The Watercolourist (30 page)

‘When she dies, what will we do?’

Bianca feels obliged to alleviate such pessimism.

‘What are you talking about? It’s just the winter. It’s been hard on us all. When the nice weather comes, signora will regain her strength, you’ll see.’

Bianca doesn’t really believe her own words. Why is the poet away with other men discussing things that are only important to him instead of being here, alongside the woman he has married,
who is suffering? How can he not know that any day could be her last? Is he a monster? Has he simply given up? Or does he know something that no one else does? Bianca has seen Donna Julie run to
her room, racked with coughing. The children have thrown all sorts of tantrums to hide their fear. Anxiety is everywhere: in the eyes of the help, in the presence of the doctor’s coach in the
courtyard, and in the red-splotched handkerchiefs that the washerwoman sluice again and again, trying to restore them to their original whiteness. Too many children, too much life.

In spite of this, Donna Julie always appears so serene, wrapped in a peacefulness that softens the effects of grief and transforms them into a sweet, deaf, anticipatory nostalgia. It is as if
she has already gone far away and will return only for brief visits. The world is too much for her. Her absence is felt more than that of her husband; the children ask about her unrelentingly and
are allowed only brief visits, one at a time. They sit in line outside her door. Bianca sees them waiting patiently and silently, their feet dangling from the sofa, their eyes fixed on the door
handle, eager to see it open. If the old woman is right, there won’t be much time before they will be left only with the bitter tears of loss.

Two weeks pass. Bianca finishes a new series of drawings, divides them into their separate folders, and gives orders for them to be picked up. She feels liberated. Instead of
putting on her smock after her morning tea, she pulls on her gloves, hat and redingote.

‘I’m going out,’ she announces to no one in particular, and runs downstairs with the frenzy of a child who has been freed from her tutor.

‘She’s as mad as a horse, but I suppose that’s why we like her,’ Donna Clara says before devouring her
oeuf au vin
, which she has requested for additional
sustenance at breakfast. She, too, is trying to combat the recent weakness she has been feeling. She has said it must be due to the change in the weather.

Donna Julie’s health has, in the meantime, improved. A miraculous recovery brings her back to the centre of her world – her home and children. The unsettled climate of the past few
days is suddenly replaced by mannerist optimism.

Bianca doesn’t hear Donna Clara’s comment as she leaves and it wouldn’t have mattered to her anyway. She is already in the courtyard, admiring the intense blue rectangle of sky
above their house. She smiles at Rossetti, the doorman, and gives him her final instructions: the folders should not get bent and the servant who picks them up should treat them with great
care.

Via Morone is as bleak and grey as always but that turquoise strip of sky hangs like a path that needs to be followed. She heads towards the open spaces of the Corsia del Giardino, with its
coming and going of carriages. On her left she sees La Scala poking out into the piazza like the great chair of a giant. Bianca crosses the street and heads towards the arches where it is said that
a maiden with an unforgiving name died of a forbidden love. She passes under them as if they are the entrance to a new world, and walks on through the gardens of Acqualunga, watching the ducks and
thinking of her own lake at her father’s house. She isn’t concerned with botany today so doesn’t even notice the young fan-like leaves of the ginkgo tree, which blow in the wind
like small flags. She has a destination.

She walks around the pond, passing well-behaved children and their governesses who are busily launching wooden boats that have waited all winter to come out. Girls jump skipping ropes and play
with hoops. Two men on horseback look over the scene benevolently. A young lady in light blue stands in an arc of sunlight. It is a perfect
tableau vivant
for this first day of sunshine.
It is not yet spring but it feels like it.

Bianca suddenly notices that an old woman in rags has approached the young lady in blue. She speaks to her, gestures, and holds out her hand. The lady in blue takes a step back, freezes, then
turns around, fumbling for something in her bag and handing it to the woman. Then she leaves in a hurry. The tableau is ruined, but the occurrence is interesting. What had the old woman wanted? And
why was she so insistent? Maybe she had a secret to sell, a secret like the one Bianca is about to buy herself.

The sunlight disappears into a cloud of haze, as if it has been siphoned out of the picture. It is now only a sour, cold March morning. The chill makes Bianca quicken her step. As she walks she
looks at her reflection in the windows and likes what she sees. A young, independent woman taking great strides in the world, on her own. It had been easy. No, that wasn’t true. But it
hadn’t been all that hard either. Mainly, it just happened. Could it have taken place any other way? Was there another way to be content and at ease in the world? Bianca sighs and then smiles
to answer her own question. A gentleman, passing her, tips his hat, as if to return her greeting. Bianca smiles again at the misunderstanding, and then turns back. The gentleman slows and turns,
too, flashing her a grin. Bianca hastens her step. He was a stranger – how embarrassing! Part of her, though, almost wishes that he
would
follow her. After a while she turns back
again, but he is now far away.

Now there is nothing to smile about. The city grows darker and uglier with every step. The boulevards narrow into alleyways and houses lean against each other carelessly as if drunk. A beastly
stench comes from a dark rivulet that passes through the middle of the street.
What am I doing here?
She reminds herself:
I’m seeking the solution to a mystery.
This
neighbourhood is like an entirely different city; gone is the airy vastness of the great tree-lined boulevards; there are no piazzas with ornate churches here. Are secrets always so crooked?
Perhaps it is their nature, she tells herself, trying to ignore a woman in rags squatting on the steps in a doorway, surrounded by barefoot, naked children playing in the mud. A rusty sign for an
inn squeaks in the breeze, the only music around.

She isn’t scared. She has no fear. Dozens of heroines before her have ventured to even darker depths, with only their courage and sincerity to shield them. Many have revealed lies in order
to see the true and just triumph. She is not frightened, but she is cold. The returning sun shines crookedly down these alleys, and only meagrely at this time of day. Foul, fetid smells emanate
from the cracks in the walls. Cellar windows leak frigid bursts of air that snake around her ankles. She wouldn’t be surprised to see claws emerging from a grate. She walks faster; the
alleyway is long and she has to travel its full length. Finally, the houses separate, the sky becomes visible again in all its vastness, and a young boy stands waiting, leaning against a fountain,
his arms crossed, clogs mired in dirt. He has a smirk on his face – no, it is more of a smile.

Afterwards, Bianca looks around and notices the hackberry trees. Their roots are so strong that they crack open rocks. Their Italian name,
bagolari,
is too plain for a
tree that is so true, so beautiful, vertical, sensitive and strong. They have the arms of day labourers with veins and muscles, and a delicate grey bark filled with sap. The air is filled with
pollen that makes her eyes red and itchy, and it is hard to breathe. Springtime cannot be rubbed away; it is an assertive and capricious child that likes to step on people’s feet. The skies
have never been this way – and yet memory tells her that they always were. Springtime always brings first times. She suddenly senses the countryside beneath the paved roads. She feels the
streets ready to be freed of their winter coats. Daisies poke out of cracks between the cobblestones. Life is coming back, blessed and expected. Men’s eyes are flirtatious, insolent and
possessive. She needs to laugh – laughter is good, and it makes her feel safe. The air is like a cool wine that burns and freezes simultaneously. You could drink it from your skin, from your
hair, from everything.

The expedition has been a success and the day is splendid. Bianca returns on foot, the road made shorter with so much to think about. She has her drawings, her projects, and what’s more,
this magnificent season that pulsates inside and out. Now that she knows, everything is possible.

‘Come, my little one. Let me look at you. May I hug you?’

‘May I call you Mother?’

Bianca imagines that beautiful word falling silently from Pia’s lips, erasing all hesitation and boundaries, confusing everything into an embrace. It will be so simple, and each of them
will reclaim their rightful place in the order of things. Pia will step forward uncertainly, her head bare, her hair as shiny as chestnuts. It will be wonderful to see her self-assuredly show
herself the way she truly is, tender and pure. Pale, almost translucent. She will be reduced – or rather elevated – to the essence of herself in this most precious of moments. And the
woman – the mother, who will now have the right to call herself this – will be made youthful again through her repressed joy. Shadows under her eyes still speak of countless nights of
torment but the light that will radiate forth will smooth out all wrinkles. Her lips will utter that serious and perfect word ‘daughter’. Hands will seek hands, hands will reach for
arms, the pair will embrace, and this hug will dissolve all doubt.

At that point in time, in her imagination, Bianca will leave them. It is hard for her to see more than this. She is certain it will happen. Perhaps it won’t happen in that exact way, but
it will happen.

It will be so lovely to see them together.

She has to make it happen. But how? Who could act as her accomplice, if not Innes? The moment has come for her to speak to him without reticence or deception. It is simple,
really. She practises her speech in her head: