The Watercolourist

by Beatrice Masini

  Bianca adds this impulsively, without really meaning to say it. It isn’t entirely true. She will help Pia for Pia’s sake, not for the sake of this woman who has abandoned and avoided her child. But ultimately, won’t it have the same outcome?

  The woman looks at Bianca as though she hasn’t heard a word. She continues her train of thought.

  ‘People are right: what good is there in rummaging in the past? It’s like turning over a stone and watching the insects and worms wriggle in the sunlight. I could only do her harm at this point.’

  Haven’t you done enough harm already? Bianca thinks to herself. You and your stupid apparitions, the artfully abandoned token, and all the rest of it?

  ‘I didn’t know better,’ the woman says and gazes off into the distance.

  If she could, Bianca would hit her, right there and then. But what is stopping her? Nothing. So she slaps her, just once, and only the kind of slap a small hand can give, but it’s piercing. It leaves her palm burning. The woman brings her fingers to her cheek, perplexed, and as Bianca takes her hand away, she looks at it in horror, as if she is expecting to see it stained with blood. Despite their position, a little girl playing with a hoop nearby has witnessed it all. She freezes in place and lets go of her toy, which keeps on rolling and then, finally, falls into the grass. Bianca turns to stare at the child until she runs off. What is a tiny slap compared to the kicks, punches and torn-out hair that this woman really deserves in order to bring some justice to the world? But what sort of justice would that be?

  The mistake is made, though, and the outcome is immense. In front of Bianca now stands a contrite little lady, a poor woman searching for another chance, a woman who has turned her back on the past. She is ashamed. And Bianca is ashamed, seeing her own reflection in this lady, seeing her own silly passions laid bare before the dark conspiracies, mysteries, plot twists, and imagined happy endings. She feels foolish. Her actions are like those in a cheap novella printed on inferior paper, paper that is good only for wrapping vegetables. Costanza A. will marry a rich old man. Maybe she will be blessed with a child at a late age to replace the shadow of her little girl. Or perhaps she will lead an isolated, second-hand life. The only thing real in all of this is Bianca’s illusion that Pia’s life will change. The mistake lies in having nurtured this illusion as if it is something precious. It is living one kind of life whilst reasoning that one is entitled to another.

  Bianca cannot think straight. She stands face to face with the ghost that she has been chasing, who is nothing more than a pale woman with three red stripes along her cheek and great, hollow eyes. Eyes that now avoid her own. She is a woman who probably dislikes herself but who has learned to absolve herself; a woman who cannot wait to leave and to forget. Bianca only comes to her senses after Costanza A. has turned around and walked away without a goodbye. There is nothing left to say.

  Bianca looks for a bench. There, she sits down and reflects. She tries to calm her heartbeat. Enough is enough. She throws her head back and looks up at the light blue sky above, in all its obtuse honesty. The little girl comes back to reclaim her hoop, regards her warily, and runs off again. It is time to leave.

  Bianca can hear the other children, her children. She follows their voices and finds them in the middle of a big field doing cartwheels and tumbling about, their clothes horribly soiled with green striations, evidence that will be impossible to conceal and which will raise loud complaints in the laundry room. But it has been worth it. They wanted to play horseback, to roll in the carpet of grass, and smell its sweet murkiness. Bianca claps her hands and organizes an impromptu game of horsemen and princesses. She plays the part of a horseman. Nanny, as usual, does nothing. The rest of them laugh, trip, gallop and fall about. By the evening, Giulietta has a fever.

  Once she has calmed down, Bianca thinks things over. She has been a presumptuous fool. She is a more provincial, faded copy of Emma Woodhouse, far less witty and with fewer accomplishments, who has tried to organize a mixed-up world and then recompose it to fit her own design. She doesn’t possess a vision of a final version; really she is sustained by nothing at all. She can only busy herself with flowers, examine them through a lens up close. It is right for her to limit herself to this.

  What had the ghost said in the park? Your name is on everyone’s lips. Thank heavens her name isn’t on everybody’s lips for her demented attempt to repair the lives of others. No one – or almost no one – is aware of her theories; only a handful of strangers who have no interest in sharing them, people who have been paid to talk only once and who will therefore now remain silent. The comfort of knowing this, though, does not make her feel any less embarrassed. She has learned her lesson. Or at least, that’s what she believes. She doesn’t realize that she still has many lessons to learn, things that cannot be taught, things that one only picks up a little at a time, through living. How can she know? Her life has been lived in a glass box, like the ones she keeps her most precious subjects in, sealed and yet still vulnerable. She has viewed the world only from inside this glass, as though waiting for a storm to break it open. There is no defending herself, no escaping. She can only hope that the clouds will rain down somewhere else. But that is a lame hope: it will be better to stop and run for shelter, or dash out into the open and feel the cold rain on her body. She will risk it to feel alive. She wants to feel alive.

  It doesn’t take much to console a young woman who doesn’t like herself. Bianca only needs to know that someone else likes her. And, after the white stone, Bianca soon receives other gifts. She finds them in unusual places: at the door to her bedroom, under her breakfast teacup, resting impudently on her empty desk. A green and white shawl made of lightweight cashmere, and as warm as an embrace, has been wrapped in a piece of flowered fabric. A few lines of writing, perhaps the beginning of an unfinished poem, or maybe the end of one – It is here that my heart rests – have been folded around a small silver box full of seeds and other symbolic items. A false pomegranate that looks incredibly real, its peel speckled with brown flecks. It is evident that someone is courting her in a discreet and ingenious manner. Someone who knows her well but doesn’t want to scare her. Someone who wants to remain in the shadows, at least for now, and so sends her messages from there. Whoever it is knows that it will be pointless to give her flowers and so focuses on objects instead. Bianca loves the fact that she doesn’t know who the sender is. It doesn’t force her to make decisions or to react. At this point in time, choosing a witty remark or expressing a common courtesy would be difficult for her.

  That is how she is: resolute to the point of being reckless where it concerns other people, and as uncertain as a child when her own feelings are tangled and confused. It is easy for her to recognize these sentiments in others and classify them with the detachment of an academic. But she doesn’t even try to decipher herself. Perhaps her admirer has understood this and is taking advantage of it in his own elegant and malicious way. This option shouldn’t be excluded. But Bianca doesn’t even dig that deep. She is satisfied with the surface and with the portrait it gives her in return; she is a Narcissus who leans over to enjoy the best possible reflection.

  She is tired of her own conjectures and imagined fantasies. They haven’t led anywhere. She needs to work; she has many commissions, and she ought to bring them to a conclusion before returning to Brusuglio, where she will have to dedicate all her energies to her main project. Her contract lasts until autumn. Everything has to be completed and handed in by then. She is expecting intense months ahead and is prepared for them; work doesn’t scare her. If there is something she fears, it is herself. The self that she doesn’t know and that she doesn’t understand. But she will never admit it, and in fact ignores it. She keeps her eyes on the ground and stumbles forward, as if she is playing blind man’s buff. Be careful not to fall, Bianca.

  But still there are things that Bianca cannot let go of. She is like a dog tugging on a glove or shoe. She doesn’t fully understand that the gam
e is over. And because the dream of a happy ending – with its round of applause and smiles and gratitude – has dissipated, she feels spite. She feels anger at the poet and his indifference. Here is a man who has lived two lives with ease. First, the immoral life of a young libertine and then the inspired life of an artist. Now he is satisfied with his current family, with the compassion they inspire in him, and with their boring, comforting, shared rituals. She wants to stop him in the hallway, grab him by the shoulders, and shake the truth out of him.

  How can you, Don Titta, you, the model of paternal love – strange in your ways and as bizarre as you please, but so damned good – how can you ignore your own daughter? She is an outcast who moves and breathes just one step away from those who have the privilege of bearing your name. She has nothing, only a licence stating she is an orphan and the future prospects of a maid. How can you be two people? Is it because of the customs of the era or because of your breeding? Or does the combination of the two, a topic so dear to you, foster this conflict? Are they really just words? Simple living-room banter?

  If only she could speak these words, as honestly and as angrily as she feels like saying them. She wants to see his expression change, to see him laid bare, unarmed, stripped of his high rank, and suddenly sincere. In his sincerity, he will be humble, thankful and magnificent. She wants to be the one to tear the veil from the mirror and show him his true face. Don Titta, one can always change, she will say. One can always make right that which went wrong. He will be so committed to her afterwards for giving him the courage of truth. She wants to be the inspiration for his renewal. It is an arrogant thought, at first just fleeting, and then cultivated in a myriad of variations. She is just one step away from understanding what she truly feels – but it is the one step that she doesn’t take. At the age of twenty it is difficult to be honest with oneself. And then her anger will cease. She will turn on her heels and make her way back to the house in the heat of scorn.

  Her anger never lasts long though. It explodes like a storm and then dissipates into mitigating rivulets. She fumes and then is quiet in tumultuous succession. And she loves in silence, too, so secretly that even she isn’t aware of it. Hers is a love like water, that takes the shape and colour of that which holds it.

  She loves, and because of this, she forgives. In the end, since she forgives herself, she can extend the privilege to whomever she desires. It happens quickly. All she needs is a spark of intuition, a notion that she can hang on to. She finds it on the balcony overlooking the garden: there Don Titta and Pia are standing under the shelter of the catalpa tree. She draws back but remains nearby, in the shadows of the corridor. Even if they turn around, they won’t be able to see her. But they don’t turn. They are too involved in their conversation. Bianca is a little far away to read the words on their lips.

  She should feel her usual anger, the usual repertoire of venom: You are her father but you act like her master. But the sweetness of their exchange – hands moving in mid-air, nods of understanding, conversational gestures – everything about those two bodies reflects a closeness that isn’t there merely by chance. They aren’t speaking about that evening’s dinner menu or about Enrico’s tantrums or the umpteenth book on loan. Something else unites them, Bianca is certain of it. She leans back against the wall, relieved, and full of unexpected joy.

  What if she can actually bring together these two people who have been so cruelly separated, and thereby obtain a semblance of justice? If all that is needed to fix things is desire, can’t she just desire it for them and imagine it a million times over? Won’t that bring about some tiny result, even if it is infinitesimal? It will still be the right and natural one that she has imagined. All won’t be for naught, Bianca tells herself. Although, she suddenly thinks, if these two are speaking to each other like this already, something must have happened.

  All of her rage, suspicion and acrimony suddenly vanish. How strange, Bianca thinks. There’s so much grace and intimacy in their exchange. As she continues to watch from afar, she feels like a spy, even if it has happened by accident. She can’t help staring at them. She can’t avoid it. Perhaps Don Titta is actually doing what he can for the girl, given the circumstances. And perhaps he does this every day, lightening his conscience and eliminating his guilt. No, the evidence is always there in front of him, the vibrant memory of his mistake. Maybe he actually holds on to it, nurtures it, wants it close by. Bianca acquits him in a rapid verdict.

  Now that she has her target centred, she can finally walk away from it. She smiles to herself and goes to her bedroom, leaving the pair to say whatever they need to say to each other, whatever their hearts tell them. They are alone in the world, like two lovers who have finally found the courage to be themselves.

  In the days following, nothing much happens; there are no announcements, revelations, or clarifications. There is only a quiet normality, as if each of them has returned to their ranks and is pleased to be where they are. Bianca grows agitated. She draws and scribbles, and then tosses everything away. She breaks her charcoal and gets her hands and arms dirty. She goes downstairs, intent on finishing her drawings, but is left speechless when the poet walks out of the room in a hurry, without even taking his hat. He casts a glance at Innes but the latter does not respond. She slips away from Tommaso, who has in the meantime handed her a tiny glass of cordial or rosewater, and goes back upstairs, opening the window and looking for answers in the treetops outside.

  When she goes back downstairs she is intercepted by Donna Clara, who needs a confidante for some of her gossipy affairs. She spends half an hour nodding like a mindless doll. She ignores the little girls, who wave to her as she walks by. She ignores Nanny’s look of silent reproach. She sends for Pia, but in front of her smiling innocence she falls silent. She cannot make up her mind about anything. In the end she asks only for a cup of tea.

  Love and war. Love is war. It’s a careless occupation by a foreign territory within you – daytime, night-time, in everything you do. One is invaded, one resists, one surrenders. And surrender is productive. If one could measure the benefits by placing a piece of oneself on a scale and on the other side what is produced, lost, and what remains, the only certainty would be that something is consumed. If you fantasize about what you want, do you lose it? Or does it become ruined? There’s always an abyss between the desired and the achieved; the abyss attracts and summons like a wall that needs to be climbed over or jumped from.

  Should I come forward and take what’s mine? Should I take what’s not yet mine? Should I move towards what I want but do not know, or should I wait for it to be placed into my hands? To take or to give? To give in? Should one do this?

  Should I sit on the sofa with my hands in my lap and a smile on my face? Should I peer out of the window into the night to see who is in the shadows?

  We give some things and we want some things. In the end, what counts is what we can give. I can give something. But can I, a lone female in this world, only desire, hope, and then finally say yes? Can I also say no? Yes, the arrow points to the future. No, the stone drags you to the bottom with the algae, dazed as though dead. Father, how many things you neglected to teach me. You left me too soon. By your side, I could have learned how to distinguish and evaluate, how to listen to myself, how to understand. No, that’s not true. I would only have been able to interpret your eager and curious signs. I would have carried myself towards an easy place and given up on thinking and deciding. I would have been happy that way. That, too, would have been a kind of love. But I don’t know it now. Or perhaps you would have helped me understand myself. With infinite patience, you would have helped me to understand an unknown language. You had already decided to let me go before everything else happened, before this torment. And now I know nothing. I do not know myself.

  It happens. The living room is empty of unwanted presences. She stands in front of him. For just a moment she sweeps away all conventions: he is her equal. She has to do it; she can do it.
/>   ‘I must speak with you.’

  ‘I, too, need to speak with you. But it’s so difficult to be alone in this house. Even talking is difficult.’

  ‘I know. I wanted to tell you that I understand. You have a position . . . you choose to ignore the legitimate rights of someone less fortunate . . . I understand, but I do not accept it. A man like you, so open, so progressive. It can’t be . . .’

  Everything is said without hesitation. Followed by the just reply, the beautiful humility of an admitted fault. A shadow hides his face; he leans in towards her, their eyes lock, for once. A sigh.

  ‘You are right. I take full responsibility for my mistakes. But the day will come when finally everything will be clear, everything will be able to be said in the light of day. Miss Bianca, this day is not far off. I imagine it in my darkest moments when I feel there isn’t anything left to hope for, when oppressive fetters bind me to my role, as you point out. That’s when everything will change. Only then will we be allowed to be ourselves.’

  ‘So then . . . you . . .’ She trembles, encouraged. Yes, yes. It is about to happen. Yes.

  ‘I want to say that the moment is close, the moment when things will change forever, there will be no going back, and we will no longer hide. Do you understand?’

  He takes her hands in his and squeezes them. Bianca doesn’t know what she is supposed to understand. She is confused. Has she understood, or not? And then, as if in a farce, there is a distraction. A sound close by. They let go of each other’s hands. It is Tommaso.

  ‘Ah, here you are. I was looking for you, Titta. Our friend has arrived.’

  Don Titta turns around sharply.

  ‘Yes, certainly. I’m coming.’