The Watercolourist (37 page)

The joy of returning to Brusuglio in nice weather cancels out her last memory of the estate in autumn, when an oppressive sky and a thick layer of fog had smothered
everything. She is now able to substitute that memory with the colours and well-defined margins of everything in bloom; she recognizes the place first through her body, nose and skin, and only
later with her head.

An entire year has gone by since Bianca’s arrival. At twenty years old, it seems like a lifetime. It has taken her this long to call this place, populated by strangers, home. That other
house, the one at the lake, is far away. This house, with its wide-open windows, seems to want to embrace her.

Minna leaps on her when she sees her, and then steps back, lowering her chin to her chest in embarrassment. She has grown an entire foot, as children and plants often do between seasons, and her
face has taken on certain features that have not been present before.

‘Shall I put your clothes away, Miss Bianca?’ she whispers, eager to get back to her place.

Bianca takes her by the hand and twirls her around.

‘First let me look at you. Go on, stand up straight. Look me in the eyes. Do you know that you truly are a good-looking girl?’

Beautiful, too, are the round faces of the kitchen maids, suddenly illuminated by gleeful curiosity. They greet her with due reverence and then run off.

‘Miss Bianca, how elegant you are.’

‘You look like a lady, Miss Bianca.’

To Bianca it is as if they are saying,
How could this be? Weren’t you merely one of us? Or just slightly more?

Then, as soon as Pia descends from the second coach, Minna jumps into her arms. Pia lifts her up and laughs.

‘You’re as heavy as lead, doll face. You didn’t get fat now, did you?’

‘What a beautiful dress! What a lovely hat!’

‘I’ll let you try it on later.’

There is laughter of relief and rediscovered complicity. Now everything can go back to normal.

But there is little time for pleasantries. Donna Clara has arrived and descended from her personal stagecoach. Giulietta, who’s had the privilege of travelling with her, throws herself out
of the carriage in a frenzy, almost knocking her grandmother down.

‘Giulietta! Is that how a young lady behaves? I want to see all of the domestic help immediately, in the east courtyard. Call Ruggiero for me . . . Ah, here you are, I didn’t see you
there, as skinny as you are. My goodness, the hedges. Why has no one pruned them? And what about the lawn? What are those yellow splotches? Does everything stop when I am not here? And move that
cart – it’s offensive.’

As always, nothing is right, and will be fixed only when she asks for it to be done.

Donna Julie passes into the house delicately and unobserved. It seems as though she is better, but she is still pale. She smiles at everyone, almost gratefully, and everyone smiles back at her.
The children run off, Nanny chasing after them. She needn’t have bothered, as they will certainly not let themselves be caught, but she doesn’t know where else to go. The men will
arrive later, in time for dinner, and the wave their arrival will cause will be cushioned by habit. It will be an intimate dinner, serene,
en famille
, before the holiday rituals attract
neighbours and friends to them like flies to honey. People will flock to them, summoned by the serenity that radiates from their small world, hoping to catch this infectiousness as if it is a
desirable illness.

Pia seems to have forgotten the encounter that was supposed to have amounted to glory, but which is instead now buried under the sand. Bianca watches how the young maid focuses
on reclaiming her place in that world. Bianca wishes she could have her to herself but she feels she needs to let her go. And yet, it occurs to Bianca that she must have planted some seed of doubt
because shortly thereafter she sees Pia immersed in conversation with Don Dionisio. They keep being interrupted by every kind of disturbance – the voice of Donna Clara, a servant who walks
too close by – but they always take up again where they left off, whether it is an hour later or the following day. It is as if they never get tired of telling each other things. Perhaps Pia
seeks approval from her protector. Perhaps she expects to learn more from him. Perhaps truth has to be brooded over like an egg, before it will hatch in all its awkward beauty. Perhaps – and
this hypothesis feels like an oncoming headache and Bianca does not want to admit it – not all truths deserve to be revealed. She wishes she could listen to those exchanges, though. She
wishes she could
understand
. For someone who thinks that she has understood everything, not knowing is complete torture.

She is not tired and cannot sleep. It is warm and the novelty of her surroundings keeps her awake, even when an unnatural yet perfect peace has settled over the house, broken
only by the song of the cicadas that rises over the gentle sound of crickets. She imagines everyone sleeping: the maids in their quarters upstairs, stretched out on the wooden floor close to the
tiny windows; the poet in his loose nightshirt, the sheets kicked to the end of the bed; Donna Julie, pale as the pillow on which she rests her head, the sheets tucked under her chin; Donna Clara,
freed from her corset, her mouth slightly open, breathing with difficulty; the little girls, their hair sticking to their foreheads with sweat, their eyelids threaded with pink and blue veins. A
house asleep. She imagines Minna and Pia awake, though, their eyes bright and vigilant, the spell finally broken, intent on telling each other stories in whispered voices.

She doesn’t feel like reading. Instead, she gets up to take in the beautiful stillness of the garden. It is a beauty made up of blacks and greys; the only white the marble contour of the
fountain and the gravel splashed with moonlight. A nocturnal bird cackles mockingly. Silence.

There is the rustle of shifting pebbles and light, careful footsteps. And then, two small, quick shadows come out from behind the corner of the villa and cross the path cautiously. Once on the
great lawn, which swallows up the sound of their feet, they run to its centre, where a new sycamore tree has just been introduced to replace the one struck by lightning. Enrico is ahead and runs
faster; Pietro follows behind with a bundle under his arms.

Bianca smiles and remembers when she used to play with her own brother Zeno and his friends Berto, Tiziano and Tilio. Once, at night, they even climbed to the top of La Rocca. It was an easy
trek during the day along a path shadowed by oak trees, but scary and dangerous at night. They couldn’t see where to step, the stones were slippery with moss, and there was a heavy curtain of
leaves above their heads that shut out the moonlight. But in the end, holding each other’s hands, they made it and were able to look down at the lake from above, sitting together on the stone
throne built for an ancient queen.

The two boys are happy to be out on the lawn. Pietro puts down the bundle and gives it a kick. It is a white ball and looks like it is made from strips of silk. When they kick it, it gives off a
thudding sound, which seems odd. Is it leather? Bianca, now curious, goes downstairs and walks outside. She won’t scare them. She’ll promise to be silent. And maybe they will let her
play with them.

When they see her approaching, the two children stop running and freeze in their places. Bianca is unable to read their expressions. She tries reassuring them and promising complicity.

‘But . . .’ Her words fade into nothing.

The thing has rolled towards her. It is not a ball. It is not made of fabric or leather. It is a skull. A human skull. It smiles at her impassively before rolling over to display its white
nape.

The moment feels like an eternity. Bianca brings a hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

Pietro comes to her side. He is breathing heavily. He flips his hair with an almost effeminate gesture. When he speaks his voice is coarse, breathy, and yet authoritative.

‘You’ll be sorry if you say anything. You’ll be sorry if you tell on us. You’d better keep quiet. Otherwise I will tell on you and then you’ll be in big
trouble.’ He smiles a frightening, adult sneer.

Bianca turns and walks away without saying a word. She is ashamed to have something to be ashamed of.

Another night, after dinner, Tommaso takes her by the hand and pulls her up off the sofa, possessive and insistent.

‘Let’s go for a walk. It’s warm, and the moon is out.’

She refuses. She isn’t in the mood.

‘Oh, yes, you must go. You kids should have fun, not sit around with us old folks, listening to us say the same old things.’

Bianca hears Donna Clara’s bass line of malice, that old strain of envy. Innes excuses himself. As he leaves the room, it is useless to try to make eye contact with him. When he is like
that, Bianca has learned, it is better just to let him be, and wait for the clouds to clear.

Once they get outside, Tommaso is silent, as if he is a wanderer of the moor. The silence makes her feel uncomfortable so she starts a conversation.

‘I would have thought that you preferred literature to nature at night.’

‘He rejects me. He has something else on his mind, and it’s not his devoted puppy. Dogs have a basic defect: they die of loyalty. I think I’ve decided that I’d rather
live.’

Instinctively, Bianca moves further away from him, as much as she can while remaining polite; he must feel her coldness because he adds: ‘You shouldn’t believe everything I say, my
dear Bianca. And don’t worry, you aren’t a substitute. If literature is everything, nature is even better.’

His expression is impossible to read. Every so often he turns and looks back at the house, as if he wants to flee from its gaze. They walk for about a mile down the gravel path and then turn up
a little hill. The dark grows darker. She sees steps: sheets of stone, as white as dragon’s teeth. She is about to rest her foot on the first step, and tries to loosen her arm from his, but
he doesn’t let her go. He actually pulls her towards him and pushes her up the stairs.

‘I want to show you something,’ he says. It is the ice chamber. ‘Have you ever been in there?’