The Watercolourist (34 page)

What had the ghost said in the park?
Your name is on everyone’s lips.
Thank heavens her name isn’t on everybody’s lips for her demented attempt to repair the lives of
others. No one – or almost no one – is aware of her theories; only a handful of strangers who have no interest in sharing them, people who have been paid to talk only once and who will
therefore now remain silent. The comfort of knowing this, though, does not make her feel any less embarrassed. She has learned her lesson. Or at least, that’s what she believes. She
doesn’t realize that she still has many lessons to learn, things that cannot be taught, things that one only picks up a little at a time, through living. How can she know? Her life has been
lived in a glass box, like the ones she keeps her most precious subjects in, sealed and yet still vulnerable. She has viewed the world only from inside this glass, as though waiting for a storm to
break it open. There is no defending herself, no escaping. She can only hope that the clouds will rain down somewhere else. But that is a lame hope: it will be better to stop and run for shelter,
or dash out into the open and feel the cold rain on her body. She will risk it to feel alive. She wants to feel alive.

It doesn’t take much to console a young woman who doesn’t like herself. Bianca only needs to know that someone else likes her. And, after the white stone, Bianca soon receives other
gifts. She finds them in unusual places: at the door to her bedroom, under her breakfast teacup, resting impudently on her empty desk. A green and white shawl made of lightweight cashmere, and as
warm as an embrace, has been wrapped in a piece of flowered fabric. A few lines of writing, perhaps the beginning of an unfinished poem, or maybe the end of one –
It is here that my heart
rests
– have been folded around a small silver box full of seeds and other symbolic items. A false pomegranate that looks incredibly real, its peel speckled with brown flecks. It is
evident that someone is courting her in a discreet and ingenious manner. Someone who knows her well but doesn’t want to scare her. Someone who wants to remain in the shadows, at least for
now, and so sends her messages from there. Whoever it is knows that it will be pointless to give her flowers and so focuses on objects instead. Bianca loves the fact that she doesn’t know who
the sender is. It doesn’t force her to make decisions or to react. At this point in time, choosing a witty remark or expressing a common courtesy would be difficult for her.

That is how she is: resolute to the point of being reckless where it concerns other people, and as uncertain as a child when her own feelings are tangled and confused. It is easy for her to
recognize these sentiments in others and classify them with the detachment of an academic. But she doesn’t even try to decipher herself. Perhaps her admirer has understood this and is taking
advantage of it in his own elegant and malicious way. This option shouldn’t be excluded. But Bianca doesn’t even dig that deep. She is satisfied with the surface and with the portrait
it gives her in return; she is a Narcissus who leans over to enjoy the best possible reflection.

She is tired of her own conjectures and imagined fantasies. They haven’t led anywhere. She needs to work; she has many commissions, and she ought to bring them to a conclusion before
returning to Brusuglio, where she will have to dedicate all her energies to her main project. Her contract lasts until autumn. Everything has to be completed and handed in by then. She is expecting
intense months ahead and is prepared for them; work doesn’t scare her. If there is something she fears, it is herself. The self that she doesn’t know and that she doesn’t
understand. But she will never admit it, and in fact ignores it. She keeps her eyes on the ground and stumbles forward, as if she is playing blind man’s buff. Be careful not to fall,
Bianca
.

But still there are things that Bianca cannot let go of. She is like a dog tugging on a glove or shoe. She doesn’t fully understand that the game is over. And because the
dream of a happy ending – with its round of applause and smiles and gratitude – has dissipated, she feels spite. She feels anger at the poet and his indifference. Here is a man who has
lived two lives with ease. First, the immoral life of a young libertine and then the inspired life of an artist. Now he is satisfied with his current family, with the compassion they inspire in
him, and with their boring, comforting, shared rituals. She wants to stop him in the hallway, grab him by the shoulders, and shake the truth out of him.

How can you, Don Titta, you, the model of paternal love – strange in your ways and as bizarre as you please, but so damned good – how can you ignore your own daughter? She is an
outcast who moves and breathes just one step away from those who have the privilege of bearing your name. She has nothing, only a licence stating she is an orphan and the future prospects of a
maid. How can you be two people? Is it because of the customs of the era or because of your breeding? Or does the combination of the two, a topic so dear to you, foster this conflict? Are they
really just words? Simple living-room banter?

If only she could speak these words, as honestly and as angrily as she feels like saying them. She wants to see his expression change, to see him laid bare, unarmed, stripped of his high rank,
and suddenly sincere. In his sincerity, he will be humble, thankful and magnificent. She wants to be the one to tear the veil from the mirror and show him his true face.
Don Titta, one can
always change
, she will say.
One can always make right that which went wrong.
He will be so committed to her afterwards for giving him the courage of truth. She wants to be the
inspiration for his renewal. It is an arrogant thought, at first just fleeting, and then cultivated in a myriad of variations. She is just one step away from understanding what she truly feels
– but it is the one step that she doesn’t take. At the age of twenty it is difficult to be honest with oneself. And then her anger will cease. She will turn on her heels and make her
way back to the house in the heat of scorn.

Her anger never lasts long though. It explodes like a storm and then dissipates into mitigating rivulets. She fumes and then is quiet in tumultuous succession. And she loves in silence, too, so
secretly that even she isn’t aware of it. Hers is a love like water, that takes the shape and colour of that which holds it.

She loves, and because of this, she forgives. In the end, since she forgives herself, she can extend the privilege to whomever she desires. It happens quickly. All she needs is
a spark of intuition, a notion that she can hang on to. She finds it on the balcony overlooking the garden: there Don Titta and Pia are standing under the shelter of the catalpa tree. She draws
back but remains nearby, in the shadows of the corridor. Even if they turn around, they won’t be able to see her. But they don’t turn. They are too involved in their conversation.
Bianca is a little far away to read the words on their lips.

She should feel her usual anger, the usual repertoire of venom:
You are her father but you act like her master
. But the sweetness of their exchange – hands moving in mid-air, nods
of understanding, conversational gestures – everything about those two bodies reflects a closeness that isn’t there merely by chance. They aren’t speaking about that
evening’s dinner menu or about Enrico’s tantrums or the umpteenth book on loan. Something else unites them, Bianca is certain of it. She leans back against the wall, relieved, and full
of unexpected joy.

What if she can actually bring together these two people who have been so cruelly separated, and thereby obtain a semblance of justice? If all that is needed to fix things is desire, can’t
she just desire it for them and imagine it a million times over? Won’t that bring about some tiny result, even if it is infinitesimal? It will still be the right and natural one that she has
imagined. All won’t be for naught, Bianca tells herself. Although, she suddenly thinks, if these two are speaking to each other like this already, something must have happened.

All of her rage, suspicion and acrimony suddenly vanish. How strange, Bianca thinks. There’s so much grace and intimacy in their exchange. As she continues to watch from afar, she feels
like a spy, even if it has happened by accident. She can’t help staring at them. She can’t avoid it. Perhaps Don Titta is actually doing what he can for the girl, given the
circumstances. And perhaps he does this every day, lightening his conscience and eliminating his guilt. No, the evidence is always there in front of him, the vibrant memory of his mistake. Maybe he
actually holds on to it, nurtures it, wants it close by. Bianca acquits him in a rapid verdict.

Now that she has her target centred, she can finally walk away from it. She smiles to herself and goes to her bedroom, leaving the pair to say whatever they need to say to each other, whatever
their hearts tell them. They are alone in the world, like two lovers who have finally found the courage to be themselves.

In the days following, nothing much happens; there are no announcements, revelations, or clarifications. There is only a quiet normality, as if each of them has returned to
their ranks and is pleased to be where they are. Bianca grows agitated. She draws and scribbles, and then tosses everything away. She breaks her charcoal and gets her hands and arms dirty. She goes
downstairs, intent on finishing her drawings, but is left speechless when the poet walks out of the room in a hurry, without even taking his hat. He casts a glance at Innes but the latter does not
respond. She slips away from Tommaso, who has in the meantime handed her a tiny glass of cordial or rosewater, and goes back upstairs, opening the window and looking for answers in the treetops
outside.

When she goes back downstairs she is intercepted by Donna Clara, who needs a confidante for some of her gossipy affairs. She spends half an hour nodding like a mindless doll. She ignores the
little girls, who wave to her as she walks by. She ignores Nanny’s look of silent reproach. She sends for Pia, but in front of her smiling innocence she falls silent. She cannot make up her
mind about anything. In the end she asks only for a cup of tea.