The Secret Price of History. Gayle Ridinger
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for, Augusta arrived without warning.
She often did that when she was in the phase of sketching but not yet sculpting a figure. She claimed that she couldn't stay put, that she had to be out and about and see as many faces as possible. One day she'd be interested in recording noses, the next day it would be chins. She'd stop in at her brother Eugenio's art studio, too. When she turned up at either place, she'd often be without her scarf, or gloves, or spare change—having given them away to some poor woman or bought medicine for some sick child.
"James?" she called, giving his door a short knock; then opening it with wifely, proprietary rights.
From over the top of his easel he smiled at her.
"Hello there."
"Hello, darling." She kissed the air between them.
Behind her stood a girl in a coarse peasant skirt, her face half-covered by a grimy hood, and her dirty feet in half-broken sandals.
"She asked me for help in the middle of the street, James. I couldn't just leave her there. At the very least, she needs a wash and something to eat."
"I know, Augusta, they all do. But—and I say this because we're speaking English and the girl can't understand—you really have to start being more careful about who you decide to help out. What if this girl has contacts with the young revolutionaries in town, the carbonari? What if she's being followed? Do you know how much trouble we could find ourselves in?"
While he was speaking, the girl had started circling the room and looking at the paintings. The careful attention she gave each canvass surprised him, as did the dainty step she took as she moved on to contemplate the next; he took a closer look at her as she lowered her hood, the vague impression forming in his mind that he'd seen her before.
"Come," said Augusta gently, crossing over to the girl.
It was Eleonora Serlupi. It just had to be. The same thick blondish red hair braided round her head.
Augusta announced that she was going to buy some cheese, and bread, and fruit. "Once we've fed her, I'll take her to my place for a bath. Isn't she pretty under all that dust, James? You could use her as a model," she suggested. "I'm sure you could pay her less than those girls from Abruzzo who collect on the Spanish Steps."
When Augusta had left, Freeman went back to his easel. He could feel the girl's eyes on him. Gesturing politely at his painting he told her in Italian, "The girl in it is named Maria. It was Maria who told me your story, Eleonora."
She was silent.
Wanting her to speak, he added, "I thought you were shut up in a convent somewhere."
"I nearly was," she replied. "But some of Luigi's friends…"
He noticed that her eyes had started to water and blink, and he amended that to: "Yes, of course, Luigi."
"His friends assaulted the carriage that was taking me to the convent. It was easy. There were just some old family servants with me, and it was enough to threaten them with an old pistol."
"Why aren't you with these friends now? There are a lot of rebels and agitators in Rome. There must be a lot of good hideouts."
"A coachman recognized one of the boys."
"And now the Swiss Guards are looking for you."
She nodded. "That's why we split up. They had false papers and wanted to try to get to Milan. Word is that discontent is growing there too," she added, sounding quite informed. "As for me, I'm hiding out here because I have a job I have to finish….even though it isn't easy."
"A job?"
"To kill that bastard."
Freeman's face reddened. One didn't expect to hear such words from a girl like her. She didn't have an intense or burning look. On the contrary, her eyes were a soft brownish green and she had an open gaze, congruous with her young age. And yet, he intuited, there was something deep inside her that would not be commanded. The picture of her being retained by force on that balcony came into his mind, and he said, "I saw that you didn't cry."
"No, I didn't cry."
"I'm a foreigner," he said suddenly. "I'd like to help you."
Eleonora rewarded him with a smile of trust. "Where do you come from?" she asked.
"From the United States of America. A place very far away and not very important."
"I know where it is. I've studied your country. I know that you threw out the English, who'd invaded your land.
"Well, yes, more or less," Freeman replied, surprised at her knowledge. "But we are really very far from Europe," he insisted. "We carry no weight here." In a light voice he added, "And we don't have a pope but a president…if we don't like him, we change him."
"We have a philosopher here who says we should have a president," Eleonora replied gravely. "His name is Giuseppe Mazzini. He's from the north… from Genoa. He says that Italy must become a united Republic and that even we women must be granted rights. He also says something strange—he says that we must all 'progress.' I don't understand this."
"The world's changing," Freeman explained. "People are starting to understand that they don't owe anything to any emperor, king, or pope…that there must be established rights. For over fifty years in America we have had a Constitution."
"What is that?"
"It's a bit complicated to explain. In essence, it consists of laws that regulate a State. It says what a State can or can't do.
"So in your country the Pope would have to obey laws—human laws, I mean, and not divine."
"Exactly."
As she was rubbing her eyes, he suggested that she take a rest on his sofa until Augusta returned with some cheese and bread. Without taking off her cape, Eleonora settled herself in a corner, leaned her head on a cushion in the crick between the sofa's arm and back, sat up suddenly and without a second thought unpinned the braid of hair getting in the way of her comfort, and sank into the velvet softness with closed eyes.
He knew that there had to be twelve or fifteen years difference between them but he found her ever so lovely—the sort of beauty that abides with a man. He started to fantasticate on the moment when Luigi had first kissed her, and from that, on how they had met, on how such a girl and such a boy could fall in love, on the intoxicating effect of politics and revolutionary talk. He picked up a sketchpad and charcoal pencil from the lamp table and started to draw her head.
Her eyes fluttered open at the infinitely soft sound of the pencil.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Practising my profession. I'm the American Consul in Ancona and a painter in Rome."
"Shouldn't you be in Ancona?"
"Theoretically, that's true. But you see, we consuls don't receive a salary. We just get to keep a percentage on passport application fees and the like. I'd hoped that in Ancona, being a seaport, there'd be more passports to process and I'd have more paintings to sell. But it wasn't like that. We didn't see very many ships. And so I came to Rome."
"Where there are more people to paint?"
"No, more people to sell paintings to. There's a circle of English and American painters here and we all use the same models. The best don't even have a name—we just call them the Sad Model, the Happy Model, and the like…" Freeman's voice trailed off; he couldn't quite think of a proper way in Italian to render the idea of the fancy picture genre he worked in, which aimed at moving viewers' hearts towards the poor and dispossessed, with sentimentalism but with humour. In particular he was afraid she wouldn't understand its political worth: the intention was not to be exploitive or disturbing but to alter viewers' behaviour. Finally, embarrassed, he added, "You're different. You have a fire inside you, whereas the models have only hunger." In the space of a breath, he changed the subject: "There are quite a lot of Americans living in Rome. At least a hundred. And most of us are artists."
Eleonora