The Watercolourist (40 page)

‘You are the perfect model for this dress,’ Signora Gandini had said. The neckline is square, generous, almost daring. ‘Only girls with a little bosom can wear this.’

Et voilà
, a defect has been transformed into a virtue by way of fashion. She’s had three minuscule flowers for her chignon made from tightly rolled-up pieces of the same
fabric. She needs Minna or Pia to help her with them. But where are they?

Bianca draws closer to the window, still barefoot and impatient. She is just in time to see Count Bernocchi descending from his coach, making it rock dangerously from side to side. He looks up
towards the facade, sees her, smiles, and gives a quick bow. Bianca draws back, hoping he might mistake her for a curtain. Perhaps he hasn’t recognized her and only wishes he had seen her.
She feels her cheeks burn. Bernocchi has become so insistent of late. He calls her a ‘beautiful little flower’. He even sent her a complete garden of sugared almonds, replete with
petals and leaves, which had aroused admiration from them all, especially from certain hungry family members who had wolfed them down. He tries to make time with her alone, and Bianca avoids him as
much as possible. She flees from his ambushes in the corridors. And when they are in the presence of others, which is almost always, he stares at her with big, rheumy eyes that make her almost miss
his sardonic look. Even Donna Julie notices his strange silences.

‘Did the cat get your tongue?’ she asked once.

Now Bianca turns her attention back to the pear skin lying on the floor. B for Bernocchi, with a big belly, she thinks. But P for Paolo, Zeno’s tall friend. Solemn and composed, the
soldier’s gaze burned straight through her. He had one of those dark stares that are hard to read.

‘Did you know, my dear sister,’ her brother said, ‘that all Sardinians are dwarfs except this one? Where do you come from, my friend, the land of Snow White?’

Paolo’s answer was a blinding smile.

P is also for poet. But the poet only stares at her in silence. Behind his impenetrable eyes is an entire world, a world in which there is no dancing, only fighting for causes worth fighting
for. His weapons are words sharpened in anger.

There is a letter for everyone’s name and yet not one is right. Bianca’s heart sings the easy song of youth, of blood coursing through her veins, of a new dress and beautiful new
jade-green shoes. She wears a bracelet of tiny white roses which she has made herself, and which she, without the help of Minna or Pia, has to tie around her left wrist.
No one will have jewels
like this; I am the lady of the flowers.
And she wears one more thing: her mother’s earrings, tiny pearls like droplets falling from two golden knots. ‘Knots of true love,’
her father said when he handed her that gift, ‘the love of which you are a sign.’

That night, Bianca skips down the stairs as if she is flying. She slows down as she reaches the foyer with its hundreds of candles and takes one step at a time, as though the dancing has already
commenced. Outside, the dusk creates puddles of near darkness where the trees are low and thick. Happy swallows scribble across the still light-blue sky above the sycamore tree.

Bernocchi, thankfully, is out of sight. Zeno and Paolo look up and watch her descend the stairs, as one does for a young woman. And when she reaches the last step they bow to her and take her by
the arms, one on each side, two glowing escorts in white and blue.

‘You are truly enchanting,’ whispers Paolo, his eyes fixed on her.

“That’s enough, you. She’s just a girl,’ Zeno says, his voice rising. It is the first time he has ever protected her. He is the younger of the two, after all.

‘Shh.’ She silences both of them, feeling superior and exquisite.

Bianca frees herself and walks in front of them to the dining room, where, by Donna Clara’s instruction, a modern buffet has been prepared. She has done well in choosing her green dress,
she thinks with a hint of frivolity, because the room, which is two or three tones darker, is an ideal background for her. She has to stop thinking like this. It isn’t her party. It is an
occasion to celebrate the beginning of summer, the reopening of the house, and the secret announcement – which is no secret at all – regarding the upcoming publication of Don
Titta’s novel.

Indeed, it is really a party for the poet-turned-writer and for his wife, who has patiently stood at his side through turbulent times, almost dying while doing so. But that’s what a
writer’s wife has to do, is it not? Or perhaps that is the role of any wife.

Donna Julie looks ravishing in an ivory silk gown that contrasts sharply with her dark hair, which she wears down for once, straightened with care in two
bandeaux
with only a couple of
rebellious curls. Fixed to her hair is a small bunch of tiny flowers (so that’s where Minna and Pia have been). The whole effect makes her look like a delicate bird. Hanging from her long,
white neck – devoid of the usual foulard that protects her from the cold – is a cross of diamonds, her only adornment.

Donna Clara, on the other hand, parades all of her rings and pendants, including a long
chevalière
that hangs over the generous shelf of her chest before falling into
nothing.

‘Are those the keys to the heavenly kingdom?’ Bernocchi asks, covering his venomous mouth with one hand, his eyes enraptured by the perpetual movement of her golden key pendants. He
is far enough away for Donna Clara not to hear him, but the others do.

Bianca feigns indifference but secretly she smirks. Everyone knows that they are in fact the keys to the now-silent harpsichord and to the crystal box in which Donna Clara keeps her most
precious relics. Or so they say. Who knows if she has now added the dead man’s hair to that pile, Bianca asks herself with a shiver of horror.

And then she stops thinking. She laughs, dances, drinks, dances again, drinks again, laughs, drinks some more, runs, blushes, pales, and dances. She travels from one cluster of guests to
another, tirelessly. She talks, answers and quips, as lively as ever. During the formation dancing, Zeno whispers to her.

‘Is this really you, sis? I didn’t think you were so worldly.’

‘I’m not, in fact.’

‘I thought you had come here to work, not to learn new dances or how to become a coquette . . . Who is that man pouting over there? He’s been staring at you all night.’

Tommaso’s face floats over the large knot of his white tie. He stands to the wall as if nailed.

“The dances aren’t new. And I’m not a coquette!’

‘But you are new indeed.’

‘Hush, hush.’

And yet, perhaps Zeno is right. It was one of those moments that make her feel as though something has just changed, or has to change. She gallops forward in dance.

Am I really altered?
she asks herself in a moment of rest, fiddling with a lock of hair that has fallen out of her chignon, standing in front of one of the tall nebulous mirrors at the
entrance. Perhaps it is the stain of time on the glass, or the light from the chandelier, but she really does look different. She looks back at herself impudently, without ceasing to fix her hair.
This Bianca is less
bianca
and more lively and green, like one of her rare hellebores. She is a winter flower: she has survived the frost, and has lifted her nonchalant head from the cold
to look around, deciding she likes the world the way it is and that she will stay a while.

All this takes place in a moment. Suddenly, a tall shape appears in the reflection behind her. A man wrapped in shadow or perhaps a cloak. No, it isn’t a cloak. This isn’t the season
for cloaks. Who is it? The shadowy figure disappears but not before giving her an indiscreet look, a look that disturbs her greatly, even if her shoulders are covered, her neckline is conservative,
and her ankles are not visible. For a moment, Bianca feels stripped bare. She blushes to the roots of her hair and waits for the flush to subside before rejoining the guests.

Her embarrassment lasts only a moment, though, and she soon feels the pleasurable warmth that rises when one has danced much, drunk a great deal and been admired by many. Thanks to her slight
intoxication, Bianca jokes with self-confidence. She flees artfully from Signora Villoresi with a polite curtsey. The lady wants to commission a set of dead leaves – that’s exactly how
she says it, a set, as if she is dealing with a service of dessert forks. No work tonight. But Bianca forgets that the reason she is there, and not dressed as a Nanny or a tutor, is thanks to those
dead leaves. Foolish Bianca, for whom one glass of sweet wine and a sugared compliment are enough for her to forget who she is. But who is she really? She is a girl on her own who feels like having
fun. Who can blame her? Donna Clara and Donna Julie would warn her if they could read her heart. With the wisdom gleaned from the experience of the one and the calm erudition of the other, they
would tell her that too much light is deadly for nocturnal butterflies. But she wouldn’t listen. She would nod her head, yes, but close off her heart. Her ears hear the music summoning her
again. She contemplates the couples whirling across the large stage of smooth wood, positioned at the foot of the stairs.

‘Care for another dance, Miss Bianca?’

It is too late to avoid Bernocchi without being rude. She shouldn’t be, it wouldn’t be proper. And she has to admit, he does know how to dance. He focuses so hard on it that he
doesn’t have time to chat, which is helpful. Bianca eyes his chubby ankles, his shoes of yellow damask that look as though they have been cut from the coat of a reptile, and feels his
perspiring hand tight on her back, even through the shield of her clothes. Now it is time to change partners. Her new partner places his hand on her waist – light and airy this time. He
doesn’t dance as well, but he is handsome and tall. It is Paolo Nittis from Sassari, which has to be a city full of snakes and stones, with all those S sounds to its name. She wonders if all
Sardinians have eyes the colour of spilled ink. Since he is the first she has ever encountered, which feels a little like seeing an exotic bird in an enclosure, she asks him. He blinks, as though
he hasn’t understood, and then smiles, revealing his white teeth.

‘Come see for yourself with your own eyes,’ he laughs. ‘My land is wild and untamed.’

‘And you?’

He seems to find her question amusing.

‘I’d say I have been domesticated, by now. My uniform has helped a great deal’

‘Oh, what a pity. I have enough domesticated puppies around here to keep me company.’

Nittis casts a quick glance around the room at the men dressed in the latest style of frock coats, their hair combed back. Everyone looks the same, a pack of hounds.

‘Woof!’ laughs Bianca. She feels Nittis’s hand release her and suddenly she is in someone else’s more familiar grasp. She has never danced with Innes, but it is as if she
has always done so.

‘Tonight I like you more than usual, Miss Bianca. You are bold.’

They share that same sublime, dry precision of the language.

Bianca looks up towards the facade of the house, certain that Nanny is peering out of one of the windows, protected by the darkness. Governesses, poor creatures, are only invited to parties in
novels. They wear new dresses and flowers in their hair, and stay seated all night long. They lose their gloves and stain themselves with lemonade.
I am not a poor thing. I am not a governess.
I am a free woman, I know how to read, how to write, how to do arithmetic, how to draw, how to uncover mysteries and solve riddles .
. .

‘What are you thinking about?’

The question seems banal, but Bianca has had enough practice in navigating salons to know that banal and silly questions do not really exist. Only banal answers.

‘I am thinking about how fortunate I am,’ she answers, looking up at Innes both because the difference in height requires her to do so and because she wants to see his reaction.

‘I think so too,’ he says. ‘But fortune is cultivated in the greenhouse, you know. It is a rare flower that doesn’t last.’

‘Please do not speak of flowers. Not tonight, I beg you.’

‘Is our gardener on her way out? Has she hung up her gloves and apron?’

Together they smile. It is lovely to be made fun of without needing to take offence. How different that same phrase would be if Bernocchi had spoken it. But Innes can say anything to her. Why is
this so?

‘What are we, you and I?’

He understands her immediately and grows serious.

‘Brothers. Neighbours of the house and of the spirit. Accomplices.’

‘Friends?’

‘That’s different.’

She bites her lip and then curtseys, as required by the dance. If she could, she would hug him.
Perhaps this is the first time, in all my life, that I feel at home
, she thinks.
Does
that mean this is the right place for me? Is this my place in the world?
Thoughts scatter, like frightened birds. A moment, and then all that is left is a lingering intuition and the
disappointment of not having seized it.

Suddenly, the master of the house bows before her briefly and formally, as is his manner.

‘May I have this dance?’

What an absurd question, Bianca thinks, letting herself be guided towards the centre of the stage. She would accept even if she were exhausted, even if all the guests had left and the house were
empty, even if there was no more music. Sometimes, one doesn’t have the right to say no. And anyway, a dancing poet?

‘It’s almost an oxymoron,’ she thinks out loud. He looks at her without understanding. Thank goodness a good deal of the phrase had been lost to the orchestra.

He is, in fact, a decent dancer with a natural ability that can only have come from intense practice and habit at some point in his life. It is as if he ceased to dance only yesterday and is now
ready to take it up again, although Bianca knows very well that this isn’t the case.

She looks around her and everyone’s faces appear the same: dilated smiles on dolls’ heads. She sees Donna Clara’s acute and questioning eyebrows, Donna Julie’s innocent
smile, Bernocchi’s smirk, Don Dionisio’s mild indifference, Tommaso’s paleness, and all the others – perplexed, curious, ironic.