The Watercolourist Page 6

  ‘See that one? That means Berlingieri is here, too. That light blue and black carriage is from Poma. Can you see the family crest on its door?’

  Bianca watches the townspeople and listens to their voices, the rise and fall of their strange dialect, so difficult to understand. Once the soirée here is over, Pia and Minna will head to the festival in town. They have been talking about it for days. They will let their hair down and dance like lunatics, they say. Whether it is her wild streak or simply her impetuousness, Bianca knows that eventually her feet will lead her there too. The urge is irresistible. But not yet. The evening is about to commence. She greets the guests and leads them towards the refreshments, illuminated by a fringe of lanterns.

  La Farfalla is Don Titta’s most recent and well-known literary work. It is so popular that even Bianca has heard of it. The master of the house recites some appropriate verses, even as moths flit about them rather than the butterfly of the title. When he concludes, he bows and basks in the applause.

  ‘You’ve given us all a little flutter of excitement, Titta!’ says a beautiful lady in pale rose, causing her friends to laugh.

  ‘You must have swallowed a Lepidoptera,’ he answers back.

  ‘Oh, how horrid! You’re a Lepidoptera.’ More laughter follows.

  ‘Unfortunately, dear Adele, the butterfly is a female.’

  ‘Well, next time write about dogs then,’ says Young Count Bernocchi, strutting like a peacock to the front of the room.

  The women in the kitchen, poets by association, have put Bianca on her guard when it comes to the young count, with a memorable verse:

  An occhio [eye] of regard to Bernocchio,

  his pockets are full of pidocchio [lice],

  he has a very long occhio and even longer hands.

  With this introduction preceding him, Bianca is instinctively cautious. Young Count Bernocchi is definitely not handsome. He is short with an enormous belly. He wears a horrible, outdated white wig that makes his forehead look excessively broad. And the socially inexpert Bianca suddenly finds herself standing next to him. As the guests begin to move off in different directions, he corners her in the room, with the intention of keeping her there for some time.

  ‘So, Miss Bianca, have you grown accustomed to the wilderness? You’re surely used to big cities: London, Paris . . .’

  ‘Yes, I have been there,’ Bianca replies curtly and almost impolitely. Her short response doesn’t offer him anything to build on. She isn’t trying to be rude, though, she simply lacks confidence. They have just been introduced to each other but he already seems to know a lot about her. Of course, the opposite is also true, but at least Bianca has sense enough not to show it. The diminutive that precedes his name is a joke: despite his advanced age, he still has not inherited his father’s position as count. This father, the servants have told her, clings to dear life with his teeth. So even though he is past forty, Young Count Bernocchi seems frozen in eternal adolescence.

  He inspects her through an eyeglass that is so out of fashion it is deeply comical. It surely isn’t often that someone cuts him short. He furrows his brow and continues, as though nothing has happened.

  ‘Vienna, Turin, Rome . . . In my opinion, the Grand Tour is nothing more than a grandiose invention. It allows for European fainéants to continue to practise the activities they enjoy most. It prevents them from getting involved in the fields of humanities and economics, which they should leave to people summoned to that duty – and the true engine of the world – and it gives them the opportunity to dissolve a giant portion of their assets into travel, hotels, rent and thoughtless purchases of mediocre works of art . . . Actually, this healthy circulation of money does quite a bit of good.’

  ‘Didn’t you travel, too, in your youth?’ Tommaso suddenly appears at her side.

  Bianca senses a slight tension in his tone, held in check by politeness. The phrase ‘your youth’ is actually a slight. Clearly Bernocchi cares a great deal about his appearance, but his excessive regard for it only highlights the defects of his age. His over-enjoyment of food and wine has led to puffy features and skin coloured by a reddish network of veins.

  ‘But of course,’ he answers calmly. ‘And, rightly so; I include myself in the category of drones of which I speak. Let’s just say that I have always had the good sense not to consider myself destined for great accomplishments and have been deaf to the callings of the Muses, who can do great harm if summoned forth by the wrong person.’

  If this offhand comment is intended for Tommaso, he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he offers Bianca his arm and they move off. Disgruntled, Bernocchi follows the couple to the centre of the sitting room. There everyone is seated, attentive, and ready to resume the show. Donna Julie seems lost in one of her daydreams. Innes’s long fingers fiddle impatiently with the hems of his trousers. He provides silent company to the old priest, who appears either intimidated or profusely bored, or maybe a bit of both, thinks Bianca. His big white head droops forward over his threadbare tunic as though he is inspecting a strange landscape.

  When Pia enters the room with a tray of refreshments, the old priest is shaken out of his stupor. A beautiful smile, affectionate and warm, spreads across his worn face. A grandfatherly expression, Bianca thinks. Pia is silent. After depositing her tray on a small table, she takes a step back to make room for Minna, then responds to the priest’s gaze with a kind smile. At times she seems to go back to being a child, the way she likely was before her work aroused an endless guile within her. Right now she looks like an infant who wants to take her old guardian’s hand and let herself be guided. But of course she cannot. The moment passes. Pia bows, turns around and disappears. A smile lingers for a few more seconds on the old man’s face until a glass is forced into his hand and he comes back to his senses.

  Bianca is not the only one to have noticed the exchange. Donna Clara, for whom Innes has given up his seat, turns to the pious man.

  ‘Did you see how grown up your student has become?’

  ‘Yes,’ Don Dionisio says, sipping his drink.

  ‘There’s not a holy dove story there, is there, Father?’ Young Count Bernocchi asks, stifling a yawn. ‘Charity is best when we practise it on ourselves, Donna Clara. At least that way we don’t risk delusions.’

  Donna Julie shoots him a glance.

  ‘Do you know that Pia reads stories to the girls? She plays with them and cares for them too. She’s so precious to us, our Pia.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that she even knows how to read? How is this possible?’ Bernocchi asks, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘And why not?’ Don Dionisio says, putting his glass down on the tray excitedly and with a dangerous rattle. ‘Pia is a girl just like any other. And she’s quick to learn.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she knows Greek and Latin, too,’ Bernocchi says with a smile.

  ‘A bit, actually,’ retorts Don Dionisio, before withdrawing into a hostile silence.

  ‘Ah, how generous and enlightened contemporary Milan is! Not only does it take in, raise and feed orphaned children, it also follows them step by step down the road of life, providing them with a higher education which will certainly come in handy when they are milking cows, raking hay and waxing the floors! Even the great Rousseau entrusted his bastard children to public care. And who better than he, with his illustrious work to prove it, to know the best way to raise a child?’

  ‘Oh, you . . . you speak nonsense. And anyway, Rousseau was wrong.’ Donna Julie speaks quickly, animatedly, as if a flame of thought has been lit from deep inside. She casts a feverish look at Bernocchi. She is no longer the poised, invisible creature she usually is. ‘Rousseau was a monster to force poor Thérèse to give up her children. They ought to remain with their parents. They ought to live with them, enjoy their affection, receive kisses and spankings alike . . . only in this way will they learn to love: by example. Isn’t this true, my dear husband?’

  Don Titta bows his head in agreement. Bianca wat
ches Donna Julie attentively as she recomposes herself, the colour in her cheeks fading. Never has she spoken with such vehemence.

  ‘I know you have your ideas, Donna Julie,’ Bernocchi retorts. ‘You even nursed your children yourself, isn’t that true? Or at least, that’s what people said. I must say that I never saw you do it, but I would have liked to . . . you, the most spiritual of women, engaged in such an animalistic act. What a strange spectacle that must have been.’

  ‘It wasn’t for the public,’ says Don Titta, frowning.

  ‘Come, come,’ Donna Clara interrupts, throwing her hands in the air. ‘We don’t want to start a fight on account of that boring man, Rousseau.’

  She laughs her full-bodied laugh, throaty and frivolous.

  ‘Donna Clara, you will never change,’ Bernocchi speaks gallantly. ‘You always were the queen of the salon.’ As soon as he says this, though, he bites his lip, aware of the involuntary offence that does not go unnoticed.

  ‘Oh, yes, dear Bernocchi. Those were good times. Now vanished forever.’ She sighs and puffs out her taffeta chest, and with another gesture – her hands are never still – she shoos away a thought. ‘But we are all much simpler and happier now. A little wild, but happy. Isn’t that right, Julie? Isn’t that right, my son?’

  ‘Really, you are very special,’ says Annina Maffei, a dark-haired lady in an intricate dress. ‘You’ve created your own entourage. You pride yourself on being simple and rustic, but deep down you are very unique. You have a governess for the children, whom you refer to as Nanny even though she’s French. You have dear Stuart for English, which, if you don’t mind my saying, is an incomprehensible and violent language, worse than German. You even have a domestic painter and a poet in residence. Everyone in Milan gossips about you. And here you all are, hiding out. What I would do to bring you to a show at La Scala!’

  Donna Clara seizes on this comment.

  ‘Have you seen the most recent performance by Signorina Galli? How is she?’

  ‘Signorina Brignani is far better, in my modest opinion,’ replies Bernocchi. ‘Signorina Galli is always the same. Exquisite and angelic, a little too much so. Signorina Brignani is small, exotic and spicy . . . if you know what I mean,’ he adds, looking for signs of understanding from the men. ‘But anything’s better than the sylph-like doldrums of Signorina Pallarini.’

  Tommaso nods with an all-too brief smile. Innes contemplates a corolla of tulips in a vase on a table behind him. Don Titta assumes that distanced stare which is his usual defence against the world. Don Dionisio, the old priest, is immersed in his own private meditations, which look dangerously similar to sleep. And Bernocchi is vexed: he hates it when his quips fall flat. So he stares at Bianca, cocking his head slightly to one side and wetting his lips lasciviously. Despite herself, she blushes. A second later, his gaze drifts over to Pia, who ought to have been dismissed by now but who stands staring at Contessa Maffei’s too ornate but nonetheless extremely enchanting gown. Pia neither notices Bernocchi nor feels his gaze on her, which even from a distance lingers a little too long.

  Bianca dismisses herself with a curtsey, which always works for a person of her status – somewhere between hired help and guest. But when she realizes that she has left her mother’s ivory fan downstairs, rather than wait until the next day to retrieve it and risk finding it broken, she returns. Shrewdly, she stops at the threshold. Young Count Bernocchi is talking about her.

  ‘It seems as though that awful Albion has given us the gift of an authentic gem. A coarse gem, of course, as brusque as she is pleasant. She needs only to be cleaned and polished with patience. Do you really think she will stay and draw all your flowers? You, my friend, are an eccentric man. It is you that everyone talks about in the city. Our poet peasant.’

  ‘It’s a shame she has freckles. She looks like a quail’s egg,’ Donna Annina says.

  ‘And what about a man? Will you find her a husband? Or is she one of those modern girls who want to be “independent”?’

  ‘We must marry her off.’

  This had been declared at every dinner with both insistence and some menace. Bartolo used to announce it to their father without even looking at her, as if she were merely one of the furnishings.

  ‘By all means, we must not,’ her father would reply, steadfast and unwavering. ‘Bianca doesn’t need to be married. We have given her the independence she needs to choose what she wants, even a husband if she so desires. But only if she desires.’

  ‘But, Father, really. She is in her prime. Who will want her in five years? She will end up being an independent old maid with ink on her fingers and too much pride.’ Bartolo spoke with sarcasm.

  ‘Bartolomeo, I don’t want to discuss this any further. Your sister will do what she pleases.’

  Bartolo’s face would redden and Zeno would slump down in his chair, raise his glass towards his brother and gulp down its contents mockingly. She would have given anything to disappear when she was at the centre of an argument or the cause of one. Her father would look at her with a kind smile but really she didn’t know what to do with all her freedom. She wished she could have chosen to stay in that dining room with its walls of fading colours forever.

  She has heard enough. Bianca walks into the room with neither a smile nor a greeting, picks up her fan and leaves again, annoyed. She ignores their surprised gazes. Even Donna Annina blushes.

  She looks at her reflection in the candlelit mirrors in the hallway and sees a delicate face with light freckles and high cheekbones. Wisps of hair fall out of her chignon. Perhaps I am odd but so what? she thinks. I am me. J’ai quelquechose que les autres n’ont point, she tells herself snobbishly. Too bad that the mirror in her room, aged by the modest white candle in its holder, shows only a blurry image of a half-formed woman.

  Why should she stay in the house on her own? The night is young and there is another celebration going on, not too far away. All she needs to do is go down the servants’ stairs, sneak through the small gate, and venture down the dark road with its strange shadows created by strange houses.

  The street lamps are illuminated and cast a yellow glare on things, softening their contours. She follows the pounding of a drum and soon finds herself in the piazza, in front of the old church. A stage has been built and people are jumping about in a kind of dance, offering an enthusiastic, disorderly accompaniment to the violin. Giant torches at the corners of the stage shed light on the dancers. The musician, who stands on his own platform, has a large nose that looks even larger in the shadows. He has a slender face and wears dirty leggings that lend him an air of scruffy elegance. He is talented in his own right, even if his instrument screeches savagely. Bianca leans up against a wall in the darkness and watches. The torches reflect the people’s red, straining faces. It is a revel of witches and wizards, united by the beating of the drum to celebrate Walpurgis Night. It is innocuous but not innocent. Bianca watches a girl jump down from the stage, laugh, and run, only to be followed by a young man who catches up with her, grabs her, turns her around, and kisses her on the neck and mouth with violent rapture. The girl tries to wriggle free but that only incites her partner further. He presses her up against the wall with kisses. A tug on Bianca’s sleeve distracts her from the show.

  ‘Miss Bianca! You sneaked out too?’ Pia laughs excitedly and looks at her in complicit understanding. She follows Bianca’s gaze to the couple and shrugs. ‘Our Luciana, she never can get enough.’ She laughs again and takes Bianca by the arm. ‘Come with me. Want to dance? Let’s dance.’

  She drags Bianca onto the stage, where the dense crowd shifts to make room for them. Bianca knows nothing about this kind of movement. It is some sort of noisy square dancing where couples shift from side to side, hooked by the arm. Pia guides her expertly, though, and it only takes a few seconds for her to understand the configuration of steps. There is the smell of camphor, leather, warm bodies and dust; of best outfits and shawls taken out of trunks; of jerkins tarred with sweat
and pulled with twisting gestures. The smells mix with the sweet aroma of hay and flowers and the warm night. Pia laughs. Bianca laughs too, and they dance until they are tired. Pia leads Bianca to a stand resting on two barrels where Ruggiero and Tonio are busy filling mugs with red wine, young and tart. It doesn’t quench their thirst and it leaves a tinny aftertaste. Pia gulps hers down and slams her mug back on the wood with wilful, masculine violence.

  ‘We are all equal on the night of San Giovanni,’ she says. Bianca doesn’t understand what she means by this: men and women? Noblemen and country folk? Pia and Bianca? She doesn’t ask because it isn’t important. Pia takes her by the hand and then leads her down an alley. They turn a corner and continue along the side of a house. Bianca is silent, bewitched by the young girl’s initiative. She has the feeling that they are being followed but when she turns around there is no one.

  They continue on, through the wild undergrowth, where it becomes increasingly dark. Bianca calculates that this path must lead towards the fields. And precisely where the shrubbery ends and the great stretch of cultivated land opens up, a wonder lies waiting for them. Fireflies. There are hundreds, thousands, millions of them, suspended between sky and land, busily flying to and fro. They are dancing, too, guided by the instinct to draw circles, arcs, vaults and volutes in a breathtaking spectacle. It doesn’t matter if there is no music here. The delicate singing of the crickets is all they need, the perfect accompaniment for the procession of tiny floating candles.

  The shadow, if it is a shadow, leans upon a tree trunk and sighs.

  The following day, in the kitchen, all the talk is about Saint Peter’s ship. The ship sits in a bottle, slightly chipped at the top. It has, as every year, been set up on the high windowsill so that people can parade beneath it. It has sails made of egg whites, and inside the bottle are thousands of bubbles. It is a ghost ship that has been caught in the fury of the northern seas, and has survived thanks to a miracle. Tradition has it that the family and staff consign their wishes to this small boat before it ferries the wishes off somewhere secret where they will be kept safe.