Portrait of a Girl (19 page)

Kate considered her night with James only half a success. He hadn’t stayed until morning nor had he been a particularly tender lover. At breakfast, she felt so unloved that she almost longed for the return of her husband just to avoid the thought that she might actually have suffered a defeat. But not only would it take Robert thirteen hours to get down to Chur, he’d need another thirteen to come back up to St. Moritz, and so she would have to try, without him, to give this day a more pleasant aspect than her dark mood and the hazy clouds outside promised.

The waiters were anxious to remove the breakfast dishes because it was time to set the tables for lunch, but Kate, who had dithered for a long time between going downstairs or ordering something to be brought up to the room, had appeared late for breakfast. She had decided to leave the site of her partial humiliation.

“Oh,” she said as the waiter discreetly approached her table in the hope she would get up, “now I know what I really want! Please be so kind as to bring me a fresh fruit salad. That’s exactly what I feel like having now.” She smiled graciously up into the waiter’s face, which was not exactly delighted. “And please tell them in the kitchen that I’d like it with a fresh peach an
d . . .
” she called after the young man who had without a reply already turned to go, “a little fresh toast. This bread here is too soft and chewy, as if it were two days old.”

The waiter neither turned around nor answered her. He just nodded silently. Kate felt a trace better.

That changed when they handed her a telegram at the reception desk in which Robert informed her that he would be staying in Chur a day longer than originally planned.

“Is everything all right, Madam?” the man at the desk asked.

“Yes, yes. Of course,” she replied and stepped outside. After a moment’s hesitation, she went down the avenue that led to the lakeshore. About halfway there, she stopped by some benches near a beautifully laid out circular flowerbed. The flowerbed was deserted around this time of day. Only the birds chirped and flew busily back and forth in the trees. With a relieved sigh, she sank down on a bench. Here, there was no one to notice the gloomy mood so uncharacteristic of her.

James had not said a word to her about getting together again in the next few days. On the contrary, he had mentioned that he would be spending a day with Edward. Why was he arming himself so carefully with excuses? He needn’t fear that she planned to chase after him!

The sky was covered by a thin whitish veil, and a diffuse light lay over the landscape. A remarkable emptiness spread out before Kate, even though she tried to pull herself together, to become her usual self, the alert, witty Kate, the one she preferred to show to the world. Oh, yes, she had an iron will, and that had often come to her aid. But today, life seemed oddly burdensome. She stretched out her right arm and held her palm into the air. Sparrows hopped toward her and a few tufted titmice on the lowest branches of the trees turned their heads sideways, rubbing their beaks on the branches, unsure whether to come nearer. But Kate had neither breadcrumbs nor birdseed to offer, and so no bird came to perch on her empty hand. Unexpectedly, tears came to her eyes and she quickly got up.

Since they had been staying at the hotel, no one had asked why she and Robert had actually come here, and she had liked it that way. Only now, at this moment, it upset her, just as she felt hurt that she had no children, although she actually didn’t want any. She had the curative water brought to her room in bottles so that she could do a
Trinkkur
, a mineral water drinking cure, but she didn’t want to take the baths, even though Robert had urged her to do it. Robert was so simple. “If you can’t have children, let’s try the baths. Maybe they will help,” he said. That was all that had occurred to him.

Sullenly, she dispersed the complaining sparrows with her parasol and resolved to take the horse-drawn omnibus to visit the shopping gallery in St. Moritz. Somebody had claimed that Swiss clocks were terrific and very much in vogue. And she could also take a look at the Palace Hotel, which was supposed to reopen very soon with a festive celebration.

“Have you ever been to St. Moritz?” Segantini asked. Nika shook her head. She had decided that she didn’t want to see him again, but since she hadn’t yet told him, he continued to come by freely.

“I have to buy some things there, and if you’d like to, you can come along. I’ve asked for a carriage. Wait by the side of the road at three o’clock, and I’ll ask the driver to stop for you.”

Nika averted her eyes. She didn’t like the way he spoke to her.

“I have to work,” she said. “You know that.”

“Gaetano!” he called, and when the old man shuffled up, he said, “Nika is going with me this afternoon to St. Moritz. She’ll make up for the time she missed.”

“I quite understand,” Gaetano replied.

“You don’t understand anything,” Segantini said angrily.

The gardener made no reply and left.

Nika shook her head; she didn’t understand either.

Segantini looked at her in surprise.

“Then think about it for a while,” he said. His voice had turned gentle again.

Nika looked down and said, “Maybe it’s you who should be doing that.”

The driver stopped but didn’t get down from the carriage. Segantini leaned forward, holding a hand out to Nika, and pulled her up into the open carriage. Dust whirled up behind them as the horses trotted off. Segantini laughed when he saw Nika’s reserved expression.

“Haven’t you ever sat in a carriage?”

Nika shook her head.

“Farm wagons don’t go as fast as this lovely victoria, eh?”

She said nothing. It wasn’t the speed. She was reproaching herself for even having climbed up. Why had she gone to wait by the side of the road in the first place? She should simply have gone on with her work. Gaetano was angry about this escapade and had threatened to speak to Robustelli. Under no circumstances must he do that. She needed Signor Robustelli’s help to find work and new lodgings for the winter. And yet, whenever Segantini came near her, she again felt good about things and wanted to sing and chirp like a bird in the spring. Yet he was an old man, and he had a wife. Couldn’t she get that through her thick skull? And he ordered her around like the farmer had.

The carriage was a two-seater. An elegant folding roof arched overhead. Segantini didn’t want to have it lowered. They sat close together. Ahead to the right, the lakes glittered in the sun, but their faces were in the shade. Nika had rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, baring her slender brown arms. Now and then, his jacket touched her skin, but that was because of the slight rocking motion of the carriage, which flew along, much too fast.

“I love you,” Nika suddenly said, without looking at Segantini.

It was as if the words had dropped on the floor of the carriage and from there onto the road, had simply rolled out of her mouth and disappeared into the gravel. And now they were lying somewhere, unnoticed behind them on the road, because nobody had caught them, had stretched a hand out for them.

“What did you say?” Segantini turned to her and looked at her face.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Yes, you said something.”

“I don’t want to repeat it.”

He was silent. Finally he said, “I say what is important to me, over and over again. I keep painting this landscape, these mountains, the sheep, the cows, the people, whether they are at work or at rest. Again and again, I paint the light after the sunset. The stillness. Death. Love.”

Nika did not reply. She saw the words she had spoken lying in the road like little gray marbles, somewhere between Maloja and St. Moritz, totally meaningless, worthless.

“I paint the love that is in everything,” he continued, “that is the mission, the task of art. It is in the beauty of every little flower—the love that surrounds us.”

They passed the little, old San Lurench Church; they passed Sils-Baselgia.

“I was orphaned early,” he began. “A little boy who could sense that his mother was ill and would soon leave him, no matter how much he loved her. Even while she was alive, she wasn’t quite all there. I killed her by being born. She never recovered from my birth. My older brother died in a fire at barely three years old. That also may have contributed to her condition. My father was rarely at home. I scarcely knew him. Only poverty was always present. When my mother died, he took me to Milan, to his daughter, Irene, from an earlier marriage. I not only lost my mother, but I also lost the countryside, the surroundings in which I grew up. The little town of Arco, the river in which I almost drowned once, the sky I still remember. I never liked Milan.”

So that’s why, Nika thought. That’s why he bothers about me, because he knows what I know. Because I know what he feels.

“Irene kept house for her brother Napoleone,” Segantini continued, “but his little drugstore was not doing well. They themselves were both strangers in Milan and found no support anywhere. The store closed; the furniture was sold. My father left with Napoleone.”

Segantini cleared his throat; he didn’t remove his hand when Nika’s hand searched it out and held it tight. Her grip was strong and without false consolation. He talked on into the dim light under the carriage roof. Outside, the brightness made the water quiver with gleaming flecks of light.

“I stayed with Irene, whom I hated. And she felt the same way about me. She was a skinny, bitter woman without any understanding for a young child.”

Not saying a word, Nika squeezed his hand. It was so large that she could barely get her fingers around it.

Segantini cleared his throat once more. “I never again saw my father.”

He felt the strong, almost masculine, pressure of her hand. Then he pulled his hand back and leaned forward to see where they were. They were just then going through Silvaplana. On the left was the road that led up one of the mountains.

“I came from there,” Nika said, and pointed. “Over the Julier Pass.”

He nodded absently. He at least had known his parents. He didn’t want to judge whether that was better or worse. “Was the farmer with whom you grew up in Mulegns good to you? Better than Irene was to me?”

“No,” Nika said.

At that point, he didn’t know what to say.

They had left Champfer behind and would soon be reaching the first houses of St. Moritz.

“We’ll soon be there.” Segantini took Nika’s arm and pulled her forward. “Look, there are the mineral baths and the big hotels where people enjoy the
m . . .
the Spa, the Kurhaus, the Victoria, the Stahlbad. But we’ll drive up to the village first. Look, there’s even a streetcar here. Have you ever seen a streetcar?”

“No.” Nika smiled. “That’s a streetcar? On the tracks? Like a train?”

“And up in the village there’s a new grand hotel opening next week called the Palace; it’s near my friend Peter Robert Berry’s house. We’ll be driving past it next.” He called out to the driver, asking him to stop and fold down the roof so that they could see better.

Nika was amazed. The Palace Hotel was immense. In contrast to the Spa Hotel Maloja, it looked like a huge fortress with a fortified tower and battlements. All in all, this was a totally incomprehensible world for her: the streetcar, the noble carriages, the many elegant people. Lots of high-class guests came to Maloja too, but the village had remained what it was originally: there were no baths, no fine shops, and no collection of luxury hotels. The guests of the Spa Hotel Maloja went to St. Moritz on the horse-drawn omnibus whenever they had treatments, wanted to dine out, go shopping, or attend soirees.

Segantini asked the driver to stop and jumped down.

“Wait for me here,” he said. “It’s better if you don’t walk around in this place by yourself. Sit up front with the driver. From there you can watch all the goings-on.”

Nonplussed, she nodded, watching him hurry off. He was like her. And yet he wasn’t.

In a short while, he came back, bringing some cake wrapped in paper.

“From the Hanselmann Bakery,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

“Thanks,” she said, totally surprised. It was the first time someone had bought her something sweet.

“To make the waiting seem less long,” Segantini explained.

Nika watched him go again. She broke off a piece of cake and put it in her mouth. The unaccustomed sweetness spread through her entire body; she felt as if life had just taken on a new, overpowering taste. She pulled off another piece of cake and wrapped the rest up in the paper it had come in to save for later. But then a moment later she unwrapped it, offered the driver a piece, and put the chunk that was left into her own mouth. The cake would only dry out if she didn’t eat it now.

Now is when it tastes best, she thought. Now at this moment, when I can still make out his dark hair in the crowd, and know he’ll come back.

“Have you ever dealt with horses?” the driver asked Nika.

“In the village on the farm,” she replied.

“Could you stay here by yourself for a while?” the driver was already halfway down from his seat. “I have to go take a leak, and if you don’t mind I’d also like to get a quick beer. It’s hot and I haven’t taken a break yet today.”