‘Shall I put your clothes away, Miss Bianca?’ she whispers, eager to get back to her place.
Bianca takes her by the hand and twirls her around.
‘First let me look at you. Go on, stand up straight. Look me in the eyes. Do you know that you truly are a good-looking girl?’
Beautiful, too, are the round faces of the kitchen maids, suddenly illuminated by gleeful curiosity. They greet her with due reverence and then run off.
‘Miss Bianca, how elegant you are.’
‘You look like a lady, Miss Bianca.’
To Bianca it is as if they are saying, How could this be? Weren’t you merely one of us? Or just slightly more?
Then, as soon as Pia descends from the second coach, Minna jumps into her arms. Pia lifts her up and laughs.
‘You’re as heavy as lead, doll face. You didn’t get fat now, did you?’
‘What a beautiful dress! What a lovely hat!’
‘I’ll let you try it on later.’
There is laughter of relief and rediscovered complicity. Now everything can go back to normal.
But there is little time for pleasantries. Donna Clara has arrived and descended from her personal stagecoach. Giulietta, who’s had the privilege of travelling with her, throws herself out of the carriage in a frenzy, almost knocking her grandmother down.
‘Giulietta! Is that how a young lady behaves? I want to see all of the domestic help immediately, in the east courtyard. Call Ruggiero for me . . . Ah, here you are, I didn’t see you there, as skinny as you are. My goodness, the hedges. Why has no one pruned them? And what about the lawn? What are those yellow splotches? Does everything stop when I am not here? And move that cart – it’s offensive.’
As always, nothing is right, and will be fixed only when she asks for it to be done.
Donna Julie passes into the house delicately and unobserved. It seems as though she is better, but she is still pale. She smiles at everyone, almost gratefully, and everyone smiles back at her. The children run off, Nanny chasing after them. She needn’t have bothered, as they will certainly not let themselves be caught, but she doesn’t know where else to go. The men will arrive later, in time for dinner, and the wave their arrival will cause will be cushioned by habit. It will be an intimate dinner, serene, en famille, before the holiday rituals attract neighbours and friends to them like flies to honey. People will flock to them, summoned by the serenity that radiates from their small world, hoping to catch this infectiousness as if it is a desirable illness.
Pia seems to have forgotten the encounter that was supposed to have amounted to glory, but which is instead now buried under the sand. Bianca watches how the young maid focuses on reclaiming her place in that world. Bianca wishes she could have her to herself but she feels she needs to let her go. And yet, it occurs to Bianca that she must have planted some seed of doubt because shortly thereafter she sees Pia immersed in conversation with Don Dionisio. They keep being interrupted by every kind of disturbance – the voice of Donna Clara, a servant who walks too close by – but they always take up again where they left off, whether it is an hour later or the following day. It is as if they never get tired of telling each other things. Perhaps Pia seeks approval from her protector. Perhaps she expects to learn more from him. Perhaps truth has to be brooded over like an egg, before it will hatch in all its awkward beauty. Perhaps – and this hypothesis feels like an oncoming headache and Bianca does not want to admit it – not all truths deserve to be revealed. She wishes she could listen to those exchanges, though. She wishes she could understand. For someone who thinks that she has understood everything, not knowing is complete torture.
She is not tired and cannot sleep. It is warm and the novelty of her surroundings keeps her awake, even when an unnatural yet perfect peace has settled over the house, broken only by the song of the cicadas that rises over the gentle sound of crickets. She imagines everyone sleeping: the maids in their quarters upstairs, stretched out on the wooden floor close to the tiny windows; the poet in his loose nightshirt, the sheets kicked to the end of the bed; Donna Julie, pale as the pillow on which she rests her head, the sheets tucked under her chin; Donna Clara, freed from her corset, her mouth slightly open, breathing with difficulty; the little girls, their hair sticking to their foreheads with sweat, their eyelids threaded with pink and blue veins. A house asleep. She imagines Minna and Pia awake, though, their eyes bright and vigilant, the spell finally broken, intent on telling each other stories in whispered voices.
She doesn’t feel like reading. Instead, she gets up to take in the beautiful stillness of the garden. It is a beauty made up of blacks and greys; the only white the marble contour of the fountain and the gravel splashed with moonlight. A nocturnal bird cackles mockingly. Silence.
There is the rustle of shifting pebbles and light, careful footsteps. And then, two small, quick shadows come out from behind the corner of the villa and cross the path cautiously. Once on the great lawn, which swallows up the sound of their feet, they run to its centre, where a new sycamore tree has just been introduced to replace the one struck by lightning. Enrico is ahead and runs faster; Pietro follows behind with a bundle under his arms.
Bianca smiles and remembers when she used to play with her own brother Zeno and his friends Berto, Tiziano and Tilio. Once, at night, they even climbed to the top of La Rocca. It was an easy trek during the day along a path shadowed by oak trees, but scary and dangerous at night. They couldn’t see where to step, the stones were slippery with moss, and there was a heavy curtain of leaves above their heads that shut out the moonlight. But in the end, holding each other’s hands, they made it and were able to look down at the lake from above, sitting together on the stone throne built for an ancient queen.
The two boys are happy to be out on the lawn. Pietro puts down the bundle and gives it a kick. It is a white ball and looks like it is made from strips of silk. When they kick it, it gives off a thudding sound, which seems odd. Is it leather? Bianca, now curious, goes downstairs and walks outside. She won’t scare them. She’ll promise to be silent. And maybe they will let her play with them.
When they see her approaching, the two children stop running and freeze in their places. Bianca is unable to read their expressions. She tries reassuring them and promising complicity.
‘But . . .’ Her words fade into nothing.
The thing has rolled towards her. It is not a ball. It is not made of fabric or leather. It is a skull. A human skull. It smiles at her impassively before rolling over to display its white nape.
The moment feels like an eternity. Bianca brings a hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming.
Pietro comes to her side. He is breathing heavily. He flips his hair with an almost effeminate gesture. When he speaks his voice is coarse, breathy, and yet authoritative.
‘You’ll be sorry if you say anything. You’ll be sorry if you tell on us. You’d better keep quiet. Otherwise I will tell on you and then you’ll be in big trouble.’ He smiles a frightening, adult sneer.
Bianca turns and walks away without saying a word. She is ashamed to have something to be ashamed of.
Another night, after dinner, Tommaso takes her by the hand and pulls her up off the sofa, possessive and insistent.
‘Let’s go for a walk. It’s warm, and the moon is out.’
She refuses. She isn’t in the mood.
‘Oh, yes, you must go. You kids should have fun, not sit around with us old folks, listening to us say the same old things.’
Bianca hears Donna Clara’s bass line of malice, that old strain of envy. Innes excuses himself. As he leaves the room, it is useless to try to make eye contact with him. When he is like that, Bianca has learned, it is better just to let him be, and wait for the clouds to clear.
Once they get outside, Tommaso is silent, as if he is a wanderer of the moor. The silence makes her feel uncomfortable so she starts a conversation.
‘I would have thought that you preferred literature to nature at night.’
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br /> ‘He rejects me. He has something else on his mind, and it’s not his devoted puppy. Dogs have a basic defect: they die of loyalty. I think I’ve decided that I’d rather live.’
Instinctively, Bianca moves further away from him, as much as she can while remaining polite; he must feel her coldness because he adds: ‘You shouldn’t believe everything I say, my dear Bianca. And don’t worry, you aren’t a substitute. If literature is everything, nature is even better.’
His expression is impossible to read. Every so often he turns and looks back at the house, as if he wants to flee from its gaze. They walk for about a mile down the gravel path and then turn up a little hill. The dark grows darker. She sees steps: sheets of stone, as white as dragon’s teeth. She is about to rest her foot on the first step, and tries to loosen her arm from his, but he doesn’t let her go. He actually pulls her towards him and pushes her up the stairs.
‘I want to show you something,’ he says. It is the ice chamber. ‘Have you ever been in there?’
‘No, and I don’t think I ever will,’ Bianca says.
‘Ah, but it’s worth it,’ Tommaso replies, turning the key in the lock. ‘Another of the amazing secrets of Brusuglio to discover.’
Inside, he rummages about with a flint and a lantern that seems to have been placed randomly on the floor. But there is nothing random about it, she realizes; he has wanted to bring her here. Her heart skips a beat. Is she scared? Scared of Tommaso? The door is still ajar, she can still escape. But curiosity gets the better of her.
The dim light reveals a low brick vault. It is surrounded by alcoves and inside there are blocks of ice wrapped in clean cloths. She can see the squares of paralysed deep green water; they are opaque and have the same colour as the lake. The place feels like a Roman catacomb. She shivers not only on account of the cool air, which makes the room as cold as a cellar, but for what lives within. It smells strange. It reminds her of the mix of dust and bones she had inhaled during archaeological visits, when not even a handkerchief in front of her face had been sufficient to suppress the musty air. Here, the cool air enters her nostrils and rises to her head. It is the coolness of the abyss.
Bianca blinks. She feels like she did when she needed to rise from the depths of the lake’s dark waters that she remembers with love. She is almost amazed to see Tommaso still by her side. He lifts the lantern and shines the light all the way around.
‘Nice, huh? In its own way, of course. This place is full of surprises. You should come to see my home, one day. Up in the attic . . .’ Then he stops and suddenly becomes serious, almost bitter. ‘I can’t even go there any more. They treat me worse than a mouse. Do you know why I have brought you here?’
Let him speak, Bianca tells herself. And he does.
‘Of course you know why I brought you here. I am sure of it. A young, bright woman such as yourself. Sharp and cold as a blade. You are the ice queen. Why are you so cold, Bianca, why?’ He places the lantern carefully in one of the alcoves and kneels down before her. He takes her by the hand and gazes at her with the expression of a transfixed martyr. How ridiculous he looks. The dim light gives him the appearance of a wax statue. ‘I kneel here before you as humble as an ancient cavalier, ready to serve you, prepared to dedicate myself to you.’
Bianca takes her hand out of his with a small laugh.
‘Go on, laugh at me,’ he continues. ‘But I am serious. Do you understand me? Serious! Is it possible that only other people’s seriousness attracts you? Mine is not an insurmountable wall or a deep trench that separates. It is the opposite: it is a solid link, a bridge of souls, an arch in the sky that begins at your feet.’
What is he talking about? What does he mean? Does he have a fever? Without thinking, Bianca feels his forehead with her fingers, as she would a child. He looks at her with a calm smile.
‘There. You see how easy it is to take pity on me? And how little it takes to make me happy? I can do the same: I can make you happy, today, here, on this earth. If you let me. Let go of fantasy, forget about them, and choose me. For some time now, I have worshipped you from the shadows.’
Bianca is dumbfounded. She hears the alarm of danger, a voice in her head. It is freezing in here. She wraps herself tightly in her shawl and takes a step back as he goes on.
‘Ah, I see the shawl I gave you. May you always be enveloped in my passion. Did you realize it was me?’
Heavens, no, she thinks. She was convinced that the gift came from somebody else. What about the other things? Instinctively, she jerks the fabric off her shoulders. It is the shirt of Nessus, poisonous when it is recognized as such. He watches her and mutters.
‘You torture me. Does it bring you pleasure? What pleasure could there be in other people’s grief?’
Bianca is tired of this. It is cold. She turns around and walks out. Tommaso stands and follows her. She begins to run. She hears him close the iron door behind her and turn the key, as if to close in his prey, though it has already fled. Or has it?
The following day, in the sunlight, all that cold air seems never to have existed. It feels only like a vague aversion, a mosquito bite that has almost healed, but then reawakens, the venom still pulsating under the skin. An irresistible bother.
Nothing has happened.
And yet it feels like everyone knows. Donna Clara sings an old love song; Nanny smiles faintly; Innes reads his newspapers in silence and doesn’t pass her tea. What do they know? Bianca thinks, growing annoyed. There really is nothing to know.
But every time she runs into Tommaso, she blushes. And it seems like he bumps into her on purpose: in the living room, the greenhouse, the garden. Always with no witnesses around. Even when there are witnesses, it doesn’t matter. He keeps at his game. He will kneel down, put his hand on his heart, over the lightweight batiste shirt that he wears unbuttoned at the top, like a true romantic, as if posing for a portrait. As quickly as he appears, he’ll then disappear, swallowed by the folds of a curtain, a door, or a hole in the ground. Bianca feels like there might be an entire army of Tommasos, ready to jump out in front of her, disrupt her train of thought and make her blood boil. Why? For what? In the end he is just fooling around. No one ever takes him seriously and she will not be the one to start. But her irritation begins to mix with something else too: for truthfully she likes it. She likes it a great deal.
He hasn’t tried to kiss her. Bianca doesn’t realize it then, but this is how he wins. Now all he has to do is wait.
He hasn’t pronounced the word ‘love’, either. Not even once. Bianca doesn’t pay any attention to that. She doesn’t even think about it. She doesn’t think about the gifts or about the gift-giver. She understands the shawl, but the rest of them? They are too elevated to be the fruit of the intelligence of this boy. He hasn’t claimed them, even if he could have. And so Bianca keeps on deceiving herself, and keeps nurturing a small certainty, which is good for her.
And then the heat comes: the white heat of summer, impossible to escape from, except in the early hours of the morning. It lasts all day and deep into the night and it isn’t even summer yet. Everyone is irritable, the children most of all. They are tired of the same old nursery games and forbidden from going outdoors during the peak hours. After only a few minutes outside, they are drenched in sweat and covered with dust. Soon they have violet circles under their eyes, as if they have been persecuted by insomnia. Their cheeks are as pale as winter.
Bianca doesn’t have time for them. She feels sorry for this, but she has to finish a series of hydrangeas before they lose their freshness. She knows that in August the plants will be faded and although she prefers them that way, rather than as they are now, with their big, tousled pink and green heads, her portraits are meant to capture subjects across their lifespan, not only during one interesting state of decay. If it had been up to her, she would have willingly set aside the assignment in favour of a brief holiday. She can think of many ways of entertaining the little ones far better than Nanny is doing.
Bianca smiles to herself as she prepares her colours. She remembers how easy it had been to say goodbye to a governess once she had been used up, and how exciting it had been to wait for a new one to arrive, descending from the sky, equipped with a flowery carpet bag of new tricks and distractions. It is time for Nanny, the poor thing, to change her lifestyle and get married. But how will she find a husband? She should forget about Innes. Tarcisio is the one. Tarcisio would be perfect for her. He is a peasant, yes, but a landowner. He is independent, not shy and clumsy like the others, and he has a certain rugged handsomeness thanks to his impossibly blue eyes. What magnificent children they would have – with Nanny’s copper-coloured hair, the only remarkable thing that she possesses. Bianca shakes her head, scolding herself. But then she starts in again. The game is irresistible. The pair could live in that little house beyond the town walls. It is small but fair. All it needs is a fresh coat of paint, maybe a nice pink, like the shade they use for homes at the lake. She wonders how pink will look against that landscape. Surely Nanny could afford to buy a new outfit too, perhaps in a light grey, a skirt with a fitted jacket that accentuates her waist and plumps up her flat chest. Bianca begins to draw the outfit she envisions: the skirt fluttering at the bottom, a braided row in front, on her head a simple hat held in place by a knot under her chin, and a small bouquet of three blossoming peonies surrounded by magnolia leaves.
If I ever grow tired of flowers, Bianca thinks, I can devote my time to fashion.
The problem with Bianca’s work is that when she finishes the flowers, she has too much time left over for thinking. And desiring. She wonders what the watermill is like at this time of year, if the water is still green and translucent like the fountain of Melusina. She has no time to go there though, no time at all. The hydrangeas call out to her.
Sometimes, at dusk, a small procession of carriages come from the city, friends in search of cool air, who pass the evenings fanning themselves and watching the ice gems from the ice chamber melt in their glasses. Even their conversations seem limp and tired. By the end of the season, all the gossip has dried up. Not even Bernocchi is able to scrape a scandal together. Don Dionisio gets older and sicker. He has to stop every three steps to catch his breath. Pia is always nearby, ready to offer him a cool beverage.
The Watercolourist Page 24