The Watercolourist (44 page)

‘This family,’ says the old woman as she struggles to get up from her seat, clutching the armrest with both hands, ‘has recently been struck with a loss. Look at us.’ And
with her hand she makes a wide gesture across the living room: dark clothing and despair. The official has a brief doubt: if this is a farce, it is well played. But what if it isn’t?
‘How could you have the gall to come here at a time like this?’ Donna Clara continues. ‘I will be sure to let the governor know. The Milanese nobility still counts for something
in this tortured, upside-down world that doesn’t even honour death. Leave us in peace. Leave, now. Immediately. Go.’

Lieutenant Colonel Steiner doesn’t know how to respond. His informers are trusted sources; the spying took place weeks ago and in the meantime they have undergone all the necessary checks
in order to avoid diplomatic incidents, in case the accusations turn out to be unfounded. Although they clearly aren’t unfounded. And so Steiner has decided to act. Perhaps, if Donna Clara
cried and wrung her hands, he wouldn’t have pity on them. But their stone-like faces, the heavy dignity of grief that has brought the household to a standstill, their eyes – including
those of the domestic help, who stare straight back at him instead of looking down in fear – cracks his self-confidence and zeal.

‘I didn’t know,’ he says finally. ‘I apologize.’

Much later, troubled by the thought of having made a mistake and thereby wasting an opportunity, he wonders whether it has all been staged. These Italians, he thinks, with their tendency to
dramatize everything, you can never fully trust them. But he only needs to leaf through the newspapers to learn it has all been true and that he has behaved as a wretched slave of duty. But justice
will take its course. How much time will he allow them to grieve? Not long. He needs to pound down his iron fist on these discontented traitors. They have everything and they have risked it all. It
is too bad for them. They don’t know what they are about to lose. If only they stayed in their living rooms and protected their young, there would be less trouble for everyone.

Meanwhile, at the house, the message has been received, loud and clear. The inevitable has arrived. Things will have to change, and not in the definitive and brilliant manner that they have
worked towards in the darkness. Governments aren’t toppling and declarations won’t be made. No, this is not the time for a compromise. This is the time to perfect the art of the
getaway. Only in this manner can order be restored, at least temporarily, at least for those who can get away. How much time do they have? No more than a week.

Many things happen in that week.

‘Young Tommaso left like a thief in the night.’

‘He must have got scared.’

‘He must have gone home to his mamma.’

‘But they don’t even talk to each other! He told me as much when he brought me his shirts. Rich people are strange, I tell you. I think that boy cared more for this family than for
his own mother.’

‘Well, why did he go back to his family in the end, then?’

‘You know how it is: families unite in times of difficulty.’

‘Oh, don’t be a know-it-all. Tommaso was just a coward. In this house, rebels sip tea in the living room. In Tommaso Reda’s house, they kiss the Austrian flag, so soldiers
don’t go there at night to knock things about and make a mess.’

‘You’re right. And guess who would have to clean up the mess?’

Voices bounce off one another, intersecting, insinuating, supposing, sentencing. The farmer speaks elegantly, the cook always knows the details, and the others, the extras, become animated only
when no one else is looking at them. There is an indistinct hubbub of gestures and sounds. Bianca tries to soothe her headache by staying in bed, but in order not to hear them all she would have to
close the window, and the fresh morning air feels good.

So, he has left. At night, like a thief. In this, the help’s verdict is painfully correct. He has taken what he wanted. Thief. Bianca buries her head in her pillow and cries tears that the
fabric quickly absorbs. Thoughts run through her like clouds rushing past, high in the sky.
I should have known. I could have held back. I should have trusted myself. What a monster. I hate
him, I liked him, I wanted him, I didn’t want him . . . well, not like that, or maybe . . . yes, it was my fault, his fault, mine, his, mine, mine, his. Mine.
She is certain of only one
thing: no one can ever find out.

There hasn’t been a day in my life when I haven’t expected this kind of grief.

On one of those days, which pass like all the others, when he neither eats nor sleeps, Don Titta writes three short pages. It is Innes, Bianca later discovers, who takes the ink-stained papers
out of his master’s hand. He is the first to read them. He is the one who waves them gently in the air and says, ‘Titta, we must publish this.’

Don Titta doesn’t want to, but he is too spent to resist, and in any case, he no longer cares about anything.

‘I know you wrote this for yourself, Titta, to flush out your soul, but this is precisely what the people need. Clean words, clear words, words that show the world who you really
are.’

‘I am nothing,’ Don Titta replies, resting his forehead against the windowpane. ‘I am nothing, and I care about nothing.’

‘You are a grieving father who is not afraid to show his suffering. That’s all.’

‘They will think that I’m taking advantage of the situation.’

‘So it isn’t true that you don’t care. And anyway, they will think the same thing that they think about your poetry: that it is good for the heart because it says what no one
can put into words. This is why you are here, you poets and writers. To find the right words, the words that everyone would like to be voiced and that no one else can. I am going to see Marchionni.
I’m sure he will agree.’

And Marchionni, who is a publisher as well as a loving father of three small children and an experienced businessman, understands very well. Soon the city newspaper stands and bookshops are
inundated with the inexpensive light blue pamphlet. Actually, it cannot even be described as a pamphlet, more of a broadside. No one will get rich from it, but it certainly helps Don Titta’s
fame. The title,
On the Death of My Child, My Daughter
, repulses and attracts at the same time. People stand in queues to get it; there are discussions in the cafes; they print a second
run. It is so popular that it arouses the suspicion of the imperial authorities. They are convinced that it is actually a coded message, a subversive leaflet cunningly edited by one of the most
dangerous and deceitful conspirators, known for his connection to the inglorious cause for independence; and who has, up until now, escaped from the claws of investigation. It is said that the
police even use decoders to read between the lines for something that is not there. Instead, that miniature diary of enormous loss leaves them teary-eyed and with a lump in their throats.

Perhaps Innes is right: everything in this family has ended. Only art still counts for something. And if the vocation of a writer is to extract art from life, then Don Titta does what he can
with what he has. Maybe there will never be a novel published now. Maybe the poet’s lucky star has burned out just as he is preparing to become a great writer. But these pages exist. These
pages are memorable because they are courageous and alive, because they pulsate with a suffering that everyone can recognize – those who have known it and those who fear it. Sorrow makes
people feel. This unnameable beast is always lying in wait, far away and yet nearby, too. It never leaves anyone in peace. Don Titta’s writing also captures something else, something that
Donna Julie supports and that an anonymous critic of
Rivista delle lettere
notices: a new way of being a parent, a way that erases the mechanical indifference of continuity of the species
in favour of choice.
Everything that we choose
, the anonymous critic writes in conclusion,
is moral responsibility first and social responsibility second.

What about the things that we don’t choose? What about the things that are imposed on us through force?
Bianca broods over this as if it is an illness, as if she
has caught some kind of repulsive infection by chance or by mistake, because she hasn’t known how to defend herself, or because she is weak. What would Tommaso say about these things?
Nothing. His silence is heavy. And he passes on to Bianca the nauseating feeling of an unasked-for presence. The idea of him taking responsibility would make her laugh if she had the desire and
strength to do so. She would gladly choke that critic. He thinks he knows everything, but he will never have to carry a child in his womb, whether he wants one or not. He is only good for creating
one and then leaving, paying off his lover with a satchel of coins and ignoring the child’s existence. He might be asked to pay for its education in some squalid, provincial boarding school.
He might legitimatize the child or disown it. He might even love it, if he so desires, if he is inspired to, if the fashion of the times dictate it. He will do what the nobles and the rich always
do: whatever he pleases. But some people cannot do as they please and must only do what they can.

Nothing can go back to the way it was. This new, unknown and unwanted person makes its way forward, leaving only signs. Bianca has a sour flavour in her mouth; deathly exhaustion catches her by
surprise; gone is her desire to do anything; she sleeps at all hours of the day; and her breasts swell painfully. These are the symptoms of the thing she fears. Bianca is sharp enough to recognize
them. She will have to do everything on her own. But what can she do?

I didn’t know any better
, the ghost, Pia’s mother, had said. That crazy woman had been humiliated by life itself. It all comes back to Bianca now. For the first time,
instead of anger, she feels pity for the woman, which in turn becomes pity for herself.
It was easy to think I knew everything. I felt like I was on top of the world. And then the bubble burst.
It wasn’t the world; it was merely a soapy illusion full of beautiful, false colours.
She has fallen. Bianca is a fallen woman. Suddenly the phrase takes on an entirely new meaning, so
literal she can see it. It is easy to stay fallen, to cake yourself with mud and hope that no one will recognize you, especially if nobody holds out their hand to help you get back up on your feet.
Bianca remembers herself on the night of the party, descending the staircase and being greeted by Zeno and Paolo. It is all too vivid, almost false in its gaiety. A couple of weeks earlier, which
now feels like a century ago, she didn’t need their hands, she knew how to walk on her own. Bianca doesn’t want anyone to know about what has happened, but now everyone will.

If only she could make a switch and exchange the life of this child, whom no one has asked for, with the life of Franceschina, who was called forth from the honest love of matrimony, who had a
place, who knew how to be loved. But these kinds of bargains don’t exist. They aren’t conceivable. There’s no logic in the drawing of one’s destiny, just scribbles in the
margins, ink spilling from a quill, clumsily, incompetently, by mistake or by chance. Then the mark left on the paper is clear, while the quill returns to a lake of blackness.