The Watercolourist (4 page)

Bianca’s meeting couldn’t have gone any better. He ushered her into his study; a room of modest size, lined with books. There was no pale green, antique-rose or
peacock-blue wallpaper here, as in the rest of the house. Instead, there were several ox-blood leather straight-backed chairs. A sombre pattern of brown rhombuses lined the walls and a black
crucifix hung above the empty fireplace. He sat behind a large desk. She took a seat in front of him. They talked. They talked about botany, classifications, colours and chemistry. Bianca noticed
right away that he was knowledgeable, passionate and precise. He only spoke of things of which he was certain. She could tell he was progressive on account of his ideas and the way he spoke about
implementing them.

‘Some people here think I’m crazy. I’m the stereotype of a city gentleman obsessed with foreign ideas and with domesticating nature. But we mustn’t ever stop. We
mustn’t rest. The countryside hasn’t changed for centuries, and yet progress affects it just as much as it affects all of us. And it is precisely for this reason that I feel it is my
duty to experiment.’ Then, as though he had been too solemn, he added with a furtive smile, ‘It’s also a lot of fun. It helps keep my mind on something. Otherwise, things get too
stirred up in here.’ He motioned towards his temple before brushing back a strand of hair from his forehead. His hands were elegant, she noticed: he had long fingers, delicate wrists, and
manicured nails. ‘I’m no theoretician, don’t be fooled,’ he said, trying to read Bianca’s stare. ‘But I know what soap and water are for, I know it is proper to
wash and be clean.’

They shared a brief laugh, and then, somewhat more seriously, they passed on to more concrete topics of discussion: numbers, deadlines and her fee. They discussed everything that had been
previously written out in black ink on white paper. There were still some wrinkles that needed smoothing out. He addressed each clause of their agreement carefully, as if he was worried he might
offend her. She thought it might be disagreeable for him to discuss such topics with a woman. But she proceeded calmly and agreed a deal which, at least in premise, would be profitable for both
parties. Except for one, rather important, detail.

‘Sir, it’s almost summer. This year the season is extraordinarily hot and it seems that the heat will last. You have called me here now yet you are hiring me for a task that will
only be completed next spring. This means that I will need to be here for an entire year and possibly longer. Am I correct in my understanding?’

He gave a quick smile.

‘Everything has been taken into consideration. The winter will offer you the perfect time to reflect and draw. When the family returns to Milan you can enjoy a bit of the city with us, if
you like, as I hope you will, while we wait for the pleasant weather to return. I am keen for you to be able to experience these subjects in all their states: life, dying, death and resurrection.
It’s quite crucial to really understand what you will be portraying. Time is secondary. Don’t you agree?’

‘I see,’ she said, nodding. She had never before been so far from the house she had grown up in for such a long period of time. But the place she had once called home no longer
belonged to her.

He jotted down a sum on a piece of paper and handed it to her. The figure was so incredibly high that she could not refuse it. A year it would be.

And so she stood up and shook his hand. It was the right moment, before either of them was at a loss for words, before the silence between the two strangers became as deep as a well. Bianca
didn’t want to find herself in any complicated situations. All she wanted was to be at ease in the house. If she encountered Don Titta in the garden again, with his long beard and dirty
shirt, she would once more pretend not to see him. She would imagine it was his restless twin, a harmless creature, a village madman. This estate was almost a village, was it not? She would ignore
him, like everyone else did, either out of respect or because he was the lord of the house and a poet. And, Bianca thought as she left his study, everyone knows that poets are unlike ordinary
men.

‘It’s a simple task. You’re smart and you’ll do it well. Of course, there’s the chance that you might get bored with the environment and the
people. It’s a test of patience for you. A form of discipline. It will do you good. Accept the offer.’

Bianca is thinking back to her final conversation with her father, many months prior, after she received the letter. It was a long yet concise missive; the penmanship was pointed and oblique,
the paper ruled and heavy. There was a wax seal on the verso of the envelope, which she kept touching with the tip of her finger.

‘Why me, Father?’ she asked him.

‘Because there’s no one like you. Not here. Because you’re unique, darling.’

‘But to be so far away for so long . . .’

‘It was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s what you’ve chosen to do. You didn’t think you’d be here your whole life, did you? I didn’t raise you that way.
You are perfectly able to take care of yourself. You have seen some of the world. My only concern is that you might bury yourself in the countryside. Personally, I would prefer that you went to the
city. But on the other hand, you need to be where your subjects are. Follow them. This is an important commission. It could mark the beginning of a career . . .’

She did as he bade. She was already buried in the countryside after all; the difference would be the company.

The letter proposed a commissioned project in a tone that Bianca couldn’t define. It was both serious and vague. Or perhaps it was just the unfamiliar nature of the idea itself and what it
implied that confused her. The sender of the letter had seen and appreciated some of her watercolours of landscapes and botanical subjects, it seemed – the ones she had sold on the insistence
of her neighbour and long-time friend Count Rizzardi to an illustrious guest.

The intended project was to depict every flower and plant on a specific estate in Lombardy.

‘I would like to bequeath to posterity not only my compositions in verse and prose, as is my craft, but also my flowers and my plants, which are no less significant to me. I am inclined to
spend much of my time with them and desire to capture their perfection in order to have them forever with me, even in winter, even if they might never flower or bloom again. A large part of my
culture is experiment, chance, failed attempts. As an amateur, the pleasure is as great as the risk.’

He’s a gambler
, Bianca thought. She liked the idea. She wrote back herself. Perhaps the sender was expecting a letter from her father; at the time she was no more than eighteen
years old. But the letter was addressed to her, was it not? Don Titta was clearly a man of liberal ideals with a modern point of view. He was widely seen as a worldly man too. But it was also known
that he had chosen a sober and secluded existence for himself.

‘You will live within our family,’ he specified in the letter. ‘Ours is a simple life, far from everyday distractions.’

‘Sounds like an interesting fellow,’ her father added. ‘It seems as though he understands what he needs and despite his profession has managed to free himself from the lures of
fame. It’s admirable, I’d say. See it as a great adventure, Bianca. And I will be here, waiting for you, if you don’t take a different path along the way. Though, of course, I
will be happy either way.’

‘What other paths?’ she protested. ‘The only right path is the one that will bring me back here.’

‘Anything can happen,’ he said solemnly.

And like that, they made up their minds.

Anything can happen.

His disease arrived swiftly. They had been out on one of their favourite walks, at La Rocca. As always, the lake looked different from so high up. She wished she could fly over it and see their
little white house, the details of their garden, and the winding, rocky path that disappeared into the shadows of the parkland.

‘Look at the lake, Papa,’ she had said. ‘It looks like it’s made of turquoise.’

She turned back and saw him bent over, speechless with pain, deathly pale. Bianca knelt down beside him, overcome with fear. And yet, amazingly, she managed to contain it. They waited together
for the pain to subside a little and then set out homewards. He leaned on her out of caution. She was his walking stick in flesh and blood.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said reassuringly at the dinner table that night, still quite pale but stronger now. ‘It’s just a sign that I’m growing old, Bianca.
I’m not made for La Rocca any more.’

‘Then we will simply have to take our walks at the Cavalla,’ she answered, relieved. ‘There’s a nest of baby geese near Villa Canossa. I will show it to you tomorrow. The
goslings are about to hatch.’

Instead, she went alone. He chose to stay at home and rest. The baby geese had just been born and were grey, damp and snug. The mother’s beak was red, ready to cut into something. Bianca
kept her distance and sketched them on the pad she always carried with her. On her return trip, she saw the doctor’s carriage from a distance. Her father died two days later, seized by
another attack, this time fatal.

Everything had been decided far in advance: the property was entrusted to Bartolomeo, some of the money went to Zeno to finance his military career, and some went to Bianca, who was granted
lifetime occupancy of her own little quarter of the household. Thank heavens Bianca still had somewhere of her own. Bartolomeo, who had filled out after his successful nuptials, and his pregnant
wife quickly started eyeing the home and the garden with the cynicism of new proprietors. To watch them wander about the beloved rooms talking about carpets and decorations made her unbearably sad.
They had agreed that Bianca’s rooms would remain locked and intact until her return, but it was still torture for her to say goodbye to her collection of silhouettes and miniatures, her small
rosewood desk, and her balcony that looked out onto the lake. It had been torture but also a relief, because it was evident that the spirit of the home had departed with their father. Her leaving
had come at the right moment.

Her neighbour Count Rizzardi was, as ever, a gentleman.

‘Remember,’ he said, ‘there will always be a room for you in my home.’

But all of a sudden he had seemed so old to her, as if her father’s death had forced him, too, closer to that threshold.

Zeno had his own opinion about work and women.

‘You’re a girl, for heaven’s sake.’

‘So what?’

‘So it isn’t right that you go prancing off alone, waving that letter around. It’s a passport to trouble, I’m telling you.’

‘What should I do then, according to you?’

‘You could get married. Girls tend to do that, you know.’

‘Not all of us.’

‘But you’re pretty.’

‘And I have no dowry. My only asset is this,’ she said, waving her fingers in his face. He took hold of her hand, pretended to bite it, and then hugged her tightly.

‘You’re going to get yourself into a sticky situation, Bianca. You could always live with me, you know. You could be my manservant.’

‘Oh, sure,’ laughed Bianca. ‘I could cut my hair, wear boy’s clothing and sleep on a cot outside your room.’

‘When you were younger you could easily have passed for a boy. And you bossed us both around.’

They smiled in recollection.

Bartolomeo, on the other hand, seemed relieved at the prospect of her departure. Until then, he had been living in discomfort in his wife’s home and waiting for his inheritance. It was
evident that he now wanted to enjoy his new circumstances to the full, without any obstacles.

‘Come home whenever you want,’ he said, because he had to, because a brother should say that. She pursed her lips into a smile, trying to remember the boy with stars in his eyes, the
boy he was, before becoming the rotund dandy now standing in front of her.