The Watercolourist (41 page)

‘What about your wife?’ Bianca asks suddenly, worried about conventions. He still hasn’t asked Donna Julie to dance. He started off the evening by accompanying his mother.

‘She never learned to dance,’ he replies.

She thinks about Donna Julie: her modest ways, her sober clothes, her lowered gaze, prayers and fasts. Bianca has heard the story many times in the maids’ quarters. His mother chose this
wife for him, a fresh young girl ready to marry; she was young and rich, from a good and pious family, ready to move from one cloister to another. He loves her, though. It is evident. He looks for
her now, they exchange a spark of understanding, and he keeps on dancing.

Earlier, when he made his announcement, it was the same. Donna Julie did not stand by his side. She placed herself in a part of the salon that allowed her to survey everyone and everything.
Invisible, yet always present. He gave her a look before signalling to the musicians to fade out the polka. The guests interrupted their dancing and gathered around the French window. He made his
way forward, creating an empty space at the centre of the hall.

‘Friends,’ he said, ‘you are here because it is the beginning of summer, because we have returned to our much-loved Brusuglio and because we want to share with you the joys of
the season before they turn to suffering – the light kind of suffering that nature inflicts on us. In fact, I am pleased to say that we were able to eliminate all the mosquitoes for
tonight’s celebration.’ People laughed and he continued.

‘We have also been able to summon a light breeze to comfort the warm bodies of those who love dancing. We know that it won’t last. There will be heatwaves and crops to think about.
But those are my concerns. You know that I am a country poet – and perhaps more country than poet – that’s up to you to decide.’ More laughter.

‘But there’s another reason I have invited you here. Many of you know that for years now I have been working on a project that has absorbed my days and nights. Some people called me
mad, and perhaps they are right. But my feat is finally over, and I will now begin the second part of my adventure. In September, my historical novel will be published.’

Applause.

‘And then I hope that someone will read it.’

Laughter.

‘Actually, no, I hope that people will purchase it – either out of curiosity or simply to see what has gone through this madman’s head. Ultimately, I only want people to buy
it. I don’t even care if they read it!’

More laughter.

‘I know that many of you appreciate me as a poet. Recently, the poet in me has become a sort of youthful brother to consider with the kind of indulgence we tend to reserve for young
people. Let us bid him farewell. Let us say that he’s leaving for a journey abroad, from which he will return changed, unrecognizable. Or perhaps he won’t come back at all. I invite you
now to discover the writer, the older brother, raised by the severe schooling of life and certain to have at least one story to tell.’

‘And you – where are you in all this?’ someone called out, bringing more laughter.

‘Oh, at the moment I am in Brusuglio, where the land and my family summon me and ask me to be both of the soil and father of family.’

Applause followed and trays of drinks were passed so that they could toast.

‘To our friend Titta, who always knows how to amaze us.’

‘To the poet we won’t forget.’

‘To the novelist we want to get to know.’

Other whispered sentences were hidden behind sips of white wine, phrases uttered in a tone that showed more concern than criticism.

‘Is he sure about what he’s doing?’

‘How much will it cost him? To self-publish, what an idea! It will be his ruin, trust me.’

‘And his family? How will he maintain them while he waits for his glory to arrive?’

‘With what it costs to keep up this house . . .’

The comments she heard expressed mild unease but were not malicious. The poet truly has many friends, Bianca thinks as they dance. She wishes she could ask him, as one friend to another, if he
really is serene. She wants to know if he thinks he has done the right thing. She wants to ask what the novel is actually about. She wants to tell him that Enrico, more than any of his other
children, needs him as a guide and a companion; that he is being spoiled by his mother and grandmother and turning into a whiny brat. She wants to tell him that the girls shouldn’t be
mollycoddled and should have more independence. They are fun and intelligent. They deserve more attention and more ample horizons than the ones framed by the windows of their nursery. But it
isn’t the right moment to do so. If he is really going to dedicate himself to the countryside with vigour, there will be other opportunities. Everything is possible and even more so now. She
should be happy to have him close by. He ends the dance with a bow and a farewell, but holds onto her fingers for a moment longer than necessary.

‘Thank you. Really,’ he whispers.

What is he thanking her for? Bianca will never know.

He takes her by the hand without saying a word, imperiously, like someone with the right to do so. She says nothing. He leads her quietly up the stairs, careful in his movements
so as not to bump into columns or the decorative objects on top of them. He opens the door to a room that is bound to be empty at this hour and then closes it behind them. Windows of moonlight
illuminate the pavement. Someone has forgotten to draw the curtains, which is not new for this room. The shadows in the darkness are phosphorescent, luminous. The lightness of his first kiss melts
her lips like a snowflake in a child’s palm. The fabric roses in her hair get caught in a cuff. They are ready to come undone and surrender, one petal at a time.
Where should I put my
nose? Here.
That is good. His mouth is good too. She imagines the secret obscurity inside, the flash of her tongue on his teeth; she can taste traces of tobacco and alcohol – an aroma
light enough to be pleasing.
Do I taste good?
She thinks back to when she was little and how she would bite flower petals to see whether they tasted the same way they smelled. They all
tasted like green.
I’d like to taste like a flower. It would be logical
.

Should I stop and defend myself? Should I? I still can. I should shield myself with armour. Armour – what a metallic-sounding word.
She imagines a flimsy sword. She pictures
herself brandishing a flower for protection. From what? From a kiss? No, he isn’t dangerous.
It
isn’t dangerous. It isn’t. When one kisses one ceases to think. And
that’s all.

But this isn’t love. This is something that resembles it, a copy, a surrogate. Love, the real thing, has to be something else. It
is
something else, something impossible; it
belongs to that other man, the man that belongs to another woman, the master of the house, unattainable.
That which we cannot have is perfect, intact and incorrupt.
For now, she will take
what comes her way, what she is offered, because this is youth, it is frightening, and it makes her feel good. Because: yes.

What follows is not what she expected or even wanted. She wants to say no at that point, to leave, deny everything, and return to the coy games, glances, or even just to the kissing. By the time
this occurs to her, it is too late.

No, this isn’t love, this rubbing of fabric against fabric, this warm and rugged fumbling. Fingers, fingers everywhere. Hands touching places where no stranger’s hand has ever been.
A strained gasp. To want and not to want. Here, this, where, what, why. And then the pain: piercing, tearing, leaving her breathless, unceasing, insistent, like pain without compassion, a rasping
of flesh inside flesh.
No, not like that, no.
But words are useless. Nothing changes.

Her other self, silent and composed, watches from afar. Her eyes are pools of pity.
Why pity? What if this is actually what it is like? What if it is supposed to be like this?
She
doesn’t know any more.

She continues to listen to the agony stampeding inside her, nailing her to the wall, snatching from her very throat a sound that doesn’t belong to her. It isn’t her voice; it is
neither laughter nor lament. It is a horrible sound, the sound of a wild beast suffering, nothing more.
How long will it go on for? Will it ever stop?

And later, when it is finally over and the folds of her dress cover her wound, the question lingers: is this love?

Of course not. It is what it is.

He rests a hand on her cheek almost out of pity. She would feel anger for that if only anger could make its way forward through the thick confusion. And then he leaves, shutting the door behind
him soundlessly. She is alone in the semi-darkness, somewhere between the doll’s house and the window’s luminous rectangle. She slides down the wall to the floor and slumps over like a
wilted flower. And then she cries.

Everyone has left. The house sleeps a satisfied sleep charged with success. But here and there is work to be done. The musicians drink mulled wine outside the kitchen. Bianca
can smell its sharp wintry scent from the dark hallway.

‘It’s June but it doesn’t feel like it,’ one of them says. ‘We shouldn’t have played outdoors. My violin has rheumatism and so does my shoulder.’

‘True, but in rich people’s houses it is always summer,’ comments another musician.

‘Only us poor folk know about seasons.’

A female voice speaks, low and rugged, from inside the kitchen. ‘You really think of what you do as work?’

‘It depends on one’s point of view,’ says the first violinist in a tired tone. ‘May we have some more wine? And a warm pie, one of the leftover ones? Or have you eaten
them all up? You cook for an army at these parties. It’s as if they never ate. Thank you, you’re a good woman, and an excellent chef. Don’t you, perchance, desire a husband who
can play?’

‘I have one already, but I am the one who plays the instrument, when needs be.’

Laughter and then silence.

Bianca slips into the darkness. She would like some mulled wine. Or maybe not. No more wine. Never again. She opens the French window and walks down the steps. At this hour, the forest has not
yet made up its mind about what it will become. It has the purity of a print scored with ferocious black shadows. Not even the forest can promise or guarantee peace. Is there peace on this
earth?

No.

Bianca turns around, thrown by a presence behind her. It is Nanny. She is evidently very worked up as she has forgotten to put her robe over her flannel nightgown. Nanny, who always feels cold,
now stands barefoot. Bianca notes all the details, including the two fleshy shells that poke out of her braided hair: Nanny has big ears. Bonnets, however silly they seem, serve their miserable
purpose.

Nanny claws at Bianca’s arm and shakes her.

‘Have you seen her?’

She cannot imagine which of the three girls is missing.

‘Francesca has disappeared,’ Nanny adds coarsely. ‘I heard a noise; I got up and went to look in their bedroom . . . She’s nowhere to be found.’

They find her body in the brook. She has been carried downstream by the current for more than two miles. Unable to drag her any further, the water has left her there, like a
broken doll, her head bumping against the wooden dyke, her nightgown sticking to her skin. Her eyes are open, her tiny face serene. It is not yet dawn.