‘But you are new indeed.’
‘Hush, hush.’
And yet, perhaps Zeno is right. It was one of those moments that make her feel as though something has just changed, or has to change. She gallops forward in dance.
Am I really altered? she asks herself in a moment of rest, fiddling with a lock of hair that has fallen out of her chignon, standing in front of one of the tall nebulous mirrors at the entrance. Perhaps it is the stain of time on the glass, or the light from the chandelier, but she really does look different. She looks back at herself impudently, without ceasing to fix her hair. This Bianca is less bianca and more lively and green, like one of her rare hellebores. She is a winter flower: she has survived the frost, and has lifted her nonchalant head from the cold to look around, deciding she likes the world the way it is and that she will stay a while.
All this takes place in a moment. Suddenly, a tall shape appears in the reflection behind her. A man wrapped in shadow or perhaps a cloak. No, it isn’t a cloak. This isn’t the season for cloaks. Who is it? The shadowy figure disappears but not before giving her an indiscreet look, a look that disturbs her greatly, even if her shoulders are covered, her neckline is conservative, and her ankles are not visible. For a moment, Bianca feels stripped bare. She blushes to the roots of her hair and waits for the flush to subside before rejoining the guests.
Her embarrassment lasts only a moment, though, and she soon feels the pleasurable warmth that rises when one has danced much, drunk a great deal and been admired by many. Thanks to her slight intoxication, Bianca jokes with self-confidence. She flees artfully from Signora Villoresi with a polite curtsey. The lady wants to commission a set of dead leaves – that’s exactly how she says it, a set, as if she is dealing with a service of dessert forks. No work tonight. But Bianca forgets that the reason she is there, and not dressed as a Nanny or a tutor, is thanks to those dead leaves. Foolish Bianca, for whom one glass of sweet wine and a sugared compliment are enough for her to forget who she is. But who is she really? She is a girl on her own who feels like having fun. Who can blame her? Donna Clara and Donna Julie would warn her if they could read her heart. With the wisdom gleaned from the experience of the one and the calm erudition of the other, they would tell her that too much light is deadly for nocturnal butterflies. But she wouldn’t listen. She would nod her head, yes, but close off her heart. Her ears hear the music summoning her again. She contemplates the couples whirling across the large stage of smooth wood, positioned at the foot of the stairs.
‘Care for another dance, Miss Bianca?’
It is too late to avoid Bernocchi without being rude. She shouldn’t be, it wouldn’t be proper. And she has to admit, he does know how to dance. He focuses so hard on it that he doesn’t have time to chat, which is helpful. Bianca eyes his chubby ankles, his shoes of yellow damask that look as though they have been cut from the coat of a reptile, and feels his perspiring hand tight on her back, even through the shield of her clothes. Now it is time to change partners. Her new partner places his hand on her waist – light and airy this time. He doesn’t dance as well, but he is handsome and tall. It is Paolo Nittis from Sassari, which has to be a city full of snakes and stones, with all those S sounds to its name. She wonders if all Sardinians have eyes the colour of spilled ink. Since he is the first she has ever encountered, which feels a little like seeing an exotic bird in an enclosure, she asks him. He blinks, as though he hasn’t understood, and then smiles, revealing his white teeth.
‘Come see for yourself with your own eyes,’ he laughs. ‘My land is wild and untamed.’
‘And you?’
He seems to find her question amusing.
‘I’d say I have been domesticated, by now. My uniform has helped a great deal’
‘Oh, what a pity. I have enough domesticated puppies around here to keep me company.’
Nittis casts a quick glance around the room at the men dressed in the latest style of frock coats, their hair combed back. Everyone looks the same, a pack of hounds.
‘Woof!’ laughs Bianca. She feels Nittis’s hand release her and suddenly she is in someone else’s more familiar grasp. She has never danced with Innes, but it is as if she has always done so.
‘Tonight I like you more than usual, Miss Bianca. You are bold.’
They share that same sublime, dry precision of the language.
Bianca looks up towards the facade of the house, certain that Nanny is peering out of one of the windows, protected by the darkness. Governesses, poor creatures, are only invited to parties in novels. They wear new dresses and flowers in their hair, and stay seated all night long. They lose their gloves and stain themselves with lemonade. I am not a poor thing. I am not a governess. I am a free woman, I know how to read, how to write, how to do arithmetic, how to draw, how to uncover mysteries and solve riddles . . .
‘What are you thinking about?’
The question seems banal, but Bianca has had enough practice in navigating salons to know that banal and silly questions do not really exist. Only banal answers.
‘I am thinking about how fortunate I am,’ she answers, looking up at Innes both because the difference in height requires her to do so and because she wants to see his reaction.
‘I think so too,’ he says. ‘But fortune is cultivated in the greenhouse, you know. It is a rare flower that doesn’t last.’
‘Please do not speak of flowers. Not tonight, I beg you.’
‘Is our gardener on her way out? Has she hung up her gloves and apron?’
Together they smile. It is lovely to be made fun of without needing to take offence. How different that same phrase would be if Bernocchi had spoken it. But Innes can say anything to her. Why is this so?
‘What are we, you and I?’
He understands her immediately and grows serious.
‘Brothers. Neighbours of the house and of the spirit. Accomplices.’
‘Friends?’
‘That’s different.’
She bites her lip and then curtseys, as required by the dance. If she could, she would hug him. Perhaps this is the first time, in all my life, that I feel at home, she thinks. Does that mean this is the right place for me? Is this my place in the world? Thoughts scatter, like frightened birds. A moment, and then all that is left is a lingering intuition and the disappointment of not having seized it.
Suddenly, the master of the house bows before her briefly and formally, as is his manner.
‘May I have this dance?’
What an absurd question, Bianca thinks, letting herself be guided towards the centre of the stage. She would accept even if she were exhausted, even if all the guests had left and the house were empty, even if there was no more music. Sometimes, one doesn’t have the right to say no. And anyway, a dancing poet?
‘It’s almost an oxymoron,’ she thinks out loud. He looks at her without understanding. Thank goodness a good deal of the phrase had been lost to the orchestra.
He is, in fact, a decent dancer with a natural ability that can only have come from intense practice and habit at some point in his life. It is as if he ceased to dance only yesterday and is now ready to take it up again, although Bianca knows very well that this isn’t the case.
She looks around her and everyone’s faces appear the same: dilated smiles on dolls’ heads. She sees Donna Clara’s acute and questioning eyebrows, Donna Julie’s innocent smile, Bernocchi’s smirk, Don Dionisio’s mild indifference, Tommaso’s paleness, and all the others – perplexed, curious, ironic.
‘What about your wife?’ Bianca asks suddenly, worried about conventions. He still hasn’t asked Donna Julie to dance. He started off the evening by accompanying his mother.
‘She never learned to dance,’ he replies.
She thinks about Donna Julie: her modest ways, her sober clothes, her lowered gaze, prayers and fasts. Bianca has heard the story many times in the maids’ quarters. His mother chose this wife for him, a fresh young girl ready to marry; she was young and rich, from a good
and pious family, ready to move from one cloister to another. He loves her, though. It is evident. He looks for her now, they exchange a spark of understanding, and he keeps on dancing.
Earlier, when he made his announcement, it was the same. Donna Julie did not stand by his side. She placed herself in a part of the salon that allowed her to survey everyone and everything. Invisible, yet always present. He gave her a look before signalling to the musicians to fade out the polka. The guests interrupted their dancing and gathered around the French window. He made his way forward, creating an empty space at the centre of the hall.
‘Friends,’ he said, ‘you are here because it is the beginning of summer, because we have returned to our much-loved Brusuglio and because we want to share with you the joys of the season before they turn to suffering – the light kind of suffering that nature inflicts on us. In fact, I am pleased to say that we were able to eliminate all the mosquitoes for tonight’s celebration.’ People laughed and he continued.
‘We have also been able to summon a light breeze to comfort the warm bodies of those who love dancing. We know that it won’t last. There will be heatwaves and crops to think about. But those are my concerns. You know that I am a country poet – and perhaps more country than poet – that’s up to you to decide.’ More laughter.
‘But there’s another reason I have invited you here. Many of you know that for years now I have been working on a project that has absorbed my days and nights. Some people called me mad, and perhaps they are right. But my feat is finally over, and I will now begin the second part of my adventure. In September, my historical novel will be published.’
Applause.
‘And then I hope that someone will read it.’
Laughter.
‘Actually, no, I hope that people will purchase it – either out of curiosity or simply to see what has gone through this madman’s head. Ultimately, I only want people to buy it. I don’t even care if they read it!’
More laughter.
‘I know that many of you appreciate me as a poet. Recently, the poet in me has become a sort of youthful brother to consider with the kind of indulgence we tend to reserve for young people. Let us bid him farewell. Let us say that he’s leaving for a journey abroad, from which he will return changed, unrecognizable. Or perhaps he won’t come back at all. I invite you now to discover the writer, the older brother, raised by the severe schooling of life and certain to have at least one story to tell.’
‘And you – where are you in all this?’ someone called out, bringing more laughter.
‘Oh, at the moment I am in Brusuglio, where the land and my family summon me and ask me to be both of the soil and father of family.’
Applause followed and trays of drinks were passed so that they could toast.
‘To our friend Titta, who always knows how to amaze us.’
‘To the poet we won’t forget.’
‘To the novelist we want to get to know.’
Other whispered sentences were hidden behind sips of white wine, phrases uttered in a tone that showed more concern than criticism.
‘Is he sure about what he’s doing?’
‘How much will it cost him? To self-publish, what an idea! It will be his ruin, trust me.’
‘And his family? How will he maintain them while he waits for his glory to arrive?’
‘With what it costs to keep up this house . . .’
The comments she heard expressed mild unease but were not malicious. The poet truly has many friends, Bianca thinks as they dance. She wishes she could ask him, as one friend to another, if he really is serene. She wants to know if he thinks he has done the right thing. She wants to ask what the novel is actually about. She wants to tell him that Enrico, more than any of his other children, needs him as a guide and a companion; that he is being spoiled by his mother and grandmother and turning into a whiny brat. She wants to tell him that the girls shouldn’t be mollycoddled and should have more independence. They are fun and intelligent. They deserve more attention and more ample horizons than the ones framed by the windows of their nursery. But it isn’t the right moment to do so. If he is really going to dedicate himself to the countryside with vigour, there will be other opportunities. Everything is possible and even more so now. She should be happy to have him close by. He ends the dance with a bow and a farewell, but holds onto her fingers for a moment longer than necessary.
‘Thank you. Really,’ he whispers.
What is he thanking her for? Bianca will never know.
He takes her by the hand without saying a word, imperiously, like someone with the right to do so. She says nothing. He leads her quietly up the stairs, careful in his movements so as not to bump into columns or the decorative objects on top of them. He opens the door to a room that is bound to be empty at this hour and then closes it behind them. Windows of moonlight illuminate the pavement. Someone has forgotten to draw the curtains, which is not new for this room. The shadows in the darkness are phosphorescent, luminous. The lightness of his first kiss melts her lips like a snowflake in a child’s palm. The fabric roses in her hair get caught in a cuff. They are ready to come undone and surrender, one petal at a time. Where should I put my nose? Here. That is good. His mouth is good too. She imagines the secret obscurity inside, the flash of her tongue on his teeth; she can taste traces of tobacco and alcohol – an aroma light enough to be pleasing. Do I taste good? She thinks back to when she was little and how she would bite flower petals to see whether they tasted the same way they smelled. They all tasted like green. I’d like to taste like a flower. It would be logical.
Should I stop and defend myself? Should I? I still can. I should shield myself with armour. Armour – what a metallic-sounding word. She imagines a flimsy sword. She pictures herself brandishing a flower for protection. From what? From a kiss? No, he isn’t dangerous. It isn’t dangerous. It isn’t. When one kisses one ceases to think. And that’s all.
But this isn’t love. This is something that resembles it, a copy, a surrogate. Love, the real thing, has to be something else. It is something else, something impossible; it belongs to that other man, the man that belongs to another woman, the master of the house, unattainable. That which we cannot have is perfect, intact and incorrupt. For now, she will take what comes her way, what she is offered, because this is youth, it is frightening, and it makes her feel good. Because: yes.
What follows is not what she expected or even wanted. She wants to say no at that point, to leave, deny everything, and return to the coy games, glances, or even just to the kissing. By the time this occurs to her, it is too late.
No, this isn’t love, this rubbing of fabric against fabric, this warm and rugged fumbling. Fingers, fingers everywhere. Hands touching places where no stranger’s hand has ever been. A strained gasp. To want and not to want. Here, this, where, what, why. And then the pain: piercing, tearing, leaving her breathless, unceasing, insistent, like pain without compassion, a rasping of flesh inside flesh. No, not like that, no. But words are useless. Nothing changes.
Her other self, silent and composed, watches from afar. Her eyes are pools of pity. Why pity? What if this is actually what it is like? What if it is supposed to be like this? She doesn’t know any more.
She continues to listen to the agony stampeding inside her, nailing her to the wall, snatching from her very throat a sound that doesn’t belong to her. It isn’t her voice; it is neither laughter nor lament. It is a horrible sound, the sound of a wild beast suffering, nothing more. How long will it go on for? Will it ever stop?
And later, when it is finally over and the folds of her dress cover her wound, the question lingers: is this love?
Of course not. It is what it is.
He rests a hand on her cheek almost out of pity. She would feel anger for that if only anger could make its way forward through the thick confusion. And then he leaves, shutting the door behind him soundlessly. She is alone in the semi-darkness, somewhere between the doll’s house and the wind
ow’s luminous rectangle. She slides down the wall to the floor and slumps over like a wilted flower. And then she cries.
Everyone has left. The house sleeps a satisfied sleep charged with success. But here and there is work to be done. The musicians drink mulled wine outside the kitchen. Bianca can smell its sharp wintry scent from the dark hallway.
‘It’s June but it doesn’t feel like it,’ one of them says. ‘We shouldn’t have played outdoors. My violin has rheumatism and so does my shoulder.’
‘True, but in rich people’s houses it is always summer,’ comments another musician.
‘Only us poor folk know about seasons.’
A female voice speaks, low and rugged, from inside the kitchen. ‘You really think of what you do as work?’
‘It depends on one’s point of view,’ says the first violinist in a tired tone. ‘May we have some more wine? And a warm pie, one of the leftover ones? Or have you eaten them all up? You cook for an army at these parties. It’s as if they never ate. Thank you, you’re a good woman, and an excellent chef. Don’t you, perchance, desire a husband who can play?’
‘I have one already, but I am the one who plays the instrument, when needs be.’
Laughter and then silence.
Bianca slips into the darkness. She would like some mulled wine. Or maybe not. No more wine. Never again. She opens the French window and walks down the steps. At this hour, the forest has not yet made up its mind about what it will become. It has the purity of a print scored with ferocious black shadows. Not even the forest can promise or guarantee peace. Is there peace on this earth?
No.
Bianca turns around, thrown by a presence behind her. It is Nanny. She is evidently very worked up as she has forgotten to put her robe over her flannel nightgown. Nanny, who always feels cold, now stands barefoot. Bianca notes all the details, including the two fleshy shells that poke out of her braided hair: Nanny has big ears. Bonnets, however silly they seem, serve their miserable purpose.
Nanny claws at Bianca’s arm and shakes her.
The Watercolourist Page 26