13
The days passed. Accustomed as I was to years of living alone and to that state of methodical and undervalued anarchy common to bachelors, the continued presence of a woman in the house, even though she was an unruly adolescent with a volatile temper, was beginning to play havoc with my daily routine. I believed in controlled disorder; Isabella didn’t. I believed that objects find their own place in the chaos of a household; Isabella didn’t. I believed in solitude and silence; Isabella didn’t. In just a couple of days I discovered that I was no longer able to find anything in my own home. If I was looking for a paperknife, or a glass, or a pair of shoes, I had to ask Isabella where providence had kindly inspired her to hide them.
‘I don’t hide anything. I put things in their place. Which is different.’
Not a day went by when I didn’t feel the urge to strangle her half a dozen times. When I took refuge in my study, searching for peace and quiet in which to think, Isabella would appear after a few minutes, a smile on her face, bringing me a cup of tea or some biscuits. She would wander around the study, look out of the window, tidy everything I had on my desk and then she would ask me what I was doing there, so quiet and mysterious. I discovered that seventeen-year-old girls have such huge verbal energy that their brain drives them to expend it every twenty seconds. On the third day I decided I had to find her a boyfriend - if possible a deaf one.
‘Isabella, how is it that a girl as attractive as you has no suitors?’
‘Who says I don’t?’
‘Isn’t there any boy you like?’
‘Boys my age are boring. They have nothing to say and half of them seem like complete idiots.’
I was going to say that they didn’t improve with age but didn’t want to spoil her illusions.
‘So what age do you like them?’
‘Old. Like you.’
‘Do I seem old to you?’
‘Well, you’re not exactly a spring chicken.’
It was preferable to think she was pulling my leg than to accept the punch below the belt that hurt my vanity. I decided to respond with a few drops of sarcasm.
‘The good news is that young girls like old men, and the bad news is that old men, especially decrepit, slobbering old men, like young girls.’
‘I know. I wasn’t born yesterday.’
Isabella observed me. She was scheming and smiled with a hint of malice.
‘Do you like young girls too?’
The answer was on my lips before she had asked the question. I adopted a masterful, impartial tone, like a professor of geography.
‘I liked them when I was your age. Now I generally like girls of my own age.’
‘At your age they’re no longer girls; they’re young women or, to be precise, ladies.’
‘End of argument. Have you nothing to do downstairs?’
‘No.’
‘Then start writing. You’re not here to wash the dishes and hide my things. You’re here because you said you wanted to learn to write and I’m the only idiot you know who can help you.’
‘There’s no need to get angry. It’s just that I lack inspiration.’
‘Inspiration comes when you stick your elbows on the table, your bottom on the chair and you start sweating. Choose a theme, an idea, and squeeze your brain until it hurts. That’s called inspiration.’
‘I have a topic.’
‘Hallelujah.’
‘I’m going to write about you.’
A long silence as we exchanged glances, like opponents across a game board.
‘Why?’
‘Because I find you interesting. And strange.’
‘And old.’
‘And touchy. Almost like a boy of my age.’
Despite myself I was beginning to get used to Isabella’s company, to her jibes and to the light she had brought into that house. If things continued this way, my worst fears were going to come true and we’d end up being friends.
‘What about you? Have you found a subject with all those whopping great tomes you’re consulting?’
I decided that the less I told Isabella about my commission, the better.
‘I’m still at the research stage.’
‘Research? And how does that work?’
‘Basically, you read thousands of pages to learn what you need to know and to get to the heart of a subject, to its emotional truth, and then you shed all that knowledge and start again at square one.’
Isabella sighed.
‘What is emotional truth?’
‘It’s sincerity within fiction.’
‘So, does one have to be an honest, good person to write fiction?’
‘No. One has to be skilled. Emotional truth is not a moral quality, it’s a technique.’
‘You sound like a scientist,’ protested Isabella.
‘Literature, at least good literature, is science tempered with the blood of art. Like architecture or music.’
‘I thought it was something that sprang from the artist, just like that, all of a sudden.’
‘The only things that spring all of a sudden are unwanted body hair and warts.’
Isabella considered these revelations without much enthusiasm.
‘You’re saying all this to discourage me and make me go home.’
‘I should be so lucky!’
‘You’re the worst teacher in the world.’
‘It’s the student who makes the teacher, not the other way round.’
‘It’s impossible to argue with you because you know all the rhetorical tricks. It’s not fair.’
‘Nothing is fair. The most one can hope is for things to be logical. Justice is a rare illness in a world that is otherwise a picture of health.’
‘Amen. Is that what happens as you grow older? Do people stop believing in things, as you have?’
‘No. Most people, as they grow old, continue to believe in nonsense, usually even greater nonsense. I swim against the tide because I like to annoy.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know! Well, when I’m older I’ll go on believing in things,’ Isabella threatened.
‘Good luck.’
‘And what’s more, I believe in you.’
She didn’t look away as I fixed my eyes on hers.
‘Because you don’t know me.’
‘That’s what you think. You’re not as mysterious as you imagine.’
‘I don’t pretend to be mysterious.’
‘That was a kind substitute for unpleasant. I also know a few rhetorical tricks.’
‘That isn’t rhetoric. It’s irony. They’re two different things.’
‘Do you always have to win every argument?’
‘When it’s as easy as this, yes.’
‘And that man, the boss . . .’
‘Corelli?’
‘Corelli. Does he make it easy for you?’
‘No. Corelli knows even more tricks than I do.’
‘That’s what I thought. Do you trust him?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know. Do you trust him?’
‘Why shouldn’t I trust him?’
Isabella shrugged her shoulders.
‘What exactly has he commissioned you to write? Aren’t you going to tell me?’
‘I told you. He wants me to write a book for his publishing company.’
‘A novel?’
‘Not exactly. More like a fable. A legend.’
‘A book for children?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And you’re going to do it?’
‘He pays very well.’
Isabella frowned.
‘Is that why you write? Because they pay you well?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘And this time?’
‘This time I’m going to write the book because I have to.’
‘Are in you debt to him?’
‘You could put it that way, I suppose.’
Isabella weighed up the matter. She was about to say something, but thought twice about it and bit her lip. Instead, she gave me an innocent smile and one of her angelic looks with which she was capable of changing the subject with a simple batting of her eyelids.
‘I’d also like to be paid to write,’ she said.
‘Anyone who writes would like the same, but it doesn’t mean that he or she will achieve it.’
‘And how do you achieve it?’
‘You begin by going down to the gallery, taking pen and paper—’
‘Digging your elbows in and squeezing your brain until it hurts. I know.’
She looked into my eyes, hesitating. She’d been staying in my house for a week and a half and I still showed no signs of sending her home. I imagined she was asking herself when I was going to do it, or why I hadn’t done it yet. I also asked myself that very question and could find no answer.
‘I like being your assistant, even if you are the way you are,’ she said at last.
The girl was staring at me as if her life depended on a kind word. I yielded to temptation. Good words are a vain benevolence that demand no sacrifice and are more appreciated than real acts of kindness.
‘I also like you being my assistant, Isabella, even if I am the way I am. And I will like it even more when there is no longer any need for you to be my assistant as you will have nothing more to learn from me.’
‘Do you think I have potential?’
‘I have no doubt whatsoever. In ten years you’ll be the teacher and I’ll be the apprentice,’ I said, repeating words that still tasted of treason.
‘You liar,’ she said, kissing me sweetly on the cheek before running off down the stairs.