Essentially, nothing really happens. If Bianca was a little older, she would know that this is how a storm announces itself. A bubble of still air pushes forward, a river of emptiness is created, and then things fall apart. Attention is lax and omens fade. Later, she will say that it has all been predictable, and therefore avoidable. Later still, she will tell herself that no good comes of thinking that way. It has happened and nothing can be made right again.
It is an accident. These things happen in a household full of children. A ball made of Florentine leather – this time a real one – flies through the open French window and crashes into the glass bell jar that sits on the mantelpiece above the French fireplace. The objects under the bell jar are also French. Donna Clara has told their stories countless times; they are relics from a life that seems to belong to someone else, far off in the distant past. They are neither beautiful nor ugly, and of value only to the person who owns them. They are small, motionless things of questionable taste. There is a stuffed dove, its marble eyes fixed on nothing. There are some gesso flowers and fruit created by Garnier Valletti of Turin, based on certain garden fruits of the Hesperides. And finally, there is a miniature tree, which in reality is merely a small branch shaped like a tree trunk. From it hang three small, straw-like garlands in pale, almost unnatural colours: one blonde, one nearly grey, and one almost white. They are three locks of Carlo’s hair that have been cut at different times of his life. The last lock of hair was cut shortly before his death.
The ball crashes into the room and sends these grim relics and shards of broken crystal flying across the floor. The little dove is bent out of shape but continues to clutch at its branch with an odd arrogance. The strands are scattered, and the fruit chipped. Donna Clara, attracted by the clamour like a fly to honey, stands immobile in the doorway. She covers her ears with her hands, as if she does not want to hear any explanations. The maids come running and then disperse to find brooms and dust pans. Bianca, who has been arranging flowers in the foyer, finds Donna Clara on the floor like a bent black tulip. In trying to retrieve the hairs, she has scratched her finger and her blood drips on the white strands, resealing an ancient pact.
The cause was a naughty child. Though it was not done deliberately, Pietro is sent to his room without dinner, even if it is only three in the afternoon and dinner still an eternity away. He stays in the nursery until the following day. When he emerges, he is not at all penitent. It was just an old decoration, wasn’t it?
Giulietta asks for the white dove before it is thrown away, and it is given to her. From that day forward, she carries it in the pocket of her smock or between her fingers. She doesn’t want it to fly off, as birds have a habit of doing.
The weather changes. A heavy nocturnal downpour brings forth the summertime in its full force but the following morning the park is in ruins. Broken branches, flower heads, and torn leaves sprinkle the great lawn. Matilde comes running.
‘Look what I found,’ she says, proudly dangling a small dead country mouse by the tail. Nanny draws back – quelle horreur – but she is the only one to do so. Everyone else is spellbound by the creature’s perfect little body, its damp fuzz, the delicate pink fringe around its closed eyes, and its miniature paws.
‘Should we give him a funeral?’
Enrico manages to obtain a gold-bordered chasuble from the church sexton. He runs back to them wearing it, holding up the long tunic with one hand so as not to trip. He stops, lets go of the folds, and recomposes himself, opening his arms and broadcasting pagan blessings for the deceased.
‘Can I say a prayer?’ Francesca asks. ‘Dear Mouse, I hope that you are happier in Paradise than you were here. You died young and you didn’t know very much. I hope a piece of cheese waits for you in heaven. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ everyone replies and they bury the little mouse in a box beneath a bush of Olea fragrans, where he will not be forgotten.
Besides this small loss, the world cannot be better aligned. In the time it takes the gardeners to tidy up after the storm’s damage, the sun has dried the garden. The rain leaves everything green and crisp, as if it is springtime. Nature is restored to a glistening state and the timing cannot have been better: they have to prepare for the estate’s annual reopening festivities. Truthfully, the ladies would choose not to have a party, but their friends are expecting one.
‘It has to take place,’ the poet says in his strict manner. ‘And I have a reason for it. It is a secret reason. Be patient, and you will find out.’
Everyone does their part to help. Donna Clara, pleased to be in charge once again, declares that the house, although it has been properly cleaned after their arrival, needs to be scrubbed again from top to bottom, eliminating every hint of dust and spider’s web.
Donna Julie is still tired. The heat has taken its toll on her and the thunderstorm hasn’t been enough to restore her strength. In any case, taking charge is not something she is good at. Instead, she relaxes in the shade of the sycamore tree, resting beneath its sweeping, low branches on a new chaise-longue made of braided straw and light-coloured wood – a homecoming gift from her husband. Bianca has sought refuge in that spot many times herself before the arrival of the chair. The location makes it easy to forget about the surrounding world.
The children run off in all directions to rediscover the estate, which still appears surprisingly new to them, though a tad smaller. In the back of the house, through half-open windows, Donna Clara can be heard commanding her troops through organized chaos.
Bianca seeks out her own hiding space. The greenhouse has suffered damage from the hail and many of the windowpanes have been shattered. She sweeps up the pieces of glass and moves the plants around, which leaves her a luminous, ventilated and sheltered space. It is one of those rare instances where a loss becomes an advantage, at least until the windowpanes are replaced and the greenhouse will go back to serving its intended purpose as a warm, damp, stifling place. At that point Bianca will have to find another refuge. Meanwhile, she stays there and works. She feels somewhat lazy, which is unusual for her and which she blames on the tantrums of the weather, just like everyone else.
She is in the greenhouse when she receives a letter. The big celebration is only two days away and the letter announces that she too will have a visitor. Bianca reads it, looks around, rereads it, and puts it away. She fixes her hair as if to organize her thoughts, picks up the missive, and goes to search for the mistress of the house.
‘He will be our guest of honour,’ is Donna Clara’s dutiful answer to Bianca. But there is also a vein of sincere curiosity. ‘Are you saying that he will bring his military attaché with him? Interesting. Just so you know, I have always preferred Minerva to Mars. As far as my son is concerned, I am sure you know how he feels . . . and one of these days he’s going to get all of us into trouble with his crazy ideas. But of course, your brother will be welcome in our household, whatever his uniform may be. Did you say that you look alike? No? That’s too bad. Attilia, two more bedrooms need to be prepared in the west wing. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’
Bianca listens as Donna Clara gives more orders.
‘You have plates to dust and silverware to polish. Be careful of the Chinese vases! Have the floors been waxed? And what about the quails’ eggs? Can someone please tell me if the quails’ eggs have been delivered?’
Zeno looks so handsome in his uniform. He had brought it with him in his trunk, neatly folded away, so he could secretly show it off to his sister. The red jacket accentuates his blond hair and the blue of his childlike eyes. Or perhaps, thinks Bianca, pushing him back so she can get a better look at him, I will always see him as a child. Tassels and ribbons on his cap create a crown of almost feminine complexity that borders on the ridiculous and must surely be uncomfortable. But perhaps one actually goes to battle in rags, half naked like savages, leaving those lofty hats behind.
‘You seem happy,’ she says and he takes her by the waist and spins her around.
/> ‘I am, dear sister. This is what I wanted. You, on the other hand, seem as light as a fairy. Don’t these barbarians feed you?’
She places a hand on his mouth to silence him and together they laugh. She hasn’t felt so happy in centuries, it seems. So much at home, and at ease. But there isn’t much time for intimacies. He and his friend, Paolo Nittis, a tall and slender soldier with a coiffed moustache and shiny hair and who cannot take his dark eyes off her, have arrived in the middle of the afternoon and at the height of the preparations.
‘Have you a nice room for me, my trusted valet?’ Zeno asks with a smile as she accompanies them to their quarters.
Because of the heat, she has left all the flower arrangements until last. The cut flowers wait for her in a washtub full of water and ice. She dips her hands in fearlessly, allowing the cold to move up her wrists through her body, like a long shiver, until it reaches her head. I will do the flowers, she thinks, then go upstairs, get changed, come back down and celebrate.
It is the beginning of summer, the night of San Giovanni, the night damsels wait for a sign from the heavens to tell them their lot in love. A year ago she felt out of place and ran away from that celebration to follow the calling of another. Now she will do differently. She is more at home in this small world. She can allow herself to have some fun, can’t she?
Once she is back in her bedroom, she peels a small pear that she has stolen from a triumphant display in the house’s entrance, throws the peel over her shoulder, turns around, and attempts to decipher the letter that the peel forms. Is it a P, B or D? She would appreciate some help in understanding. Then: What of it? she thinks. My little brother is here and we will laugh and dance. It doesn’t matter if there are no other cavaliers for me. We will talk together on the great lawn in the torchlight; we will drink sparkling wine, and in silence we will promise each other things, as lovers do. And it will be all right if the promises are not kept.
Before leaving the city, Bianca made time to visit Signora Gandini’s shop to order two summer dresses. She has paid for them with her hard-earned cash and because of this they seem like the most beautiful dresses in the entire world. It is difficult for her to decide now which one to wear. She almost misses the days when she owned only one elegant gown, the one she wore for her eighteenth birthday. Perhaps she should wear it: the white muslin double-skirted dress of plumetis. Although it is starting to become a bit tight across her chest. No, no, she will wear one of her new gowns. Should she wear the antique rose or the jade green? She knows that the pink one makes her features softer – even the milliner has said so. She has unstitched some of the roses that the seamstress placed at the neckline because she finds them too girly. The other dress accentuates the colour of her eyes, though, and she is almost certain that no one else will be wearing that style.
‘Very few girls can wear this sort of dress. It makes most of them look like fish, or ghosts. But not you. You were born to wear green.’
And so she opts for the jade. It has a high waist in the Paolina fashion, which seems destined to last forever, and a thin, triple-braided ribbon that falls down her side for almost the whole length of the dress, becoming untied at the very end.
‘You are the perfect model for this dress,’ Signora Gandini had said. The neckline is square, generous, almost daring. ‘Only girls with a little bosom can wear this.’
Et voilà, a defect has been transformed into a virtue by way of fashion. She’s had three minuscule flowers for her chignon made from tightly rolled-up pieces of the same fabric. She needs Minna or Pia to help her with them. But where are they?
Bianca draws closer to the window, still barefoot and impatient. She is just in time to see Count Bernocchi descending from his coach, making it rock dangerously from side to side. He looks up towards the facade, sees her, smiles, and gives a quick bow. Bianca draws back, hoping he might mistake her for a curtain. Perhaps he hasn’t recognized her and only wishes he had seen her. She feels her cheeks burn. Bernocchi has become so insistent of late. He calls her a ‘beautiful little flower’. He even sent her a complete garden of sugared almonds, replete with petals and leaves, which had aroused admiration from them all, especially from certain hungry family members who had wolfed them down. He tries to make time with her alone, and Bianca avoids him as much as possible. She flees from his ambushes in the corridors. And when they are in the presence of others, which is almost always, he stares at her with big, rheumy eyes that make her almost miss his sardonic look. Even Donna Julie notices his strange silences.
‘Did the cat get your tongue?’ she asked once.
Now Bianca turns her attention back to the pear skin lying on the floor. B for Bernocchi, with a big belly, she thinks. But P for Paolo, Zeno’s tall friend. Solemn and composed, the soldier’s gaze burned straight through her. He had one of those dark stares that are hard to read.
‘Did you know, my dear sister,’ her brother said, ‘that all Sardinians are dwarfs except this one? Where do you come from, my friend, the land of Snow White?’
Paolo’s answer was a blinding smile.
P is also for poet. But the poet only stares at her in silence. Behind his impenetrable eyes is an entire world, a world in which there is no dancing, only fighting for causes worth fighting for. His weapons are words sharpened in anger.
There is a letter for everyone’s name and yet not one is right. Bianca’s heart sings the easy song of youth, of blood coursing through her veins, of a new dress and beautiful new jade-green shoes. She wears a bracelet of tiny white roses which she has made herself, and which she, without the help of Minna or Pia, has to tie around her left wrist. No one will have jewels like this; I am the lady of the flowers. And she wears one more thing: her mother’s earrings, tiny pearls like droplets falling from two golden knots. ‘Knots of true love,’ her father said when he handed her that gift, ‘the love of which you are a sign.’
That night, Bianca skips down the stairs as if she is flying. She slows down as she reaches the foyer with its hundreds of candles and takes one step at a time, as though the dancing has already commenced. Outside, the dusk creates puddles of near darkness where the trees are low and thick. Happy swallows scribble across the still light-blue sky above the sycamore tree.
Bernocchi, thankfully, is out of sight. Zeno and Paolo look up and watch her descend the stairs, as one does for a young woman. And when she reaches the last step they bow to her and take her by the arms, one on each side, two glowing escorts in white and blue.
‘You are truly enchanting,’ whispers Paolo, his eyes fixed on her.
“That’s enough, you. She’s just a girl,’ Zeno says, his voice rising. It is the first time he has ever protected her. He is the younger of the two, after all.
‘Shh.’ She silences both of them, feeling superior and exquisite.
Bianca frees herself and walks in front of them to the dining room, where, by Donna Clara’s instruction, a modern buffet has been prepared. She has done well in choosing her green dress, she thinks with a hint of frivolity, because the room, which is two or three tones darker, is an ideal background for her. She has to stop thinking like this. It isn’t her party. It is an occasion to celebrate the beginning of summer, the reopening of the house, and the secret announcement – which is no secret at all – regarding the upcoming publication of Don Titta’s novel.
Indeed, it is really a party for the poet-turned-writer and for his wife, who has patiently stood at his side through turbulent times, almost dying while doing so. But that’s what a writer’s wife has to do, is it not? Or perhaps that is the role of any wife.
Donna Julie looks ravishing in an ivory silk gown that contrasts sharply with her dark hair, which she wears down for once, straightened with care in two bandeaux with only a couple of rebellious curls. Fixed to her hair is a small bunch of tiny flowers (so that’s where Minna and Pia have been). The whole effect makes her look like a delicate bird. Hanging from her long, white neck – devoid of the usual foulard that pr
otects her from the cold – is a cross of diamonds, her only adornment.
Donna Clara, on the other hand, parades all of her rings and pendants, including a long chevalière that hangs over the generous shelf of her chest before falling into nothing.
‘Are those the keys to the heavenly kingdom?’ Bernocchi asks, covering his venomous mouth with one hand, his eyes enraptured by the perpetual movement of her golden key pendants. He is far enough away for Donna Clara not to hear him, but the others do.
Bianca feigns indifference but secretly she smirks. Everyone knows that they are in fact the keys to the now-silent harpsichord and to the crystal box in which Donna Clara keeps her most precious relics. Or so they say. Who knows if she has now added the dead man’s hair to that pile, Bianca asks herself with a shiver of horror.
And then she stops thinking. She laughs, dances, drinks, dances again, drinks again, laughs, drinks some more, runs, blushes, pales, and dances. She travels from one cluster of guests to another, tirelessly. She talks, answers and quips, as lively as ever. During the formation dancing, Zeno whispers to her.
‘Is this really you, sis? I didn’t think you were so worldly.’
‘I’m not, in fact.’
‘I thought you had come here to work, not to learn new dances or how to become a coquette . . . Who is that man pouting over there? He’s been staring at you all night.’
Tommaso’s face floats over the large knot of his white tie. He stands to the wall as if nailed.
“The dances aren’t new. And I’m not a coquette!’
The Watercolourist Page 25