The Watercolourist (32 page)

‘Come on, Miss Bianca,’ he jokes. ‘It’s almost dark and we’re alone. It’s not right for a well-mannered lady like you. But what do we care about conventions?
And do you really want to be afraid of me? Look at me: I am only a half-poet bound to a great oak tree that ignores me, an insignificant lichen stuck to the bark on which it feeds. And you, on the
other hand, are so intrepid, free, a working woman . . .’

Bianca collects her thoughts and pride. She doesn’t like the carelessness in Tommaso’s concealed, offhand manner. She finds it offensive.

‘You know nothing about me.’

‘You’re right. And that seems only fair after all the effort you have put into hiding your cards. From me, at least. Anyway, we know nothing of anyone, especially when one has the
arrogance to believe he knows everything. Perhaps you are mistaken about me, too though.’

‘How could I be, when you define yourself with such precision? I abide by your own self-portrait. And anyway, I’m not judging you. I don’t have the impulse or the desire to do
so.’

Tommaso is silent. He sighs.

‘I’ve erred again. Miss Bianca, you have the power to confuse me. Please use it sparingly; be generous and kind. My poor heart cannot bear such torment.’

‘Now you’re teasing me.’

‘Me? Never. I, I . . .’

‘It’s getting chilly. Goodnight.’

And with that, Bianca leaves the garden, passing through the open French window without waiting for a reply. Well played, she thinks. She has left him speechless. But she is left exasperated and
tired and moreover she doesn’t quite know what their exchange has signified.

She feels too the burning sensation of wasted opportunity. They have been in the garden. It is night. She could have spoken out.

I don’t like him, I don’t like him
, she repeats to herself as she climbs the stairs. She goes into her bedroom, but her half-closed window summons her. She cannot help but
lean out on such a beautiful night and ask the darkness for confirmation. Tommaso is still down there. She sees the embers of his lit cigar. It looks as though he is coughing.
No, he’s
laughing. Or crying.
Is he crying? Bianca has the feeling that he knows she is watching him, so she stands up but lingers at the curtain still. Is he crying?

Bianca isn’t stupid. She is rash, impulsive, equipped with a ferocious imagination, tumultuous and passionate. She is also timid, contemptuous and arrogant in convenient
doses. But she is anything but stupid.

So why, now that everything is clear with Pia, is she still protecting Don Titta? He is guilty and will soon be charged with a crime that is terrible in its very banality.

Maybe he doesn’t know about it, she thinks. Or more likely, maybe he didn’t know at the time. Maybe he found out later and is still coming to terms with it. She thinks back to his
bewilderment that afternoon in the nursery, when, perhaps for the first time, the truth had become apparent to him. Why should he have known? He has been away from Milan for so long. It is one of
those things and life moves on. Maybe the woman has kept quiet; her family, if they even knew, remain silent and act as if nothing has happened, as one does in this world of scandals. Only others
know.

As sly as a detective, she realizes she needs a perfect stranger with a clear-headed gaze to help her put events in the right perspective. How happy the poet will be when he realizes the
precious role that Bianca has played in unveiling the mystery. A spirit as righteous as his will surely be content to fix his mistakes. How grateful he will be to her for having finally created an
opportunity for sincerity. Bianca likes to imagine it this way. She does not understand that certain truths are not meant to be paraded around like banners, but need to remain carefully folded up
in the bottom of trunks. This ignorance of hers is forgivable. It stems from her youth, naivety, and tendency to see and draw the world only in black in white.

But things do not happen quite the way she had planned.

‘Titta, Titta . . .’

Donna Clara mumbles her son’s name and looks around the crowded room for him. Donna Julie stands next to Bianca and smiles with great effort. Her eyes are glassy and she wears two
splotches of artificial pink on her cheekbones as a kind of mask. It takes her a long time to become aware of Bianca’s presence, and when she does, she turns to look at her as if to
explain.

‘This is one of the most luxurious salons in Milan, you know. Things happen here.’

Bianca follows the gaze of her companion until it rests on Don Titta, surrounded by a cluster of people. He is facing away from them. Bernocchi hangs off him as if he is a beggar. Even from far
away, she can tell that the count is speaking quickly and animatedly. Then she sees him go silent and stare at Titta, as though listening to his reply. Bernocchi takes his hands off the
poet’s arm and makes to walk away, but Titta detains him by placing a hand on his shoulder. Their positions change: they face one another directly. The discussion continues. Don Titta glances
away and then back at Bernocchi without stopping the conversation. He looks away again, but this time slowly and deliberately. Bianca follows the direction of his gaze: it is focused on the
entrance. The lady of the house is welcoming someone now, her shoulders largely concealing the guest. Bianca catches sight of a long, shiny, smoky grey skirt. Donna Clara and Donna Julie look in
that direction too, the expression on their faces darkening. Donna Clara seems excited, while Donna Julie’s face simply clouds over. Another couple stand behind the woman who has just
arrived. Bianca turns back to Don Titta and Bernocchi; they seem stunned, as if hypnotized. Their eyes are fixed not on the hostess but on this newly arrived guest. Bianca looks at the woman again.
She is dumbfounded. It is
her
: the ghost, more real now than ever. As the woman moves into the room, she looks around in search of a cluster of people to join. She freezes for a second and
her forced smile cracks. Then she continues forward towards two elderly ladies dressed in black.

Don Titta and Bernocchi say goodbye by gripping each other’s forearms, like a move in a wrestling match. Bianca cannot see their faces any more, just that strange gesture uniting them. Who
is about to leave? And where is he going? Who is stopping whom? And why? Donna Clara, who has been mute until now, chirps to interrupt the silence.

‘Isn’t there anything to drink here?’

Her voice comes out hoarse. She coughs to clear her throat.

‘I’ll get something for you,’ Donna Julie replies and walks away in a rustle of clothing.

As soon as she is gone, the lady of the house takes Bianca’s arm and directs her firmly towards a group of women who want to meet her. They speak of flowers, naturally. Of flowers and
commissions. Bianca has to concentrate and act complacently, receive compliments, make promises, and book appointments. Viola Visconti follows the conversation with a triumphant smile, as though
Bianca has been her creation. Bianca smiles back generously in return.

When she is finally set free, she sees Don Titta cornered by his mother and wife in a screen of flesh and fabric. Bernocchi has vanished. The ghost, too. But that comes as no surprise. Perhaps
Bianca has only imagined her. Or it could merely have been someone who looks like her. She walks towards the back room where she has been told there is a Luini painting of rare beauty. But she
never gets there. The back of a figure in grey, with tiny buttons dotting her spine, blocks her way. The lady is leaning out over a balcony railing and looking down at the dark street below, from
which comes the sound of a departing carriage. As the sound retreats, the lady straightens. She turns around, shocked to see Bianca standing in front of her. Bianca feels herself blush but
doesn’t know why. She has nothing to be ashamed of.

The two women fall silent and study each other for as long as they can, without conversing. With one penetrating look, Bianca takes note of the woman’s amber skin – it is beginning
to slacken along her jawline. Her chestnut-brown locks of hair are so dark they look, and perhaps are, artificial. She wears too much colour on her cheeks and a large, oval brooch speckled with
small seed-like pearls at the centre of her neckline. Bianca stares at her in silence, unabashed.

The other woman responds with an uneasy smile and then flutters her fan aimlessly.

‘Nice evening, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is a nice evening indeed,’ replies Bianca, who has no desire to speak about the weather.

‘Do . . . we know each other?’ the woman asks.

‘No. But that’s just because no one has introduced us yet.’

‘Yes, of course. Let’s not pretend. What good would that do?’

‘Exactly. It would be useless.’

If Bianca could see herself from a distance, she would say that the two of them face each other like insects at battle. One advances and the other recedes in barely perceptible movements; it
could be an exchange of pleasantries or the defence of one’s territory. But beneath the surface there is so much more. Both of them are accustomed enough to the rules of society to know
better than to go for the eyes.

‘Shall we see each other tomorrow, at the fountain in the gardens? We will be able to talk there,’ Bianca says, beginning to feel nauseous from this stealthy game.
‘Goodnight.’ Then, without even waiting for a response, she walks away. Her heart is racing. Her improvised rashness has given her a sense of vertigo. She isn’t at all certain
that the other woman will agree to the meeting.

Donna Clara walks up to her now, brandishing a tiny glass.

‘I see you made a friend. What do you think of her?’

She looks Bianca up and down slowly.

‘Are you talking about the woman in grey? I thought she was someone else. Salons aren’t the best place to get to know new people,’ Bianca observes, trying to sound offhand.

‘Oh, and why not? In places like these, witticisms shine. When there
is
wit, of course,’ Donna Clara says drily.

‘Of course,’ echoes Bianca indifferently, following the older woman’s piercing gaze back to the woman in grey. Their trajectory is diverted by Donna Julie.

She is panting, rosy-cheeked and speaks in a rush.

‘Here you are. Nice evening, isn’t it? I can’t remember the last time I had such a lovely time. Signora Visconti really knows how to throw a party. And you? Are you having a
good time too, Miss Bianca?’

She is confused and excited, when she is usually so quiet and calm. Her eyes burn feverishly, flickering here and there as if she wants to stop everything and take it all in. Then Donna Julie
freezes and her face goes pale. Bianca looks over to see what she is looking at: Don Titta is speaking with the ghost. The pair are wan and unsuitably serious. They look intently at one another,
staring in silence. At this distance it is impossible to comprehend the meaning of their exchange. But Bianca has her proof now. She has received her confirmation.

The report from her young informant, Girolamo, was extremely clear. Bianca was not expecting much, just a couple of confusing words hissed into her ear. Instead the boy has
maintained his promise and given her a name and a history, written in dark penmanship on a piece of heavy paper smudged with dirt.