The Watercolourist (12 page)

Bianca explains the rhyme and has Minna repeat it. Later Minna goes to the girls in the courtyard and tells them that she knows English. And she does know a little: several rhymes, deformed and
mumbled,
yessir
,
yesmadam
, things that she has picked up in Innes’s lessons. Bianca enjoys correcting the child’s pronunciation and has her repeat Mother Goose rhymes
like ‘Mary had a little lamb’. She chooses rhymes about animals so it is easier for Minna to separate the words from the rhythm and connect them to the inhabitants of their own
courtyard: the geese, the baby lamb, the cats, dogs and ducks. Each time she learns a new word, Minna’s face brightens, amazed by these tiny discoveries. It occurs to Bianca that because the
pleasure of learning isn’t being imposed on Minna, but rather gleaned with the eagerness of someone who is not privy to it, she absorbs everything. The other children, meanwhile, sit at their
desks in the nursery and repeats dull phrases in French that echo all the way down into the garden. The maids in the kitchen giggle and repeat their own lessons:
mossieu a un shevall, madame a
un paraplooie, bonshoo, bonswa, addieww.

Pia joins Minna and Bianca as often as she can. Her presence has a strange effect on Minna. At first the younger girl seems annoyed, but then she calms down and almost seems relieved not to have
to take on assignments that are too complicated for her. With Pia around, Minna plays happily on the sidelines. She will take a little dolly out of her apron, give Pia her seat, and still manage to
keep herself under control. As Bianca retreats into her world of drawing, Pia also disappears into a secret world. She doesn’t carry toys or dollies in her apron. She has a book. The first
time Bianca realizes this, her surprise is evident.

‘I’m allowed, you know,’ Pia says defensively. ‘The books come from the library – I don’t steal them! Don Titta said I could borrow them. All I have to do is
show him which book I want so he can see if it’s right for me.’

From then on, Bianca looks with amusement at the books the maid chooses. She sees
Breve storia della rosa
,
Il Castello di Otranto
and
I fioretti di San Francesco
. She
understands now why Pia’s vocabulary is a mix of popular dialect and more polished words.

The three girls keep each other company, each in their own silent world.

Pia too, though, is only a child. And sometimes she is overcome with excitement. Once they reach their selected location, she will set down Bianca’s box of colours which she happily
carries for Minna, and run off, like a little horse, until she reaches the limits of the woodlands. Then she’ll come back laughing, worn out but calmer, breathlessly justifying herself.

‘That feels good!’

Once, upon her return from a galloping excursion, her bonnet slips off and reveals light blue satin ribbons braided through her glossy brown hair.

‘The ribbons come from the young misses,’ Pia explains quickly. ‘But they’re mine now. They were a bit spoilt, and they weren’t wearing them any more, and so they
gave them to me. This too, look.’ She lifts up her dark red skirt to show off a white lacy underskirt. ‘Even my knickers,’ she says, laughing and twirling. ‘But they
belonged to Donna Julie.’ She looks at Bianca for signs of understanding. ‘I’m more comfortable in these.’ She pulls up the skirt to reveal a pair of white knickers with
bows at the ankles. Donna Julie is very petite and not much bigger than the girl. It occurs to Bianca that this passing down of used clothing must raise some dissent in the kitchen.

In fact, Minna is staring at her friend as if she wants to hit her, but then she bursts into a smile that is too genuine to be false. Pia understands.

‘The maids don’t want me around. They say I’m the misses’ darling. But I am always alone with the cook and with Minna, or with the girls, so it’s all right. And
now,’ she adds, with sincere glee, ‘you’re here too.’

Sometimes Pia sings.

‘Sing the one about the fire,’ Minna says, clapping her hands. And so she begins.

Bianca doesn’t like this song. It is shapeless, like a sweater that has lost its form following too many washings. Her favourite is far softer, sweeter.

‘That’s pretty,’ Bianca says the first time she hears it. ‘Sing it again.’

And Pia, in her strong, clear voice, obeys.

‘Don Titta wrote it for his daughters,’ she offers, without anyone asking her. ‘I wonder what it’s like to have a father like him. Sometimes he plays with them, too.
I’ve never seen a father like that on this earth.’

‘Well, they don’t get to see him very often. He’s very busy and often travels to the city . . .’ Bianca stops herself mid-sentence.

‘Yes, but it’s better than nothing, isn’t it?’ Pia pushes away one thought with another. ‘Antonia, my friend from the piazza, gets beaten by her father every night.
He drinks too much and then strikes her and her mother. Sometimes her arms are black and blue; they look like plums from the garden. And Minna’s father doesn’t even look at
her.’

She says it without malice and Minna nods, never taking her eyes off her faceless dolly.

Pia laughs bitterly. ‘I wonder what my own father was like.’

‘Maybe he’s still alive,’ says Bianca.

‘No,’ Pia says. ‘He died for sure. Otherwise he would have come back to get me. But let’s pretend that he didn’t die. We’re allowed to dream. Yes, let’s
pretend he went to the other side of the world in search of his fortune and that one day he will come back for me and he will be a lord and I will become a lady and he will be happy that I studied
and am not ignorant like the others. I know how to behave in society; I even know English, and we would go to live in a palace. First, though, we would visit my mother’s grave. He knows where
it is. I’m sure he does.’

Quiet falls over the little group. Bianca doesn’t know what to say. Finally Pia breaks the silence and continues.

‘She’s dead, you know. She passed away giving life to me. She flew into the arms of the Lord, up there, where it’s more comfortable. Don Dionisio told me, so it must be
true.’

Ribbons, second-hand knickers, books on loan. There are other manifestations of Donna Clara’s favouritism for Pia too, and sometimes it seems excessive to Bianca. Pia is
just a maid after all and Donna Clara is the lady of the house. Sometimes, in the evenings, Donna Clara makes Pia get up on a stool and recite poetry for whoever is there. A circle of tired but
curious listeners will form and Pia always has a handful of new verses ready. She’ll blush slightly, close her eyes for inspiration and begin, her hands folded in front of her to prevent
herself from fidgeting.

The maids comment on her performance.

‘I didn’t understand one word of it, but she’s good.’

‘Those little words sound just like caresses.’

‘She follows her lessons well.’

Judging from the comments, it sounds like Pia really is everyone’s daughter. She bows, hops off the stool, picks it up, and nods to Nanny, who then pushes the two boys forward, dressed up
in sheets. Enrico is Telemachus and Pietro is all of the suitors. They recite their parts timidly, their eyes fixed on Tommaso, who has taken it upon himself to teach them the verse and who
whispers along with them, sending nods of encouragement. They conclude with a happy brawl with small wooden swords, round shields and leather armbands made by Ruggiero. No one can stop them. The
duel goes on – it lasts an age; the verses of Homer are forgotten and all that is left is brotherly rancour mixed with joy, jab after jab.

‘Pia trusts you. She sees you as a mentor. I have never seen her so content. And I am pleased with the way you treat her,’ Donna Clara says one day to Bianca, taking
her aside in an imperious yet intimate manner.

‘I can tell that she is very dear to you,’ observes Bianca, trying to appear nonchalant but taking advantage of Donna Clara’s conversational mood.

‘Yes, you’re right. It’s not just our Christian duty that pushes us to treat her favourably. Pia is truly a special girl. She’s so alive. My granddaughters are such
delicate daisies; they take entirely after their mother, poor dears. Even my darling Giulietta: she cries over nothing and is always ill. I love them because they are my flesh and blood, and
it’s the law of nature. But it is nice to let oneself, every so often, choose whom to love. And Pia is my choice. When she is older, I will be sure to give her a real dowry, not like the
Ospedale Maggiore, with their horse blankets and two cents. We will help her find a good husband who will respect her – a shopkeeper, a merchant, or a small property owner.’

Bianca falls silent, irked by this compunction.
You treat her as if she were your doll
, she thinks.
You grant her certain privileges that other servants only dream of. It’s
all fine now, while she’s young, but when she’s grown up she will have to fend off jealousy. You are using her.
Bianca would like to voice some of these things but the words stay
bottled up inside. She has no right to speak her mind to Donna Clara. She has the feeling too that there are other things at work in the background, blurring the focus of this painting whose only
distinguishable feature is Pia’s face. She has been told that the girl’s father has disappeared and her mother is dead. But if Pia truly is a foundling, how do they know all these
things? Who told them? And what if her story is the same one told to many lost girls, the details sewn together like a quilt? Do they simply feed the girls’ fantasies?