Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘He’s not stupid. A young man so passionate and cogent can’t be stupid.’

‘You’re right. It’s the mother in me that won’t allow me to recognize his intelligence simply because it’s different from mine. But by God! mother or not, how can you understand an intelligence, or passion as you say — and you’re right, passion is intelligence — for engines and speed?’

‘But he studies them. He designs vehicles: improbable vehicles, yet…’

‘But all he reads are comic books. Comics, movies and driving fast! I’m wrong, aren’t I? It does me so much good having you around, Jò!’

‘On the contrary, I’m afraid it’s bad for you.’

‘How can you say that? These past years, with your help, my head has opened up, as Mimmo would have said. Or as ’Ntoni says: “The curtains of my brain parted.” Why did he say that? Oh yes, when he went to Palermo to see Zacconi in Ghosts . Since that day he’s read nothing but Ibsen.’

‘How whimsical ’Ntoni is! And such brilliance! Did you see the feeling he put into playing Giufà? Too bad Stella doesn’t understand him. She’s been crying ever since ’Ntoni decided to become a comic actor. She thinks of actors as depraved degenerates. You, too, underestimate Prando’s intelligence, because he applies it to engines rather than books.’

‘You’re right, Jò. Lovely, lovely Jò! But why are we standing here talking about ’Ntoni? I have an urge to see him. Who knows whom he’s impersonating at this moment. Let’s go!’

* * *

‘Oh! Look, look how funny he is!’

‘He’s impersonating Mussolini!’

‘Yes, haven’t you ever seen him do it? The speech about the Empire. It’s that speech that got him the script with Angelo Musco.’

‘But isn’t Angelo Musco a Fascist?’

‘No, but he consents to having the royal march and the Fascist anthem played before the performance: “O Sun that rises from shit”, as he says. 78And as he also says: “one restrains oneself” hearing it … in these times, it’s the only way to save your hide.’

‘A despicable attitude.’

‘It may be despicable, but it’s the same stance taken by Petrolini, by Pirandello, by Croce, by … Oh, Jò, you’re right, but let me listen to ’Ntoni. Besides, despicable or not, given the times, I prefer to be lost in a crowded auditorium and to go on listening to Musco and Pirandello, than to know that they lie mute under a fine alabaster tomb. What are you doing? Running away again?’

‘I’m not running away, Modesta, it’s just that…’

‘That what?’

‘I can’t stand it! All this peace, this joy, this making jokes about Mussolini, while Fascism triumphs everywhere.’

‘And what would you prefer? To see the house in mourning and these young people miserable, or better yet, crying with us because we — I say we: you, me, Jose, Carlo — weren’t able to bring about the revolution?’

‘It’s terrible. Even Russia is making eyes at Mussolini. Never mind Chamberlain, but Stalin…’

‘So? You’re just discovering it tonight?’

‘No, no! But joking around, having a good time…’

‘Not simply joking, Jò, ridiculing! It’s a way of toppling a myth for those young people, an exorcism so they won’t soak it up and so they can be prepared to trample it someday. A day that we two, I fear, will never see. Besides, it’s an insult to them, Jò! You know very well that none of them, not even Bambù, is satisfied with just mocking him, but … Joyce, wait! What’s wrong, what’s come over you?’

‘Leave me alone, Modesta! Let me go. I don’t feel well.’

‘Oh, no, that’s not it!’

‘You’re hurting my wrist!’

‘I’ll break this wrist of yours if you don’t stop running away and not speaking.’

‘Let go of me. They can see us.’

‘So what? You’ve covered yourself up like a mummy just because of a few kisses.’

‘Modesta!’

‘Oh, enough! Look out, I feel like untying that bow, which only a shamefaced cat would slink around in, forcing you to display the marks of my kisses.’

‘Do you see I’m right?’

‘See what? Right about … what? Say something! How can I tell what you’re thinking?’

‘I think your wish to display me to everyone is a desire to legitimize a relationship that can never be legitimized.’

‘But that can be shared with others without this shame that’s eating you up. What is it, shame or fear? Take off that foulard! Let everyone know, or at least be forced to openly acknowledge what they know.’

‘But your children!’

‘My children! My children are grown, and it would be a way to make them face reality and see if they can handle it, or else lose them.’

‘You’re insane!’

‘I’m not insane, Jò, and I would never do this if you didn’t feel ashamed even when we’re alone. If you didn’t always feel ashamed, even of yourself. At first I didn’t understand the reason for those tears after our kisses and embraces. Those tears, your not looking at me, your running away, which kept me teetering anxiously for years. But now I know: you’re the one who feels that our relationship is sinful, and you turn from me as soon as you’re satisfied, as if my face were the sign of your guilt. You’re the one who — and worse yet, not unconsciously — would like to legitimize our relationship. You let it slip out one night, you let those words if I were a man! slip out.’

‘Enough, stop!’

‘ If I were a man! Go ahead, go! Go cry in your room. It makes me laugh to think if you were a man, or if Beatrice had been a man! I love you because you’re a woman, and as a woman. So why are you still standing there? I let go of your wrist, didn’t I? Go! I want to listen to ’Ntoni, or at least eat dinner, by God!’

‘But for me it’s the first time, Modesta, the first…’

‘The first time what? I don’t understand.’

‘The first time I’ve … had an intimate relationship with a woman.’

A furious round of applause erupts from down at the bay. Il Duce has concluded his victory speech, and with his arm raised in the Fascist salute, he slowly pivots around, his back rigid as steel. Like in the frames of the Cineluce newsreel, the last sentence of ’Ntoni’s speech is lost in the frenzied hail that bursts hysterically from thousands and thousands of mouths … They’re even mocking the masses, those kids. Or are they too preparing to rush into the piazzas — yet another victory of the ‘bundled rods’ 79— and voice their longing to be like others, to rejoice or weep with others and end the solitary struggle to be different?

‘It’s hard! I can’t hate Cesare, even though he took the train with the other Fascist youth, the avanguardisti , in order to go to Rome to cheer Mussolini. Besides he’s poor, and it’s a free trip.’

Scores of children — all named Italo, Benito, Edda and Romana — burgeon in the countryside and in the cities. New saints replace Rosalia, Agatha, Joseph. A remaining ‘Liberal’ or two has asked to be called Ardito on his Party membership card … 80

Joyce reties her foulard. What did she say? The hail of applause swallowed her last words.

‘How did you describe our love, Jò? I thought I heard “intimate relationship”, or am I wrong?’

‘It’s the first time for me, Modesta.’

‘What does that mean? When you love, it’s always the first time.’

‘Let me go! I don’t feel well.’

‘I’m not holding you back. You’re free to go.’

‘But you’re questioning me!’

‘Questioning myself, Joyce; pay no attention.’

‘You’re pale as a corpse.’

‘For me it’s the first time I’ve felt unhappy in our relationship, as you call it.’