The Watercolourist (16 page)

‘My mother taught me how to make cakes,’ Bianca says. ‘Would you like the recipe?’

Donna Julie lights up.

‘I’d love to try it but only if you help me.’

‘Of course! With all the children,’ Bianca says, smiling.

Donna Clara scowls and asks for another helping.

‘I don’t understand you two. The idea of getting your hands dirty with dough, bringing the children into the kitchen . . . it will only confuse the help and people will lose their
sense of place.’

‘The children are always sneaking into the kitchen, anyway, and I don’t see anything wrong with it. Perhaps they will enjoy themselves more than they do with Nanny. They will
certainly learn more. And with my hands, I can’t be a lady. Look,’ Donna Julie says calmly, holding out her small white hands marked by imperfections; they are swollen, rugged, even, to
look at.

‘I always say you work too much. It isn’t proper. You should wear gloves.’

‘I’m tired of doing what I should.’

‘You’re making a mistake.’ Donna Clara speaks without even looking at her.

‘You, of all people . . .’

The sentence hovers over the table in mid-air, powerful enough to cause the old signora to finally look up from her plate and into the eyes of her daughter-in-law.

‘I what?’ Donna Clara replies disdainfully.

‘You . . . you, at least, have lived,’ mumbles Donna Julie. And then it is as if a sudden gust of wind extinguishes her tiny flame. She lowers her head and is silent.

Later, while she is unbraiding Bianca’s hair, Minna, who as usual has heard every word, cannot resist the urge to speak her mind.

‘Don’t listen to Donna Clara. She doesn’t want to talk about it because she says it distracts us. The Pink Lady is an old story and is over. No one believes it. The ghost,
however, does exist. She’s real. She comes to evening vespers every Monday.’

‘If she’s always so punctual, she must be English,’ Bianca jokes. ‘With a pocket watch hanging from a long chain.’

‘Oh, that I cannot say. What I do know is that she appears out of nowhere and disappears into thin air.’

Minna stares at her in the mirror.

‘Seriously, Miss Bianca. Open your eyes and you will see.’

Bianca knows that in order for ghosts to exist, someone has to believe in them. She lets herself be lured into imagining the phantasmagorical creature as though she is a gullible child.

The rains end, the ground dries out, the sun returns and summer makes its way back – one last time before the winter decline. It is hot and the world, invigorated by the
hydration, is green with life, blooming, exultant. On Monday, when the church bells chime for evening Mass and a handful of old ladies hobble towards prayer, Bianca makes her way towards the
northern gate. She takes a basket, her gardening gloves and a pair of shears. Her apparent goal is to find some unusual roses that grow in the beds farthest from the house. There she kneels among
the bushes that flower far from anyone’s sight. Roses have an air about them that is too uncertain for her taste, and yet they are beautiful. Their heads hang close together and their smell
is faint. Bianca slips on her gloves and chooses several stems, but not the longest ones. She wants to use a specific crystal vase that she has spotted in the bottom of a cupboard. When she looks
up from her basket, she is startled by what she has really come to see. Far off in the distance stands not a phantom, but a woman. She is dressed in dark clothes and wears a veil that drapes down
beyond her shoulders like a short cape, giving her a monastic look. This trend hasn’t yet arrived in these parts but Bianca recognizes it from certain foreign magazines. Maybe the woman is a
traveller. Maybe Bianca is jumping to conclusions; perhaps she simply chooses that apparel because she does not want to reveal anything about herself. Even without a veil, though, the uncertain
light of early dusk will hide her facial features. Because of the tall grass, she looks like a silhouette on a theatrical stage.

In the time it takes Bianca to gather her skirts and quicken her step towards the gate, the veiled woman has disappeared. Bianca tries to see where she went but the gate is closed, and she
cannot follow the shadow any further.

‘What nice roses,’ Donna Clara says to her later, as she arranges the trimmed flowers in the glass vase. ‘Your hunt was successful, I see.’

Bianca is silent. Her real prey has escaped her. At least she will have her portraits of the roses, which will last far longer than the flowers themselves. She imagines everyone admiring the
dark tangle of thorny stems beneath the surface of the water.

A good hunter is dedicated. He returns time and again to the place where he first catches sight of his prey. In order to make the hunt his own, the hunter must be patient and
methodical. The following day Bianca seeks out a point in the garden where she remembers the wall is slightly lower. She climbs over it without too much difficulty in an old grey pinstriped skirt
that has seen some wear and tear, and retraces the woman’s steps across the flattened grass, searching for clues. She isn’t sure what she is looking for. If there are traces, she will
never be able to find them. She isn’t a dog that can follow its sense of smell. But she is lucky. Right there on the ground where the path gives way to the tall grass, she finds something.
Bianca kneels down and picks up the strange object. It is a small pillow of striped pink and green velvet, sewn in a delicate golden whipstitch. In the middle, on a pink background, is an
embroidered lamb with a real bell hanging from its neck. Bianca shakes the pillow and the bell jingles softly. It looks like it has been made for a tiny bed in a doll’s house or like an
elaborate sachet to be placed among one’s linens. Bianca brings it to her nose: it has no scent.

The following Monday brings steady rain. But on Tuesday the sun shines once more. Bianca climbs over the wall again and into the fields. She doesn’t come across any
surprising finds this time but does meet someone, just not the person she was hoping for.

‘Well, look who’s here: our painter! Out and about, and disguised as a servant, no less. A delectable Colombina. What are you doing, Miss Bianca? Are you dressed up for charades? Or
are you simply strolling incognito in search of new and original subject matter? Are you a fan of the people, dedicated to marrying their filthy cause? Listen to me, forget about them: flowers like
you thrive in closed gardens. Or come with me to the city and I will show you how beautiful life can be . . .’

It is Bernocchi. He is dressed in a light blue spencer designed for another kind of figure. His trousers and white socks amplify his more than robust thighs and calves. He removes his hat and
plunges into a deep bow, showing off a florid and sweaty neck. It is a most unpleasant spectacle and encounter for Bianca, who would give anything not to be subjected to the prying gaze of this
man. She tries to defend herself with indifference.

‘Conte Bernocchi . . . well, this is the last place I’d imagine to find you.’

‘Indeed. I arrived early and asked to be let out right here. I wanted to take a stroll in the open country . . . like you. I hoped to find out if here, among the tall grasses, lay the font
of your inspiration. But of course, the fields are filled with interesting little creatures like yourself. Ah,’ he says, looking off into the distance with a malicious air. ‘Now I
understand . . .’

Innes is crossing the field towards them, approaching from the house with long strides. When he arrives, he rests his hands on the wall from within.

‘Who is luckier, the people inside or the people outside?’ Innes says with a smile. Bianca’s sombre expression does not escape him, nor does her plain outfit. He reaches across
the barrier wall. ‘I beg of you, come back to us. We simply will not let you run off,’ he speaks light-heartedly, as he helps her climb back over the obstacle. Count Bernocchi peers at
her naked calves, made visible by her movement, looking away only when Innes glares at him.

‘Do not expect me to do the same,’ he jokes. ‘I am not a born gymnast like you English folk. I’m taking the long way round. A healthy stroll will do me good. Please tell
them to prepare refreshments, as I will certainly need them upon my arrival. And let them know that I will bring an armful of roses with me, like a damsel. Like our Miss Bianca.’

Bernocchi walks off down the path, swinging his walking stick.

‘Then be not coy . . .’ mumbles Innes quietly in English, but Bernocchi either does not hear him or fails to understand because he doesn’t turn around.

Innes and Bianca share a laugh. There are moments, and this is one of them, when it is right to suspend the rules of the salon: forget the plaster mouldings, ignore the delicate crystal and
china, and walk past the family portraits. This is the joy of conspiracy. How nice to discover that Innes doesn’t care for Bernocchi either.

Half an hour later they see him on the great lawn, stretched out on a chaise longue, his belly in full view, admiring the girls as they play with Pia. Each time Pia runs off to catch the ball,
the count’s head follows her.