The Watercolourist (39 page)

The ball crashes into the room and sends these grim relics and shards of broken crystal flying across the floor. The little dove is bent out of shape but continues to clutch at its branch with
an odd arrogance. The strands are scattered, and the fruit chipped. Donna Clara, attracted by the clamour like a fly to honey, stands immobile in the doorway. She covers her ears with her hands, as
if she does not want to hear any explanations. The maids come running and then disperse to find brooms and dust pans. Bianca, who has been arranging flowers in the foyer, finds Donna Clara on the
floor like a bent black tulip. In trying to retrieve the hairs, she has scratched her finger and her blood drips on the white strands, resealing an ancient pact.

The cause was a naughty child. Though it was not done deliberately, Pietro is sent to his room without dinner, even if it is only three in the afternoon and dinner still an eternity away. He
stays in the nursery until the following day. When he emerges, he is not at all penitent. It was just an old decoration, wasn’t it?

Giulietta asks for the white dove before it is thrown away, and it is given to her. From that day forward, she carries it in the pocket of her smock or between her fingers. She doesn’t
want it to fly off, as birds have a habit of doing.

The weather changes. A heavy nocturnal downpour brings forth the summertime in its full force but the following morning the park is in ruins. Broken branches, flower heads, and
torn leaves sprinkle the great lawn. Matilde comes running.

‘Look what I found,’ she says, proudly dangling a small dead country mouse by the tail. Nanny draws back –
quelle horreur –
but she is the only one to do so.
Everyone else is spellbound by the creature’s perfect little body, its damp fuzz, the delicate pink fringe around its closed eyes, and its miniature paws.

‘Should we give him a funeral?’

Enrico manages to obtain a gold-bordered chasuble from the church sexton. He runs back to them wearing it, holding up the long tunic with one hand so as not to trip. He stops, lets go of the
folds, and recomposes himself, opening his arms and broadcasting pagan blessings for the deceased.

‘Can I say a prayer?’ Francesca asks. ‘Dear Mouse, I hope that you are happier in Paradise than you were here. You died young and you didn’t know very much. I hope a
piece of cheese waits for you in heaven. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ everyone replies and they bury the little mouse in a box beneath a bush of
Olea fragrans
, where he will not be forgotten.

Besides this small loss, the world cannot be better aligned. In the time it takes the gardeners to tidy up after the storm’s damage, the sun has dried the garden. The rain leaves
everything green and crisp, as if it is springtime. Nature is restored to a glistening state and the timing cannot have been better: they have to prepare for the estate’s annual reopening
festivities. Truthfully, the ladies would choose not to have a party, but their friends are expecting one.

‘It has to take place,’ the poet says in his strict manner. ‘And I have a reason for it. It is a secret reason. Be patient, and you will find out.’

Everyone does their part to help. Donna Clara, pleased to be in charge once again, declares that the house, although it has been properly cleaned after their arrival, needs to be scrubbed again
from top to bottom, eliminating every hint of dust and spider’s web.

Donna Julie is still tired. The heat has taken its toll on her and the thunderstorm hasn’t been enough to restore her strength. In any case, taking charge is not something she is good at.
Instead, she relaxes in the shade of the sycamore tree, resting beneath its sweeping, low branches on a new chaise-longue made of braided straw and light-coloured wood – a homecoming gift
from her husband. Bianca has sought refuge in that spot many times herself before the arrival of the chair. The location makes it easy to forget about the surrounding world.

The children run off in all directions to rediscover the estate, which still appears surprisingly new to them, though a tad smaller. In the back of the house, through half-open windows, Donna
Clara can be heard commanding her troops through organized chaos.

Bianca seeks out her own hiding space. The greenhouse has suffered damage from the hail and many of the windowpanes have been shattered. She sweeps up the pieces of glass and moves the plants
around, which leaves her a luminous, ventilated and sheltered space. It is one of those rare instances where a loss becomes an advantage, at least until the windowpanes are replaced and the
greenhouse will go back to serving its intended purpose as a warm, damp, stifling place. At that point Bianca will have to find another refuge. Meanwhile, she stays there and works. She feels
somewhat lazy, which is unusual for her and which she blames on the tantrums of the weather, just like everyone else.

She is in the greenhouse when she receives a letter. The big celebration is only two days away and the letter announces that she too will have a visitor. Bianca reads it, looks around, rereads
it, and puts it away. She fixes her hair as if to organize her thoughts, picks up the missive, and goes to search for the mistress of the house.

‘He will be our guest of honour,’ is Donna Clara’s dutiful answer to Bianca. But there is also a vein of sincere curiosity. ‘Are you saying that he will
bring his military attaché with him? Interesting. Just so you know, I have always preferred Minerva to Mars. As far as my son is concerned, I am sure you know how he feels . . . and one of
these days he’s going to get all of us into trouble with his crazy ideas. But of course, your brother will be welcome in our household, whatever his uniform may be. Did you say that you look
alike? No? That’s too bad. Attilia, two more bedrooms need to be prepared in the west wing. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’

Bianca listens as Donna Clara gives more orders.

‘You have plates to dust and silverware to polish. Be careful of the Chinese vases! Have the floors been waxed? And what about the quails’ eggs? Can someone please tell me if the
quails’ eggs have been delivered?’

Zeno looks so handsome in his uniform. He had brought it with him in his trunk, neatly folded away, so he could secretly show it off to his sister. The red jacket accentuates
his blond hair and the blue of his childlike eyes.
Or perhaps
, thinks Bianca, pushing him back so she can get a better look at him,
I will always see him as a child.
Tassels and
ribbons on his cap create a crown of almost feminine complexity that borders on the ridiculous and must surely be uncomfortable. But perhaps one actually goes to battle in rags, half naked like
savages, leaving those lofty hats behind.

‘You seem happy,’ she says and he takes her by the waist and spins her around.

‘I am, dear sister. This is what I wanted. You, on the other hand, seem as light as a fairy. Don’t these barbarians feed you?’

She places a hand on his mouth to silence him and together they laugh. She hasn’t felt so happy in centuries, it seems. So much at home, and at ease. But there isn’t much time for
intimacies. He and his friend, Paolo Nittis, a tall and slender soldier with a coiffed moustache and shiny hair and who cannot take his dark eyes off her, have arrived in the middle of the
afternoon and at the height of the preparations.

‘Have you a nice room for me, my trusted valet?’ Zeno asks with a smile as she accompanies them to their quarters.

Because of the heat, she has left all the flower arrangements until last. The cut flowers wait for her in a washtub full of water and ice. She dips her hands in fearlessly, allowing the cold to
move up her wrists through her body, like a long shiver, until it reaches her head.
I will do the flowers
, she thinks,
then go upstairs, get changed, come back down and
celebrate.

It is the beginning of summer, the night of San Giovanni, the night damsels wait for a sign from the heavens to tell them their lot in love. A year ago she felt out of place and
ran away from that celebration to follow the calling of another. Now she will do differently. She is more at home in this small world. She can allow herself to have some fun, can’t she?

Once she is back in her bedroom, she peels a small pear that she has stolen from a triumphant display in the house’s entrance, throws the peel over her shoulder, turns around, and attempts
to decipher the letter that the peel forms. Is it a P, B or D? She would appreciate some help in understanding. Then:
What of it?
she thinks.
My little brother is here and we will
laugh and dance. It doesn’t matter if there are no other cavaliers for me. We will talk together on the great lawn in the torchlight; we will drink sparkling wine, and in silence we will
promise each other things, as lovers do. And it will be all right if the promises are not kept.

Before leaving the city, Bianca made time to visit Signora Gandini’s shop to order two summer dresses. She has paid for them with her hard-earned cash and because of this they seem like
the most beautiful dresses in the entire world. It is difficult for her to decide now which one to wear. She almost misses the days when she owned only one elegant gown, the one she wore for her
eighteenth birthday. Perhaps she should wear it: the white muslin double-skirted dress of plumetis. Although it is starting to become a bit tight across her chest. No, no, she will wear one of her
new gowns. Should she wear the antique rose or the jade green? She knows that the pink one makes her features softer – even the milliner has said so. She has unstitched some of the roses that
the seamstress placed at the neckline because she finds them too girly. The other dress accentuates the colour of her eyes, though, and she is almost certain that no one else will be wearing that
style.

‘Very few girls can wear this sort of dress. It makes most of them look like fish, or ghosts. But not you. You were born to wear green.’

And so she opts for the jade. It has a high waist in the Paolina fashion, which seems destined to last forever, and a thin, triple-braided ribbon that falls down her side for almost the whole
length of the dress, becoming untied at the very end.