Major Manfred von Brauchitsch had awakened very early, even though life on the island moved even more slowly on Sunday than on the other days of the week.
The problem of different speeds had always been an issue during his stays in Italy. It was as if Manfred was a cog in a gear that was spinning very fast, and that was then inserted into a weaker engine. For that matter, he was German: his people were typically a little frantic and maniacally devoted.
He stepped out onto the balcony of his room. Dawn, from the pensione where he usually stayed, imbued the sea and the spit of land that jutted out into it with indescribable hues, colors that he would be incapable of extracting from his palette even in a thousand years. Perhaps, he thought, that’s what makes the people here so slow: how could you stop, even after centuries of being accustomed to it, from pausing to admire such a wonderful landscape? How could you keep from taking it easy, breathing this blossom-scented air, listening to the music that saturates it?
He went back in to do some calisthenics. He was determined to keep in shape: the years passed and his profession demanded absolute efficiency. He had to admit to himself that he was gratified by the frank appreciation he seemed to receive from the island’s women, whenever he crossed paths with them during his evening walks.
While he was doing his second round of deep knee bends, he found himself thinking about that girl, the schoolteacher at the summer colony whom he’d run into for the past several days out at the beach where he went to paint.
There was no doubt that he’d made quite an impression on the other schoolteacher, Carla, that was clear from her attitude and the glances she shot him; but the one he liked was Enrica, who was in charge of the little girls. She offered him no encouragement, which only stimulated his natural competitive spirit.
She wasn’t especially beautiful; at first glance she might in fact appear insignificant. Her legs and arms were too long, she wore eyeglasses and her clothes were mousy. But deep inside, Manfred was first and foremost a painter, and he’d recognized her remarkable figure, lithe and firm, her handsome bosom and her swan’s neck. And the smile that she beamed so frequently at the little girls, luminous and full of tenderness.
Perhaps it was because he was accustomed to capturing particular appearances and intense expressions that he’d been so taken by Enrica. The measured gentleness with which she moved, the womanly way she had of sitting on the beach, with her white skirt gathered beneath her legs and her chin resting on her hands as she gazed out at who knows what, in the distance.
He wiped away the sweat with a hand towel and headed off toward the bathroom.
This wasn’t something that happened often, he mused. Since Elsa had died, more than ten years ago, he’d had only a few fleeting affairs, and each woman had been gone from his mind as soon as the moment of their physical intimacy was over. But this time, he found himself counting the hours that separated him from his next painting session on the beach.
Enrica, he understood, was shy and reserved, a delicate blossom, a butterfly; if he moved too quickly he ran the risk of ruining everything. He also sensed a certain insecurity on that woman’s part, or even fear: perhaps there was some sadness or grief in Enrica’s past, as there was in his own, for that matter.
In their infrequent conversations, he’d preferred to stick to unremarkable topics. He’d told her about his hometown, the land he hailed from and where now, perhaps, one of those terrible summer rainstorms was coming down, auguring the onset of autumn. It was too early to tell her about Elsa, of the way he used to be, of how he had changed and why. Of war and serving under arms. Of the fact that he was a soldier.
Times were changing. The aftermath of the postwar sanctions and the burning sense of defeat were gradually being overcome; in Germany there was a new spirit in the air. Alsace and Lorraine had been lost, the German empire’s colonial possessions were lost, most of the army, now shrunk to a hundred thousand men, was lost, the navy, which had preferred to sink the fleet rather than hand it over to England, was lost; nonetheless, the sense of honor, the belief in the nation’s own grandeur, the urge to rise again, were more alive than ever. Nationalism, fomented by the harsh terms of the peace treaty, had engendered a political party that had sunk its roots deep into the populace, and the preceding April it had come tantalizingly close to sweeping the elections, gathering over thirteen million votes. This in spite of the fact that the movement’s leader was a man who nine years earlier had been in prison for spearheading an unsuccessful coup attempt right in his own home state of Bavaria.
When Manfred had left for Italy, there had already been talk of new elections to right the political imbalance. He personally favored the leader of the National Socialist Party. Though he didn’t care for the excessive fury and bullying methods the man used to put his ideas across, he had to admit that the pride and patriotism that quivered in the words of that excellent orator moved and enflamed him. Deep down, he was a soldier: his love for his homeland, his desire to defend it from foreigners and expand its borders, formed part of his nature.
Moreover, he liked the fact that the man took his inspiration, more or less explicitly, from the Fascist regime. In Italy, he sensed a liveliness, an optimism, and a confidence in contrast with the difficult conditions in which most of the people seemed to be living. He wished he could see the same attitude spreading through Germany, among the elderly in particular, wearied by the war and the economic collapse. If the two countries, brothers deep down in their souls, were to share certain values, nothing and no one could ever stop them. That’s what he thought.
In the meantime, he told himself as he splashed cold water on his arms and back, he’d establish a nice strong alliance with the girl on the beach.
It was nice to feel that sensation again. It was nice to feel he was still alive. At the end of July he’d return home to vote in the federal elections, and to see if he could be useful in the reconstruction of German military might, which had until then been progressing slowly and discreetly. A couple of days ago he’d received a letter from a veteran, a onetime fellow soldier, asking if he was done with his life of leisure and was ready to venture once more into the breach. He’d written back, informing his old friend that nothing on earth could make him miss the opportunity to let him eat the dust of his charging steed.
The thought of his horse reminded him of the treatments he was taking on this island. Daily training and mineral water mud packs, that volcanic mud that so many doctors had described as miraculous, were having their beneficial effects. The pain in his shoulder was almost gone.
Manfred brushed his thick blond hair and looked up at the blue sky. He suspected that there was also another reason for his renewed sense of vigor.
Good officer that he was, he wondered exactly what strategy he should employ to outflank the barriers that Enrica had erected to protect herself. He was sure that if the girl could be persuaded that he would never do her any harm, she’d lower her defenses and soon let herself be lulled by her feelings.
As he was biting into one of the biscotti that the elderly proprietress of the pensione had given him, he caught himself fantasizing about the expressions on his parents’ faces if he returned home with a new wife, and an Italian one to boot. His mother had told him over and over again that Elsa was gone, that he needed to make a new life for himself, and that before she died, the one thing she wanted was to cradle in her arms a grandchild, to be certain that the family name would not die out with Manfred.
Enrica was young and self-assured, and she had beautiful hips. All the right features.
The major flashed a smile at the sea. After taking the mud, he would go back to the beach.
He had a painting to complete.