Portrait of a Girl

by Binkert, Dörthe

  However, this time, without even discussing it with Mathilde and trying to settle their differences, he had climbed into the post coach and gone to Zurich. The telephone operator at the post and telegraph office there told him that only one Franz Schobinger was listed. He asked for his office number, called Mathilde’s father, and asked for an appointment to meet him in the city. Franz Schobinger agreed without enthusiasm to meet the unknown young man at the Konditorei Sprüngli at the Paradeplatz, since he saw only further trouble ahead.

  What Edward had to say was said quickly. He disclosed all the basic information about his background and his financial affairs and asked for Mathilde’s hand.

  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 dressed . . .” 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 and . . . 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 me . . .” And grinning at a sudden inspiration, he added, “So actually it was Sig
nor 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 me . . .”

  “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 painting . . .”

  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 again . . . 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 delight
ed 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.