Portrait of a Girl (17 page)

“Of course you’ll go to the dinner,” Mathilde said. “In any case, whether you eat in the hotel or at this Segantini’s, I have to stay here in the clinic. Who’s going with you?”

Betsy hesitated about giving her an answer, but then decided to be honest with Mathilde. “Edward is going. And James too. He’s supposed to write a story about Segantini for a newspape
r . . .
”

Mathilde held her handkerchief to her lips. Her cough sounded awful. “Do you think James will come here to see me sometime?”

“Of course he will, Tilda. He just found out that you’re here. You have to give him a little time.” Betsy tried to sound cheerful. “I’m sure he’s going to ask about you tonight, and then I’ll tell him that you’re eagerly awaiting a visit from hi
m . . .
” She hoped Mathilde would protest, and she did.

“Aunt Betsy! Please! Don’t say a word. Not a word! If he doesn’t come of his own free will, I don’t want to see him anymore.” The girl looked so unhappy as she said this that Betsy reached for her hand.

“My God, Tilda. You have a fever again, child. You have to think about something else right away. You’re not supposed to get upset. You hear? And you can be sure, James is going to come to see you soon. Even if I don’t tell him how much you’re hoping that he will.” She gently stroked Mathilde’s forehead and got up.

She didn’t say anything about Adrian. She had decided that she wouldn’t show Mathilde his latest telegram, at least for the moment.

Problems and Temporary Solutions

“Well, I certainly can’t use you as an interpreter,” James said as he and Edward were driving back to St. Moritz after the dinner at Segantini’s.

“I never claimed I could be of use,” Edward answered curtly.

The evening hadn’t exactly been a success. The conversation had never really gotten under way, and then Betsy had mentioned the girl with the reddish hair whom she’d seen in the hotel garden several times with Segantini. Her harmless remark had distinctly embarrassed Segantini, and obviously caught Bice by surprise.

“Betsy won’t do as an interpreter either,” James continued brusquely. “She didn’t exactly score any points with Segantini.” He sighed. “I’ll have to take up the offer from the man at the hotel to find someone for me. I’ll call him tomorrow. It’s urgent.”

They fell silent.

After a while Edward said, “Poor Mathilde. What a shock! Tuberculosis. That’s almost a death sentence! You were with her while I went on the mountain trek with Betsy, weren’t you? Did you notice anything then? Fever? Weakness?”

James shook his head.

Edward didn’t know what had happened between Mathilde and James that day. James had been suspiciously vague about it, although in general, he loved to boast about his conquests. One thing was certain, the young woman had fallen seriously in love with James, and Edward thought that as the older of the two, James had to accept the responsibility and be kind about it at the very least. In any case, he expected some gallantry from his friend, just as Edward would have expected it of himself.

“Do you love her then?” he asked. At least James was unattached and could possibly court her, although Edward knew the prospect of getting her family’s approval was not exactly great. James wasn’t wealthy, but if his happiness depended on it, Edward would vouch for him any time.

“The things you want to know, Eddie! You know me better than I know myself, after all. You tell me whether I love her. Have I ever loved anyone the way you define love? The way you loved Emily?”

Edward didn’t answer him because he didn’t like being asked about Emily. No sooner would someone mention her name than he would see the gentle oval of her face before him, with those always-ready-to-contradict brown eyes that didn’t quite seem to fit in it. She was more spirited and passionate than her outward appearance might lead you to think—and it was precisely that which he so loved about her, and which made him so unhappy. He was not as carefree as Jamie. His wit rarely drew admiration in large groups of people. You discovered Edward’s charms only if you allowed yourself the time, and James, who had been in school with him for many years, had taken the time. Emily, who let herself be easily captivated by other people, hadn’t been captivated enough by Edward, even with all his good looks. His gentleness, his humor, and his depth were hidden under a layer of politeness. Few made the effort to imagine that behind his show of conventionality and slightly boring uprightness there might be a surprising degree of emotion and passion to be discovered. Emily in any case hadn’t made the effort to discover the deeper Edward, and he himself had to admit that he had hidden it quite skillfully.

“Mathilde’s situation is difficult,” James finally admitted. “Tuberculosis. Not exactly what you would wish for.” He made a gesture as if to shake off the unpleasant business.

“I mean, from her point of view,” he quickly added. Despite the comment, Edward suspected that James was primarily speaking of himself. A sick lover—that just wasn’t his dream.

“Have you gone to see her yet? Or written to her?” Edward asked. But James again shook his head.

“I just now found out about it. At the same time you did.”

Well, that much was true. But he didn’t seem to be terribly interested in the sick Mathilde.

“I hate hospitals,” James said instead. “There’s something contagious about them. The more septic they smell, the more afraid I am of what awful things could happen to me. Sickness is so ugly.” And when Edward didn’t say anything, he continued, “Do you like making hospital visits?”

“I don’t mind,” Edward said.

“I hope I can be of help to you, Mr. Danby,” Achille Robustelli said. “There’s not much time left to find an interpreter if your meeting with Signor Segantini is scheduled for tomorrow. But I’ll do my best to reach Signor Bonin. He just happens to be staying here in the hotel, a charming young man who is acting as Count Primoli’s secretary for the summer. The count thinks highly of our hote
l . . .
” Robustelli interrupted himself briefly to hand a letter to the director of the hotel, who had just put his head inside the door. Then he continued, “Bonin is Italian but speaks fluent English and is familiar with the field of fine arts. And of course also photography, otherwise he wouldn’t be working for the count who, as you may know, is one of the most famous photographers of our time.”

There was no denying that Robustelli looked especially favorably on guests from Italy, perhaps a sign of a secret homesickness he didn’t even admit to himself.

“So if you would, please give me a call this afternoon. As far as I know, the Pension Veraguth has no telephone connection, otherwise I could call you once I have more information.”

Robustelli was in fact able to persuade Fabrizio Bonin, a young Venetian, to act as interpreter for Mr. Danby’s interview with Signor Segantini. Robustelli felt proud to have been able to solve this problem so well and in so short a time. But being a modest man, he didn’t credit Bonin’s acquiescence to his skillful approach, but rather to the fact that it wasn’t a difficult assignment and that any of his guests would have found a meeting with the well-known painter interesting.

Meanwhile, a much greater challenge was awaiting Robustelli. Without much advance notice, Signora Bice had announced she was coming to see him. He sighed.

“Forgive me, Signor Robustelli, for disturbing you at work. I won’t stay long.”

He courteously offered the signora a seat in order to gain some time to reflect on just what his obligations and responsibilities were in the situation; he already had an inkling of what it was all about.

“We had visitors yesterday, among them a signora who lives here as a guest in your hotel,” Bice Bugatti said. She was called Signora Bice because she wasn’t married to Segantini. “She said that she had seen Giovanni several times already with the
straniera
in the hotel gardens. Giovanni says you hired her to work in the garden. Is that so, Signor Robustelli? Have you noticed that my husband comes here frequently to see the young woman? He says that he knows her and wants to get her to talk agai
n . . .
”

Robustelli nodded.

“Yes. Andrina Biancotti asked whether I had work for the young woman, and I hired her. Signor Segantini told me that he knew the young woman from Mulegns, where they told him that she had been abandoned as an infant and subsequently entrusted to a farmer as a contract child. He thinks she isn’t dumb, that she can speak, and he wants to get her to speak again.”

His voice was firm and calm, and the fact that the information tallied with what she had been told by her husband reassured Bice Bugatti.

Robustelli continued. “I can’t say that your husband comes here any more often than before. He thinks well of the hotel and has for a long time been coming to see me now and then. He asks when the next concert will be, exchanges a few words with the peopl
e . . .
He has always done that.”

Bice was relieved by this thoughtful reply, which saved her further worries. She gave Robustelli—who wasn’t quite free of guilty feelings—a grateful look.

“Thank you, Signor Robustelli. You meet people in the village of course, but the
straniera
is shy. We have little to do with the Biancottis with whom she lives. And from what I hear, it seems the only person she likes is Giuseppina from the laundry. It’s as if she just flits by all the others. Still, she attracts the eyes of other people. And their thoughts. The hotel is closed during the winter, isn’t it? Where will she go then?”

“I don’t know,” Robustelli said. He escorted Bice out of the hotel.

Why was he protecting Segantini? Achille didn’t know. Bice loved Segantini and was worried that someone could break apart her sheltered home, he understood that. But no one could keep love from taking what it wanted. Segantini was clearly drawn to Nika. The attraction was so great that he was getting careless and not thinking about the consequences of his actions. Robustelli sensed that the girl loved him with a passion that would remain unfulfilled and could not but end unhappily. And yet, Achille had done nothing to make these people come to their senses. Nor had he told Segantini that other people might have seen Nika pressing his hand to her fac
e . . .
So far, he had not asked Nika to come to see him or forbidden her to have private conversations during working hours. These were all things he had failed to do, and instead he had dispelled Bice’s doubts. Why? Why was he so fascinated by what he saw? It wasn’t only his discretion that kept him from doing something, or standing by a fellow man. No. It was more than that. He saw in them a feeling that was beyond all common sense, one that he longed for. He longed for love.

Nika sketched. She made drawings in her notebook and on any piece of paper she could find. Segantini had brought her a new book when the old one was full, and then another one. Nika also practiced writing. Next to the drawings she made, she carefully wrote the names of the things she had drawn: lake, boat, hotel, tree, Gaetano. Segantini showed her how to hold the pencil when she was drawing, his hand guiding her hand. She began to tremble when she felt the warmth of his skin. She wasn’t used to being touched by other people. To be touched gently especially was something new. He looked at her briefly, but said nothing.

“Try to draw a self-portrait,” he said to her one day. “Doesn’t matter if it’s not successful. It’s very hard to draw yourself. After all, can anyone really see himself or herself?”

“I’ll try,” Nika said.

She went back to the hotel and sneaked into one of the guest toilets that members of the staff were not allowed to use. Those were the only places where there were mirrors, and it was the only place where she could lock herself in and be unobserved. With one blow from a sharp-edged stone, she shattered the mirror hanging over the sink. She selected a fragment from among the many that had clattered to the floor and hid it in her garden apron. Then she waited until she couldn’t hear anyone moving outside and darted out again like a shadow.

Before she fell asleep at night, she would slowly write the letters of the alphabet and form them into words. Early in the morning, before going to work, she would sketch herself. It was hard to draw her face from the little of it she could see in the small mirror fragment. It drove her to despair. The mirror fragmented her face—the hairline, a section of forehead, an eye, her nose—and in the end she mimicked the images on paper. She created a separate drawing for each feature—the nose, the mouth and chin, the ear, and cheek.

She gave the drawings to Segantini. He made no comment, just passed a finger across her forehead to compare the actual hairline with her drawing of it. She reached for his finger and held it. He pulled his hand away.