FRANCESCA
The train was squirming around the hill, like a snake around the body of a sleeping traveler. There, behind the hill, the sunset was slowly falling, and only its reflection pinked the air, painted it with soft strokes from a warm pink to a cold lilac. Further, beyond the hill, a broad plain sprawled before my eyes. Some shallow curved bushes stuck ugly out of the soil, completely indifferent to that unusual palette of colors. Their aged yellowish ends were drowned in a lowering sky. Around the corner, the colors have suddenly disappeared, and the plain plunged into the dense grey twilight. Then nothing could be seen. The sky fell down on earth, dissolving in the dark night mass which swallowed the world and added some mystery to the landscape that was just recently so tenderly colored with the pink and lilac hues.
There was no reason for me to stay any longer by the window and I entered the compartment. The light went on and the faces of my fellow travelers which only some time ago, under the daylight, seemed to be so attractive, looked gloomy and tired. There were only four of us in the compartment: a young woman, about thirty-five years old, who immediately attracted my attention by her strange behavior; a young, good-looking man; an old man with a sallow face and wolf-like penetrating eyes; and I.
The woman seemed to be very nervous, constantly, unconsciously fixing her long hair or opening and closing her purse resting on her knees. Sometimes, her wide-open, dark eyes seemed aimlessly looking into space. She was dressed simply but elegantly – a black silk dress outlined the slimness of her voluptuous figure and an expensive necklace made her look very festive. Everything was unusual about her. On one hand, I was tempted to look at her, talk to her, to learn more about her. On the other hand, I wished to run away in order to avoid her fixed inquisitive gaze. I had a feeling that I had seen her before, maybe in the painting of Amadeo Modigliani, a woman in a black dress with her arms crossed on her knees, and eyes full of sorrow, loneliness and hopelessness.
The young man definitely felt uncomfortable under her inquisitive look, but was sitting straight, not moving, as if he were afraid to scare off her thoughts. I noticed that there was nothing special about him, except his black curly beard, covering his longish face, and his small but lively eyes. My intrusion into the compartment definitely disturbed her. She looked at me without seeming to show any interest in my persona and turned her head to the window. The reflection of her face appeared on the window glass. The train was passing the settlements, villages and landscapes, already invisible in the darkness. Beneath the windows, the scenery was obviously changing, and only the outlines of her face remained steady on the window glass.
I stretched out my hand and introduced myself. The young man was the first to reply, “Gustav, it is nice meeting you.” And he moved, making space for me to sit.
The old man, next to the young woman, seemed to doze. His wrinkled grayish face with his eyes half-closed remained absent. Now, I was sitting across from the woman and the old man. She turned her head lazily away from her reflection and introduced herself, “Francesca.”
In her melodic voice I noticed some slight accent. “Probably Italian,” I said to myself.
Suddenly, she started the conversation, obviously catching my accent.
“Are you Russian?” Her eyes rounded in surprise.
“How did you guess?” I was puzzled.
I was taken away from Russia when I was just a child, and catching my accent would only occur to a person who spoke the language.
“I am half Italian, half Russian. My mother was a Russian, an artist.”
And she pronounced her name. I had heard about her mother before; she lived in Paris, studied art at the French Academy of Fine Arts, and was quite famous in her time. It was known that she befriended a great painter, Tamara De Lempicka, also of a Russian origin, but unexpectedly left everything behind her and moved away. Nobody knew where. I vaguely remembered her story. Once, I was interested in the fates of the Russian artists living abroad at the turn of the twentieth century, particularly in Paris. I didn’t say any-thing to Francesca because I just could not recall more facts about her mother’s life.
“My mother died young,” said Francesca, not addressing anybody in particular.
The train stopped abruptly. From the sudden lurch, she fell down on the sleeping old man, but he continued dozing, not moving or showing any signs of life. Only once, when I looked at him, did I notice the movement of his eyelashes. He definitely was not sleeping. The conversation had died. We could hear people walking along the corridor, probably, getting ready to go to bed. A dim light with its yellowish blinks put a thick makeup, a seal of the weariness, on the already tired faces of my new acquaintances.
Several times, Gustav tried to restart the conversation, but in vain. He stepped out of the compartment, suggesting to its inhibitors to get ready for bed. I was too upset by parting with my family, so I knew I would not be able to fall asleep, and therefore, I, too, had left the compartment. Gustav was standing by the window, looking at his own reflection, shadowed by the night glass. Seeing me, he kindly moved aside, creating space for me next to him.
“I know Francesca,” he announced without any introduction, as if he wanted to shock me, and not allowing me to express any surprise from his unexpected remark, he continued, “My whole adult life I have been looking for her. And now, when, at last, I found her, I couldn’t even gather my strength to start a conversation. Please, help me; I beg of you, help me!”
He feverishly grabbed my hand. His nervous, refined face expressed some sincere concern. Only his eyes, frozen, as if they immersed deeply into his soul, were searching there for an answer.
“The truth is that this vile old man is her husband. Do you hear me? Her husband!”
He sharply turned to me and fell into a silence, waiting for me to reply. His eyes looked straight into mine, searching for help or support. I could not understand what was going on, what he wanted from me, or what I had to do with Francesca’s husband and this young man. I got scared, I was afraid to go back to the compartment, but even more, I was loath to remain here, in this corridor, at night, with this strange man who, God knows why, tried to tell me the story of these unfamiliar to me people.
Gustav sighed deeply, probably coming to his senses.
He stared at me again, and said in a very subdued voice, “What a strange evening! I have been longing for this moment for so many years, and now I am losing time, so precious to me. Maybe today my fate will be decided, and I am afraid, afraid again, like many years ago. For the past sixteen years, I lived with only one hope of seeing Francesca. I had not been able to live my life knowing that I have destroyed hers. How often we take steps, following our momentary emotion without thinking about the consequences? Before, I always thought: ‘Take a moment; it may never come back,’ until one day such a moment had changed my whole life.”
Noticing that I was listening to him, he continued, “I met Francesca in Italy. She was seventeen, and I was twenty-seven. We were both studying art. She was a very quiet and reserved girl, always submerged into her own world, without any friends or acquaintances. While sketching, she was completely focused on her work, often staying long hours after classes, never revealing her work to anybody. She answered sharply to any questions, trying to quickly get rid of the unwanted conversations. I watched her from a distance. Something wild and frightening was in her gestures.”
“At that time, I was seeing a woman much older than I. She was a very unusual woman, striking not only by her beauty, but by her talents, too. Liana was also a Russian, and belonged to the Russian nobility that moved to Italy from Russia at the time of Alexander III. Their family always carried Russian traditions and remained true to their motherland, though nobody in the family spoke their native tongue. Liana was fluent in many languages; she could express herself in French, English, Spanish, Russian and Italian. In their great old mansion, there were many beautifully executed portraits of her ancestors and a remarkable in its taste and knowledge, collection of the early Italian art. Liana did not paint, but knew art as well as music, like nobody I had ever met before. We often had wandered along the streets of Florence, discussing different subjects close to our hearts, but never actually elucidated our relationships because it was just obvious to both of us that we were in love. I had never thought about moving in together. In spite of her youthful looks and childish spontaneity, she was fifteen years older than I. I only knew that Liana had never been married and that she had always avoided discussing her past. She was rather discreet about it. We were happy with the way it was. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.”
He made a pause and looked at me questioningly, “Am I boring you?”
“No, not at all.”
I had been listening to his story, or to his confession, very attentively. Now I was completely awake. It looked like the light went off in our compartment. There was a mysterious nighttime silence intensified by the rapidly moving train, and the melodic rhythm of lullaby it created.
“Are you an artist?” the question suddenly escaped me.
“Yes, I am a portrait painter. I am deeply fascinated by the human face and the person that lies behind it. While painting, I feel how my brush strokes penetrate into the human essence, stir the soul, split it into different tones and if the material is shallow, I finish the portrait by using my own imagination. Sometimes, I see such an interesting face, but as soon as I start painting, I find the work will not go anywhere. I am seeing just a mask; there is nothing underneath it, no emotions, or any hint of them, no depth. Then, I begin to invent the inward world of a sitter, and the face on the canvas becomes somehow spiritualized. The person can’t recognize himself, too much of the unknown for him in this face of a stranger.”
“I know that you want to ask me if I ever tried to paint Francesca’s portrait. Her face was so remarkable; it expressed such a loneliness and detachment. Often, returning home from classes, struck by the beauty of her face, I tried to paint it and could not. I tried to invent her soul, but the face on the portrait was not hers. I was carried away by the mystery surrounding her. In our art classes everybody knew everything about each other, but nothing about Francesca. Once, Liana, being in my house, noticed the drawing. Her face unexpectedly flashed. ‘How do you know her?’ Her hands were shaking.
‘Unfortunately, I do not know her,’ I sighed. ‘We are in the same art class. Why does it excite you so much?’
‘Because of her I was left by the man I was going to marry.’
For the first time during our relationships, she spoke about her past. I attempted to hide my emotions and my curiosity, afraid to scare her away from her sudden desire to talk.
‘Francesca’s mother died when she was still a child. We were friends, her mother and I. She was a great painter and belonged to the Russian nobility, as well. Two years ago, Francesca’s father passed away and left her in the care of his best friend. At that time, I was involved with Carlo and we were planning to get married. He was unbelievably wealthy and extremely well educated. I could not have dreamed of a better husband. Maybe I even loved him. It was my last chance. But when Francesca moved into the house, everything had changed. I saw how his eyes melted when he looked at her. His whole world was now focused on her. Last year, he broke our engagement, and as soon as she turns eighteen, he is planning to marry her. The rumors are that shortly after moving into his mansion, she had become his lover. This innocent child calculated her chances very well. Soon, she will become the richest woman in Florence.’
‘Pity,’ suddenly escaped me.
‘Pity what?’ Liana paid a surprised look.
‘I feel pity for her,’ I repeated automatically, while thinking about something else.
Only now I understood her strange behavior. This unhappy girl would soon become a wife of an old man. All of a sudden, I felt a breath of the medieval times. Now, as never before, I was desperate to talk to Francesca; she did not seem to be so distant from me anymore. In fact, now I knew her secret. After this conversation, my relationship with Liana drastically changed. She became more demanding, impatient and passionate. She was afraid of losing me, and I knew it, and was frightened by her sudden impulsive behavior.”
He stopped talking, probably not being sure if he had already revealed too many intimate details of his life. It became chilly. I felt the cold shiver on my skin and yawned.
“If you are tired, we can continue tomorrow.”
He turned to me. Under the dim light of the corridor’s lamp, I saw his face, lurid and twisted with pain. I could not interrupt him now. He was desperate to talk, pour out the anguish, think about the past, and make a final decision.
“Please, continue,” I said with determination, and turned my head to the window, ready to listen.
“Anyway, there is not much left to tell. Shortly after my conversation with Liana, I decided to stay late in class and finish the work I had previously started, when I felt some-body watching me behind my back. I rather guessed than knew that this was Francesca. Afraid to frighten her away, without turning my head, I asked, ‘How is your work going? Not really well?’
‘No,’ I heard her weak voice behind me, ‘not what I want, I feel like somebody else is moving my brush. I don’t know why. Probably I am not an artist at all.’
“I turned around. At this moment, her expressive face which was so dear to me had been covered with tears. Overwhelmed with emotions, unexpectedly, I took her hand and touched my cheek with her palm, as my mother used to do when I was a little boy and needed comforting. Francesca froze for a minute; her eyes opened widely in surprise.
‘Come with me, Francesca,’ I whispered, carried away by the gushed feelings, ‘Don’t you want this? Don’t you?’
She obediently put all her drawings in a folder and, trying not to lag behind, followed me.”
“It seemed to me that I had never been happier in my whole life. My parents divorced when I was only twelve, and I grew up withdrawn from the world around me. I often felt very lonely. I read and painted a lot, and lived in my own fantasy world. The shared comprehension of loneliness drew us closer to each other. We felt one another so deeply, so profoundly, as if we had lived together forever. I could almost read her mind, her every thought, and she – mine. And how well she understood and knew my work, read my soul, my heart and my moods by just looking at my drawings.”
“It lasted for almost a month. She visited me every day after classes, pale, mysterious and silent. We would have tea with sandwiches and talk about art, discussing her work and mine. Her paintings shook me to the core of my soul. She had a rare gift, a great sensitivity to colors with her own wild vision of the world. The violent palettes on her can-vases were like her own wild inner despair. She expressed her deep unfulfilled passion, her hidden emotions by using slant brush strokes, vivid wild colors, and her own strange tragic vision of the universe. She talked a lot about her childhood, about her mother. But if I just tried to mention her trustee, her face would express anger, and tears would cover her face until I would promise never ask her again, unless she, herself, chose to talk about it.”
“Only once, just once, I told her how much I needed her and how much I cared about her. Francesca bent her head and sat silently for a while, thinking, then she looked at me, and I saw how her whole face became radiant, brightened by such an unusual inner light, as if illuminated by sunbeams. ‘I love you. I will love you as long as I live. You are the only one I trust. We are now like one person, you and I.’”
“I was overwhelmed with emotions. I was afraid to drive away the light coming from her and my sudden sense of happiness. And then, everything came to an end. The next day, Liana stopped by to discuss time and again our relationship and our future together. I had been alone waiting for Francesca. The fact is that I had not yet told Francesca about Liana. I did not know how to start this confession. I was afraid to hurt Francesca – Liana was a close friend of her mother. Liana rushed into the room as a gust of wind, cold and biting. When I had to reveal the truth to her, she cried, blamed Francesca again. We did not notice when Francesca entered the room. She appeared suddenly, lurid and with-drawn; she stood by the door for just a moment and, then, abruptly, as she appeared, disappeared from my life forever. I had no chance to explain anything to her. She did not at-tend classes anymore, and all my attempts to see her failed. In a week, I received a phone call from Liana. Francesca had married Carlo. That was the end of my happy life.”
“Shortly after that, I left Italy and went back to Germany, where I continued studying art. Since that time, there has not been a moment in my life when I have not been thinking about Francesca. I ruined not only her life but mine, too. I could have saved her, but instead, pushed her deeper into the abyss. She trusted me, and I betrayed her trust. I tried many times to call and to write to her. Several times I visited Florence, but she refused to see me. Only yesterday, this coincidence brought us together again,” he lowered his voice. Now, he almost whispered, and finally, fell into silence.
The train began to lose its speed, probably approaching a station. He spoke once more. This time his voice seemed louder, and his whole appearance more relaxed, but he could hardly control his feelings.
Then, his voice gained some strength, and from this moment on, it seemed that he spoke just with himself, “First, I saw her at the train station at the ticket line, and then, I looked for her on this train going to Florence. She did not even show any signs that she knew me. I wish I could have such self-control. I am going now to Florence, to visit my daughter. Are you surprised?” He looked directly into my eyes.
“I forgot to tell you that just recently I received a letter from Liana. Soon after I left her, she moved to Paris, where she gave birth to our daughter. The girl is now sixteen, but I did not even know she existed. Liana told me that she returned to Florence because the girl had a remarkable gift, and was studying art with the best Italian painters.”
He looked at me again. His eyes expressed tremendous pain.
“What should I do? What will I do? Tomorrow, Liana will be at the train station with our daughter.”
What could I say to him? He had just one night to make his choice between a woman he loved and a daughter he never saw. In making a right choice we must rely on our intuition, not on the logic of our mind and our thoughts, but rather on the emotion of our heart and our soul. I have always followed my inner voice, the first impulse, and it has never failed me.
“Rely on your fate, trust your intuition,” I said in a very cold manner, trying not to show him the uneasy feeling that overwhelmed me. Wishing him a goodnight’s sleep, I opened the door to the compartment.
The place was dark. Probably everybody was sleeping. Soon, I, too, fell asleep, and so deeply that I did not even hear when Gustav returned. In the morning, I was awakened by Francesca. She looked like yesterday, unsmiling and withdrawn, only her dress, instead of black, was now of a red color. The morning sun lightened up the room with its warm beams. We were approaching Florence. I got up and quickly packed, while the men were somewhere outside waiting.
It was Gustav who first entered the compartment. He was deadly pale and looked very tired. “He, probably, had not slept,” I thought. He did not even notice me. He immediately stared at Francesca with a look of a man who had just decided to end his life. Her eyelashes moved, and without paying any attention to my presence, she stretched out her hand, wrapped in a red material, in his direction. I don’t recall how long they were standing like this, embracing each other with their eyes. Her face had brightened up with such an unusual inner light. Suddenly, the door creaked and the old man, like a mouse, slipped through the door of the compartment. His yellowish eyes peered straight into us, but, somehow, I managed to block the view of Francesca and Gustav. I quickly initiated conversation about the weather forecast, the upcoming rain and the bad weather this summer in Italy. He did not listen to me, trying with his eyes to move me away to the side, as if I were a screen which was blocking and hiding from him some unknown secret.
The train had come to a halt. It created the usual chaos of arrivals. Everyone hurried to move to the exit and to find those who were waiting for them at the train station. The old man picked up a small suitcase and accidentally pushed Gustav to the exit. Gustav was now the first in line; I was behind him, then, the old man. Francesca followed after him, happily and mysteriously smiling. I thought that during these last few minutes, the young people had decided their fate.
The platform was not crowded. I noticed right away a beautiful, refined woman and a tanned, slim young girl who rushed to greet Gustav. They both surrounded him, fever-ishly grasped him with their strong hands, as if it were a chain that he would never be able to break. As for him, lost and crushed, he tried to escape from this hoop of promising happiness and to embrace the other woman whom he had just found after so many years of misery, searches and hopes. I froze. All passengers had already descended from the train; the platform was almost empty. I turned around. The train slowly began to gain its speed. It looked ominous on the canvas of a dark sky that had just began to lose its color before the heavy rain. At this very moment, I saw Francesca’s faded face and, then, as if a gust of wind lifted her from the platform, her red dress, the color of blood, flashed in the air and disappeared under the wheels of the departing into the tunnel train.