The Watercolourist (28 page)

‘In one word, revolution.’ Bianca indulges herself but he doesn’t react.

‘I like
you
because you never give up, Bianca.’

Since when does he know her so well? The idea that he thinks he knows her deeply makes her wonder. Or is it something else, this strange and growing intimacy? Bianca isn’t sure, so she
keeps quiet. The pair exchange glances. Bianca feels confused, light-headed and naive. Their exchange has been far from innocent.

‘It’s not right, Titta. It’s not right at all.’ It is evident that Donna Clara is in a bad mood as soon as she starts complaining about the wrinkles in
the tablecloth. There is only one, Bianca notes, and it is almost imperceptible and for the most part covered by the pewter centrepiece overflowing with tulips. Then Donna Clara complains about the
tepid and flavourless consommé. And the soft bread. When the food is not to her liking, there is usually something else she isn’t happy about. It doesn’t take long before she
explains. ‘They say that the Austrian gendarmes visited the Viganò family and it wasn’t as a simple courtesy.’

‘Yes, I heard about it, too,’ Don Titta says calmly.

‘They say that Count Eugenio had quite a shock. They say,’ she continues, lifting up a letter that has been resting on her lap, ‘that they might come by here. I am going to put
my foot down and say no, Titta. These indulgences have got to stop. They say’ – her tone goes up a notch as she waves the letter about – ‘that you refused to write an ode
for the new general whose name I can’t even pronounce. They asked you to write it but you said no, so they asked Monti, and he agreed and got a hefty compensation, as well as praise from the
governor. Is this true?’

‘Yes, Mother, it’s true. How can you doubt your informers?’

‘Don’t play with me, Titta. You didn’t say anything.’ In the frenzy of this discussion, her son is reduced to a rebellious child. ‘May I remind you that money is
necessary to survive? May I also remind you that in order to live there must be peace? And peace must be cultivated.’

‘That which you call peace, Mother, I call collusion. Complicity.’

‘Ah, I see. I wonder why we never attribute the same meaning to some words. But fine, let’s pretend to be a gang of rebels. We’ll all end up with our heads chopped off, like
the queen.’

‘Mother, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Aren’t the Austrians notorious for being intelligent governors?’

Donna Clara misses the irony or perhaps chooses to ignore it.

‘What do you think – that the era of Theresa is over? They’re not standing there just for fun. But anyway, I don’t want to have a
political
discussion.’
She pronounces the word with a grimace. ‘I just want to say that your rekindling of patriotic love might take the bread away from the mouths of your children.’

Donna Clara looks around the room to see the effect of her words on the others. Bianca stares at Tommaso, who in turn stares at the pale turnips on the dinner table. He has no intention of
intervening. Innes watches a blackbird hopping on the windowsill. Outside it is drizzling.

‘I would rather starve than eat from a foreigner’s hand,’ Don Titta says calmly. ‘My children won’t die of hunger: we always have the countryside and its
fruits.’

‘Right, and what about the creditors lined up outside our door?’

‘Can we please stop discussing these things in front of everyone?’ Donna Julie interrupts, blushing, a sour note in her voice.

‘Everyone?’ Donna Clara blurts out, making Bianca feel like a decorative object. ‘It’s not like we’re going to get through this by hiding facts behind good manners.
I have nothing left to give you, nothing. I’ve sold my most precious joys . . .’

Bianca looks at Donna Clara’s hands, heavy as ever with diamond rings and other valuable stones. Clearly, she thinks to herself, those are less precious joys.

‘No one asked you for a thing, Mother dear,’ Don Titta says. ‘You’ve given us a home and your affection, and this is the greatest gift. Don’t worry. We will manage.
The novel—’

‘The novel, the novel! You’ve been working on it for ten years. Ten! And what about those beautiful poems that brought you bread and fame at the same time? I don’t mean the
ones for the Austrians – God no, let us not soil our hands if we really want to play at being heroes. But at least the others. The innocent ones. What went wrong?’

‘They were useless, Mother. Useless word games for useless people who sit in their living rooms drinking rose-water and concealing their laughter. I’m tired of creating useless
things. Just have faith, and you’ll see.’

‘I do have faith, but in the dear Lord, not in your soiled paper . . .’

‘Signora, may I serve you some soufflé?’

In his many years of service, Ruggiero has learned how to clear the air over the dining-room table. And, as suddenly as it arrives, the storm dissipates. Bianca, who would have voluntarily
collapsed onto the floor a moment before to create a distraction, now exchanges furtive glances with Innes and sinks her fork into the golden mound on her plate. Donna Julie’s face is pale.
She has deep, crocus-coloured shadows beneath her eyes. It is another small, pathetic family brawl, no more important just because it is about money and pride. Incriminations are launched without
tactic and accusations swell out of proportion. These aren’t battles. They are just card games in which everyone is bluffing. At least the soufflé holds up. And, thankfully, lunch ends
soon after.

Later, in the living room, Bianca opens the French window to feel the cold air outside. The winter garden appears to have shrunk. Those trees, which will never be part of a forest but which try
so hard to grow nonetheless, give her a sense of refuge and relief. City life is complicated. It is onerous to be so intimate with a family that is not one’s own, and to be part of the
burden. The simplicity of nature would restore her, she thinks, even if she were a prisoner.

She slips into the darkness, breathing in the dank smell of dead leaves and wrapping her shawl tightly around her. The cold clears her mind. Who is right – the women of the house with
their small concerns, or the poet? He is brave, yes, but perhaps he is also thoughtless. Is it more important to protect the nest and defend it from turbulence and change or journey untethered
towards the unknown?
What manly questions
, she tells herself with a hint of irony. She is proud of having thought of them, even though she doesn’t know the answers. She has no
connections to tie her down, no big ideas to carry her away. She only has some intelligence, talent and a spark of imagination that is enough to nurture both.

‘Noisy as always, no?’

It is Innes.

‘You scared me,’ she says.

‘I don’t believe you. You didn’t even blink before Donna Clara’s wrath.’

‘Because they weren’t talking to me. But I felt oppressed nonetheless. No, rather, I felt like a bird in a cage being clawed at by a cat.’

‘I understand. You will get used to it. As you know, Italians are always a bit theatrical. But it’s a tempest in a teapot. He always does what he pleases.’

‘You admire him.’

‘At times. I care about him, and therefore I forgive him some things.’

Bianca finds it difficult to decipher Innes’s facial expression in the darkness.

‘And I care about you too, don’t get me wrong. But everything passes, even words as heavy as stone. Only art is destined to last. Only that counts.’

She receives a package. It is wrapped in damask printed with tiny flowers on a pale background. It is heavy in her palm and tied with a bright green silk ribbon. Bianca sits on
her bed and pulls the ribbon impatiently. The fabric falls away and a smooth, round, white rock appears. It is almost too smooth to be natural. She turns it over in her hands and notices a pale
vein where the stone is slightly hollow. Only time could have done that. There is a note that says in small capital letters,
NIVEA LAPIS
. White stone. Her name set in stone. Bianca Pietra
smiles. She weighs the stone in her hand again and caresses it with the tip of her index finger, testing its dense yet porous consistency. She wonders who sent it, but puts the thought aside. It
won’t get her anywhere. Oh, to be a stone once in a while, impenetrable, impermeable.

Her father once gave her a coat of arms with the motto
Semper Firma
underneath it. The insignia was of a white stone resting on a horse-chestnut leaf on a blue background. The
mysterious gift-giver must know about her father’s present. But no, she thinks, that is impossible; no-one knows about this, it happened years ago, and the coat of arms disappeared long ago
too. Could it be that someone simply had the same thought as her father? She asks herself if this is a gift or a warning. But it is somehow nice not to know. The stone is not an egg. It can never
be cracked open. It will forever hold its mystery and this makes it both dangerous and beautiful.

One night Bianca cannot sleep. Having finished all her books, she leaves her bedroom, intent on choosing one or two new ones from the library, which Bianca is sure will be empty
at this hour – the men have gone out. From the staircase where she is standing, the house appears murky grey. A sliver of moon, visible through the skylight, lights her path. But after two or
three steps, Bianca realizes she is not alone. Tall twin shadows are standing in the entrance. And although they are dressed in heavy overcoats, she recognizes them and is instantly curious. Should
she go back to her room, pretend not to have seen anything? No. She goes down the stairs. She isn’t doing anything wrong. The pair look at her briefly, and nod. Innes speaks first.

‘Would you like to come with us?’

‘Where?’

He puts a finger to his lips.

‘Come.’

Don Titta walks back and forth impatiently. His cape dances around him, falling and swishing with his movement. Innes disappears into the closet and comes back with a third cape. He holds it out
for her. It feels like a yoke on her shoulders. He responds to her quizzical look with a flash in his eyes that she has never seen before and which makes her even more curious. Her hesitation lasts
only a second. She will not say no. Innes hooks the cape under her throat, the way a father would, and takes her by the hand. The intimacy of the gesture makes her flinch.

There is a sound at the door – the signal. They go outside. The cold February night air is as clean as glass. The cobblestones in the piazza are covered with a thin film of ice that shines
under the street lamps. She has just enough time to hop into the carriage before it starts on its way. She smells the damp fabric inside and sees small clouds of her breath in the momentary light.
Don Titta looks out at the shadowy city. It is deserted. Innes, seated next to her, tries to speak to her with his eyes. But what is he trying to say?

Bianca feels agitation building up inside her. Something she hasn’t felt before. She isn’t dressed appropriately; her cape isn’t heavy enough; she is wearing the wrong shoes,
no gloves, no vest. It is winter after all. Where are they going, on a winter’s night, all dressed in black, two men and a woman, and no chaperone? She imagines them talking about her later:
No, Miss Bianca stayed home tonight. Actually, she followed them for a bit until they pushed her out of the carriage and then they left her on the pavement. She was not needed. No one wanted
her there. Adieu, go home, go back to bed with your books; can’t you see we’re busy living?
The other Bianca, the one who
is
invited to come along on the adventure, sits
up straight.