The Watercolourist (33 page)

The child who was given up is vividly described, Bianca thinks as she rereads the note, piecing together the details, making the fragments fit with care, like trying to mend a broken teacup.
That dry farewell must have agonized the mother. Bianca sees in her mind the authority figure that interrogated and the other figure that surely wept. She tries to imagine the scepticism of the
official in charge. Perhaps they let women handle these things because they are gentler and can feel that unspeakable grief across the table.
The child does not cry.
But somebody else did.
Fourteen years ago, a baby girl by the name of Luce, then renamed Devota, was brought to Santa Caterina alla Ruota and abandoned there. The age corresponds. The rest is evident. Devota’s
Christian name is changed to Pia: the same name in a simplified form, an ugly orphan name so that she will never forget her poor beginnings. The identifying token of the lamb pillow is unique,
though, an unclassifiable luxury in that cold hospital.

Everything is so clear, so obvious.
Costanza A., unemployed
. . . If she was twenty then, she’d be thirty-four now. How could Bianca ever have searched all of Milan and its
surroundings, all of its 150,000 inhabitants, for a thirty-four-year-old woman who is well-off enough to have entrusted her child with an exquisite set of goods, but so alone that she had to give
up her newborn to public charity? A woman who wanted to return for the child when in fact the girl was adopted by a country priest? Bianca never dreamed that she would meet the target of her own
investigation at a social event. It is clear that the woman is discomfited, but she is not grieving. Bianca wonders whether time really does heal all wounds, as people say when they want to appear
wise. But if that woman really is Pia’s mother, and has been so rash as to go out searching for her daughter, why has she stopped behind the gates? What has kept her from tearing down all the
obstacles in her way? And if everyone knows about it, as it is beginning to seem to Bianca, then why hasn’t anyone taken a step forward? Why perform that strange dance of confrontation and
retreat? Questions, so many.

Bianca doesn’t really expect Costanza A. to show up at their rendezvous. She disguises the sortie so that she will not feel too silly when she is disappointed. The season
is so mild that the children are able to brush aside the hesitations of both mother and grandmother and go outside. Of course, they are overdressed, bundled up in their stuffed jackets. But Nanny
has the good judgement, for once, to allow them to remove some of their clothing as soon as they turn the corner. She quickly becomes a porter, lagging behind with her bundles. Bianca leads the
group and holds the two smallest girls by the hand. The other three children follow, Enrico and Giulietta arm in arm, Pietro with his hands in his pockets and his cap to one side, like a ruffian.
The route isn’t long but they travel slowly. There are so many things to stop and look at: an old woman selling bunches of wild flowers, three identical boys dressed in light blue who are
playing with hoops, and a stray dog with a thin snout like a ferret who runs off after some delicious smell. And then there are the palazzi, carriages, and small shops. This is a game of
discovering a city that has, until then, been a mystery to them.

They finally reach the green swells of the park and the wild smell of grass that makes them want to run freely. There are other children sailing boats in the big pond, and some mallard ducks
floating there too.

‘Why is one colourful and one not?’

‘The one without colour is female. The male is dressed as if he were a soldier at a grand ball. But she looks as though she had to rush out of the house and didn’t have much time to
prepare.’

The children laugh.

‘That’s because we men are better,’ says Enrico, stealing a glance at Pietro in search of approval. For once the older brother disagrees.

‘I don’t like soldiers. Papa says they are persecutors.’

Nanny smirks but Bianca ignores them. She looks around, pretending to focus on the landscape. She feels sure the lady in grey will not come.

But there she is. Bianca recognizes her from her bearing. She wears grey again, a spent grey this time, almost penitential. Bianca whispers something to Nanny above the heads of the children,
who are busy watching the launch of cutter ships, and wanders off. In a sign of understanding, the woman in grey follows her. They stand beneath a row of linden trees pruned into boxes and planted
so close to one another that the foliage meshes together in a geometric tunnel. If someone were to observe them, they would see only shadows.

‘I decided to come,’ the woman says, as if she herself is unable to believe it.

‘Indeed.’

Bianca sighs and hesitates for a moment. Then she recites the speech that she has so often rehearsed at her window, to the fire, to the mirror, to no one. The words slip out of her easily and in
a long and weighty chain. Words connect, affronted and accusing. Instinctively, the woman takes a step back, as if Bianca might strike her. She fumbles with her hands and blushes, red splotches
surfacing on her neck and cheeks: the ugly signs of shame. When Bianca finishes, the lady in grey looks down at the ground.

Almost to herself, she says, ‘It’s all true. But it’s all in the past now. I do not want to think about it any more.’

‘But not even a year ago you were playing the part of ghost for all of Brusuglio! Do you remember?’ Bianca asks, convinced that the woman must be mad, and that maybe it is for the
best.

‘Yes, I do remember. And I am sorry.’ The woman speaks in a low whisper. ‘But you see, things have changed. I . . . I am about to be married. You will laugh at me,’ she
says, but it is she who laughs a dry, low, bitter laugh. ‘I’m a withered old maid, but I might have found an arrangement. My parents did everything for me. I did not ask them to. I do
not have the right to ask for anything. Who am I to say no?’

She seeks Bianca’s eyes and then looks down again and shakes her head.

‘What do you want to know? You are young and beautiful and independent. Your name is on everyone’s lips here in Milan. You’re the rising star of illustrated botany.’ She
recites the words as if she is reading the headlines of a newspaper. ‘You have everything. You can manage on your own. I have always done what others expected of me. Always. Up until . . .
after I gave the child away. I spent my days berating myself for my mistakes. I didn’t know any better.’

Bianca feels neither compassion nor pity.

‘The child, as you called her, is a girl now. Or did you perhaps forget that, too? I don’t understand you.’ Bianca tries to keep her calm, but disdain has got the better of her
and her words become sharper. ‘How could you possibly deny her like this? You bury the past, and that’s that? It seems as though she is dear to you. You look like you are desperate to
see her. And now I can help you.’

Bianca adds this impulsively, without really meaning to say it. It isn’t entirely true. She will help Pia for Pia’s sake, not for the sake of this woman who has abandoned and avoided
her child. But ultimately, won’t it have the same outcome?

The woman looks at Bianca as though she hasn’t heard a word. She continues her train of thought.

‘People are right: what good is there in rummaging in the past? It’s like turning over a stone and watching the insects and worms wriggle in the sunlight. I could only do her harm at
this point.’

Haven’t you done enough harm already?
Bianca thinks to herself.
You and your stupid apparitions, the artfully abandoned token, and all the rest of it?

‘I didn’t know better,’ the woman says and gazes off into the distance.

If she could, Bianca would hit her, right there and then. But what is stopping her? Nothing. So she slaps her, just once, and only the kind of slap a small hand can give, but it’s
piercing. It leaves her palm burning. The woman brings her fingers to her cheek, perplexed, and as Bianca takes her hand away, she looks at it in horror, as if she is expecting to see it stained
with blood. Despite their position, a little girl playing with a hoop nearby has witnessed it all. She freezes in place and lets go of her toy, which keeps on rolling and then, finally, falls into
the grass. Bianca turns to stare at the child until she runs off. What is a tiny slap compared to the kicks, punches and torn-out hair that this woman really deserves in order to bring some justice
to the world? But what sort of justice would that be?

The mistake is made, though, and the outcome is immense. In front of Bianca now stands a contrite little lady, a poor woman searching for another chance, a woman who has turned her back on the
past. She is ashamed. And Bianca is ashamed, seeing her own reflection in this lady, seeing her own silly passions laid bare before the dark conspiracies, mysteries, plot twists, and imagined happy
endings. She feels foolish. Her actions are like those in a cheap novella printed on inferior paper, paper that is good only for wrapping vegetables. Costanza A. will marry a rich old man. Maybe
she will be blessed with a child at a late age to replace the shadow of her little girl. Or perhaps she will lead an isolated, second-hand life. The only thing real in all of this is Bianca’s
illusion that Pia’s life will change. The mistake lies in having nurtured this illusion as if it is something precious. It is living one kind of life whilst reasoning that one is entitled to
another.

Bianca cannot think straight. She stands face to face with the ghost that she has been chasing, who is nothing more than a pale woman with three red stripes along her cheek and great, hollow
eyes. Eyes that now avoid her own. She is a woman who probably dislikes herself but who has learned to absolve herself; a woman who cannot wait to leave and to forget. Bianca only comes to her
senses after Costanza A. has turned around and walked away without a goodbye. There is nothing left to say.

Bianca looks for a bench. There, she sits down and reflects. She tries to calm her heartbeat. Enough is enough. She throws her head back and looks up at the light blue sky above, in all its
obtuse honesty. The little girl comes back to reclaim her hoop, regards her warily, and runs off again. It is time to leave.

Bianca can hear the other children, her children. She follows their voices and finds them in the middle of a big field doing cartwheels and tumbling about, their clothes horribly soiled with
green striations, evidence that will be impossible to conceal and which will raise loud complaints in the laundry room. But it has been worth it. They wanted to play horseback, to roll in the
carpet of grass, and smell its sweet murkiness. Bianca claps her hands and organizes an impromptu game of horsemen and princesses. She plays the part of a horseman. Nanny, as usual, does nothing.
The rest of them laugh, trip, gallop and fall about. By the evening, Giulietta has a fever.

Once she has calmed down, Bianca thinks things over. She has been a presumptuous fool. She is a more provincial, faded copy of Emma Woodhouse, far less witty and with fewer
accomplishments, who has tried to organize a mixed-up world and then recompose it to fit her own design. She doesn’t possess a vision of a final version; really she is sustained by nothing at
all. She can only busy herself with flowers, examine them through a lens up close. It is right for her to limit herself to this.