The Blind Contessa's New Machine (30 page)

When she woke again, it was morning. Birds celebrated in the trees and a disoriented bee buzzed from wall to wall inside the house.

Carolina frowned. Then she thought that Turri must be there after all, watching her sleep.

“Hello?” she said.

He didn’t answer.

Carolina pushed the covers away and made a quick investigation: the square of rug by the couch, the desk littered with his books, the chair, all empty. She stepped out onto the top stair.

Some bird unleashed a long, gaudy call, followed immediately by a chorus of taunts and applause that fell away into the forest’s usual polite conversation: bits of news passed between neighbors, morning greetings, casual observations.

“Turri,” she said.

The word bounced across the lake and died in the branches on the far shore.

Carolina stepped back into the house and let the door slam behind her. The cuts on her hands and arms, awakened by the motion, began to sting. She sank down on her couch.

Outside, footsteps swept through the wet grass outside and mounted the steps. The door swung open.

“Turri,” Carolina said, rising.

“No,” said Pietro.

The cook, who believed herself to be far more valuable than a simple maid, was insulted that she had been ordered to pack Carolina’s things.

“They all look the same to me,” she said. “I hardly know what to pick.”

“Can you count to seven?” Pietro asked her. “Then count out seven of them. We will send later for the rest.”

He had not spoken a word to Carolina as he guided her through the woods on the long walk back from the lake, and he didn’t address her now. All afternoon she had heard shouts and confusion as preparations were made for some kind of journey. She had been too proud to ask the cook about his plans. But now she saw her chance to wring an answer from him in the woman’s presence.

“We’ll be gone more than a week?” she asked.

The cook interrupted her steady shuffling of fabric and paper to listen.

Pietro laid a hand on Carolina’s face. His touch was just as gentle as it had ever been. It frightened Carolina more than his silence had.

“Tell her if there is anything you want,” he said. “We are not coming back to the valley.”

He kissed her forehead and went out. Carolina braced herself, expecting an onslaught of darkness, but the lines of her room remained sharp in her mind, the yard wide and bright, the sun clear in the sky.

The cook resumed her duties. She grumbled and hummed, stuffing silk and taffeta by the armload into the open trunk.

“That’s thirteen,” she said finally. “And I even fit four pairs of shoes, for all the good they’ll do you.”

“Thank you,” Carolina said.

Babolo chirped his irritation with the uninvited guest.

“What’s this?” the cook said, as if she’d just discovered a mouse in her flour.

“What?” Carolina said.

A child’s voice, one Carolina didn’t know, answered from the door. “I have a message,” the girl said. “For the contessa.”

The cook slammed the cover of the trunk and thumped the latches shut. “Will you require anything else?” she said with elaborate politeness.

“No, thank you,” Carolina said.

The cook trudged out, her tread heavy with displeasure.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, her voice wavering under the older woman’s rebuff.

Carolina held out her hand. “No,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

The girl placed the letter in it.

“Can you read?” Carolina asked her.

“Master Turri taught me,” the girl said. “Shall I—”

Carolina laid the letter in her lap and covered it with both hands. She shook her head. “Thank you,” she said. “That will be all.”

Her step fairy light, the girl turned and left the room. Halfway down the stairs, the sound of her feet faded completely, as if she had suddenly taken flight.

Carolina turned the envelope over once, without curiosity. Whatever Turri promised or explained, it was too late to change anything. The thought of him moved her only faintly, like a feeling from a dream that lingers for a few moments after waking. But despite the fact that she was wide awake, elements of her dreams filled her mind. The galaxies she’d created the night before appeared in the afternoon sky, white lights scattered through the even blue. She blinked, turned the afternoon to twilight, and reordered a handful of stars into a new constellation. Then she wiped the whole room away and replaced it with the familiar banks of her lake. It didn’t matter where Pietro planned to take her. She could make her own world.

She laid the letter beside her on the bed and went to the chest. She unfastened the latches, pulled out the top dress, and let it fall to the floor. Then she collected the writing machine and the sheaf of black paper from her desk. She settled the machine on the top gown in the chest, and covered it again with the other dress.

Then she went down the stairs, leaving the letter unopened on her bed.

The horses shuffled, eager to be gone.

“Very good,” Pietro told Giovanni, who had run from the stables to load their things for them. “Someday you’ll make a fine coachman.”

“I can run faster than the old horses,” Giovanni said, breathless.

“Careful there!” the coachman called.

Pietro left Carolina’s side to rescue some last piece of luggage from Giovanni. A moment later, it landed on the roof of the carriage with a satisfying thud. “There we are,” Pietro said. “That’s all.”

“Giovanni,” Carolina called.

The boy scrambled to stand before her.

“I left Babolo in my room,” she said. “I’m afraid he’ll get lonely. Will you take care of him for me?”

Giovanni didn’t reply.

“All right,” Pietro said uncomfortably. “There’s no need for tears.”

Carolina held out her hand and Giovanni clasped it to his boy’s chest. After a moment, she freed herself gently and stepped away.

Pietro led her to the carriage and helped her in. Then he climbed in beside her and put his arm out to rap on the door. The carriage rolled forward.

Carolina could feel them circle the yard, rattle down to the tree line, and turn onto the main road. She knew the dip down the hill and the rise to the next, where Turri’s home gazed down on her father’s orchards. She rode past the long boundary of Turri’s property without turning her head, but when the carriage had climbed to the crest of the next hill, she closed her eyes and looked out the window.

The whole world she carried with her rolled out in her mind: the gold hills of the valley, dark lemon leaves reflecting the blue sky, and beyond them snow falling on desert sand, a boat cutting through the black ocean, men marching over autumn leaves, children fighting for their place in a parade, women who turned as one in a dance. Over it all, a small bird wheeled under the stars she had made, so high she knew that no one else in the world could see.

“What is it?” the man at the desk asked. His hair was as black as it had been when he was a boy, but all youth had left his eyes. The desk was strewn with schedules and bills and a selection of scientific instruments that would have made no sense to a scientific man: a decanter with a neck curved like a swan; a complicated sextant; a scale on which a gold ingot hung in an uneasy compromise with a handful of rough black stones that glinted in the firelight.

The man who had interrupted him was a stranger and a servant, in city clothes. “Signor Turri?” he asked. “Pellegrino Turri?”

“He was my father,” the other man said, rising. “I’m Antonio.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the servant said. “I have a delivery for your father. A bequest.”

“I’m afraid he’s dead,” Antonio said.

The servant raised his eyebrows, only mildly surprised by the vagaries of chance. “Then I suppose it would go to you,” he said. “You have a brother?”

“No,” Antonio said.

“And you’ll sign for it?”

Antonio nodded.

The servant crossed the room and set his package on the desk. It was the size of a stack of four or five books, wrapped in dirty fabric. “From the Contessa Carolina Fantoni,” he said in what was unmistakably his official tone. “To be returned to Pellegrino Turri on her death.” His voice turned confiding now. “It’s been six weeks. It took the lawyer some time to find you.”

“I’ve been here all my life,” Antonio said.

“You know men in the city,” the servant said. “They think everything outside the walls is wilderness.” As he spoke, he untied the pair of knots that held the dingy cloth together. The rags fell away to reveal a small machine built of delicate dowels tipped with metal type, stained by sooty fingerprints.

“What do you suppose it is?” the servant asked.

“It’s a writing machine,” Antonio said, taking his seat again to face it more directly. “My father made it.”

The servant touched one of the double rows of keys. A dowel sprang forward. He jerked his hand back. “What for?” he asked.

“So a blind woman could write letters,” Antonio answered.

“The contessa!” the servant exclaimed. In the thrill of discovery, he reached for the machine again.

“You had something for me to sign?” Antonio said.

The servant dropped his hand to fumble in his pockets. After a moment, he produced a crumpled receipt. “That’s right,” he said, laying it on the desk beside the machine. He indicated the proper place with two fingers. “Right there,” he said.

Antonio drew the paper to him, signed it without flourish, and passed it back. Then he opened a drawer, found a coin, and handed it to the servant. The servant grinned and turned to go.

“You knew her?” Antonio said.

The man turned back.

“Not to speak of, sir, no,” he said. “But I knew her by sight. She lived in the city all her life, from the time she was married.” These were clearly the only facts he knew for certain, but he hesitated, perhaps wondering if there might be gain in inventing more.

“Thank you,” Antonio said.

The servant gave the machine a final look, curiosity mixed with longing. Then he touched his hat and went out.

When the door had closed behind him, Antonio placed his palms on either side of the machine, as if checking for a heartbeat. He struck a few of the keys at random, and the print-tipped rods danced merrily. Then he lifted the machine from the desk, turned to the fire, and dropped it in.

It took longer than he would have guessed for the old wood to catch. For several long breaths, the machine stood intact amid the blue and yellow flame. Then the fire found it and the graceful shape was obscured by a riot of gold. After the first burst of fire receded, the delicate hammers continued to burn for several minutes, until the charred wood gave way and the glowing metal letters dropped through the grate and disappeared into white ash.