Portrait of a Girl
Page 14
As Segantini was walking past the hotel, Robustelli, who had just stepped outside, raised a hand in greeting. Segantini returned the greeting and quickly walked on. He didn’t care to get involved in a conversation just then.
His fear was unfounded. Robustelli saw lots of things without feeling the need to talk about them.
Betsy telephoned her sister Emma. Despite being so far away, she tried as much as she could to cushion the panic that would probably break out in Zurich in the Schobinger family.
“Emma, we’ve done everything we can do right now. The doctor she has is good. I wonder why your family doctor didn’t see the signs before. But be that as it may, Dr. Bernhard thinks that she hasn’t had the illness for long. The private clinic in St. Moritz is new, well managed, and comfortable. Mathilde has a lovely room with a balcony where she can lie with a view of the lake. She is glad she can stay there and not have to go to a sanatorium in Davos or elsewhere.”
She stopped just long enough to take a breath, because she didn’t want to let her sister get a word in before she had told her the most important thing.
“And look, it just so happens that I have nothing else planned right now and can extend my stay here so as to be with Mathilde. First, you should gently break the news to Franz. And then you or the two of you together can come for a visit as soon as you can arrange it.”
Betsy sighed and held the receiver out at arm’s length as a torrent of words assaulted her ear. It wasn’t surprising that Emma wasn’t taking this unexpected and alarming news calmly.
“We have to tell the Zollers, too,” Emma was just saying. “It’s really terrible. What will they say! We were supposed to start on the wedding preparations right after your return from St. Moritz. And now a blow like this. Has Mathilde spoken with Adrian yet?”
“No, Emma. I think at the moment it really would be better if you could do that. And don’t send him up here for a visit right away, you hear? First Mathilde herself has to digest this diagnosis. Her mood is very changeable at the moment. We really don’t want to create an unintentional misunderstanding with Adrian, just because she’s still very upset right now.”
One thing at a time, Betsy thought. She didn’t want her sister to have a heart attack on top of everything else.
“You’re right, Elizabeth.”
Thank God, the trick had worked.
“All right,” Betsy said. “So you’ll keep everyone away until Mathilde has calmed down a little and gotten used to the clinic routine. Then—and you’ve got to prepare yourself for this, unfortunately—she’ll have to stay here for a while, you know. You’ll have lots of time in which to come and visit.”
While Mathilde, under Dr. Bernhard’s care, still had a long road with an uncertain end to travel in the fight against consumption, Gian lay between life and death—without the care of a doctor. Benedetta couldn’t bear the thought of losing him and looked after her oldest child night and day. True, the veterinarian had stopped by and given Benedetta hope. The herbs from the old woman from Stampa were having some effect, and the vet felt that anything that was good for cows wouldn’t hurt people either. Not everybody died of Alpenstich. Gian was young and strong and could make it. And so it was.
In the evenings, Nika sat with him, holding his hand. At first, he was aware of it only hazily as a distant hallucinatory echo, but as the fever slowly left him, it touched his soul profoundly: Nika had said his name! She was speaking! Then he sank back into semiconsciousness. But gradually, in the course of a few weeks he returned to the world of other people.
Luca didn’t come home often. Like the other tracklayers, he lived in improvised quarters near the construction site. Most of the laborers came from Italy. Luca got along well with them. They were self-assured, held strong, aggressive viewpoints, and stuck together.
Aldo missed his son more than Benedetta did, but he didn’t talk about it. He was proud that his son was participating in a great project that would change the world. Luca would come back one day with lots of money and more experiences than any other member of the family had ever had. Luca would amaze the villagers. He would tell them what it was like to blast apart cliffs, to build bridges and tunnels.
He didn’t know that Luca would also be able to tell them how quickly—as quickly as one could snap one’s fingers—a life could come to an end in a landslide or a fall from a bridge substructure, and that they kept having to bury comrades. Comrades who were young and had wives and families. They worked, advancing through the mountain; with simple pickaxes they attacked rocks that were tricky, and sometimes only loosely in place and would crumble. It was hot inside, and the sweat ran down their dirty faces. The petroleum lamps often went out, and the darkness of the mountain scared even these brave men.
Aldo knew nothing about that aspect of the work. His thoughts remained focused on the day when Luca would come back, and Aldo’s reputation among the villagers would rise. He remembered that Count Camille de Renesse had also planned a rail project for Maloja. But in the end, that one had come to nothing. Who knew, maybe Luca would become an important man and would one day turn the count’s idea of making Maloja accessible by train into a reality.
Benedetta, on the other hand, spent more of her time wondering what they would do about Gian. Could they keep sending him up to the high pasture by himself? She would have preferred to keep him closer to home. But Aldo said if he couldn’t take care of the cows then he was totally useless, and he had to make some contribution, like Andrina and Luca.
Andrina didn’t spend much time at home, and when she was there, she bragged a lot about her experiences at the hotel.
“You should see the wardrobes of the ladies there,” she would boast. “When I clean their rooms, I look at their dresses, their jewelry, and believe me, those things would look just as good on me. And they not only keep changing their dresses, they also change men . . .”
“Andrina!” Benedetta would say, when all the talk got on her nerves, “Don’t keep babbling such a lot of nonsense.”
“But you have no idea,” Andrina would reply. “Life in other places isn’t like it is here for you at home. I saw with my own eyes Signora Simpson—who wants only me to wait on her—having men visit her in her room.”
Aldo chewed on a toothpick he’d made from a broken-off piece of bush.
“And so you want to be like the signora,” he said deprecatingly, because giving Andrina any advice was hopeless.
“Yes,” Andrina said, with a note of rebellion in her voice. “Just as rich, beautiful, and admired.” She gave Nika a challenging look. “If men who are respected in the village pay court to the straniera, it shouldn’t be so hard for me.”
Nika blushed. Benedetta interrupted Andrina with an emphatic gesture of her hand.
“What are these stupid things you’re saying?”
But Andrina wasn’t finished yet.
“I know everything. Old Gaetano told me. Signor Segantini comes by to see her any opportunity he gets. And not because he’s longing to see the old man.” She looked coolly at Nika. “You can be glad that Gaetano talks almost as little as you. And besides, nobody in the village thinks he has any stories to tell anyway.”
“Now, that’s enough,” Aldo said, getting up from the table. “All this nonsense is just unbelievable.”
But Andrina knew better; she wasn’t stupid.
“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 newspaper . . .”
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 him . . .” 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 hotel . . .” 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 again . . .”
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.”
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 people . . . 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 face . . . 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.