The Watercolourist (18 page)

Bianca tries to think about other things but in vain. She feels irritated with herself for not being able to soothe Minna’s spite. She replays the girl’s monologue
inside her head, trying to make sense of all that scattered information. And then, all of a sudden, she remembers the little pillow she found. She opens the drawer of her nightstand and, pulling
out that odd square she’d found on her walk in the woods, she thinks back to Minna’s words.

Pia’s pledge is a little square, about this big . . . The mothers put the pledges in the swaddling when they know they will come back for their children one day.

Bianca isn’t sure if this is a pledge because she has never seen one. Neither has Minna really, so she can’t ask her. But if it is, what was it doing lying in the grass without a
child? Or maybe – could it be that somebody has abandoned a newborn in the woods and left the token behind? No, it cannot be. She would have heard rumours about it, and the child most likely
would have been torn to pieces by wolves.
Don’t be foolish
, Bianca tells herself, trying to repress the absurd thoughts that crowd her head. And yet she continues to rack her brain,
unsettled and intrigued. This is better than a novel. This is real. That odd pillow embroidered with so much care actually exists – and it has to mean something. Bianca decides she will take
it upon herself to discover what that meaning is.

The rivalry continues. Pia and Minna don’t talk to each other. The little one is steadfast, obstinate, and convinced that she has been subjected to an unforgivable wrong.
Pia shrugs and calls the other girl crazy, but Bianca can see how sorry she is, how she torments herself to make the situation right again. Bianca, who feels guilty for having unleashed the
dispute, finally finds a remedy after explaining the situation to Donna Clara.

‘A conflict, you say? Why on earth, when we treat them so well?’

Yes
, Bianca thinks to herself,
like little animals in a cage
.

‘You know how young people are: they have their tantrums, their little fights.’

She thinks minimizing the situation is the best way to achieve her goal. She makes an offer. At first Donna Clara seems a little uneasy and looks at her with suspicion: is Bianca, a stranger,
trying to lay down the law in her own home? Who cares about the housemaids’ bickering? And yet, it is clear that she feels a special kind of love for those girls and wants justice and harmony
on her land. Bianca understands all of this.

‘Very well. Just keep me informed. What little scoundrels they are! We give them everything: clothes and shoes, warmth and food.’

Bianca cannot help but comment.

‘I suppose you’re right. Once man’s primary needs are met, other aspirations are awakened. It is inevitable.’

Donna Clara looks at her with a scowl. She won’t let herself be taken for a fool.

‘You are a true intellectual, Miss Bianca. Ah, women with brains . . .’

And with that, the rotating shifts begin. One day it is Minna’s turn, the next Pia’s. Sometimes both of them divide the tasks: the one who brushes Bianca’s hair doesn’t
accompany her, and vice versa. When Bianca tells them of her new plan, they listen to her in silence. Minna is stubborn, retaining her identity as the violated one. Pia, on the other hand, is
pleased. And it is she who holds her hand out to the other.

‘Can we make peace?’

Minna glances at Pia with her outstretched hand, and stares at a point in the sky in front of her. Then she giggles, shrugs her shoulders, and lets herself be hugged. Bianca gazes from one girl
to the other, amazed at how different they are despite being raised under the same roof. The little one is contentious and a trickster, with a sharp tongue and a sly mind. The older one is
generous, willing to give up some ground for the love of peace. It is useless for Bianca to play favourites. But perhaps Minna will change, if guided appropriately. She hopes that Pia, on the other
hand, will never change: she is beautiful and sincere, somewhat vulnerable perhaps, but only inasmuch as the other is armed, and nonetheless strong in her simplicity, keeping her one step ahead of
the game.

The following Monday it rains again but this time Bianca can no longer resist. She takes down a rain cloak from the coat rack outside the kitchen and walks out. It takes only
three steps for her to regret making the decision: all kinds of smells linger on the oilcloth fabric – dog, gravy from a roast, ash. An overall film of dirt that has come to life, thanks to
the humidity in the air. It isn’t very pleasant being enveloped by such intense smells; they suffocate the wonderful scents of the wet park. But it is too late to go back now and besides,
Ruggiero’s cloak does the job: the drops of rain roll right off it.

Her sixth sense has been right. The ghost is there. But this time she has pinned her veil up to her hat. She moves forward through the tall grass slowly, holding her skirt with both her hands.
She stares into the distance. Even from far away, Bianca can see her large eyes and pale skin. Her pace is long and elegant. Bianca is ready to approach her. She isn’t far. She will find out
for certain who she is. But then she freezes suddenly, overcome by a wave of dread as well as respect. The lady stops, lowers her head, and stands as still as a statue. A sudden gust of wind blows
the veil over her face. Now she is frightening, and truly ghoulish. Bianca turns around and darts back to the gate, which she has left ajar. She closes it behind her, turns the key in the lock, and
takes it. And then runs as fast as she can.

She sketches her vision that same night so as not to forget any details. That veil, embroidered with small droplets, is like a bride’s, fit for a fairy-tale princess. The woman’s
eyes are large and deep, even behind the grey material. She has a generous mouth, a determined nose and an imperious chin. Bianca is certain that she will be back.

But, in fact, she never returns. She isn’t there at the vespers hour the following Monday, Tuesday or Thursday. Her absence does not go unnoticed. Even the help gossip
about it.

‘She’s not coming back.’

‘Her soul must have finally found peace, poor thing.’

‘Maybe she died of the flu.’

When Bianca asks around for more information, the women hush, look at one another, and change the topic. Apparently, since she has stopped coming, she no longer exists. Soon there will be
another curiosity to serve as the topic of discussion while plucking quails. Like old Angelina’s son, for example, who won’t stop growing: he is twenty and looks and eats like an ogre.
Or the button seller, who has the eyes of a gypsy: they say he robs virgins of their souls, or something easier to come by.

Bianca is bothered by the chatter and anxious about the disappearance of the ghost, who has shown her art by vanishing. But she is done with thinking about it. She feels silly pondering such a
futile curiosity. And in any case, there are other things that need to be done: in the kitchen, the nursery and the study. The children wail, the guests wine and dine, the help swear and complain,
the owners give orders, and then they all sit down to tea. Flowers blossom and wither. She needs to pick them while she can.

‘Me too, me too.’

‘Do it to me, too.’

The children stretch out their arms so she can tickle their palms. The house seems full of them, a centipede of little hands. All the children are desperate to be distracted from the boring
rain.

‘What does it mean though, Miss Bianca? We don’t understand.’

She speaks in rhymes from her ‘recent childhood’, as Innes calls it.

‘Will you do it to me, too?’

Silly Tommaso, he always makes his way into the nursery hoping for an escape. He gets down on his knees, and then onto all fours like an animal, making the children laugh. Bianca giggles but
then shoos him away.

‘We are busy learning,’ she says.

‘I don’t see Nanny. Did you lock her inside a trunk?’ he asks.

It is a tempting hypothesis and brings titters all round. Tommaso, still on all fours, moves backwards out of the room, swinging his head like a loyal dog.

‘Now we’re going to play dressing up,’ she says.

‘That’s for girls,’ the boys complain.

‘Fine. You may be excused. Should I ask Tommaso to accompany you?’

‘Nooo, we’ll stay.’

‘Miss Bianca, Miss Bianca, what should we do? Who should we be?’

Bianca considers.

‘You should dress up as the person you most want to be.’

They all have good ideas and run off to prepare. Pietro and Enrico grab two old capes – whether they are uniforms or costumes it is hard to say – and twirl them around themselves
like toreadors. The girls laugh.

‘I’m ready!’ Pia announces from her hiding place. Minna incites her to come out by clapping her hands and cheering her on. Bianca looks at Pia’s creation. She cannot
believe that the girl can have made it herself. She wears a headdress of dress swords that looks almost dangerous. She is like a peasant girl from another era, ready for a country wedding.

‘What do you mean, another era?’ mumbles Minna when Bianca says this. ‘What peasant girl? She’s a spinner, can’t you tell? That’s a party outfit that the
ladies who work with silk wear. My mother comes from those parts. I took it out of my hope chest, but don’t tell anyone. And be careful it doesn’t get ruined, Pia – I’m
going to wear it on my wedding day.’

‘If anyone ever wants you,’ Pia says, teasing.

Minna frowns seriously. Then she bursts out laughing and everyone laughs with her. Meanwhile Pia, dressed as the bride, looks down and smiles to herself. This is a performance and she is every
bit the young actress.

Minna disappears behind the Chinese screen while the smaller girls fumble through a chest of hats, scarves, vests and old corsets. In between oohs and aahs and a couple of sneezes, they
transform into other characters, and run to look at themselves in the mirror. They laugh with the complicit goodness of sisters when they get along.