In Italy, they live with Franz, a blond man who reminds her of Apollo from her father's description. When she asks if they're related, Franz shakes his head solemnly, instantly earning her admiration. She doesn't like it when grown-ups laugh at her – she's four years old, and old enough to know things, and she knows she likes Franz. By the end of the hour, he's telling her fantastic stories, and she's mimicking the funny way that he speaks. "Ja," she says, face serious and brow slightly wrinkled in concentration. "Sound goot."
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
They live like that for quite some time, with Papa crouched on his chair, looming over his typewriter, and Franz and Charlotte going out for everything else. They learn by the end of the first week that it's best to send Charlotte down to the market for anything they need, because there's a certain amount of shame associated with trying to swindle a small child that would not be there if, say, said child was there with a parent of sorts. They also learn that Ranier does not like to be disturbed when in a metaphysical trance, or any time where he sits still (almost too still) and stares intently at everything and nothing.
By the end of the first week, they tiptoe quietly around the three-room hovel when Ranier writes, and they send Charlotte to do all the shopping. She picks up Italian with ease, and speaks it out there. At home, she mimics Franz, much to his amusement, and speaks English with perfect inflection when talking to her father.
Franz, as she finds out, is Austrian. It's why he speaks funny (it's called 'having an accent,' she learns) and it's another reason why she gets sent to buy everything – nobody can understand a word he says in Italian. So he teaches her German instead. German and photography. He gives her one of his old cameras as a present, and it's the best unbirthday present she's ever gotten. The only one, too.
She takes pictures of only a few important things, just as frugal with her film as she is with the egg money. They tease her about it, and tell her all sorts of stories about a little girl who refused to share simple beauties with the world and consequently turns into a hideous monster.
(She has nightmares that night and crawls into the bed between Papa and Franz, comforted by the smell of cigarettes and wine and the chicken they had for dinner. Franz strokes her head and sings a lullaby in a way that makes his chest vibrate like a cat purring, and that lulls her to sleep.)
It's the most natural thing in the world. She gets her lessons as they come, more often than not in German than in English, but it seems perfectly normal to her. She can't remember a time without Franz, and so it seems only natural that she should take a picture of him. After all, he reminds her of Apollo, and from what her Papa said, Apollo was quite lovely.
She stands on the bed, trying to get eye level with him, but to no avail. They spend the entire morning trying to figure out ways so she can get the shot she sees so clearly in her head. Frustrated to the point of almost-tears, biting down on her lip, she can't manage. Why is he so tall, anyways? It's almost as though a giraffe has suddenly replaced her Franz, and she wants to know why. Wisely, he refrains from saying anything about her failure. "Come, libeling," he says, sitting next to her on the crumpled coverlet. "We can try again later. I'll get some water." Her nod is shaky at best, and he gets up to get some water for all of them.
Papa is sitting in the same corner next to the window, still bent almost double over the typewriter, but this time with the keys clickety-clacking furiously as he writes. When Franz comes back with the water and sets it down on the nightstand next to the poet, Charlotte takes the picture on a whim. Franz moves, though, and when he develops the film in his friend's darkroom during a trip to the city, he comes out as a blur next to Ranier, whose expression is entirely focused on the page before him. The black and white quality of the picture only makes more distinct the sharp lines of his profile against the wall of the house. Still, Franz is 'tickled pink' (a phrase she learns from Papa) and makes them all copies. He even slips in an actual photo of himself for her in the envelope when they have to part ways.
Without Franz, the house feels oddly empty, and she wanders aimlessly from one room to the next, exploring every nook and cranny of the ramshackle cottage. They stay like that, him clickety-clacking away and her listlessly roaming until another man (Giancarlo, he says in his thick Italian accent. She doesn't like it.) comes and yells at them. They move out in a hurry, and the one thing she loses is the picture of Franz.