Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

The sea … now I knew what it was. I had glimpsed it in so many reproductions of famous paintings, they almost made me forget the desire I once had to see it.

‘ What is the sea like, Tuzzu? ’

‘ A vast stretch of water as far as the eye can see. See, it’s like this stony ground you see before you from morning till night. Only instead of these rocks and mud and — let’s not even mention the eyesores! — there’s water, blue water. Sometimes calm like the water in the well, sometimes tossing like the reeds when the fagoniu 7 blows. ’

‘ So it’s just like in the paintings in the nuns’ house? ’

‘ What are you saying, you silly ninny! Those pieces of canvas hung on the walls are fake, false and deceitful. Nature can’t be painted or bought. Besides, what can you expect from those shrivelled-up mummies? They’ve betrayed their own nature and all of nature, as my father and my uncle, God rest his soul, used to say. He could even read and write too. Barren, is what they are! They chose to be barren like the treacherous, deceitful sand. Never mind paintings! Come on, let’s walk a little, come…’

Tuzzu led me by the hand along an endless expanse of springy blue grass that swayed so much it made you feel like you do after drinking rosolio at Easter.

‘ Such a silly monkey this picciridda is! First she pesters you like a fly because she wants to see the sea, then when you take her there she doesn’t even recognize it. ’

The grass gave way beneath my feet and pulled me down; I clung to Tuzzu’s arm, terrorized … How did you save us from the fire, Tuzzu?

‘ Don’t be afraid! Can’t you see I’m holding you? As long as I’m holding you, you don’t have to fear either water or fire. ’

And it was so. I didn’t sink. And we walked along, hand in hand, in the blue sea of Tuzzu’s eyes. His hand was hot and gripped me tight …

No, it wasn’t Tuzzu. It was that bald little man with the lizard eyes, gripping my wrist and shouting. He was always shouting, that little man. Maybe because he didn’t wear either a white or a black skirt?

‘Look, a seizure! And to make matters worse, her fever has risen again! This girl is going to die on us! Run, Sister Costanza, go immediately to Mother Leonora, and tell her that whatever sin this child has committed, she’d better come quickly or this one will die!’

So that was how to get out of there. That little man wasn’t as bad as he seemed. He must also be intelligent. I had to do as he said, and not be quiet and good like I had been those three days.

I closed my eyes to rejoin Tuzzu and the sea that left me fearful and breathless. And with all the strength inspired by desire and terror, I cried out loudly, but with one small variation. Instead of Tuzzu’s name, I said: ‘Mother! Forgive me, Mother!’ And I thought of Tuzzu, whom I had forgotten for so long: ‘Forgive me, Mother, forgive me!’

Everyone was moved, but Mother Leonora did not appear. She sent word via Sister Costanza’s sour, toothless mouth that she had forgiven me, but that she was waiting for God to give me a sign of His forgiveness before she could consider seeing me again.

How will I know when God has forgiven me?

As if she had read my thoughts, Sister Costanza added: ‘Don’t worry. If this sign manifests itself, Mother Leonora will know about it. We were not deaf to your intention to repent. But intention cannot yet be called repentance. There was too much passion in your tears. Nevertheless, given the state of your health and your good resolve, we accepted Dr Milazzo’s suggestion that starting tomorrow, you may go out for a few hours during the day. But take care not to disturb our quiet in the corridors and in the garden with your tears and sighs. This is a great favour that you have been granted; remember that. And pray for the doctor as well, since he interceded for you with such great affection.’

While waiting for God to give me a sign of His forgiveness, I began roaming through the corridors, the colonnade, the garden. That garden had seemed enormous to me when I raced across it so as not to miss a single new word, an adjective, a musical note. Now, like in dreams, it had grown smaller, a shrunken, crowded space. All those women knew but, as if by tacit agreement, they pretended not to see me even when I brushed by them. Exiled from their severe, impassive faces, I felt transparent: only my hands and shoulders felt heavy, forcing me to bend my head toward the ground. I had no appetite anymore. All I longed for was Mother Leonora’s smile in the morning, there in the room with the bookshelves that I thought were cupboards when I was little. How Mother Leonora had laughed once when I told her that.

Can such longing weigh you down even if you no longer love her as you did before? Having nothing better to do, I began trying to understand what that longing was. Never mind repenting. What I had to do was study myself and others like you study grammar and music, and stop indulging in my emotions. Such a beautiful word, ‘emotions’! But I had no time for words now. I had to think about what that longing was.

After days and days of meditation, I understood. It wasn’t Mother Leonora I missed, but all the privileges and attention those women had heaped on me solely for fear of Mother Leonora. Indeed, she gave the orders. Those tears and sighs were nothing but anger over no longer being the darling of the mistress of those handmaidens. Once I realized this, I stopped crying. Because affection, once it’s gone, doesn’t return.

It had been that way with the lay sister Annina as well. She had seemed so sweet, Annina! We had become such close friends and then she, too, had proved to be a coward. No, affection no longer returns, but favour, yes. You could win back favour.

To do this she had to continue studying her actions and those of others and not forget anything. Forgetting had also been a mistake. Mother Leonora had urged her to forget the past as if it could never return. Instead, a few misguided words were all it took to cast her back into an isolation marked by dry bread and a few bland soups identical to those when, as a child, she would wander about the chiana looking for Tuzzu.

Tuzzu was the only thing she remembered … why him? Maybe it was natural to try to remember only pleasant times. But if that was so, maybe it wasn’t a good thing. Because you learn more from your enemies — she had read that somewhere — and from the bad things of the past that … Yes, that must be so. And I decided that from that day on I would always remember everything about the past — both the good things and the bad — in order to bear it in mind and at least avoid repeating the mistakes that had already been made.

‘Don’t worry about it, princess! There’s a cure for everything, except for La Certa , Death!’ 8

Mimmo’s voice! It had been more than a month since anyone had spoken to me and I looked at him, startled. As usual, he was leaning against a tree, smoking and smiling. From afar his body, clad in dark brown velvet, looked like another trunk, which by some quirk of nature had sprung up from the oak.

‘For those like me who work among the trees, it’s an ancient custom to wear nature’s colours, to satisfy her whims and be protected by that lady. Nature is a woman and capricious. Take these nuns … Oh, not to speak ill of anyone, but with such a small plot of land, who would think they’d have me planting geraniums and hydrangeas…’

We had chatted together many times there where the woods were so dense that you couldn’t see anything from half a yard away. But given my situation, I couldn’t take the chance. Too bad. Not answering, I lowered my head and turned away from him. Truly a pity. Mimmo always had nice things to say to me and hundreds of names for me when I used to run about without a care and would hardly listen to him. He called me sunflower, little missy, princess …