I entered a small, tidy room without much furniture, but full of toys, trains, boats. On a table was a large house built almost entirely with blocks. I looked around, but saw only a wheelchair. I wanted to hold my tongue, but I couldn’t help asking, ‘Is he out?’
‘No, he’s dead. It’s just that according to the Prince’s will — my father, that is — all the rooms must remain untouched so that, if they want to, those who are gone may come back. His room too, up there, is untouched. Sometimes I have the feeling I can smell the aroma of his tobacco. He smoked a pipe. Here, though, I can’t smell anything, maybe because I never met him. Who knows? He was Maman’s oldest brother, and he died before I was born, when he was ten or twelve. From what they’ve told me, he was stricken with rheumatoid arthritis and … then consumption, I’m not sure, his heart — I think — and he passed away … If you want to know him better, his photograph is over there. See, his face is beautiful. He looks like a woman, doesn’t he? But his body … Come on, let’s go and see Aunt Adelaide.’
By now I knew I wouldn’t find anyone behind the door that Beatrice was opening and privately I hoped I wouldn’t be surprised again. Surprise is the enemy of prudence. But the chirping of a hundred birds that struck me as I went in turned me to salt, as Tuzzu used to say.
‘Look, isn’t it marvellous! She had the cages brought here from Paris. They look like little cathedrals, don’t they? She wanted her birds to feel like they were free.’
‘But did she sleep in here? With all this racket?’
‘Yes, in that bed over there. Besides, birds sleep at night too. See these drapes around the cages? In the evening, Argentovivo closes them and they go to sleep. When Aunt Adelaide was alive, she did it herself. Her little creatures were all she lived for. There used to be a lot more of them, but since she died they too have been gradually passing away. And it wasn’t only birds she kept; she also had goslings, cats, and pigeons up in the dovecote. Now the gardener’s son takes care of them. I’ll take you there someday. When she was alive, I used to like to come and visit her, only she didn’t want anyone, not even me. Maybe because I reminded her of Aunt Leonora. It seems she didn’t want to see anyone anymore from the day Leonora entered the convent. She hated my father; she said it was his fault. She saw everyone as her enemy, and was only interested in looking after God’s little creatures, as she called them. I don’t know if it’s true, but they told me that whenever the mother of some little creature died, leaving the eggs, she herself would incubate them. They told me that she managed to hatch a chick more than once. Maybe it’s just someone’s fabrication … I don’t know; I’m just telling you what they told me. Now come on, enough about the family. I would so much like to play the piano with you. I know you’re more talented, but I like plodding along with you. Besides, as Maman said, since I’ve been playing with you, my touch has improved a lot.’
Soon her tiny hands would plod along behind mine, as she put it. Instead of annoying me, those tremulous, shaky notes filled my chest with a tenderness I had never felt. Besides, playing four-handed, I would have her close beside me for an hour or two at least.
24
‘This morning I’ll take you to the other side of the villa. Come on, let’s go. But what’s wrong? Have you been crying? You have dark shadows under your eyes. I’ll bet you were crying over Aunt Leonora. I don’t want you to cry! I won’t let you. Come on…’
The memory of that sonata and its sweetness had kept me from sleeping a wink: scales and scales played together, Clementi’s Sonatinas — my fingers as shaky and uncertain as hers! — her rolling step through the empty corridors, the golden mass of her hair that shimmered with light at every window … Cavallina was dangerous. That silent old woman, shut up in some room, was following us. Argentovivo was right: the Princess knew everything. Plus, she was Mother Leonora’s sister. I must never forget that.
‘Here we are. This is Uncle Jacopo’s room. Close your eyes for a few seconds so you’ll get used to the dimness. “Only at sunset is that malevolent lamp acceptable,” he used to tell me. At other times he joked: “Would you mind turning off this shitty sun!” He always said merde, maybe because he had studied in Paris and was a republican. Uncle Jacopo was Maman’s favourite brother, only they argued all the time. That’s because he was also a heretic. In this room there are only scandalous books. Reading them is forbidden. I’ve always been very curious, but I never dared take one, even though the key is right there in the vase where he left it …
‘What is it, why are you so pale? Is it because he was a heretic? Yes, I know, they’re against God and they read all those books against God, but he was a good man, believe me. Or is it the skeleton and all these strange contraptions that scare you? They scared me too when I was little. But then, hearing them talk about him, I got over my fear. If you only knew what a gentle voice he had! I always came here to help him with his collections of butterflies, shells and minerals. He kept live things in these little jars. I don’t know why … he did experiments. He wrote and published many books, in Rome and in France. Maman says you can’t understand a word of what he wrote. He was a physician and also a chemist, did you know? Complicated things … I loved him very much, even though he swore against God and the priests. Besides, he did me a great favour. By yelling and shouting he convinced Maman not to make me embroider anymore. It was torture for me. He said that embroidering made women stupid. Only once did I manage to get him to tell me why he didn’t believe in God. He said that the invention of God is too simple an explanation — or maybe he said convenient, I don’t recall — to account for the beauty and mystery of butterflies. He also said that ugliness and beauty are one and the same thing, and cannot be separated, that … wait, how did he put it? Oh yes, that beauty is born from ugliness, ugliness from beauty, and so on. It’s very tricky. When he spoke like that it was difficult to understand him and … All this was the reason he wanted to be cremated. Don’t ever let it slip out of your mouth. See that vase on the mantelpiece? That’s where his ashes are. Come on, let’s go. Why are you standing there like a statue? He wasn’t a bad man, Modesta, really, even though…’
At last I had found another heretic. Those books flirting with me in the dim light attracted me more than Beatrice’s brisk, caressing voice. If she hadn’t been there I would promptly have taken one of those books, at least one … but she was tugging at me now, and I had to be prudent. I let myself be led away by her warm little hand, down the stairs to the last room on the right overlooking the small lake. The room was so different that I didn’t dare go in. Windows took up all the walls, from floor to ceiling, allowing the light and the trees to spill onto long, pale wood tables, their strange lamps like slender snakes with large bent heads. In addition to the tables, there were bookcases along a single wall. In front of them was a cot with a grey-green blanket, sheets and a pillow neatly straightened, waiting …
‘Yes, that’s where he slept. It’s lovely here, isn’t it? But it was lovelier when Ignazio was alive. Too bad you didn’t get to know him. He died the very day you arrived. How come I’m not wearing mourning? Maman doesn’t want me to. She says her brother Jacopo was right, at least on this issue. Uncle Jacopo said that wearing mourning is barbaric … that if someone is truly grieving he bears his sorrow in his heart, without the need for pointless exhibitionism. And I am truly grieving.
‘Come, look how handsome Ignazio was. This is where he kept the things that were most dear to him. Look: a receipt from the London Underground … here’s a ticket from the Paris Opera; a postcard from Weimar. He studied in London and in Germany … And here, his photograph in civilian clothes: that’s me he’s holding, when I was little. But come, look at this one above the cot, in uniform. He was even more handsome, wasn’t he? It’s from when he entered the air force. He also designed airplanes, did you know? He always said that the world’s future would be decided in the sky, on these wings. See, these are his drawings. He was always working, even at night, under these big lamps. The large windows too, he had them put in. He needed a lot of light, before. Later, he no longer wanted to look out and he had those dark drapes hung. When he died I opened them, because I only want to remember when he was handsome and fit. These bookcases too are full of his designs and calculations.