Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘What! You yourself said a moment ago that I’ve always kept you teetering anxiously.’

‘The tightrope of love swings back and forth, forever tied between the tree of anxiety and the tree of fear. Like life, it holds a constant reminder that death must be overcome, and not this emptiness toward you that I now feel. Help me, Joyce!’

‘How can I, bambina , how can I?’

‘Don’t call me bambina . At one time I was moved by it, but now that I understand it, your shame humiliates me.’

‘How can I help feeling ashamed? I’m ashamed of just being in the world, being alive. Why was I brought into the world? Why?’

‘Isn’t it enough for you to think that you were brought into the world to enrich my life, to give me the joy of holding you in my arms? Well? For me this thought has sufficed during these years of confinement.’

‘These years have been like a prison for you too.’

‘How could it be otherwise? Not forgetting, however, that real prisons, those that swallow up hundreds of people like us in their dark bowels, are something else entirely.’

‘Come back up with me, Modesta.’

‘No! I’m beginning to understand you. You want me back there to cry with you, to reject those kids’ joy. You’ve set your sights on a real cell, but I’m hungry! And from the silence that has fallen, it’s clear that Bambolina’s ringing voice has ordered: “And now, let’s all eat!” I can just see her! Like her mother, finger raised, her tiny body whirling around …

‘She’s not lame like Beatrice, but she has the same grace when she moves. Look, see how she’s lit up the beach with acetylene lamps? And surely, on the crates, the embroidered linen tablecloths she so loves set off the silver cutlery and crystal glasses. To me all that splendour is unimportant, but what does matter is the joy of that light stolen from the darkness, from the obscurantism of these years. Besides, I’m hungry! Forgive me, Joyce, but like Beatrice, Bambolina gets annoyed if we’re late for dinner, and she’s right. The party languishes if there’s an empty place.’

* * *

Bambù: ‘What a pleasure it is, Zia, to see you eating with such appetite! But where’s Joyce? Did her headache come back? Prando, why don’t you go and see if she needs anything?’

Prando: ‘Come now, my dear beautiful cuginetta . So beautiful that I promise you, little cousin — providing you don’t change for the worse like Teresa, who was a sylph at your age and has now become squat and dumpy — I promise to marry you, if no one will have you. Or is it forbidden between cousins? Jacopo, you who know everything, is it prohibited?’

Jacopo: ‘I think it requires a dispensation from the Church.’

Bambù: ‘ Uffa , what unpleasant talk! Besides I’m never getting married! I asked you, please, to go and see if Joyce…’

Prando: ‘Ah! I see that Mama’s book hit the mark, cuginetta .’

Jacopo: ‘What book?’

Prando: ‘A certain little 800-page book about women and socialism.’

Bambù: ‘All I asked you to do was go and see if Joyce…’

Prando: ‘Come on, Bambù! It’s hopeless! You know that when she has a headache … and when doesn’t she have one? What do you say, Jacopo, maybe every other Sunday? Provided, of course, that it’s not too bright or too dark or too hot or too cold.’

Bambù: ‘Don’t talk that way about Joyce, Prando! When you act like that, you’re vulgar.’

Prando: ‘Just look at how our Bambù rails in defence of the signora ! What is it? Are you, too, perhaps in love with the beautiful foreign lady, like all the other women in this house? Hey Jacopo, do you know that everyone calls her Greta Garbo? The femme fatale who robs us of our mothers and cousins.’

Jacopo: ‘Even male cousins for that matter.’

Prando: ‘Ah! Have you fallen at her feet as well, my dear Jacopone? Don’t tell me.’

Jacopo: ‘I adore her, Prando.’

Prando: ‘Even though she’s always so pale and long-suffering?’

Jacopo: ‘Maybe for that very reason.’

Prando: ‘What a romantic!’

Jacopo: ‘And I think Bambù is right. What do you think, Mama? Should I go and see if I can persuade her to join us?’

Modesta: ‘No, Jacopo, don’t get up. She won’t come. Joyce doesn’t want to be disturbed. Though, as Bambolina says, when Prando acts like that it’s vulgar and irritating.’

Prando: ‘Thanks, Mama.’

Modesta: ‘You’re welcome. And don’t look at me that way!’

Prando: ‘You don’t like me when I do that, do you, Mama?’

Modesta: ‘No!’

Prando: ‘And to think I do it on purpose.’

Modesta: ‘Why?’

Prando: ‘Because I actually like you when you get angry. Isn’t it true, Bambù, that she’s beautiful when she’s incensed? Remember that day we were arguing, and she came down like a fury and slapped us silly? Cesare and Ciccio too, did they catch it!’

Bambù: ‘Of course I remember! I can still feel the sting of her fingers on my cheeks, even as you say it.’

Jacopo: ‘I don’t remember.’

’Ntoni: ‘Me neither.’

Prando: ‘How can you two possibly remember — your mouths were still full of breast milk!’

Jacopo: ‘I never saw Mama hit anybody, did you, ’Ntoni?’

’Ntoni: ‘Don’t wind him up, Jacopo. Drop it!’

Prando: ‘Naturally she doesn’t go around hitting sheep like you two, but wolves like me and Bambù.’

Bambù: ‘I’m not a wolf!’

Prando: ‘You’re more of a wolf than I am, beautiful cuginetta ! Only, being female, you wear docile sheepskins to conceal the bristly hide you have underneath.’

Bambù: ‘Oh Prando, that’s enough! Why are you doing this? Always being a killjoy.’

Mela: ‘Leave Bambù alone, Prando! Can’t you see she’s crying?’

Prando: ‘There she is, the silent musician rushing to the defense of her little friend! Too many women in this company, my dear Jacopo! And now that ’Ntoni is leaving, and me too, what will become of you?’

Bambù: ‘Will you stop it? What’s come over you?’

Prando: ‘Look at the fire in my cuginetta ’s eyes! So they weren’t a sheep’s tears, were they?’

Bambù: ‘Tears of anger, Prando, anger! When you act like this I hate you! And why are you looking at Mama when I’m speaking to you?’

Prando: ‘Because I haven’t seen her in ages.’

Prando’s scar flares up, purplish. A roar rises from the sea, tracing a luminous crescent against the black sky.

Bambù: ‘An airplane! A plane went by! Like a lightning bolt, Zia, did you see it?’

Prando: ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, Bambù. Great strides are now being made in the sky. You sound like Stella, who’s still afraid of trains.’

Bambù: ‘But so many of them have been passing by lately.’

Prando: ‘Come, don’t worry! Give me your hand, and you won’t be afraid anymore. Forgive my earlier vulgarity, cuginetta , but everything seems out of kilter to me since…’

Bambù: ‘Since when, dearest Prando?’

Prando: ‘It’s obvious! Everyone in black shirts! Even this morning — I didn’t want to say anything, not to spoil the party — but even Carlo…’

Bambù: ‘Carlo, Lo Preti’s son? But he was a socialist!’

Prando: ‘That’s right, Bambù, him too! He says that without a party membership card, he can’t take part in the Mille Miglia. He says that in his heart he doesn’t give a damn about it but…’

Bambù: ‘So?’

Prando: ‘So I don’t believe all these people laughing it off anymore. They dismiss it as trivial, yet no foreign domination of the past has sunk as many roots into our land like this goddamn Dux! But come on! We’ve sat at the table long enough. There’s a surprise for you, Bambù, and for you, Mela.’