The Watercolourist (22 page)

No, it cannot be. It is too much like a romance novel, Bianca tries to reason. But . . . the likeness. If the others notice it, if they know . . . She has to make sure that Pia never removes her
bonnet. No one can find out, no one can suspect a thing.

Or maybe – the thought shoots across her brain in all clarity – everyone knows already.
Yes, that’s it
, Bianca thinks. It explains Donna Clara’s inexplicable
surges of affection towards Pia, Minna’s hangdog gaze and cruel tongue, and the women’s gossip in the kitchen. What about the ghost, though? And the priest? Is he an accomplice, too? Is
it possible?

No, it cannot be. Perhaps she alone sees a resemblance because she has an outsider’s eye and is able to identify the invisible ties that connect different people, like a spider’s
web. The others may never have noticed.

Or maybe Bianca is imagining it all. It is just the excitement, the intense heat. It is her eagerness to put order into all the coincidences and mishaps she comes across, to frame them on the
same canvas. As if classifying and understanding are one and the same.

There is the sound of twigs snapping and then footsteps on leaves.

‘Who’s there?’ whispers Bianca. In the silence her voice is as loud as a scream.

Nothing. It is a hare, or maybe one of those ferocious wild animals that besiege Minna’s dreams. Bianca lets herself go then, falling backwards, water filling her ears. She hears nothing
more except for the far-away rumble of a much greater and deeper body of water, like the echo of the ocean. Even her body remembers her own lake. It is a different kind of memory from all others
and it is reawakened by her every movement in the brook. The green water is cold against her skin. Algae move around at the bottom like the hair of the dead. She feels that good sort of melancholy
that takes hold of her every time she remembers her home.

There is another rustle, this time louder and closer. But Bianca doesn’t hear it. She floats on the water and stares at the moon. She doesn’t notice the shadow crouching among the
bushes, watching her drift in the current. His gaze takes in her small breasts, the way her hair swirls around her head like a cloud, and her knees and feet poking out of the water.

And then comes winter. Or rather, autumn arrives but it feels like winter. After a mild and colourful October, the skies become tinted with grey and vary only slightly in hue:
pewter, stormy with a streak of blue, deep blue with leaden edges, steel, silver, iron and platinum. The temperature plunges. One morning, on waking, Bianca sees that the great lawn has turned
completely white. It reflects the pale sky and promises only cold, not the joyful feeling of snow. Chilblains appear on Minna’s delicate fingers. Bianca takes it upon herself to cure them
with a white paste she brought with her in a ceramic jar that has the consistency of artists’
gesso
.

‘This is Serafina’s magic paste. Trust me, they will go away. You just need to be patient enough for your skin to absorb it.’

Minna, at first suspicious, soon realizes her luck. She can think of nothing nicer than sitting in one of the pink pinstriped armchairs in the nursery and waving her hands in the air while the
cream dries, without having to do a thing more. She doesn’t even have to bring the girls tea. Actually, the girls take it upon themselves to serve
her
tea, with all the clamour and
ceremony and dangerous clinking of porcelain cups at risk.

Minna’s miraculous healing from her chilblains and the teatime ritual are amongst the final events of their serene country life that year. The ladies decide, in a flash, that the change of
seasons, though inevitable, is entirely unwelcome, and in response they want to close up the house and move back to the city. The poet seems unhappy with the decision and for some time he resists.
Eventually, though, he surrenders to the fact that it is expensive to warm the entire household, worn down by the endless complaining of how they will be better off in the city, with the good
fireplaces, fewer windows, and so on. Don Titta stays on a little longer after their departure with his faithful Tommaso, with the excuse of having to finish a commissioned ode that will pay many
of the bills. He lets the caravan of women, children and luggage set off without him. Bianca suspects that the Big Bear only wants a bit of solitude; no one will deny him that. She has started
calling him this in her head recently and in the fragmented letters she mentally writes to her father, a habit she hasn’t quite lost. Only common sense prevents her from taking up a quill and
transforming everything into a real missive:

Whatever reasons he has to stay on, the Big Bear proves shrewd in sparing himself the total chaos of their arrival in Milan. Although the domestic staff have been on alert for several days
– the personal maids have gone on ahead to prepare – it feels as though they have reached a lodging that has not been lived in for a long time. The trip has been short, but it is next
to impossible to gaze out at the road along the way because the children are so rowdy. They do nothing but scream and bicker, and Nanny soon gives up scolding them, leaving Bianca the duty of
entertaining them with new games. It is foggy and there is little to see in the wide stretches of cold, open countryside. The streets of the city soon make themselves heard, though, through the
sounds of hooves on cobblestones, bells, and the calling of tradesmen. The facade of their town house is dark and closed. It looks out onto a cobbled piazza and is surrounded by other homes in a
similar style.

The bleakness Bianca feels when she first sets eyes on the house is briefly interrupted by the grandness of the foyer and its red-carpeted staircase. But that soon fades as they make their way
to the bedrooms, which are melancholy and look uninhabited. It is all so sadly chaste. Only the living room, with its frescos in pastel colours, has the guise of magnificence. The other ceilings
are all dark, with solemn miniature decorations lost in the shadows. Not even the children’s cries of joy when they come across forgotten old toys and the shadows of their younger selves
enliven the bleak atmosphere. The bedrooms that have been closed off for some time feel cold, as cold as the living rooms in the villa in Brusuglio, pierced by its numerous windows.

And then, slowly but surely, things get better. The light becomes denser, enveloping the house. There is a milky glow on grey mornings and an uncertain light on clear ones. The rooms surrender
and begin to welcome the intruders, to the point of finally allowing them to be lived in. The house is much smaller than the family’s country home and feels less mysterious. An opaque glass
skylight situated above the staircase promises – and yet shuts off – the sky above. It makes the sky look small and square, especially when there isn’t a cloud in sight. The
garden is lush and quite remarkable: palms, banana trees and oriental sweet-gum trees create an exotic backdrop. Two struggling grapevines recall the countryside, and a pair of very young
magnolias, situated closer to the house, stand tall. Donna Clara’s bedroom is the most beautiful. It is on the second floor and looks out onto the garden, which, seen from above, winds
between the other houses like an escape route towards nature. Her walls are adorned with a delicate motif of pink and pale scarlet rhombi and the furniture is exquisite. She cannot resist pulling
Bianca in and dragging her over to a very small picture which might otherwise go unnoticed. It is of a
putto
, a child embroidered in
petit point
and protected by a glass
cover.

‘Queen Marie Antoinette made that in prison, before they chopped her head off, poor thing,’ Donna Clara explains. ‘She gave it to one of her guardians as a gift and she in turn
sold it to a friend of mine in Paris, who then gave it to me. Doesn’t it just give you the chills?’

Yes, it is somewhat eerie to think of a gloomy jail cell where time can never move slowly enough, counting down to death. What a bizarre gift to give to a friend. Who knows what it means. There
are no other macabre relics in that bedroom, only graceful watercolours depicting non-existent landscapes, crystal bottles on the older woman’s bureau, and the vague scent from open
drawers.

The servants’ quarters are at the narrow top of the house. It is as if that section of the building has nothing to do with the frilly bedrooms and elegant salons below. Bianca happens to
walk into one of the rooms while she is exploring but leaves hastily, disturbed by the low ceilings, iron beds, rough wooden floors and damp. Her own bedroom is downstairs, near the others. It is a
small beige room that has the bland feeling of a guest room. Tommaso and Innes sleep at the end of the dark corridor, far from the clamour of the others. Nanny has her own bedroom near the nursery
that is furnished with salvaged furniture, but she doesn’t complain. She never complains.

The room that attracts Bianca the most is Don Titta’s study. And even though it is completely out of bounds at all times, one day she sees the poet passing through the French window of his
study into the garden, and decides to linger. It is dark inside, despite being morning. Rows of books line every surface. The bookshelves are protected by doors of mesh that absorb the meagre
light. There is a sharp smell of old paper. The chimney is both dark and damp; a cylindrical heater of recent manufacture allows for modern heating, but in the absence of a legitimate inhabitant
even this looks cumbersome and gloomy. On the desk of peeling Moroccan leather there are large ink spills, creating geographical maps of imaginary countries, and a pile of dark blue notebooks that
Bianca recognizes from Brusuglio. On a tray rests a row of quills, ready for use. The inkpot is full. Instinctively she leans forward to smell its bitter aroma, which she has always liked. She
looks for other clues about the poet, but the fragment of free wall space bears no paintings or images, just a crucifix engulfed by shadows and grief. Footsteps on the parquet floor in the hallway
outside force her to leave quickly, and she pauses only when she arrives at the square of grass in the courtyard, which is still green but for the areas where dead leaves have now fallen.

There are no large windows from which to throw all domestic tensions, but there is a great deal of coming and going, and doors opening onto other doors. It takes Bianca some
time to realize how this concentric house works. It is a maze, a puzzle. Soon she finds her way, though, and is able to move around lightly and silently, making the most of the play of doorways and
using them to her advantage. She listens and overhears, and absolves herself by telling herself that although these exchanges aren’t meant for her ears, only chance has led her there.

‘Everyone knows that she was a whore when she was young.’

‘But she is so sanctimonious now. All she does is talk about her grandchildren, as if they were the stars in her sky.’

‘Well, anyone can feel regret. The beauty of religion is that there’s always a shortcut to forgiveness, even in the most extreme cases. She has carried herself forward, and has done
things right. It’s not as if she waited for her deathbed to bury her past. She even had to take in that burden of a son. Luckily, her daughter-in-law brought in a dowry of sanctity and money
in equal parts . . . I imagine the old lady will end up in Purgatory because she sure as hell won’t be singing psalms with the angels.’