Read Online Portrait of a Girl by Dörthe Binkert - Free Book Online
Authors: Dörthe Binkert
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there.
And then Andrina had actually brought the young woman to see him, and he had immediately hired her. But his eyes at the time were fixed on Andrina; she was such a pretty thing, firm and fresh as a chestnut bursting out of its shiny shell. Brown hair, dark lively eyes, and full lips. And he felt she was looking at him in a certain way, too, even though he was quite a bit older than she was.
Robustelli took a silver cigarette case from the top drawer of his massive desk and opened it. He didn’t take out a cigarette but rather looked at himself briefly in the reflective interior of the cover, passing a hand over his dark hair, which, unlike Segantini’s, was simply combed back.
On the whole, he thought, compared with Segantini, he was rather unimpressive. The fact that his mother thought he was very good-looking left him rather skeptical. All right, he had nice brown eyes, but not Segantini’s penetrating, mesmerizing gaze. And although he agreed with his mother’s proud appraisal to the extent that he did admit to having a masculine, well-proportioned, even Roman profile and a pleasant brownish skin tone, the gray at his temples made him look older than his thirty-one years.
But why compare himself with the painter? He had an important position and was doing well financially. More and more frequently, he thought the time had come to start a family. Up to now, the right woman just hadn’t crossed his path, or perhaps he just hadn’t taken the time to look around closely. And yet he thoroughly enjoyed life and was enthusiastic about railroads and playing bridge as well as dancing, something quite rare for a man. In fact, he could take some pride in the fact that there were quite a few women who raved about his abilities as a dancer.
Once a week he played bridge with friends in St. Moritz, a sacrosanct date, and whenever he could, he sought opportunities to go dancing. He loved the polka, and at that very moment, envisioned himself zipping diagonally across the dancehall floor with a flushed Andrina, her skirts gathered up.
With that last image in mind, he closed the cigarette case engraved with the initials A and R, and put it carefully back in the drawer. Then he had someone fetch from the laundry the girl who didn’t talk.
“Wel l . . . ” Robustelli said, drawing out the word and then pausing. He wasn’t quite sure how to address a person who didn’t speak and from whom he couldn’t expect to get an answer. He started with a silly question—and was instantly ashamed. “What is your name?” he said, but then added, “Excuse me, I know you don’t tal k . . . ”
Looking at Nika standing before him, calmly waiting, he tried to imagine what about her fascinated Segantini so much. It couldn’t be just her sad story that made Segantini want to help her at any cost. There were contract children all over Switzerland whose situation was presumably no less awful than hers.
Very well, thought Robustelli, who wanted to be fair to the painter and not jump to any conclusions. Segantini had noticed her before he did. And perhaps understandably, considering that both had been abandoned by their parents. Achille’s own life was perhaps too protected for him to be able to imagine the wounds that such a situation might leave on a young soul. And stil l . . . Anyway, he liked Andrina better. The new girl was too thin for him. Although she did have remarkable eyes; that was true. He couldn’t see her hair—which Segantini had singled out—because it was concealed under the cap that all the in-house laundresses wore.
Robustelli gazed at Nika thoughtfully. Where could he put a girl who didn’t talk?
He reached for the newspaper on his desk and held it under Nika’s nose. “Can you read what it says here?” he asked.
Nika squinted slightly, seeming to think hard. But whatever the result, she just shook her head. This was quite a task Segantini had taken on. If she worked as a helper in the kitchen,
And then Andrina had actually brought the young woman to see him, and he had immediately hired her. But his eyes at the time were fixed on Andrina; she was such a pretty thing, firm and fresh as a chestnut bursting out of its shiny shell. Brown hair, dark lively eyes, and full lips. And he felt she was looking at him in a certain way, too, even though he was quite a bit older than she was.
Robustelli took a silver cigarette case from the top drawer of his massive desk and opened it. He didn’t take out a cigarette but rather looked at himself briefly in the reflective interior of the cover, passing a hand over his dark hair, which, unlike Segantini’s, was simply combed back.
On the whole, he thought, compared with Segantini, he was rather unimpressive. The fact that his mother thought he was very good-looking left him rather skeptical. All right, he had nice brown eyes, but not Segantini’s penetrating, mesmerizing gaze. And although he agreed with his mother’s proud appraisal to the extent that he did admit to having a masculine, well-proportioned, even Roman profile and a pleasant brownish skin tone, the gray at his temples made him look older than his thirty-one years.
But why compare himself with the painter? He had an important position and was doing well financially. More and more frequently, he thought the time had come to start a family. Up to now, the right woman just hadn’t crossed his path, or perhaps he just hadn’t taken the time to look around closely. And yet he thoroughly enjoyed life and was enthusiastic about railroads and playing bridge as well as dancing, something quite rare for a man. In fact, he could take some pride in the fact that there were quite a few women who raved about his abilities as a dancer.
Once a week he played bridge with friends in St. Moritz, a sacrosanct date, and whenever he could, he sought opportunities to go dancing. He loved the polka, and at that very moment, envisioned himself zipping diagonally across the dancehall floor with a flushed Andrina, her skirts gathered up.
With that last image in mind, he closed the cigarette case engraved with the initials A and R, and put it carefully back in the drawer. Then he had someone fetch from the laundry the girl who didn’t talk.
“Wel l . . . ” Robustelli said, drawing out the word and then pausing. He wasn’t quite sure how to address a person who didn’t speak and from whom he couldn’t expect to get an answer. He started with a silly question—and was instantly ashamed. “What is your name?” he said, but then added, “Excuse me, I know you don’t tal k . . . ”
Looking at Nika standing before him, calmly waiting, he tried to imagine what about her fascinated Segantini so much. It couldn’t be just her sad story that made Segantini want to help her at any cost. There were contract children all over Switzerland whose situation was presumably no less awful than hers.
Very well, thought Robustelli, who wanted to be fair to the painter and not jump to any conclusions. Segantini had noticed her before he did. And perhaps understandably, considering that both had been abandoned by their parents. Achille’s own life was perhaps too protected for him to be able to imagine the wounds that such a situation might leave on a young soul. And stil l . . . Anyway, he liked Andrina better. The new girl was too thin for him. Although she did have remarkable eyes; that was true. He couldn’t see her hair—which Segantini had singled out—because it was concealed under the cap that all the in-house laundresses wore.
Robustelli gazed at Nika thoughtfully. Where could he put a girl who didn’t talk?
He reached for the newspaper on his desk and held it under Nika’s nose. “Can you read what it says here?” he asked.
Nika squinted slightly, seeming to think hard. But whatever the result, she just shook her head. This was quite a task Segantini had taken on. If she worked as a helper in the kitchen,
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