The Watercolourist (15 page)

Tommaso falls silent, waiting for encouragement. He smiles, blushes, rakes his hand through his hair, and all of a sudden the pale-faced dandy is taken over by a young boy with dishevelled wisps
of hair across his forehead and a vein of cheerfulness. Bianca understands only about half of the words he recites: a confused story about nuns in love, it seems. She smiles despite herself, so
great is the passion which ignites him. One strange verse catches her attention:

The performance ends.

‘Miss Bianca?’

‘Yes?’ Bianca comes back to earth and applauds, as deserved. ‘Bravo.’

Tommaso composes himself. ‘Really, you liked it?’

‘Well, I must admit that it wasn’t all very clear to me . . . maybe I liked it because I didn’t know what you were saying. But it has a melody to it. Isn’t that important
in poetry? That it has a melody?’

‘Oh yes, as long as it’s a tune and not a toot!’

He has gone back to his wisecracks. This improper side of Tommaso is much more fun. Bianca looks at him in fake shock and they both burst out laughing.

‘I’ve noticed that you’re becoming more intimate with our junior poet,’ observes Innes coldly, a few days later.

‘Are you jealous?’ Bianca asks, a hint of a smile on her lips.

Innes ignores the insinuation.

‘Tommaso definitely has some artistic feeling inside him but he’s just wasting his time,’ he tells her.

‘At least he’s not a drone, like Bernocchi.’

‘Don’t be so quick to judge, Bianca. Drones are not bad insects.’

‘If you like Tommaso so much, why does it bother you that I talk to him?’

‘I didn’t say I liked him. I said that I see something in him, but I can’t stand watching him waste his energy. I think that for his own good he should leave. Everything that
is holding him back, including certain gracious maidens who are willing to indulge him, harms him. As long as he lingers in the shade of the oak tree, he will remain as fragile as an
offshoot.’

‘You’re accusing me of exerting too much influence over him, Innes. He’s here because of his master, mentor and model. But wait,’ Bianca says with a little shrug,
‘maybe that’s not the right order.’

‘Right. But now that the cuckoo has made his nest here in Brusuglio, it’s going to be difficult to get him to leave.’

‘I think a nest is exactly what he needs.’

‘Don’t deceive yourself, Bianca. He’s your age: neither a babe nor an orphan. He’s a man. This “nest”, as you call it, allows him to prolong his boyhood at
the expense of others, avoiding confrontation with hardship. If he truly wishes to live as a poet, he should tend to his own matters, make his own decisions and sever ties.’

‘But he won’t get a penny from his family if he gives up, the poor thing.’

‘Poor thing? He could be a handyman by day and write at night, if he really cared so much about it. He could rent a room at an inn and sort out his thoughts. But here he finds warmth or a
breeze depending on the season. He drinks and dines well. He is cared for. Sooner or later his clothes will wear out and I don’t think Don Titta will want to buy him a new
wardrobe.’

‘You are quite vicious. You sound like me.’

‘Perhaps I do only feel envy, Miss Bianca. He is so young; everything is still possible for him and it irks me to see him throwing away such an opportunity by fooling around with the ideas
he has of himself.’

‘And what are you, old? Come on. At thirty, a woman is old and a man is in his prime. Soon, I will surpass you in this gloomy race. I will be in mourning for my withered years of youth
while you will still be a promising shoot.’

‘That’s what disturbs me.’ Innes grows solemn and melancholy. He becomes reflective, as though Bianca isn’t there. And she, who has failed in her attempts to amuse him,
is annoyed with herself.

‘The ghost is back!’ Pietro lunges into the room, bringing a gust of cool air with him that remains even after Nanny has shut the French window. He removes the cap
that his grandmother and mother force him to wear even during the summer, on account of his earaches, and drops it on the floor. Nanny retrieves it swiftly. The boy’s colouring is vivid and
his hair dishevelled, making him more attractive than usual, livelier. He stomps his feet in excitement: ‘I saw it! She was on top of the rotunda, and when I got near, she disappeared inside!
She’s in the rotunda!’

The girls cover their mouths and hold their breath. Donna Julie sighs and looks away, as if to erase the sight of her son looking so wild. She detests these sorts of displays.

‘You could have taken me with you!’ Enrico whines.

‘I like doing things on my own.’

Donna Clara takes Pietro’s hands in hers and warms them while speaking to him both reassuringly and with reproach, a combination she often uses when talking to the boys, as though forcing
them to reason is a vain effort.

‘Oh my, you’re so cold! Now you’re bound to get sick and drive your poor mother crazy. You know you’re not allowed to go out at night-time. You know nobody likes this
story about a ghost. And you mustn’t tell lies – we have told you thousands of times. What were you doing outside at this hour anyway?’

She casts a surly glance at Nanny.

‘I was busy with the girls, signora,’ Nanny says in her own defence.

Pietro, triumphant – and happy to take both blame and merit – realizes that for once they are one and the same, and clarifies his story.

‘Nanny has nothing to do with it. She was in the nursery and I was very quiet. I slipped out. You can’t expect to keep us prisoners like girls or workers.’

Donna Julie ignores the offensive juxtaposition and tightly presses her hands together in prayer, imploring the saint who is supposed to protect children from the evils of the world, even when
they are good.

‘But Pietro—’

‘She wore a veil,’ the boy continues, throwing his cape back over his shoulders. ‘She was walking above the ground. She was frightening, but she didn’t scare
me
.
I got so close, I almost grabbed her, but then . . . well, she ran off. It was dark up there, so I decided to come back. To tell all of you,’ he concludes, transforming his cowardice into
bravery.

Enrico watches him with clenched fists and repressed anger. The girls take sides. Matilde and Franceschina stare at him, spellbound, while Giulietta remains sceptical. Bianca sides with
Giulietta: Pietro does not have the makings of a hero. And most likely he has made up half of what he has said. However, this particular ghost is clearly nothing new.

Donna Julie lowers her head.

‘Ghosts do not exist,’ Donna Clara insists.

‘I’m telling you, it was a ghost,’ retorts Pietro. ‘It was the same one, Nonna, the black one with the veil in front of its face, the one you saw in the fields that time,
the one that terrified you.’

‘I was only spooked,’ Donna Clara replies. ‘But since ghosts do not exist, they don’t really spook anyone. Now go upstairs and get changed. And don’t bother coming
down for dinner: liars are not welcome at our table.’

Donna Julie is clearly tempted to intervene but refrains with difficulty. She has a hard time challenging authority. Bianca thinks it unfair that Donna Clara exerts control whenever she wants.
Pietro isn’t her son. But on the other hand, the child isn’t being pleasant either and to see his embarrassment brings Bianca a brief but sharp sense of joy, which goes hand in hand
with Enrico’s sour glare. Pietro shifts his weight from one foot to the other in anticipation of a reprieve, until he realizes that his mother’s indulgence won’t cancel his
grandmother’s punishment. And so he goes up the stairs, his eyes downcast.

Donna Clara inhales as deeply as her silk corset permits and then shakes her head.

‘Too much imagination. They listen to too many stories, these children. I’m always telling you that, Julie.’

‘Actually, I saw the ghost once, too,’ Matilde says, surprising everyone. Matilde, who never speaks unless spoken to, has bright red cheeks. Her sisters stare at her,
flabbergasted.

‘Enough of this chat,’ her grandmother says. The child hushes.

Soon it is dinnertime. Enrico shoots a suspicious glance at his brother’s empty seat, uncertain whether to envy him or to appreciate that his absence allows him for once to be the only boy.
As he lays eyes on the meal, he explodes with joy: stuffed veal sweetbreads are one of his favourites and now he can have twice as much. It is as if not being found guilty of anything this time
makes him innocent forever. Bianca watches with poorly concealed horror as the child devours his plate of offal. She will never eat, nor has she ever eaten, anything of the sort. It feels like
savagery to put something so holy and at the same time so intimate in one’s mouth, stripped from the body of a once-living being. Enrico passes his days with animals – dogs, cats,
rabbits and lambs – doling out snuggles and violence in equal amounts. He obeys all his impulses and he follows his cravings. Bianca looks down at her own plate of pale lettuce and then over
at Donna Clara. She relishes her food with the same joyful ardour as her grandson.

‘If I am not being indiscreet, can you tell me more about the ghost?’ Bianca says.

Donna Clara looks up from her meal, her fork in mid-air, and then waves her free hand as if to shoo away a pesky fly, gesturing at the boy, and shaking her head quickly. Bianca gives up; she
will keep her curiosity to herself. But at dessert, after the children have said goodnight and followed Nanny upstairs, Donna Clara continues.

‘In the presence of the little one I wanted to avoid talking about it,’ she says. ‘Children are so impressionable.’

Bianca wants to counter the comment but keeps her thoughts to herself. This isn’t the time to interrupt or distract her. Soon, mollified by
une petite crème
, the older lady
gives in.

‘You, of all people, should know that any ancient dwelling, or even merely an old one, has phantoms. We have the Pink Lady. I don’t know whether you have ventured out north of the
fields, but there is a dilapidated turret out there. It is said that those are the ruins of what was once the castle of the Pink Lady, who lost her soon-to-be husband in battle just before being
married. Romantic stuff, you know.’ She shakes her head slowly back and forth in an expression of disapproval. ‘Like those novels that are in vogue now. Anyway, the widow-to-be closed
herself in the castle and never came out, dead or alive. It’s a story that everyone around here knows. And you understand how children can be: they listen and they repeat. They invent. They
must have overheard it from the help. Some fool in an apron shrieks and sees what they want to see.’

‘That’s too bad. I would have liked to paint its portrait. The phantom’s, I mean,’ jokes Bianca.

Donna Clara smoothly changes the course of the conversation.

‘This Chantilly
crème
is excellent. It seems as though the cook has finally learned that in order to make it you need to have a delicate touch.’

‘I made it,’ Donna Julie says with a smile.

‘Oh no!’ Donna Clara exclaims. ‘You mustn’t tire yourself out, you know that.’

‘Tire myself over whipped eggs and cream?’ laughs Donna Julie.

‘What will they think when they see the lady of the house amidst the pots and pans,’ objects Donna Clara, forgetting about the time she herself spends in the kitchen. Although in
truth she never lays a finger on a pot.

‘I like it. It’s fun for me,’ insists Donna Julie. ‘You never let me do anything.’

‘Oh well, if you want to get sick again . . .’ Donna Clara says, scraping her bowl with a spoon. Bianca eats in silence, savouring the cream’s airy texture, its softness and
the contrasting tartness of the fruit.