The Watercolourist Page 10

  ‘I like doing things on my own.’

  Donna Clara takes Pietro’s hands in hers and warms them while speaking to him both reassuringly and with reproach, a combination she often uses when talking to the boys, as though forcing them to reason is a vain effort.

  ‘Oh my, you’re so cold! Now you’re bound to get sick and drive your poor mother crazy. You know you’re not allowed to go out at night-time. You know nobody likes this story about a ghost. And you mustn’t tell lies – we have told you thousands of times. What were you doing outside at this hour anyway?’

  She casts a surly glance at Nanny.

  ‘I was busy with the girls, signora,’ Nanny says in her own defence.

  Pietro, triumphant – and happy to take both blame and merit – realizes that for once they are one and the same, and clarifies his story.

  ‘Nanny has nothing to do with it. She was in the nursery and I was very quiet. I slipped out. You can’t expect to keep us prisoners like girls or workers.’

  Donna Julie ignores the offensive juxtaposition and tightly presses her hands together in prayer, imploring the saint who is supposed to protect children from the evils of the world, even when they are good.

  ‘But Pietro—’

  ‘She wore a veil,’ the boy continues, throwing his cape back over his shoulders. ‘She was walking above the ground. She was frightening, but she didn’t scare me. I got so close, I almost grabbed her, but then . . . well, she ran off. It was dark up there, so I decided to come back. To tell all of you,’ he concludes, transforming his cowardice into bravery.

  Enrico watches him with clenched fists and repressed anger. The girls take sides. Matilde and Franceschina stare at him, spellbound, while Giulietta remains sceptical. Bianca sides with Giulietta: Pietro does not have the makings of a hero. And most likely he has made up half of what he has said. However, this particular ghost is clearly nothing new.

  Donna Julie lowers her head.

  ‘Ghosts do not exist,’ Donna Clara insists.

  ‘I’m telling you, it was a ghost,’ retorts Pietro. ‘It was the same one, Nonna, the black one with the veil in front of its face, the one you saw in the fields that time, the one that terrified you.’

  ‘I was only spooked,’ Donna Clara replies. ‘But since ghosts do not exist, they don’t really spook anyone. Now go upstairs and get changed. And don’t bother coming down for dinner: liars are not welcome at our table.’

  Donna Julie is clearly tempted to intervene but refrains with difficulty. She has a hard time challenging authority. Bianca thinks it unfair that Donna Clara exerts control whenever she wants. Pietro isn’t her son. But on the other hand, the child isn’t being pleasant either and to see his embarrassment brings Bianca a brief but sharp sense of joy, which goes hand in hand with Enrico’s sour glare. Pietro shifts his weight from one foot to the other in anticipation of a reprieve, until he realizes that his mother’s indulgence won’t cancel his grandmother’s punishment. And so he goes up the stairs, his eyes downcast.

  Donna Clara inhales as deeply as her silk corset permits and then shakes her head.

  ‘Too much imagination. They listen to too many stories, these children. I’m always telling you that, Julie.’

  ‘Actually, I saw the ghost once, too,’ Matilde says, surprising everyone. Matilde, who never speaks unless spoken to, has bright red cheeks. Her sisters stare at her, flabbergasted.

  ‘Enough of this chat,’ her grandmother says. The child hushes.

  Soon it is dinnertime. Enrico shoots a suspicious glance at his brother’s empty seat, uncertain whether to envy him or to appreciate that his absence allows him for once to be the only boy. As he lays eyes on the meal, he explodes with joy: stuffed veal sweetbreads are one of his favourites and now he can have twice as much. It is as if not being found guilty of anything this time makes him innocent forever. Bianca watches with poorly concealed horror as the child devours his plate of offal. She will never eat, nor has she ever eaten, anything of the sort. It feels like savagery to put something so holy and at the same time so intimate in one’s mouth, stripped from the body of a once-living being. Enrico passes his days with animals – dogs, cats, rabbits and lambs – doling out snuggles and violence in equal amounts. He obeys all his impulses and he follows his cravings. Bianca looks down at her own plate of pale lettuce and then over at Donna Clara. She relishes her food with the same joyful ardour as her grandson.

  ‘If I am not being indiscreet, can you tell me more about the ghost?’ Bianca says.

  Donna Clara looks up from her meal, her fork in mid-air, and then waves her free hand as if to shoo away a pesky fly, gesturing at the boy, and shaking her head quickly. Bianca gives up; she will keep her curiosity to herself. But at dessert, after the children have said goodnight and followed Nanny upstairs, Donna Clara continues.

  ‘In the presence of the little one I wanted to avoid talking about it,’ she says. ‘Children are so impressionable.’

  Bianca wants to counter the comment but keeps her thoughts to herself. This isn’t the time to interrupt or distract her. Soon, mollified by une petite crème, the older lady gives in.

  ‘You, of all people, should know that any ancient dwelling, or even merely an old one, has phantoms. We have the Pink Lady. I don’t know whether you have ventured out north of the fields, but there is a dilapidated turret out there. It is said that those are the ruins of what was once the castle of the Pink Lady, who lost her soon-to-be husband in battle just before being married. Romantic stuff, you know.’ She shakes her head slowly back and forth in an expression of disapproval. ‘Like those novels that are in vogue now. Anyway, the widow-to-be closed herself in the castle and never came out, dead or alive. It’s a story that everyone around here knows. And you understand how children can be: they listen and they repeat. They invent. They must have overheard it from the help. Some fool in an apron shrieks and sees what they want to see.’

  ‘That’s too bad. I would have liked to paint its portrait. The phantom’s, I mean,’ jokes Bianca.

  Donna Clara smoothly changes the course of the conversation.

  ‘This Chantilly crème is excellent. It seems as though the cook has finally learned that in order to make it you need to have a delicate touch.’

  ‘I made it,’ Donna Julie says with a smile.

  ‘Oh no!’ Donna Clara exclaims. ‘You mustn’t tire yourself out, you know that.’

  ‘Tire myself over whipped eggs and cream?’ laughs Donna Julie.

  ‘What will they think when they see the lady of the house amidst the pots and pans,’ objects Donna Clara, forgetting about the time she herself spends in the kitchen. Although in truth she never lays a finger on a pot.

  ‘I like it. It’s fun for me,’ insists Donna Julie. ‘You never let me do anything.’

  ‘Oh well, if you want to get sick again . . .’ Donna Clara says, scraping her bowl with a spoon. Bianca eats in silence, savouring the cream’s airy texture, its softness and the contrasting tartness of the fruit.

  ‘My mother taught me how to make cakes,’ Bianca says. ‘Would you like the recipe?’

  Donna Julie lights up.

  ‘I’d love to try it but only if you help me.’

  ‘Of course! With all the children,’ Bianca says, smiling.

  Donna Clara scowls and asks for another helping.

  ‘I don’t understand you two. The idea of getting your hands dirty with dough, bringing the children into the kitchen . . . it will only confuse the help and people will lose their sense of place.’

  ‘The children are always sneaking into the kitchen, anyway, and I don’t see anything wrong with it. Perhaps they will enjoy themselves more than they do with Nanny. They will certainly learn more. And with my hands, I can’t be a lady. Look,’ Donna Julie says calmly, holding out her small white hands marked by imperfections; they are swollen, rugged, even, to look at.

  ‘I always say you work too much. It isn’t proper. You should wear gloves.’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m tired of doing what I should.’

  ‘You’re making a mistake.’ Donna Clara speaks without even looking at her.

  ‘You, of all people . . .’

  The sentence hovers over the table in mid-air, powerful enough to cause the old signora to finally look up from her plate and into the eyes of her daughter-in-law.

  ‘I what?’ Donna Clara replies disdainfully.

  ‘You . . . you, at least, have lived,’ mumbles Donna Julie. And then it is as if a sudden gust of wind extinguishes her tiny flame. She lowers her head and is silent.

  Later, while she is unbraiding Bianca’s hair, Minna, who as usual has heard every word, cannot resist the urge to speak her mind.

  ‘Don’t listen to Donna Clara. She doesn’t want to talk about it because she says it distracts us. The Pink Lady is an old story and is over. No one believes it. The ghost, however, does exist. She’s real. She comes to evening vespers every Monday.’

  ‘If she’s always so punctual, she must be English,’ Bianca jokes. ‘With a pocket watch hanging from a long chain.’

  ‘Oh, that I cannot say. What I do know is that she appears out of nowhere and disappears into thin air.’

  Minna stares at her in the mirror.

  ‘Seriously, Miss Bianca. Open your eyes and you will see.’

  Bianca knows that in order for ghosts to exist, someone has to believe in them. She lets herself be lured into imagining the phantasmagorical creature as though she is a gullible child.

  The rains end, the ground dries out, the sun returns and summer makes its way back – one last time before the winter decline. It is hot and the world, invigorated by the hydration, is green with life, blooming, exultant. On Monday, when the church bells chime for evening Mass and a handful of old ladies hobble towards prayer, Bianca makes her way towards the northern gate. She takes a basket, her gardening gloves and a pair of shears. Her apparent goal is to find some unusual roses that grow in the beds farthest from the house. There she kneels among the bushes that flower far from anyone’s sight. Roses have an air about them that is too uncertain for her taste, and yet they are beautiful. Their heads hang close together and their smell is faint. Bianca slips on her gloves and chooses several stems, but not the longest ones. She wants to use a specific crystal vase that she has spotted in the bottom of a cupboard. When she looks up from her basket, she is startled by what she has really come to see. Far off in the distance stands not a phantom, but a woman. She is dressed in dark clothes and wears a veil that drapes down beyond her shoulders like a short cape, giving her a monastic look. This trend hasn’t yet arrived in these parts but Bianca recognizes it from certain foreign magazines. Maybe the woman is a traveller. Maybe Bianca is jumping to conclusions; perhaps she simply chooses that apparel because she does not want to reveal anything about herself. Even without a veil, though, the uncertain light of early dusk will hide her facial features. Because of the tall grass, she looks like a silhouette on a theatrical stage.

  In the time it takes Bianca to gather her skirts and quicken her step towards the gate, the veiled woman has disappeared. Bianca tries to see where she went but the gate is closed, and she cannot follow the shadow any further.

  ‘What nice roses,’ Donna Clara says to her later, as she arranges the trimmed flowers in the glass vase. ‘Your hunt was successful, I see.’

  Bianca is silent. Her real prey has escaped her. At least she will have her portraits of the roses, which will last far longer than the flowers themselves. She imagines everyone admiring the dark tangle of thorny stems beneath the surface of the water.

  A good hunter is dedicated. He returns time and again to the place where he first catches sight of his prey. In order to make the hunt his own, the hunter must be patient and methodical. The following day Bianca seeks out a point in the garden where she remembers the wall is slightly lower. She climbs over it without too much difficulty in an old grey pinstriped skirt that has seen some wear and tear, and retraces the woman’s steps across the flattened grass, searching for clues. She isn’t sure what she is looking for. If there are traces, she will never be able to find them. She isn’t a dog that can follow its sense of smell. But she is lucky. Right there on the ground where the path gives way to the tall grass, she finds something. Bianca kneels down and picks up the strange object. It is a small pillow of striped pink and green velvet, sewn in a delicate golden whipstitch. In the middle, on a pink background, is an embroidered lamb with a real bell hanging from its neck. Bianca shakes the pillow and the bell jingles softly. It looks like it has been made for a tiny bed in a doll’s house or like an elaborate sachet to be placed among one’s linens. Bianca brings it to her nose: it has no scent.

  The following Monday brings steady rain. But on Tuesday the sun shines once more. Bianca climbs over the wall again and into the fields. She doesn’t come across any surprising finds this time but does meet someone, just not the person she was hoping for.

  ‘Well, look who’s here: our painter! Out and about, and disguised as a servant, no less. A delectable Colombina. What are you doing, Miss Bianca? Are you dressed up for charades? Or are you simply strolling incognito in search of new and original subject matter? Are you a fan of the people, dedicated to marrying their filthy cause? Listen to me, forget about them: flowers like you thrive in closed gardens. Or come with me to the city and I will show you how beautiful life can be . . .’

  It is Bernocchi. He is dressed in a light blue spencer designed for another kind of figure. His trousers and white socks amplify his more than robust thighs and calves. He removes his hat and plunges into a deep bow, showing off a florid and sweaty neck. It is a most unpleasant spectacle and encounter for Bianca, who would give anything not to be subjected to the prying gaze of this man. She tries to defend herself with indifference.

  ‘Conte Bernocchi . . . well, this is the last place I’d imagine to find you.’

  ‘Indeed. I arrived early and asked to be let out right here. I wanted to take a stroll in the open country . . . like you. I hoped to find out if here, among the tall grasses, lay the font of your inspiration. But of course, the fields are filled with interesting little creatures like yourself. Ah,’ he says, looking off into the distance with a malicious air. ‘Now I understand . . .’

  Innes is crossing the field towards them, approaching from the house with long strides. When he arrives, he rests his hands on the wall from within.

  ‘Who is luckier, the people inside or the people outside?’ Innes says with a smile. Bianca’s sombre expression does not escape him, nor does her plain outfit. He reaches across the barrier wall. ‘I beg of you, come back to us. We simply will not let you run off,’ he speaks light-heartedly, as he helps her climb back over the obstacle. Count Bernocchi peers at her naked calves, made visible by her movement, looking away only when Innes glares at him.

  ‘Do not expect me to do the same,’ he jokes. ‘I am not a born gymnast like you English folk. I’m taking the long way round. A healthy stroll will do me good. Please tell them to prepare refreshments, as I will certainly need them upon my arrival. And let them know that I will bring an armful of roses with me, like a damsel. Like our Miss Bianca.’

  Bernocchi walks off down the path, swinging his walking stick.

  ‘Then be not coy . . .’ mumbles Innes quietly in English, but Bernocchi either does not hear him or fails to understand because he doesn’t turn around.

  Innes and Bianca share a laugh. There are moments, and this is one of them, when it is right to suspend the rules of the salon: forget the plaster mouldings, ignore the delicate crystal and china, and walk past the family portraits. This is the joy of conspiracy. How nice to discover that Innes doesn’t care for Bernocchi either.

  Half an hour later they see him on the great lawn, stretched out on a chaise longue, his belly in full view, admiring the girls as they play with Pia. Each time Pia runs off to catch the ball, the count’s head follows her.

  Nella pozza c’è un lombrico

&nb
sp; Molle interrogativo

  S’inanella sotto l’acqua

  Non sai dir se è morto o vivo.

  Rosagrigio grigiorosa

  Dentro il fango cerca sposa.

  Se nessuno troverà

  con se stesso a nozze andrà.

  In the puddle there is a worm

  A wet question

  Twisting under water

  You can’t tell if he’s alive or dead.

  Pinkish grey, greyish pink

  He seeks a bride in the mud.

  And if he finds no one to bed

  He will have himself to wed.

  ‘Hurray, Papa!’

  The children clap their hands and laugh, especially Pietro and Enrico, who has a particular fondness for worms. Over the years they have chopped up thousands for play soups or just for fun, watching them writhe in silent pain.

  ‘How do you do that?’ Giulietta asks. ‘I want to write poems like you.’

  Don Titta caresses the little girl’s cheek and she snuggles up to him as if she is a kitten. Enrico crushes the sweetness of the moment.

  ‘I know where to find lots of caterpillar moths! We can make homes for them!’

  The children run off, even the little ones, followed by Nanny and her pleas.

  ‘Don’t touch them, they’re dirty!’

  The adults remain seated, awaiting their coffee.

  ‘All children are poets by nature,’ Don Titta declares. ‘It’s in the way they look at things.’

  ‘Yes, but really, Titta, to speak of worms like that when we’ve just finished eating.’

  The reproach comes from Donna Clara while the others have all smiled indulgently.

  Bianca looks around at them, trying to understand them. Innes exudes a certain detachment but a minuscule contraction of his mouth reveals a smirk held back with difficulty. Everyone else ignores the exchange, inclined in the name of peace to accept the vagaries of their host. Donna Julie nods and picks up on the bit of the conversation that interests her.