The Watercolourist

by Beatrice Masini

  ‘You know nothing about me.’

  ‘You’re right. And that seems only fair after all the effort you have put into hiding your cards. From me, at least. Anyway, we know nothing of anyone, especially when one has the arrogance to believe he knows everything. Perhaps you are mistaken about me, too though.’

  ‘How could I be, when you define yourself with such precision? I abide by your own self-portrait. And anyway, I’m not judging you. I don’t have the impulse or the desire to do so.’

  Tommaso is silent. He sighs.

  ‘I’ve erred again. Miss Bianca, you have the power to confuse me. Please use it sparingly; be generous and kind. My poor heart cannot bear such torment.’

  ‘Now you’re teasing me.’

  ‘Me? Never. I, I . . .’

  ‘It’s getting chilly. Goodnight.’

  And with that, Bianca leaves the garden, passing through the open French window without waiting for a reply. Well played, she thinks. She has left him speechless. But she is left exasperated and tired and moreover she doesn’t quite know what their exchange has signified.

  She feels too the burning sensation of wasted opportunity. They have been in the garden. It is night. She could have spoken out.

  I don’t like him, I don’t like him, she repeats to herself as she climbs the stairs. She goes into her bedroom, but her half-closed window summons her. She cannot help but lean out on such a beautiful night and ask the darkness for confirmation. Tommaso is still down there. She sees the embers of his lit cigar. It looks as though he is coughing. No, he’s laughing. Or crying. Is he crying? Bianca has the feeling that he knows she is watching him, so she stands up but lingers at the curtain still. Is he crying?

  Bianca isn’t stupid. She is rash, impulsive, equipped with a ferocious imagination, tumultuous and passionate. She is also timid, contemptuous and arrogant in convenient doses. But she is anything but stupid.

  So why, now that everything is clear with Pia, is she still protecting Don Titta? He is guilty and will soon be charged with a crime that is terrible in its very banality.

  Maybe he doesn’t know about it, she thinks. Or more likely, maybe he didn’t know at the time. Maybe he found out later and is still coming to terms with it. She thinks back to his bewilderment that afternoon in the nursery, when, perhaps for the first time, the truth had become apparent to him. Why should he have known? He has been away from Milan for so long. It is one of those things and life moves on. Maybe the woman has kept quiet; her family, if they even knew, remain silent and act as if nothing has happened, as one does in this world of scandals. Only others know.

  As sly as a detective, she realizes she needs a perfect stranger with a clear-headed gaze to help her put events in the right perspective. How happy the poet will be when he realizes the precious role that Bianca has played in unveiling the mystery. A spirit as righteous as his will surely be content to fix his mistakes. How grateful he will be to her for having finally created an opportunity for sincerity. Bianca likes to imagine it this way. She does not understand that certain truths are not meant to be paraded around like banners, but need to remain carefully folded up in the bottom of trunks. This ignorance of hers is forgivable. It stems from her youth, naivety, and tendency to see and draw the world only in black in white.

  But things do not happen quite the way she had planned.

  ‘Titta, Titta . . .’

  Donna Clara mumbles her son’s name and looks around the crowded room for him. Donna Julie stands next to Bianca and smiles with great effort. Her eyes are glassy and she wears two splotches of artificial pink on her cheekbones as a kind of mask. It takes her a long time to become aware of Bianca’s presence, and when she does, she turns to look at her as if to explain.

  ‘This is one of the most luxurious salons in Milan, you know. Things happen here.’

  Bianca follows the gaze of her companion until it rests on Don Titta, surrounded by a cluster of people. He is facing away from them. Bernocchi hangs off him as if he is a beggar. Even from far away, she can tell that the count is speaking quickly and animatedly. Then she sees him go silent and stare at Titta, as though listening to his reply. Bernocchi takes his hands off the poet’s arm and makes to walk away, but Titta detains him by placing a hand on his shoulder. Their positions change: they face one another directly. The discussion continues. Don Titta glances away and then back at Bernocchi without stopping the conversation. He looks away again, but this time slowly and deliberately. Bianca follows the direction of his gaze: it is focused on the entrance. The lady of the house is welcoming someone now, her shoulders largely concealing the guest. Bianca catches sight of a long, shiny, smoky grey skirt. Donna Clara and Donna Julie look in that direction too, the expression on their faces darkening. Donna Clara seems excited, while Donna Julie’s face simply clouds over. Another couple stand behind the woman who has just arrived. Bianca turns back to Don Titta and Bernocchi; they seem stunned, as if hypnotized. Their eyes are fixed not on the hostess but on this newly arrived guest. Bianca looks at the woman again. She is dumbfounded. It is her: the ghost, more real now than ever. As the woman moves into the room, she looks around in search of a cluster of people to join. She freezes for a second and her forced smile cracks. Then she continues forward towards two elderly ladies dressed in black.

  Don Titta and Bernocchi say goodbye by gripping each other’s forearms, like a move in a wrestling match. Bianca cannot see their faces any more, just that strange gesture uniting them. Who is about to leave? And where is he going? Who is stopping whom? And why? Donna Clara, who has been mute until now, chirps to interrupt the silence.

  ‘Isn’t there anything to drink here?’

  Her voice comes out hoarse. She coughs to clear her throat.

  ‘I’ll get something for you,’ Donna Julie replies and walks away in a rustle of clothing.

  As soon as she is gone, the lady of the house takes Bianca’s arm and directs her firmly towards a group of women who want to meet her. They speak of flowers, naturally. Of flowers and commissions. Bianca has to concentrate and act complacently, receive compliments, make promises, and book appointments. Viola Visconti follows the conversation with a triumphant smile, as though Bianca has been her creation. Bianca smiles back generously in return.

  When she is finally set free, she sees Don Titta cornered by his mother and wife in a screen of flesh and fabric. Bernocchi has vanished. The ghost, too. But that comes as no surprise. Perhaps Bianca has only imagined her. Or it could merely have been someone who looks like her. She walks towards the back room where she has been told there is a Luini painting of rare beauty. But she never gets there. The back of a figure in grey, with tiny buttons dotting her spine, blocks her way. The lady is leaning out over a balcony railing and looking down at the dark street below, from which comes the sound of a departing carriage. As the sound retreats, the lady straightens. She turns around, shocked to see Bianca standing in front of her. Bianca feels herself blush but doesn’t know why. She has nothing to be ashamed of.

  The two women fall silent and study each other for as long as they can, without conversing. With one penetrating look, Bianca takes note of the woman’s amber skin – it is beginning to slacken along her jawline. Her chestnut-brown locks of hair are so dark they look, and perhaps are, artificial. She wears too much colour on her cheeks and a large, oval brooch speckled with small seed-like pearls at the centre of her neckline. Bianca stares at her in silence, unabashed.

  The other woman responds with an uneasy smile and then flutters her fan aimlessly.

  ‘Nice evening, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is a nice evening indeed,’ replies Bianca, who has no desire to speak about the weather.

  ‘Do . . . we know each other?’ the woman asks.

  ‘No. But that’s just because no one has introduced us yet.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Let’s not pretend. What good would that do?’

  ‘Exactly. It would be useless.’

  If Bianca could
see herself from a distance, she would say that the two of them face each other like insects at battle. One advances and the other recedes in barely perceptible movements; it could be an exchange of pleasantries or the defence of one’s territory. But beneath the surface there is so much more. Both of them are accustomed enough to the rules of society to know better than to go for the eyes.

  ‘Shall we see each other tomorrow, at the fountain in the gardens? We will be able to talk there,’ Bianca says, beginning to feel nauseous from this stealthy game. ‘Goodnight.’ Then, without even waiting for a response, she walks away. Her heart is racing. Her improvised rashness has given her a sense of vertigo. She isn’t at all certain that the other woman will agree to the meeting.

  Donna Clara walks up to her now, brandishing a tiny glass.

  ‘I see you made a friend. What do you think of her?’

  She looks Bianca up and down slowly.

  ‘Are you talking about the woman in grey? I thought she was someone else. Salons aren’t the best place to get to know new people,’ Bianca observes, trying to sound offhand.

  ‘Oh, and why not? In places like these, witticisms shine. When there is wit, of course,’ Donna Clara says drily.

  ‘Of course,’ echoes Bianca indifferently, following the older woman’s piercing gaze back to the woman in grey. Their trajectory is diverted by Donna Julie.

  She is panting, rosy-cheeked and speaks in a rush.

  ‘Here you are. Nice evening, isn’t it? I can’t remember the last time I had such a lovely time. Signora Visconti really knows how to throw a party. And you? Are you having a good time too, Miss Bianca?’

  She is confused and excited, when she is usually so quiet and calm. Her eyes burn feverishly, flickering here and there as if she wants to stop everything and take it all in. Then Donna Julie freezes and her face goes pale. Bianca looks over to see what she is looking at: Don Titta is speaking with the ghost. The pair are wan and unsuitably serious. They look intently at one another, staring in silence. At this distance it is impossible to comprehend the meaning of their exchange. But Bianca has her proof now. She has received her confirmation.

  The report from her young informant, Girolamo, was extremely clear. Bianca was not expecting much, just a couple of confusing words hissed into her ear. Instead the boy has maintained his promise and given her a name and a history, written in dark penmanship on a piece of heavy paper smudged with dirt.

  Costanza A., unemployed, moneyed, single, twenty years of age, entrusts her daughter to the care of the hospital and the services of Alberta Tonolli, midwife. Her daughter, one month in age and in good health, still needs nursing. The child has been baptized in the name of Luce but will receive the new name of Devota Colombo. The child does not cry. She is clothed in a batiste white camisole stitched with ringlets, she is swaddled in plain white cotton, she wears white leather shoes tied with a pink lace ribbon, and a bonnet with the same ringlet embroidery as her camisole. She is resting in a French-style carriage cushioned with strips of fine linen and has three other camisoles and three less precious bonnets. She is wrapped in a white woollen blanket with bunting. Her pledge token is a pink and green velvet pillow embroidered with a golden lamb with a silver bell. The mother has declared that she is intent on reclaiming her child as soon as circumstances allow her to do so.

  The child who was given up is vividly described, Bianca thinks as she rereads the note, piecing together the details, making the fragments fit with care, like trying to mend a broken teacup. That dry farewell must have agonized the mother. Bianca sees in her mind the authority figure that interrogated and the other figure that surely wept. She tries to imagine the scepticism of the official in charge. Perhaps they let women handle these things because they are gentler and can feel that unspeakable grief across the table. The child does not cry. But somebody else did. Fourteen years ago, a baby girl by the name of Luce, then renamed Devota, was brought to Santa Caterina alla Ruota and abandoned there. The age corresponds. The rest is evident. Devota’s Christian name is changed to Pia: the same name in a simplified form, an ugly orphan name so that she will never forget her poor beginnings. The identifying token of the lamb pillow is unique, though, an unclassifiable luxury in that cold hospital.

  Everything is so clear, so obvious. Costanza A., unemployed . . . If she was twenty then, she’d be thirty-four now. How could Bianca ever have searched all of Milan and its surroundings, all of its 150,000 inhabitants, for a thirty-four-year-old woman who is well-off enough to have entrusted her child with an exquisite set of goods, but so alone that she had to give up her newborn to public charity? A woman who wanted to return for the child when in fact the girl was adopted by a country priest? Bianca never dreamed that she would meet the target of her own investigation at a social event. It is clear that the woman is discomfited, but she is not grieving. Bianca wonders whether time really does heal all wounds, as people say when they want to appear wise. But if that woman really is Pia’s mother, and has been so rash as to go out searching for her daughter, why has she stopped behind the gates? What has kept her from tearing down all the obstacles in her way? And if everyone knows about it, as it is beginning to seem to Bianca, then why hasn’t anyone taken a step forward? Why perform that strange dance of confrontation and retreat? Questions, so many.

  Bianca doesn’t really expect Costanza A. to show up at their rendezvous. She disguises the sortie so that she will not feel too silly when she is disappointed. The season is so mild that the children are able to brush aside the hesitations of both mother and grandmother and go outside. Of course, they are overdressed, bundled up in their stuffed jackets. But Nanny has the good judgement, for once, to allow them to remove some of their clothing as soon as they turn the corner. She quickly becomes a porter, lagging behind with her bundles. Bianca leads the group and holds the two smallest girls by the hand. The other three children follow, Enrico and Giulietta arm in arm, Pietro with his hands in his pockets and his cap to one side, like a ruffian. The route isn’t long but they travel slowly. There are so many things to stop and look at: an old woman selling bunches of wild flowers, three identical boys dressed in light blue who are playing with hoops, and a stray dog with a thin snout like a ferret who runs off after some delicious smell. And then there are the palazzi, carriages, and small shops. This is a game of discovering a city that has, until then, been a mystery to them.

  They finally reach the green swells of the park and the wild smell of grass that makes them want to run freely. There are other children sailing boats in the big pond, and some mallard ducks floating there too.

  ‘Why is one colourful and one not?’

  ‘The one without colour is female. The male is dressed as if he were a soldier at a grand ball. But she looks as though she had to rush out of the house and didn’t have much time to prepare.’

  The children laugh.

  ‘That’s because we men are better,’ says Enrico, stealing a glance at Pietro in search of approval. For once the older brother disagrees.

  ‘I don’t like soldiers. Papa says they are persecutors.’

  Nanny smirks but Bianca ignores them. She looks around, pretending to focus on the landscape. She feels sure the lady in grey will not come.

  But there she is. Bianca recognizes her from her bearing. She wears grey again, a spent grey this time, almost penitential. Bianca whispers something to Nanny above the heads of the children, who are busy watching the launch of cutter ships, and wanders off. In a sign of understanding, the woman in grey follows her. They stand beneath a row of linden trees pruned into boxes and planted so close to one another that the foliage meshes together in a geometric tunnel. If someone were to observe them, they would see only shadows.

  ‘I decided to come,’ the woman says, as if she herself is unable to believe it.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Bianca sighs and hesitates for a moment. Then she recites the speech that she has so often rehearsed at her window, to the fire, to the mirror, to no one. Th
e words slip out of her easily and in a long and weighty chain. Words connect, affronted and accusing. Instinctively, the woman takes a step back, as if Bianca might strike her. She fumbles with her hands and blushes, red splotches surfacing on her neck and cheeks: the ugly signs of shame. When Bianca finishes, the lady in grey looks down at the ground.

  Almost to herself, she says, ‘It’s all true. But it’s all in the past now. I do not want to think about it any more.’

  ‘But not even a year ago you were playing the part of ghost for all of Brusuglio! Do you remember?’ Bianca asks, convinced that the woman must be mad, and that maybe it is for the best.

  ‘Yes, I do remember. And I am sorry.’ The woman speaks in a low whisper. ‘But you see, things have changed. I . . . I am about to be married. You will laugh at me,’ she says, but it is she who laughs a dry, low, bitter laugh. ‘I’m a withered old maid, but I might have found an arrangement. My parents did everything for me. I did not ask them to. I do not have the right to ask for anything. Who am I to say no?’

  She seeks Bianca’s eyes and then looks down again and shakes her head.

  ‘What do you want to know? You are young and beautiful and independent. Your name is on everyone’s lips here in Milan. You’re the rising star of illustrated botany.’ She recites the words as if she is reading the headlines of a newspaper. ‘You have everything. You can manage on your own. I have always done what others expected of me. Always. Up until . . . after I gave the child away. I spent my days berating myself for my mistakes. I didn’t know any better.’

  Bianca feels neither compassion nor pity.

  ‘The child, as you called her, is a girl now. Or did you perhaps forget that, too? I don’t understand you.’ Bianca tries to keep her calm, but disdain has got the better of her and her words become sharper. ‘How could you possibly deny her like this? You bury the past, and that’s that? It seems as though she is dear to you. You look like you are desperate to see her. And now I can help you.’