Portrait of a Girl (35 page)

Franz Schobinger wasn’t enthusiastic about this new development. “As you know, I already have one prospective son-in-law,” he said without emotion. “And that’s actually enough. Above all, my wife considers the planned marriage very advantageous.”

This statement made a certain hope rise in Edward’s heart, for it didn’t sound as if there was complete agreement to this on the father’s part. Yet common courtesy kept him from asking more questions.

Franz Schobinger didn’t dislike this new contender for his daughter’s hand. Quite the contrary. True, he was still a bit young and rough at the edges, but so was Adrian. And what Edward had told him about his family spoke well for him. Certainly no worse than Adrian’s background. Oh my God, these eternal lovers’ squabbles, thought Franz Schobinger. And what for? Did he go through all this in his youth? If so, he didn’t remember it now. In any case, a few years ago, he had fallen seriously in love, but that was another story. With a careful twisting motion, he removed the ash from his cigar and said, “You aren’t expecting an answer from me right now, my dear Mr. Holbroke. That’s the name, right? And not least, and beyond all the other complications, there’s the fact that in the event this goes through, we’d probably lose touch with our daughter. That would only add to the other problems. I don’t know how happy parents are on the whole at the idea of their daughters living abroad.”

And so Edward left again—without an answer, as was to be expected, but also without a final rejection. And that’s how things stood as Edward hurried back to Mathilde, even though he hadn’t quite forgiven her for the hurtful things she had said.

“I won’t stay long,” he said by way of greeting. “I’m going with James to the Venetian Ball in Maloja, and I still have to get dresse
d . . .
” But he was glad to see her smiling with relief as he entered her room.

In the hotel lobby, Edward and James met Count Primoli and Fabrizio.

They were clinking champagne glasses, toasting the season just ending, when James suddenly said, “Shall we meet here again for a few days next year?” He had quite forgotten that the mountains made him feel uneasy and, as he had previously kept emphasizing, that they bored him terribly. In fact, the idea began to appeal to him more and more. “We should invite Segantini to join us and Betsy. And you,” he looked at Edward, “will of course bring Mathilde. How about it?”

Edward nodded. Why not come back to the place where he found Mathilde?

Nika was now one of the busy black ants helping the waiters who were serving the Venetian Ball dinner. She could see the inside of the festively lit ballroom, but was not allowed to enter. Here was Venice, like a vision before her eyes. The Venice she had admired in Count Primoli’s photographs. The city where her mother had been born, and had perhaps returned to after her journey across the Alps. The city that was home to the young man with the brown eyes. Venice, city of light and shadows, and an infinity of reflections.

“Nika, I’ve got something for you,” Achille Robustelli said a few days later. He was standing in the middle of his office and didn’t ask Nika to sit down. He seemed in a hurry, which was understandable these last days of the summer season. He took a large envelope and handed it to her.

“Here is some information about the best way for you to get to Venice. I wrote down the directions, starting from Chiavenna. Up to that point you can go by post coach, but then you have to change to a train and continue by boat to Como, where you can get another train connection to Milan and on to Venice.”

He dismissed her attempt to thank him, but stopped as if for reflection.

“I also wrote down how you can find the quarter where the Greeks of Venice live. The Damaskinos family probably resides there; you just have to ask for their address. The rose on your locket is indeed part of their heraldic coat of arms: a Damascene rose with a ruby. I wrote a letter that states that you worked here at the hotel and performed your work satisfactorily. It also says that we would hire you again for the coming season. It will help you if they make any difficulties at the border—after all, you have no documents.”

He took a deep breath and hurried to finish what he had to say.

“There is also some money in the envelope, both Swiss and Italian. If, at the end of the season, the hotel has done well, everyone receives a bonus in recognition of their services.”

Nika looked at him as if she didn’t believe him, but he went on, “And the count has translated and written out what’s written on the piece of paper inside your locket.”

He walked over to the window, looked out as if he were expecting her to leave without saying anything else.

“Signor Robustelli?”

He turned around.

“Signor Robustelli! Aren’t you going to look at me and say farewell?”

Nika walked over to stand at his side. The season was over. The guests were leaving—a great chaos of horses, carriages, servants, and luggage.

“What a mess at the end of summer,” he murmured.

“What did you say?” Nika said without looking at him.

“I said, what a mess. What a mess people always create.”

“But that’s normal,” Nika said. She laughed and redid her loose knot of hair. Her face and eyes were as clear as the lake. And in the winter, her skin would be light and white again.

“I have to get back to work,” Achille said, as if he couldn’t stand so close to her any longer.

“Of course, Signor Robustelli, I didn’t want to keep you,” Nika said. But then she added, “you must be tired. It’s high time the hotel closes. I heard that you and Andrina are going to get married?”

“Yes, that’s true.” The conversation seemed to be getting more and more uncomfortable.

“Then all my best wishes,” Nika said. And when he didn’t answer, “Good-bye an
d . . .
thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“That’s all right. You’re welcome,” he broke in.

They shook hands.

“Oh, Nika,” he called as she was opening the door. “Signor Bonin asked about you. He wanted to know how come I had the locket. I told him it belonged to you.”

Nika felt sad. She couldn’t understand why Signor Robustelli was suddenly acting so cool toward her. Only now, as he dismissed her without showing any emotion, did she realize how much affection he had shown her in the last few months. She would not only miss Gian and Benedetta, but also Signor Robustelli. For a moment, she thought of Segantini but immediately suppressed it. She’d better get busy packing her few things. And only then, once she was actually ready to leave, would she read what her mother had written to her years before.

For one more moment she stood, lost in thought, outside the door to Robustelli’s office. She started when she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

“So, I did find you after all!”

Fabrizio Bonin was beaming. Nika took a step back as if to run away, but he shook his head and smiled. “Stay! I must ask you to forgive me for an indiscretion I committed. I found out that the locket with the heraldic emblem of the Damaskinos belongs to you—that you have excellent connections with Venice without apparently even knowing it. Signor Robustelli told m
e . . .
” And grinning at a sudden inspiration, he added, “So actually it was Signor Robustelli who was indiscreet, and I was only curious. Which is a minor sin for a journalist, don’t you agree?”

Nika couldn’t help but smile at him. Only a stone could remain unaffected and refuse to be cheered by him.

“So I’m sure you’ll come to Venice some day,” he went on. “Will you allow me to show you the city?”

“The city where the water captures the sky?” Nika asked. He nodded seriously.

“Yes. I’ll show you the most beautiful places. Spots that would make any good photographer’s heart break with delight. And so that you’ll be sure to find me, I’ve written down my address.” He gave her a piece of paper and bowed. “I can’t wait to see you again,” he whispered.

She smiled and said nothing.

Nika put the piece of paper with Fabrizio Bonin’s address—Campo San Rocco, Dorsoduro, Venezia—into Signor Robustelli’s envelope, but not before gently holding it to her cheek. Then she put the envelope in with the things she would be taking on her journey the following day.

At dawn the next day, she took her bundle, softly closed the door to her room, and left the hotel that had changed her life. She went down to the lake one more time. The water, roughened by the wind, slapped against the shore in waves topped by small crowns of foam as if it was not a lake, but an infinitely wide sea. Nika felt chilled; she kneeled on the boat dock and put her hand in the cold water.

Segantini did not drive by in a four-horse carriage.

Gian no longer waited for her at Benedetta’s house. He had driven the cows down from Grevasalvas and was now staying with Benedetta’s sister in Soglio; the cows belonged to her. Both Gian and Nika had had tears in their eyes when they had said good-bye.

Benedetta had given her a blouse and a warm skirt of her own as a good-bye present as well as a bag to hold her things. Since Luca had died, she wasn’t attached to anything anymore.

Andrina had been avoiding her; so they didn’t even say good-bye.

It was time to leave Maloja. Soon the post coach would carry her down to Italy as she had always dreamed. The whistle of the train would slice through the air and the steel rails would dissect the landscape into the world she was leaving behind and the new one she would have to conquer. It was good to know that there was already one person in this new world who looked forward to welcoming her there.

Now was the moment to read the message her mother had put in the locket to accompany her on her journey; the sun was already rising in a milky sky and she had to get to the post coach station if she didn’t want to miss the coach.

It was difficult for Nika to make out the count’s bold, elegant handwriting, but finally she succeeded and softly read:

You will search for me and find yourself.

With love,

Your mother

“So Nika went to Venice,” Achille Robustelli said to the art collector who had been patiently listening to his story. “Perhaps she was lucky there. At any rate, I never heard from her again.”

“And you?” the Collector asked. “Signor Robustelli? What did you do?”

“I kept my word and got married.”

“And why is this picture hanging here in your office? Does your wife approve?”

“No, she certainly wouldn’t. But she is no longer here. She fell in love with one of the guests and went away with him to Milan.”

“And you didn’t try to get her back?” the art collector asked.

“No,” Achille Robustelli replied. “But once Segantini had finished
La Vanità
, I asked him whether he would let the hotel have the picture on loan until it was sold. To be exact, let m
e . . .
”

“And it was only right that he fulfilled your wish! He owes just as much to you as to the girl in this painting.”

Achille Robustelli merely smiled.

“And tomorrow, I’ll be taking Nika’s portrait away from you too. What will you do? Your wife is gone, Nika, now the paintin
g . . .
”

Achille shrugged and smoothed the gray hair at his temples.

“I’m getting older. You see, the gray hair is already there. I am homesick more and more often. Maybe I’ll simply go back to Italy. Segantini found a home up here. I haven’t. Some people are able to find a home for themselves in the gaze of a loving partner, in nature, or in their family history. Or in art. The hotel is probably my home, this place where people meet, find each other, and lose touch agai
n . . .
But come, let’s go over to the restaurant. You must be hungry and thirsty. It was a long story. Do me the pleasure and have supper with me tonight.”

Three Years Later

Maloja, September 1899

In the end, it was James who actually succeeded in bringing about the meeting. Not one year later, as he, Edward, and Fabrizio Bonin had originally agreed, but three years later, in the fall of 1899.

After his stay in St. Moritz, James had finally gone to see his parents again in Berlin, and there, he had suddenly felt the desire to be closer to them once more. And so, when he was offered a very promising position with a Berlin newspaper, he settled in the city. But, although his connection with Edward was no longer as close, it did not break off entirely. Fabrizio he hadn’t seen since the summer in Maloja, even though both had firmly vowed to get together.

Achille Robustelli was happy to hear from James that the friends were planning to meet at the Spa Hotel Maloja. He remembered all of them well. The name of the hotel was now Maloja Palace, but Robustelli’s position there was still the same. He was touched that James had not only asked him to reserve rooms, but had also insisted, speaking for his friends as well, that Robustelli be a guest at the supper they had planned.

On September 22, 1899, three years after the splendid end-of-season Venetian Ball they’d all attended, the three arrived one by one in Maloja. The ball was still remembered as a glorious social event; for Achille, however, the memory was linked with Nika, the mystery of whose origins were revealed to her that day.

He knew it was futile to keep mulling over why he had been unable to confess his feelings either to himself or to her back then. Because, if he had declared his love for her, he would have violated his own sense of duty, and would, above all, have had to break off his engagement to Andrina, and to break his word of honor. And this would have been impossible for him. From childhood on, he had learned that you have to stand behind the thing you’ve pledged to do. The example of his father cast a large shadow over his life. And Nika? How would she have reacted? He didn’t know what she’d felt for him then, or would have felt for him under different circumstances. And had he been in her position, wouldn’t he have wanted to move toward the future, free of any attachments or ties?

Autumn was cool in the year 1899. Hoarfrost covered the large, soft cushions of grass surrounding the hotel, and they glittered in the morning sun like silvery brushes. It had already snowed heavily a few times, even down in the valley.

Achille stood at the entrance to the hotel. Shivering in his elegant dark suit, he turned up the collar, but that didn’t help much; he blew on his hands, rubbed them together, and crossed them behind his back. You might have thought he was one of the handsome Italian guests just leaving—the end of another season was at hand.

One of the group who’d planned to meet that day had cancelled: Segantini. He had gone up to the Schafberg, intending to make use of the last days of fall to work on his painting,
La Natura
. It was the central piece of a planned triptych called
La Vita—La Natura—La Morte
that he hoped to show at the 1900 Paris World’s Fair. His bold, ambitious idea to create an alpine panorama had failed for financial reasons. The committee of hoteliers, bankers, politicians, and journalists that had been formed for the realization of the project had sent him a letter on January 28, 1898, informing him that the proposal had been turned down. Segantini in turn rejected the committee’s suggestions for a change in the size of the project and decided instead—since Grubicy was delighted by the idea—to exhibit the paintings in the form of a triptych at the Italian pavilion. There was scarcely enough time to complete the ambitious project.

He’d begun painting the left part of the triptych,
La Vita
, in 1897 in Soglio, and gotten quite far along. The picture showed the peak of the Sciora group above the Bodasca Valley as seen from Soglio. He had begun the right part of the triptych,
La Morte
, even before
La Vita
, and put it aside since it was practically finished.

The center part of the triptych,
La Natura
, was going to show the view from the Schafberg across the Upper Engadine Lakes to the Bregaglia Valley. Segantini had conceived the painting on the basis of what he remembered from an earlier climb as well as various photographs; he had painted the foreground in the vicinity of Maloja. Now he wanted to complete the painting on-site.

Robustelli was just about to go back inside the hotel when a carriage drove up. He turned around at the sound of carriage doors being opened. Fabrizio Bonin got out and immediately turned to help a lady down; Achille recognized Bonin immediately. The young lady, in a softly flowing bottle-green velvet dress, took Bonin’s arm affectionately. Her hair, pinned up, glowed red from under her hat.

It was Nika. Achille fled inside, hurried into his office, and locked the door.

Fabrizio Bonin was looking forward to the evening with fewer reservations than the other men in attendance. He was anxious to meet Mathilde, whom he knew only from hearsay. Her tuberculosis had been cured, and—as he knew from James’s letters—she had married Edward more than a year ago. But above all, he was looking forward to seeing James again.

By accident, James had run into Betsy in Chur, and the two had continued on to Maloja together. Betsy was relieved that she wouldn’t have to meet James in the presence of Mathilde. She still bore a grudge against him as a result of the seed Kate had planted in Betsy’s mind by telling her that James’s behavior toward Mathilde had not been gentlemanly.

“My God, Betsy, please believe me, it really wasn’t as bad as all that!” James had said when she mentioned it to him. “You seem to have remembered only the malicious gossip, whereas I always remembered your incredibly blue eyes. Aren’t you being unfair? And besides, how would Mathilde and Edward ever have gotten to know each other without me?” He kissed Betsy’s hand, and she sighed softly. In Zurich, several admirers had vied for her attention, but she couldn’t bring herself to form a closer liaison with any of them. Since she could afford to remain undecided, she continued to enjoy her freedom. After all, she thought from time to time, you never know where indecision may lead. The thought occurred to her once again now, as she looked at James—he was still very attractive and not wearing a ring on his finger.

When the majestic façade of the grand hotel came into view along with the sparkling surface of Lake Sils on their left, Mathilde reached for Edward’s hand. How many memories and emotions this landscape stirred in her! She was happy with Edward—and yet, what would it feel like to meet James again after all this time? She was a little uneasy; after all, they’d never really said good-bye to each other.

Achille Robustelli was the one who was most afraid of the get-together. How could he possibly have imagined that Nika would be returning to Maloja today on Bonin’s arm? Back then Bonin had asked about her, had wanted to give her his address in Venice. Oh yes, he did remember that. Shouldn’t he be happy for them? He had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Achille took his cigarette case out of the desk drawer and lit a cigarette. Closing the case, he looked at the clear reflection of his face in the silver surface. “It’s your own fault, Achille,” he thought. It felt good to blame himself. He would have given a lot to be able to avoid showing up at the planned supper. But that was impossible. He closed his eyes; tried to regain his accustomed equilibrium. Absentmindedly he felt for the signet ring that he no longer wore. Andrina had broken him of the habit of constantly turning it on his finger. She said it made him look silly and insecure, and that wasn’t appropriate to a man in his position. And so, tired of her criticism, he’d simply taken the ring off one day. Feeling unhappy, he went over to the window. At least Segantini hadn’t come, although Nika was probably hoping to see him. Achille’s troubled heart felt some satisfaction at the thought that at least Segantini wouldn’t get to see her.

He gazed toward the wall where Segantini’s painting
La Vanità
used to hang. Even though it had hung there only a few months, it had left behind a lighter square on the wallpaper.

He was relieved when there was a knock on the door, and he was ripped from his melancholy thoughts. He went to open it.

“Signor Robustelli! How wonderful that you’re still here in the same place!” Nika cried. She was no longer an employee who would stand in the doorway waiting to be asked to approach. She stepped into the room and with a bright smile extended her hand to him.

Achille’s heart was pounding. His voice, usually clear and calm, failed him.

Nika looked at him, beaming. Her hair was as glorious as ever; the color of her dress flattered her light skin and brought out the blue-green of her eyes. “I’m
so
glad to see you!” she said again. He at last took her hand with that somewhat shy smile of his that had always surprised her—a man who dealt with so many people, it was surprising how shy he could be.

“Signor
a . . .
”

“Damaskinos?” she continued for him. “Yes, that’s what I call myself, even thoug
h . . .
” she stopped.

Achille offered her a chair and sat down also. Then he got up again and asked if she’d like something to drink. But she shook her head. “You’re all flustered,” she said. “What’s the matter?”

He cleared his throat. “You know, don’t you, there’s always this turmoil at the end of the season. Tell me, Signor
a . . .
”

“Would you call me Nika? I would like that.” For a moment, Nika felt as if tears might spring into her eyes. “But first tell me,” she continued, “where is Andrina? Did you marry her? But of course. You’re wearing a wedding ring.”

“She is in Milan,” he said, almost brusquely. “I’d rather you tell me your story. Did you find your mother? Your family?”

How concerned he is about others, Nika thought, feeling ashamed. Why had she never written to him? “I don’t know why I didn’t get in touch with you sooner,” she said. “Maybe it was because I didn’t want Andrina to find out more about me. If my story were a happy one, a triumphant one, I wouldn’t have minded talking about it. But it’s a sad story.”

She gazed at the light square on the wall as if looking back at the last few years through a window.

“My mother died a long time ago. She died of cholera in 1884. She was still very young back the
n . . .
” Nika faltered a moment. “She got married in Venice after she came back from a long trip through Europe. Her husband was a young business acquaintance of her father’s, my grandfather. She had two sons in quick succession. The children were still little when cholera took her life. I have only one photograph of her.”

Nika opened her velvet muff, took out the photo, and held it out to Achille. It showed a serious young woman leaning with her right hip against a chair back, looking directly at the viewer. Her children weren’t in the picture. One couldn’t tell whether she was happy or unhappy, sad or contented. Thick, dark hair emerged from under her hat. From the black-and-white photograph you couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, but they were lighter than her hair.

“She was beautiful,” Achille said. “You might have inherited her eye color. And her mouth, it’s similar to yours.” The photograph had been taken by a certain Antonio Sorgato in 1882.

“That store is still there,” Nika said, pointing at the photographer’s signature. “But I couldn’t ask Signor Sorgato about my mother because he was dea
d . . .
” She gently brushed her finger over the sepia-colored photo.

“How were you able to get all this information? Whom did you find there? How did your family receive you?”

Nika leaned back wearily as though she felt again the exhaustion, the pain, and the disappointment from that time.

Oh, Lord, what an adventure that journey turned out to be! Following the instructions Signor Robustelli had written down for her, she’d gotten off the post coach in Chiavenna, at the Hotel Conradi. Then she’d purchased the first train ticket she had ever bought and taken the train to Colico. The train had started with a hiss. Nika was almost paralyzed with terror. Then telegraph poles started flashing past and she felt dizzy. The speed! She felt nauseous. She hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since she had started out. But she didn’t dare unpack her bread there on the train, not to mention the piece of cheese Benedetta had wrapped up in a cloth for her.