The Watercolourist (45 page)

As if Bianca’s own story – the story of her flesh, the narrative that weighs under her skin and in her heart like a stone – isn’t enough, there is that other story, the
one that has already been played out. It only adds to her grief. Of all the places she could go, the church seems to be the most suitable refuge: no one is ever there. It will be silent. It is
there that Bianca learns that she needs silence to speak to the departed, and that they need it too, to be able to speak to the void inside her. All her beloved and departed come to her now. No one
is missing: her mother, with her heavy gaze of reproach; her father, his hand pressed against his heart as if to stifle the sorrow; Franceschina, her little feet running, in an echo of her brief
race through the world. She hears Don Dionisio arriving, his breath raspy. He doesn’t know. But he can keep a secret. What difference will another mistaken child make? In this world children
are almost all the results of mistakes. Bianca is startled when the old man places a hand on her shoulder. He slips onto his knees beside her and starts to pray. She does the same, but without
believing for a moment that somewhere, someone is listening.

What if the baby is Franceschina’s ghost and she has returned to avenge herself or just to get a second chance at life? What if the baby is Bianca’s punishment or a ransom? Maybe she
needs to accept this second-hand being, raise her and let her destroy her life in order to reclaim her own. In so doing, might she settle the score? Bianca’s grim fantasies allow for every
possible hypothesis, with the cruellest one being the simplest. She needs to die and, in so doing, kill it. She needs to finish them both off at once, without making a show of it. Parsley
concoctions, rusty irons, a pool of blood and it will all be over. Who will care? She no longer has a father who, like Don Titta, will cry at the absurdity of his own survival. Her brothers have
their lives to live; she is merely a childhood memory to them, a gracious figurine frozen on that distant moor. And no one ever cries for long about the death of hired help. Bianca feels alone in
the world and therefore is. She sees herself float away in a boat made for one, with a trunk full of colours, drifting away over pewter waters towards a steely sky. She watches herself from above;
she feels pity; she cries. She is cold. Nothing can ever warm her now, now that shame moves inside her. Shame, and life too.

She and Innes sit in a stagecoach, alone. They are taking a quick trip to the city to retrieve forgotten and indispensable things for Don Titta and Donna Julie; it is a way of
getting away from the house’s heavy, oppressive grief. Bianca feels these parents need to open the doors of their emotions and let them out, allow them to evaporate, but the voices of the
children on the gravel are almost unbearable.

The carriage moves beyond the confines of the estate and the odd statue of seven nymphs dancing in a semicircle that has always made the guests and Bianca smile. But not now. The orderly fields
of modulated greens speak of the sober beauty of hard work and good land. But there is no one there to listen to their words.

‘I’m leaving,’ Innes says suddenly.

‘But . . .’ Bianca mumbles.
What about those things you said? How will I manage without you?
These unspoken thoughts press at Bianca’s lips but don’t surface,
held back by the remains of dignity.

‘I’m going back to London. I have some friends there. A small family of exiles is building up around them. Apparently, they have this incredible tendency to love failures.’
Innes smiles weakly. ‘For me, the land here is starting to burn.’ He speaks distantly. It is as though he can see himself from the outside and finds himself to be hopelessly
lacking.

‘What if I came with you?’ Bianca says.

It just pops out, without thought. But it feels right. It is the only possible decision. Innes looks at her, somewhat worried.

‘All of Nanny’s darkest fears would come true,’ he says with a smile.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ says Bianca, returning the gesture weakly. She sighs wearily and continues. ‘I’m expecting a child.’

She cannot read Innes’s expression in the half-light, but she can imagine it: lips pursed together, frowning. The questions, the conjectures. She is about to offer an explanation, but is
defeated by her humiliation. This is the time for honesty. She waits. He is quiet. The sound of the horses’ hooves grows excessively loud and then distant, as if she is underwater. She will
have to say something, explain things, explain herself. Answer questions. Shame herself. But she is better off holding her breath. His voice brings her back to the surface.

‘Then we shall get married.’

Bianca struggles. She no longer knows where she is. She wants to go under again. She tries to but cannot. It is as if her body is telling her to stay afloat, life grasping life.

‘Do not fear,’ Innes continues. ‘I shall only ask you to be my friend. And I will be your friend. It will be our pact. You will like London. I realize that you know it a
little, but the London I am thinking of is a completely different city. We’ll have to settle down, grow accustomed to the fog, and forget the sun and this blessed land. And we’ll have
to work. Seriously, I fear that we’ve been spoiled here. It won’t be easy in the beginning. But we’ll make it. We know how to do things and there are two of us. And soon there
will be three.’ He takes her hand, opens it, and gives her palm a quick, dry kiss, after which he clasps it gently and places it back on her lap. ‘And perhaps, over time, there might be
more.’

Bianca does not dare look at him. She allows herself to be jostled by the rhythm of the coach. That small kiss burns her skin. She would like to rub it out but she cannot. She doesn’t want
him to misunderstand. She doesn’t know if it is burning from torment or because it feels confusingly joyful. Is it the poor elation of relief or is it something else? Enough questions.
Whatever the answer, at this point it doesn’t matter.

When it comes time to pack their cases, Bianca agonizes. She feels caught between being gone and having not yet arrived. She doesn’t know what to do with her time. Her
gloves don’t match and her things are in disorder. She thinks about how messy her hair will be during the journey. This is not a holiday; she should feel contrite and oppressed. But amid the
feelings of guilt, fear and melancholia, she also feels the flutter of a bird taking flight. Somewhere inside; not in her heart, though. Her heart is unfeeling, petrified, or perhaps just absent.
It has been crushed and has disappeared into her veins through a flow of blood.

She thinks back to the sycamore tree she saw with her father in Padua. She pictures the great tree clearly – the black fissure at its centre, and yet the branches laden with leaves that
were shady, fresh, alive. In the same way, she feels alive and yet heartless. But it is her head that is fogged up with worry. This is what guides her through her final hours as she collects her
things. She takes the essentials, the items that make us who we are, or who we’d like to think we are. Things she cannot leave behind: a box of coloured pencils, her brushes, a stack of
sketches. She takes her precious keepsakes: her mother’s earrings, her letters, miniatures, a diary. She takes the money, hard earned and in satchels, so that the wheels of their coach will
slide across tracks of gold. She doesn’t take the gifts: the white stone egg, the shawl, the pomegranate, the box of seeds. She leaves them on her vacant desk to be dispersed among people to
whom they mean nothing.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Pia says calmly.

Bianca notices a bundle at the girl’s feet: a raggedy, red blanket that likely contains her few things.

‘But Pia, you have a home here. A family,’ Bianca says.

‘He . . .’ She bites her lip in silence. ‘He is sick, he is going to die soon, he told me. And then I will have no one. The others, they don’t need me. But you do. And
when the baby is born . . .’

The baby. Pia knows. Without realizing it, Bianca glances down at her stomach. It is the same as it has always been, the fabric of her dress covers it and holds it in. So how did Pia find out?
Maybe everyone knows. It is better not to ask. It is better to believe that the young girl who looks at her so patiently and assuredly from top to bottom possesses the intimate gaze of a Cassandra.
The baby. Bianca can no longer hold her stare. She buries her head in her hands and hates herself because she cannot think of anything else to do.
How much do I detest him?

As if reading her mind, Pia takes a step forward and places her hand on Bianca’s arm. ‘The child will need to be loved. He isn’t the one to blame. Children should never carry
the blame.’

You, of all people, know this
, Bianca thinks. She is overcome by a wave of tenderness that allows her to forget herself.
You, of all people.
Bianca rests her hand on
Pia’s arm. It is all set.

The last trunk is shut. She glances around the room at its orderly emptiness. There is the sound of rapid footsteps on the gravel. The window is half open. It is very early.
There are voices: subdued but crystal clear.

‘Take it. It’s the least I can do.’

‘About time.’

‘Oh, come now, don’t judge me. I can do that on my own. I cannot change my life; I’ve never been capable of it. Allow me at least to contribute to changing the life of
another.’

‘Your quasi-divine omnipotence is too much.’

‘Do I appear arrogant? I apologize. For once, I assure you, it isn’t arrogance that moves me to act this way. Enough, stop being difficult, you cannot afford to. You know very well
that you will need it, all of you. Don’t worry. It’s nothing personal. You won’t have to think of my august profile each time you spend some of it. And when you settle down, send
me your address.’

‘What if I direct her towards an improper profession and use your money for myself? For gambling or opiates or any other form of degradation available to us?’

‘Come now! I know and trust you, Innes. In any case, this money is also for the cause. I cannot say it is “our” cause, for I give it no honour. I deny it every day with what I
am and my inability to act. But this way, from afar, in silence . . . I can make a contribution.’