Portrait of a Girl

by Binkert, Dörthe

  “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.”

  She nodded.

  The horses had their feed bags around their neck and were standing quietly. Now and then, they switched their weight from one leg to another, causing a slight movement of the carriage. Nika watched the people walking by. She bit her lip. Why hadn’t she brought her notebook along? The horses from the unusual perspective of the driver’s seat, the houses, the strolling people—she could have sketched it all.

  But she had sworn to herself she’d never draw again. Then again, she’d also vowed to have nothing more to do with Segantini. And she knew that her hand had become more assured, her perspective more detailed. Segantini was a good teacher.

  She wondered whether he felt the same way as she did—did all his loneliness, all his troubles, vanish when he looked at something closely? When he painted or drew? The happiness that flooded her when she was drawing came to her slowly and almost imperceptibly from deep down. Not like the sweetness that exploded on her tongue when she ate the cake. What she saw and then tried to capture with her pencil drove out—more and more, the longer she practiced—everything else she felt: her loneliness, her forlornness in the world, her longing for tenderness and security, and yes, even her thoughts about Segantini who had opened up this new world for her. She forgot everything, even herself, and that gave her relief and liberated her as if she had wings, as if she were a bird who could leave everything behind and let herself be carried off by the wind to new and unfamiliar places.

  “You have a beautiful driver there, Segantini,” Oscar Bernhard called out to him. “I haven’t seen her before!”

  Nika looked at Segantini, startled.

  He seemed to be in a good mood, and laughed, saying, “That, my dear Bernhard, is the young talent I was telling you about.”

  “But you didn’t tell me that she is such a beauty, my dear man. Or did you, a painter, not notice that?”

  Nika blushed in shame and anger. They were talking about her as if she weren’t there. And in the midst of all these people.

  She climbed down and went to fetch the driver.

  Kate was brooding because her husband had not made every effort to come back to St. Moritz as soon as possible. She almost felt that it wasn’t she who had been unfaithful to him, but rather that he was the one who had wronged her by leaving her for such an eternity. And she had to wait impatiently for his return. She rather liked seeing herself in the role of the abandoned wife, and would only reluctantly have admitted that she would hardly have missed Robert if James had lifted a finger to make use of the situation. But over the last few days, he had come to Maloja just once, and had merely given her a brief kiss on the cheek when they met by accident in the hotel lobby. He’d said, “Oh, I’m sorry for your sake that Robert isn’t back yet. I hope you’re not worried that something unpleasant might have happened?”

  “What could possibly have happened to Robert in a town like Chur?” she answered, giving him the cold shoulder in return. “Excuse me, I have an appointment . . .” And with that, she had quickly walked off.

  When Robert finally arrived, he seemed prepared to ignore her injured expression as he impatiently ripped his carryall out of the porter’s hand and sent him off without a tip. And so Kate at once decided to stop acting hurt. It was obvious to her that he had no desire at this point to discuss his delayed return to St. Moritz.

  “You look tired,” she said instead, as he briefly and reluctantly embraced her. “The trip must have been torture. Why do mountains exist? I certainly don’t need them. Shall I have them send up some coffee?”

  “No,” he said curtly, “but I’m hungry. The trip was horrible. I could have throttled those two ladies sitting in the coach with me, just to make them shut up.”

  Kate gathered that he wasn’t particularly fond of the female sex at the moment, and congratulated herself for having so quickly switched from acting offended to showing concern for him. She wondered whether his remark indicated that he had met a woman in Chur whose behavior had not been what he’d expected. In any case, a visit to a brothel might have calmed him down. But was there even a brothel in Chur? And why should he meet a lover in Chur of all places?

  “I can understand that you’re hungry. Let’s go down for supper right now.” She took him gently by the arm, but even that seemed too much.

  While she was getting dressed to go down to eat, Kate concluded that what had put Robert into such a bad mood probably had nothing to do with a woman. Unless he’d had a rendezvous with some secret beloved who had just been passing through. At this time of the year, anyone from England who could afford it came to Switzerland. Still, the likelihood of such an encounter was unlikely. Well, whatever, she’d be acquiescent today.

  “The Palace is opening next week,” Kate said, trying to cheer him up. “There’ll be a magnificent gala. I thought I’d wear the cream-colored lace dress you like so much . . .”

  She flinched when Robert interrupted her.

  “I have to talk to you later,” he said brusquely. She wondered what was so important that it had to wait until they were alone, but he clearly didn’t want to be pressed. He nervously pushed his plate aside. Even though he’d been hungry, he had eaten less than half of his brasato alla Valtellina, not to mention the vegetables, which he’d scarcely touched. That wasn’t unusual though, since he considered carrots food for rabbits, and complained that peas always rolled off his fork. But something was amiss. Since he was being so extremely prickly, Kate turned to say a few words to the guests who were sitting next to them at the table d’hôte.

  Her attempt to draw him into their bedroom that evening failed. That meant the situation was really serious. Robert came to the point in the living room of their hotel suite.

  “Stop running around like a nervous hen,” he said irritably. “Sit down. There’s something I have to tell you.”

  Kate decided for the moment to suppress any criticism of her husband, in spite of not feeling very fond of him just then. She sat down.

  “For heaven’s sake, what happened? Tell me.”

  “We’re leaving. Start packing your things immediately. And don’t forget the love letters your various lovers may have sent you up here.”

  My God, Kate thought, he’s unbearable. Did he find out somehow that James had come to see her? She got up, but sat right down again.

  “I met with an important business associate in Chur,” Robert went on. “In short, I found out from him that I have lost a lot of money. You don’t need to know the details. From there I went on to Zurich to speak to the bank and to clarify any possibility of getting credit. But the situation looks bad. In any case, we have to leave this place. It’s urgent that I go to London to see about what steps to take next.”

  “But . . .” Kate said.
>
  “No buts. Your fun and games here would certainly be diminished by the thought that your husband has gone bankrupt.”

  Robert’s face had turned so red that his wife suppressed a second but. It couldn’t possibly be that they suddenly didn’t have any money. That was unimaginable. If it was really true, she wanted to go home to her parents in Boston, at once. A bankrupt husband. What a disgrace!

  Robert seemed to have guessed what she was thinking.

  “And you will stay with me and stand by me. You’re still my wife. We’ll have to dismiss the help, and you’ll probably have to pay more attention to the housekeeping than before.” He nervously drummed with his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I’ll have to see what I can save. Do you think this is any fun for me?”

  His fury slowly gave way to depression. He suddenly seemed small, shrinking in his armchair in front of Kate. He was actually only average in size, but she realized it was really his money and status that made him seem imposing.

  Kate sensed a feeling of disgust, almost revulsion, welling up in her. What was he if he wasn’t strong enough to protect her and take care of her? He struck her as an unloved nothing of a man—he hadn’t even managed to make her pregnant. What a disgrace, leaving in such a rush, even before the big event of the season. How was she going to explain it to her friends? He looked like a sack of potatoes sitting there in his chair. Tears came to her eyes.

  She was crying for several reasons. The news was a shock, of course, and she was only slowly beginning to realize what it would mean. In addition, she despised people who failed, and now here was her husband, standing before the entire world as a loser. And moreover—the realization was only vague and indefinite, but painful enough—so was she. If her husband was nothing anymore, then she herself was nothing too. A failure who couldn’t have children and had nothing else to show. A woman who depended on servants to hide the fact that she couldn’t do anything, not even brew a cup of coffee or darn a stocking. A person who needed constant admiration so that she could feel like somebody, so that she could think of herself as lovable.

  A remarkable sound came from her chest. She was sobbing even as she forbade herself to sob. Oh no, her parents had never wanted to see their little Kate cry.

  Going back to America wasn’t a good idea. And when she thought that she might have lost James, who seemed such a sure choice as playmate for her, to the naïve and insignificant Mathilde, who was sick into the bargain . . . when she thought of this—as if she wasn’t suffering enough already—the tears really started flow.

  Robert, who loved his wife, not unconditionally but in his own somewhat devoted sort of way, looked in surprise at this rare picture of Kate, weeping uncontrollably.

  “Well,” he said helplessly, “not everything is lost yet. Come on, stop crying.”

  But Kate didn’t want to stop crying.

  Achille had no choice. He had to do something, even if it was unpleasant for him and went against his usual discreet way of doing things. Gaetano had complained. Segantini had not only kept the straniera from working in the garden, he’d said, but had taken her along to St. Moritz in the middle of the day. It didn’t matter how far up Segantini’s good connections reached—this was really going too far. Robustelli had to agree with the gardener. And the more dramatic this unfortunate affair became, the more bad feelings it would cause. He didn’t want to fire Nika, even though that’s what he should really do. It was clear that he would have to speak with Segantini, which was exactly what he’d hoped to avoid.

  But restraint was a virtue; cowardice wasn’t. Achille decided to bring the situation up directly with the painter. Perhaps he didn’t realize that his interest in Nika put her in such a risky position. He didn’t want to dramatize the thing, but he would take Segantini aside for a moment when he came to the hotel to meet Mr. Danby.

  “Hello, Mathilde, may I bother you for a minute? Oh, sorry, I woke you up.”

  Betsy had taken her for a little walk and then dropped her off in her room. And Mathilde had actually dozed off on the balcony. She opened her eyes—the young, male voice reached her while she was still confused by a fleeting remnant of a dream. For a moment, she thought it was James, and her heart began to pound. But once she sat up in her deck chair and looked around, she saw it was Edward smiling at her in embarrassment.

  Mathilde was relieved. She smiled radiantly at him. How nice of him to visit her, and more importantly, her heart calmed down when she saw that it wasn’t his friend standing there in the doorway. She asked him to come in and sit down next to her. Somewhat formally, he handed her the bouquet of flowers he had brought, a combination of tiger lilies and Turk’s Cap lilies, brilliant orange and purple. To Edward, the colors seemed reflected in her cheeks.

  “How beautiful they are,” she said in delight.

  “There are a few places where they grow in great profusion.”

  Mathilde smiled. “Would you be so kind as to look for a vase? Either in my room or you can ask the nurse. And then, if you please, come right back. You must tell me what you’ve been doing the last few days. It’s a bit boring here,” she wrinkled her nose deprecatingly, “and I’m not allowed to walk a lot yet. But I am supposed to eat a lot.”

  “It won’t do you any harm to gain a little weight. At least, that’s what I think.” Edward took the flowers and went in search of a vase.

  He was scarcely out of the room when Mathilde jumped up, looked critically at herself in the mirror, put on some powder, and tried to put her stubborn curls in order.

  “Oh, let the curls do what they will,” Edward said. He had come back without her noticing. Mathilde, caught unawares, let her hands sink down and looked a bit abashed. Now he must think that she was trying to look pretty for him. And to her own surprise, it was true. A short silence ensued, but not an unpleasant one.

  Then Edward said, “If you will permit me. I’ve come to see you as James’s representative. You know that James is . . .” he laughed, hesitated, for he didn’t want to step on her toes or offend her. “In any case, I thought I could pass the time with you now and then when James can’t come.”

  She took a deep breath intending to give him an angry reply, but bit her lip instead and said nothing. He couldn’t know what had happened between James and her, and that she had sent James away. Of course, she had waited longingly the next few days, hoping that James would come back in spite of everything. But he had taken her at her word, and that was more proof, she thought, that he didn’t care all that much for her. Whatever. The worst was the way that Kate, right after the illicit hour of bliss and disaster, had rubbed James’s nose in the fact that she was engaged. Oh well, it was all quite horrible.

  Yet, from another viewpoint, it was nice that Edward had come to stand in for James. And she had never before been presented with a bouquet of flowers that glowed with such extraordinary fire.

  Reluctantly Kate started packing her things. She had asked Andrina to come and help her. But whatever Andrina did seemed to be wrong.

  “Good Lord! How stupid can you be!” she said angrily. “Do you think that just because you have a pretty face you don’t need to work?” Kate pushed the chambermaid roughly aside. “Don’t simply stand there getting in the way!” She dropped the salmon-colored silk coat she had just taken out of the closet. Andrina tried, dutifully, to pick it up but Kate hissed at her, “Leave it alone! That’s not for you to touch with your peasant hands. Go away, you’re not helping at all!”

  Andrina left feeling hurt that the woman she had taken as her example had treated her so contemptuously. She had to do everything, everything possible in her life to rise above this job as a chambermaid. Who wants to let people order them around and humiliate them like this for the rest of their lives?

  But just then, she heard Mrs. Simpson, already calling her to come back.

  “Go and tell the room service waiter that I’d like
some hot chocolate brought up. It will calm my nerves. And then pack the hats in the hatboxes. But be careful.”

  The hot chocolate actually did seem to soothe Kate.

  “By the way, do you know whom I happened to see in St. Moritz?” she asked Andrina. “You’ll never guess. That beautiful young girl who works in the hotel garden. And you know with whom? With that man with the dark, curly hair, the painter from Maloja. What was his name again?”

  “Segantini?” prompted Andrina.

  “Right, Segantini. I think that’s his name. How about that? Quite improper, don’t you think? That little peasant hick walking around St. Moritz among all the hotel guests, it’s quite unthinkable. Well, she’s quite pretty and seems to be profiting from it.” She turned gloomy again. Looking at Andrina, she said casually, “She’s prettier than you. But so what. A painter isn’t a particularly special conquest.”

  The Interview

  James had prepared for his conversation with Segantini, which surprised his friend.

  “You ought to know by now that I take my work seriously,” James told him, “even though not every assignment is fun. I’m going to get that ‘painter of the mountains,’ the ‘athletic Christ,’ as someone called him, to reveal some of his secrets. Don’t you agree, Eddie, that he envelops himself in a sort of prophet’s aura?”

  “Don’t know.” Edward was in a hurry because he was planning to visit Mathilde. “He is an impressive figure, strong, very masculine, I’d describe him more as a patriarch . . .”

  He picked up his hat, waved briefly to James, and was out the door.

  James, for his part, went to Maloja. He hoped the young man who had volunteered to act as interpreter would do his job well.

  Achille Robustelli had already introduced Giovanni Segantini and Fabrizio Bonin to each other and informed the staff to reserve a quiet table in the library for them.

  Young Bonin was a nice-looking fellow. An ash-blond Venetian in his midtwenties—not as dark and striking in appearance as Segantini—well dressed but not conspicuously so. His clear, pleasant voice was as unassertive as he was, and still, Robustelli thought, you would not overlook Bonin. He had presence. Robustelli, in any event, had liked him from the outset.