she asked.
“There is a number,” Liza said. “Underneath the name.”
“What number?” Carolina said.
“One,” Liza answered.
This was a time to meet, at one that next morning. “Thank you,” Carolina said.
On the floor, Liza moved Carolina’s discarded dress with her foot or her hand. “This needs cleaning,” she said. “Shall I take it for you?”
“Please,” Carolina said.
Carolina didn’t choose to break the meeting with Turri. She simply knew, the same way she knew her own name or any other simple fact, that it was impossible to keep it. Some kind of veil had torn in her mind during the night, filling it with harsh light. In it, the lake became a searing flash. On its banks, Turri’s form flickered, weak and thin, like a flame teased by a draft.
She tried to lose the afternoon in dreams, but sleep hovered just out of reach, turned skittish by the waves of shame that swamped her heart and the fear that roosted in her chest. Memories that she’d treasured of Turri, small jokes, certain touches, no longer worked to comfort her. At the same time, she didn’t dare move. She had a sense that whatever had ripped the veil had also weakened her other defenses, and that now any slight motion might break open the locked rooms in her mind, releasing creatures she was still too frightened to name.
At ten that evening, sleep began to circle. To keep herself from drifting off before Turri arrived, Carolina set her anniversary clock to chime the quarter hours. The first time it did, Babolo was surprised. By eleven, he considered the clock an enemy. At midnight, exasperated by the clock’s lack of respect for his vigorous protests, he fell into a grumpy sleep, determined not to dignify the strange machine with further attention, although he couldn’t refrain from a few disgruntled notes each time it pealed.
Carolina lay on her bed as the hours fell away, her breathing shallow from the weight of fear on her rib cage. When one o’clock struck, her eyes were open, her hands flat on the velvet blanket. Over the hours, she had caught the sound of night birds taking refuge in the eaves, leaves shaking in the wind, the house creaking as the day’s heat left it for the sky. But now there was no disturbance, inside or out. Somewhere, Turri waited silently in the shadows. When she didn’t appear, he raised no alarm.
“Lavender,” Liza said. “With green lace.”
Carolina shook her head. It was an hour before Contessa Rossi’s party, and a week since Turri had left her at the lake. Every day since then he’d sent a new message: clumsily coded apologies, new times to meet. She hadn’t answered any of them. This wasn’t from new wisdom, or anger, or shame: her heart simply drew back from the thought of meeting him the way a hand recoils, unreasoning, from the heat of a flame. But as the days passed, the harsh light in her mind had dimmed. The familiar darkness rolled back in, carrying her dreams with it. She’d sunk into them gratefully, but with a lingering sense of dread that prevented her from flight or exploration. Her wishes had become simple. Often, she settled down wherever she found herself in a dream, to watch clouds slide over the face of the moon or water pass under a bridge, content to be any place that was not a nightmare or her waking life.
Turri didn’t appear in the dreams, but by day she had begun to miss him, not with the desire that had drawn her through the dark house in their early days, but the way a tired child misses his bed. She knew he would be among the guests tonight. As always, she couldn’t imagine a future with him in it, not even where they might meet that evening, or what either of them might say. On these points, her mind was a perfect blank, as if she had walked up to a white wall that stretched endlessly in both directions. But her heart hummed and her skin was alive with anticipation.
“A midnight blue,” Liza said. “Black ribbons.”
“No,” Carolina said.
“Red velvet, with blue trim.”
“That’s a winter dress.”
Liza shuffled through the depths of the closet.
“Blue watered silk,” she said.
When Carolina didn’t answer, she tried again. “Turquoise with navy trim.”
“Are they all blue?” Carolina asked, half as a joke, half to hear Liza’s retort.
To Carolina’s surprise, Liza refused to be provoked.
“White lace,” she said. “With light blue trim.”
“The sleeves are short?” Carolina asked. “Just bits of lace?”
“And lace at the neck,” Liza said. “With the blue trim around it.”
“Bring it to me,” Carolina said.
Obediently, Liza laid the dress over Carolina’s knees, the bodice in her lap and the wide skirts spilling onto the floor. Carolina fingered the stiff lace, following its curve around the bodice to the covered buttons at the back of the neck.
“All right,” she said.
Liza lifted the dress from her lap. Carolina stood and let her robe fall onto the chair.
“Here,” Liza said. She rustled the gown on the floor in front of Carolina. Carolina marked its place with her foot, then stepped onto the swath of exposed carpet between the folds of fabric. When Carolina had her footing, Liza raised the dress and guided Carolina’s hands through the sleeves. Then she circled behind Carolina and began to fasten the long row of buttons.
Carolina ran her hands down into the folds of silk that fell from her hips. “It still fits,” she said.
Liza didn’t answer until she had fastened the last button. “There,” she said.
“I’ll need some flowers for my hair,” Carolina said. “But not very many. I can pin them myself.”
“There are some waiting,” Liza said. “Giovanni picked them this morning, but the cook wouldn’t let him bring them up yet.”
“Send him, then,” Carolina said.
Instead of stalking off as she normally did, Liza lingered.
“Thank you,” Carolina added after a moment, uneasy.
At the door, Liza stopped again. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“That’s all,” Carolina said shortly, frowning in confusion.
Pietro had been at the lake all afternoon overseeing the preparations for Contessa Rossi’s party, so it was Giovanni who led Carolina from the house, down the slope to the riverside. Dozens of voices already rose there: laughter and greetings and contradictory commands on the best procedure for launching the boats full of guests. Carolina strained to hear, her skin electric, but she didn’t catch Turri’s among them.
“I would be glad to stay with you,” Giovanni said, gripping her hand proprietarily as they made their way down the slight incline. “You might want a glass of wine, or need to send a message.”
“Thank you, Giovanni,” she said. “I’m afraid they will take very good care of me.”
“Now the master has seen us,” Giovanni said, with a trace of resentment. “He will be here any minute.”
The voices by the water dropped as she approached, until Carolina could tell she was only steps away from the crowd. She came to a stop. “You’ve been such a help,” she said.
Giovanni squeezed her hand passionately before releasing it. “You look like an angel from heaven,” he managed, as if giving up a military secret under some great threat.
“Carolina!” Pietro said, kissing the side of her face. “I have been in every one of these damned skiffs this afternoon. Your mother was convinced that we live too far inland to build boats that won’t sink.”
“Did any of them si
nk?”
“No, but I almost drowned the cook,” Pietro said. “We had to put the musicians out to sea already. They were throwing sausage at them on land, as if it was some new kind of game.” He noticed Giovanni, still standing by. “Well, all right,” Pietro said. “You’ve delivered her. No need to stand there.”
“Thank you,” Carolina called after Giovanni’s retreating footsteps.
“I am going to put you in line for a boat,” Pietro said. “I would bring you to the front, but you don’t want any of the ones we’re loading now.”
Out on the river, the musicians began to tune their instruments. Scraps of song flared up and then winked out again, lovely but incongruent, like a mural seen by the light of a single candle.
“Here we are,” Pietro said after a few steps. “Can I bring you something? We have lemon tarts and olives. No more sausages.”
“Carolina,” Turri said, and touched her arm lightly.
A thrill of fear ran through her whole body, chased quickly by heat.
“Hello,” she said.
“Turri!” Pietro said heartily. “What do you think of our little party? Was it worth me soaking my feet?”
“I like it very much,” Turri said. “The boats shaped like swans, the servant girls in wings.”
“The boats are not shaped like swans,” Pietro interrupted. “There is no need to tease her because she can’t see.”
“It’s all right,” Carolina said, and pressed his arm.
“A boat for Contessa,” the servant announced from the water. “Sir, you will come, too?”
“No,” Pietro said. “God only knows what will happen if I leave these creatures alone. This is a boat, not a swan, Turri. Do you think you can manage to get my wife safely to the lake?”
If Turri gave an answer, it wasn’t spoken. He took Carolina’s arm and led her down the bank.
Carolina settled back into the pillows in the bow. Water lapped at the low hull.
For the benefit of the other guests on the open river, Turri began a neighborly patter. “This boat looks like it was constructed by the teenage son of the Rossis’ gardener, based on Grandfather Rossi’s cloudy memories of Venice,” he said. “But I can’t blame the boat. It even seems a bit sheepish, like dogs do when girls dress them up as children.”
Carolina hadn’t been able to imagine this meeting, but she had expected something ungovernable: a thunderclap, a disaster. To her surprise, she felt just as she always had, speaking with him a thousand other times.
“I never saw Venice,” she said.
“It’s a terrible city,” Turri told her. He grunted with dissatisfaction at his own rowing. “A swamp, populated by the world’s most stubborn gypsies.”
Another stroke, and the boat glided forward.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” said Carolina.
“They’re not all gypsies,” Turri amended. “Some of them are thieves.”
Now the musicians had agreed on a tune: a popular dance from the last season. It carried clearly over the water, along with laughter and curses from other boats. On the water, Carolina could no longer gauge her location by the unreliable sound. One moment another boat seemed like it might be close enough to touch, and the next moment the same voices were barely audible.
“Where are we?” Carolina asked.
“Comfortably midstream,” Turri said. “The real danger in a storm, as you’re no doubt aware, is not weathering the open seas, but breaking up on shore.”
Nearby, the broad blade of some oar struck water with a great splash, and then, encouraged by the satisfying squeals and shrieks, struck again.
“Carolina,” Turri said, his voice low and changed. “I haven’t slept for days.”
“They can hear us,” Carolina told him, trying to keep her own voice light.
“They’re not listening,” he insisted. “I can’t survive it. You name a place. We’ll leave the minute you say.”
“Stop it,” Carolina said.
Turri fell silent.
Carolina’s heart felt twice its size. Her bare arms tingled as if threatening to turn into wings.
“Is it dark?” she asked.
“There are torches here and there,” Turri said, with a hint of despair. “But they only make the shadows huge, and the water seem like hellfire.”
Carolina leaned forward, holding out her hands. When she found his, she pulled them to her face and kissed them.
“Turri,” Carolina’s father said curtly.
Her family’s servants had dragged all the second-best furniture through the forest to the water’s edge for the occasion. Carolina was curled into the corner of an uncomfortable couch, buried in thick quilts. Pietro sprawled beside her, one arm thrown loosely over her shoulders. Her mother and father flanked them in chairs on either side. The clearing was lit by torches on poles. One illuminated their small circle and warmed the back of Carolina’s neck.
“Turri!” Pietro exclaimed. “Where have you been hiding?”
“He’s been out in a half-swamped boat, trying to throw me overboard,” Sophia said. “But he’d forgotten I can swim.”
Pietro chuckled.
“You could hardly drown in this pond,” Carolina’s mother said. “A child could stand in the deepest part.”
“It is nine feet deep now,” Carolina’s father said in defense of his creation. “Every year, the river carries away more silt. I dredge it each spring, when the ice melts.”
“That’s a respectable depth for any pond,” Turri said.
“The first year, I had them begin digging even before spring,” Carolina’s father said, encouraged. “They were cutting up frozen sod while the snow was still falling. I made the men wash in the greenhouse each night, so my wife wouldn’t catch on.”
“But I knew,” Carolina said.
“You did?” her father asked, surprised.
“I followed you,” Carolina said. “And then I knew my way back.”
“Carolina,” Sophia said, “you must let me borrow my husband’s machine. Everyone talks about it, but I have never seen it.”
“Neither have I,” Carolina said.
Turri laughed, then lapsed into the general silence. On the water, the musicians began to play a Spanish dance.
“It’s such a strange present,” Carolina’s mother said. “What made you think of it?”
“You might as well ask him why he made a flying balloon out of my bridal linens,” Sophia said.
“Did that work?” Pietro said. “I have always wanted to go up in a flying balloon.”
“She wouldn’t set foot in it,” Turri said. “I sent Antonio up this summer.”
“What did he see?” Pietro asked.
“He won’t tell me,” said Turri.
“Well, let him answer my question,” Carolina’s mother said. “Why a machine for writing?”
“Why do we think of anything?” Turri asked her.
“Yes, but a writing machine,” Carolina’s mother insisted. “You’d think you’d have made a device so she could see.”
“I am a scientist,” said Turri. “Not a saint.”
“Here come the musicians,” Pietro said. He leaned in to kiss Carolina, then stood. “I’m going to go and guard them from our friends.”
The music had ended, and the raucous voices of the guests now seemed strange and out of place under the night sky. Peals of glee faded to low laughter, and the men’s shouts died down to drunken mumbling, as if everyone had grown afraid of embarrassing themselves in front of the disapproving stars.
After Pietro had gone, Carolina pulled the quilt close around her shoulders, stood, and walked the few steps to the water’s edge.
“I wouldn’t do it,” Turri said. “Real drowned girls are not as pretty as the ones they paint in pictures.”
“How would you do it, then?” Carolina asked.
“I could put you in the balloon and cut the rope,” he said. “You might get lost in space, or you might wind up on the moon.�
��
“Did the party look nice?” she asked.
“You should have seen it,” he said. “Pietro fitted all the boats with sails made from your servants’ petticoats: turquoise, violet, green, and gold. Then he had lanterns hung from them, so the lake looked like it was filled with fireflies trying to escape from bags of colored paper. The musicians played on a floating dock inside a glowing red tent.”
“He thinks of everything,” Carolina said.
“He does,” Turri said.
“There he is!” Sophia’s voice rang out from farther down the bank.
Turri took Carolina’s hand and kissed it, as tradition dictated. His lips on her skin were achingly familiar.
“Say the word, Carolina,” he said. “Tell me when.”
Carolina waited for almost an hour after Pietro returned her to her room that night. When she was certain that the house around her slept, she crept down the front stairs and through the front hall. In the dining room, she found one of the candelabras, followed the line of its stem up to the curve of its limbs, then fingered the gilt leaves that clustered at the base of each taper. She dropped her hand to the linen cloth that ran the length of the buffet and traced the vines between its embroidered pears and grapes.
She passed into the sitting room, where she wandered among the scattered furniture, revisited favorite figurines, felt the brocade curtains that flanked the front windows. She crossed the hall to the conservatory, trailed her hand along the length of the divan, and touched the keys of a song she half remembered on the piano without actually striking them. She even walked boldly back down the hall to the dining room, where she opened the door to the cellar and took in several breaths of the stale air before she closed it again.
From time to time, she gave herself away deliberately, with a heavy footfall or the clatter of a china figure on the hard surface of some table. Each time she stopped to listen, but she never caught the sound of even a single footstep.
The Blind Contessa's New Machine Page 16