Portrait of a Girl (20 page)

She nodded.

The horses had their feed bags around their neck and were standing quietly. Now and then, they switched their weight from one leg to another, causing a slight movement of the carriage. Nika watched the people walking by. She bit her lip. Why hadn’t she brought her notebook along? The horses from the unusual perspective of the driver’s seat, the houses, the strolling people—she could have sketched it all.

But she had sworn to herself she’d never draw again. Then again, she’d also vowed to have nothing more to do with Segantini. And she knew that her hand had become more assured, her perspective more detailed. Segantini was a good teacher.

She wondered whether he felt the same way as she did—did all his loneliness, all his troubles, vanish when he looked at something closely? When he painted or drew? The happiness that flooded her when she was drawing came to her slowly and almost imperceptibly from deep down. Not like the sweetness that exploded on her tongue when she ate the cake. What she saw and then tried to capture with her pencil drove out—more and more, the longer she practiced—everything else she felt: her loneliness, her forlornness in the world, her longing for tenderness and security, and yes, even her thoughts about Segantini who had opened up this new world for her. She forgot everything, even herself, and that gave her relief and liberated her as if she had wings, as if she were a bird who could leave everything behind and let herself be carried off by the wind to new and unfamiliar places.

“You have a beautiful driver there, Segantini,” Oscar Bernhard called out to him. “I haven’t seen her before!”

Nika looked at Segantini, startled.

He seemed to be in a good mood, and laughed, saying, “That, my dear Bernhard, is the young talent I was telling you about.”

“But you didn’t tell me that she is such a beauty, my dear man. Or did you, a painter, not notice that?”

Nika blushed in shame and anger. They were talking about her as if she weren’t there. And in the midst of all these people.

She climbed down and went to fetch the driver.

Kate was brooding because her husband had not made every effort to come back to St. Moritz as soon as possible. She almost felt that it wasn’t she who had been unfaithful to him, but rather that he was the one who had wronged her by leaving her for such an eternity. And she had to wait impatiently for his return. She rather liked seeing herself in the role of the abandoned wife, and would only reluctantly have admitted that she would hardly have missed Robert if James had lifted a finger to make use of the situation. But over the last few days, he had come to Maloja just once, and had merely given her a brief kiss on the cheek when they met by accident in the hotel lobby. He’d said, “Oh, I’m sorry for your sake that Robert isn’t back yet. I hope you’re not worried that something unpleasant might have happened?”

“What could possibly have happened to Robert in a town like Chur?” she answered, giving him the cold shoulder in return. “Excuse me, I have an appointmen
t . . .
” And with that, she had quickly walked off.

When Robert finally arrived, he seemed prepared to ignore her injured expression as he impatiently ripped his carryall out of the porter’s hand and sent him off without a tip. And so Kate at once decided to stop acting hurt. It was obvious to her that he had no desire at this point to discuss his delayed return to St. Moritz.

“You look tired,” she said instead, as he briefly and reluctantly embraced her. “The trip must have been torture. Why do mountains exist? I certainly don’t need them. Shall I have them send up some coffee?”

“No,” he said curtly, “but I’m hungry. The trip was horrible. I could have throttled those two ladies sitting in the coach with me, just to make them shut up.”

Kate gathered that he wasn’t particularly fond of the female sex at the moment, and congratulated herself for having so quickly switched from acting offended to showing concern for him. She wondered whether his remark indicated that he had met a woman in Chur whose behavior had not been what he’d expected. In any case, a visit to a brothel might have calmed him down. But was there even a brothel in Chur? And why should he meet a lover in Chur of all places?

“I can understand that you’re hungry. Let’s go down for supper right now.” She took him gently by the arm, but even that seemed too much.

While she was getting dressed to go down to eat, Kate concluded that what had put Robert into such a bad mood probably had nothing to do with a woman. Unless he’d had a rendezvous with some secret beloved who had just been passing through. At this time of the year, anyone from England who could afford it came to Switzerland. Still, the likelihood of such an encounter was unlikely. Well, whatever, she’d be acquiescent today.

“The Palace is opening next week,” Kate said, trying to cheer him up. “There’ll be a magnificent gala. I thought I’d wear the cream-colored lace dress you like so muc
h . . .
”

She flinched when Robert interrupted her.

“I have to talk to you later,” he said brusquely. She wondered what was so important that it had to wait until they were alone, but he clearly didn’t want to be pressed. He nervously pushed his plate aside. Even though he’d been hungry, he had eaten less than half of his
brasato alla Valtellina
, not to mention the vegetables, which he’d scarcely touched. That wasn’t unusual though, since he considered carrots food for rabbits, and complained that peas always rolled off his fork. But something was amiss. Since he was being so extremely prickly, Kate turned to say a few words to the guests who were sitting next to them at the
table d’hôte
.

Her attempt to draw him into their bedroom that evening failed. That meant the situation was really serious. Robert came to the point in the living room of their hotel suite.

“Stop running around like a nervous hen,” he said irritably. “Sit down. There’s something I have to tell you.”

Kate decided for the moment to suppress any criticism of her husband, in spite of not feeling very fond of him just then. She sat down.

“For heaven’s sake, what happened? Tell me.”

“We’re leaving. Start packing your things immediately. And don’t forget the love letters your various lovers may have sent you up here.”

My God, Kate thought, he’s unbearable. Did he find out somehow that James had come to see her? She got up, but sat right down again.

“I met with an important business associate in Chur,” Robert went on. “In short, I found out from him that I have lost a lot of money. You don’t need to know the details. From there I went on to Zurich to speak to the bank and to clarify any possibility of getting credit. But the situation looks bad. In any case, we have to leave this place. It’s urgent that I go to London to see about what steps to take next.”

“Bu
t . . .
” Kate said.

“No buts. Your fun and games here would certainly be diminished by the thought that your husband has gone bankrupt.”

Robert’s face had turned so red that his wife suppressed a second
but
. It couldn’t possibly be that they suddenly didn’t have any money. That was unimaginable. If it was really true, she wanted to go home to her parents in Boston, at once. A bankrupt husband. What a disgrace!

Robert seemed to have guessed what she was thinking.

“And you will stay with me and stand by me. You’re still my wife. We’ll have to dismiss the help, and you’ll probably have to pay more attention to the housekeeping than before.” He nervously drummed with his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I’ll have to see what I can save. Do you think this is any fun for me?”

His fury slowly gave way to depression. He suddenly seemed small, shrinking in his armchair in front of Kate. He was actually only average in size, but she realized it was really his money and status that made him seem imposing.

Kate sensed a feeling of disgust, almost revulsion, welling up in her. What was he if he wasn’t strong enough to protect her and take care of her? He struck her as an unloved nothing of a man—he hadn’t even managed to make her pregnant. What a disgrace, leaving in such a rush, even before the big event of the season. How was she going to explain it to her friends? He looked like a sack of potatoes sitting there in his chair. Tears came to her eyes.

She was crying for several reasons. The news was a shock, of course, and she was only slowly beginning to realize what it would mean. In addition, she despised people who failed, and now here was her husband, standing before the entire world as a loser. And moreover—the realization was only vague and indefinite, but painful enough—so was she. If her husband was nothing anymore, then she herself was nothing too. A failure who couldn’t have children and had nothing else to show. A woman who depended on servants to hide the fact that she couldn’t do anything, not even brew a cup of coffee or darn a stocking. A person who needed constant admiration so that she could feel like somebody, so that she could think of herself as lovable.

A remarkable sound came from her chest. She was sobbing even as she forbade herself to sob. Oh no, her parents had never wanted to see their little Kate cry.

Going back to America wasn’t a good idea. And when she thought that she might have lost James, who seemed such a sure choice as playmate for her, to the naïve and insignificant Mathilde, who was sick into the bargai
n . . .
when she thought of this—as if she wasn’t suffering enough already—the tears really started flow.

Robert, who loved his wife, not unconditionally but in his own somewhat devoted sort of way, looked in surprise at this rare picture of Kate, weeping uncontrollably.

“Well,” he said helplessly, “not everything is lost yet. Come on, stop crying.”

But Kate didn’t want to stop crying.

Achille had no choice. He had to do something, even if it was unpleasant for him and went against his usual discreet way of doing things. Gaetano had complained. Segantini had not only kept the
straniera
from working in the garden, he’d said, but had taken her along to St. Moritz in the middle of the day. It didn’t matter how far up Segantini’s good connections reached—this was really going too far. Robustelli had to agree with the gardener. And the more dramatic this unfortunate affair became, the more bad feelings it would cause. He didn’t want to fire Nika, even though that’s what he should really do. It was clear that he would have to speak with Segantini, which was exactly what he’d hoped to avoid.

But restraint was a virtue; cowardice wasn’t. Achille decided to bring the situation up directly with the painter. Perhaps he didn’t realize that his interest in Nika put her in such a risky position. He didn’t want to dramatize the thing, but he would take Segantini aside for a moment when he came to the hotel to meet Mr. Danby.

“Hello, Mathilde, may I bother you for a minute? Oh, sorry, I woke you up.”

Betsy had taken her for a little walk and then dropped her off in her room. And Mathilde had actually dozed off on the balcony. She opened her eyes—the young, male voice reached her while she was still confused by a fleeting remnant of a dream. For a moment, she thought it was James, and her heart began to pound. But once she sat up in her deck chair and looked around, she saw it was Edward smiling at her in embarrassment.