Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

Bambù: ‘What kind of surprise?’

Prando: ‘How can a midnight party on the island continue without…’

Bambù: ‘Mandolins! Don’t tell me!’

Prando: ‘An impromptu concert by Don Ciccio the barber and the boys from his shop: mazurka vs mazurka, waltz vs waltz, duelling melodies. And the one who comes up with the most will be the only one to pluck the stars, and earn a chaste kiss from the prettiest girl!’

Jacopo: ‘Who is the prettiest, Prando? Who?’

Prando: ‘We’ll find out! The winning mandolinist will select the whitest gardenia blooming in the heat of this night. Here they come, let’s go meet the musicians.’

‘… And this is Don Donato from Santa Ninfa with his carusi . He’s the only one we were missing. He’s the oldest, and an expert on the guitar. See, Alberto, we have three complete shops…’

Prando explains to an attentive thin face, surely a new friend from the university:

‘… the barber and his boys sitting in a circle, like on sunny afternoons in front of the empty shop — that’s the beauty of the job! Mornings are spent touching up trims and moustaches, sharpening razors — an occupation requiring a skilful hand, not hard labour. Later, waiting until evening for any customers, sitting on the sidewalk shaded by acacia trees and oaks, fingers practise on the delicate, razor-thin mandolin strings. A mason, a porter, or a dockhand can’t bend his deformed wrists over the strings. In Catania, Palermo and Messina they’ve lost the tradition that flourishes only in the shade of centuries-old oak trees. They cut down the trees there, to pile building upon building, but here…’

For a moment the three shops face off silently, in tightly knit groups. At an invisible sign, the great duel of improvised melodies and rhythms splits the night, while a flock of frightened birds takes flight after the notes, revealing the silvery stars to watching eyes.

Mela: ‘So many stars, Bambù, I hadn’t realized it!’

Bambù: ‘Legend says that the mandolin has the power to multiply them.’

Mela: ‘And listen to them play! A far cry from the conservatory! I think I would have done better studying with them.’

Bambù: ‘How can you say that, Mela?!’

Mela: ‘Quiet, Bambù, hush. I want to soak up their nimble touch. Oh, if only I could steal it from them and impart it to my piano! The piano is impervious, by God!’

Bambù: ‘What do you mean?’

Mela: ‘Be quiet, Bambù! Where on earth do they get all these melodies?’

Bambù: ‘They know them by heart, so Prando said; they memorize them. They hand them down from father to son.’

Mornings at the seashore, Mela and Bambù are no longer concerned about losing their alluring paleness, nor do they fear being viewed as ‘indecent’, as people once said: there, on that private beach, in that small realm, only local boys come — and perhaps a sister of those evolved males, students, rich and poor — daring to defy public opinion. And only because of money … ‘ Money makes the man. In fact, no poor man is ever considered valiant or esteemed .’ Carlo laughed, and afterwards Alceo brought Plato into it: ‘The Republic! Easy to conceive it on the labour and blood of the Helots! You know what I say, Modesta? That Plato is the most reactionary of…’

Jacopo: ‘Are you sad, Mama?’

Modesta: ‘No, Jacopo, I’m listening to the music.’

Jacopo: ‘Then I’ll keep quiet. It’s just that I wanted to ask you a question. What book was Prando talking about earlier with Bambù?’

Modesta: ‘Oh, nothing … or rather a fundamental book for women.’

Jacopo: ‘Oh, really? Is it by an Italian?’

Modesta: ‘No, it’s by August Bebel, a German socialist, have you heard of him? Part of Rosa Luxemburg’s circle.’

Jacopo: ‘Oh! And it talks about women?’

Modesta: ‘The title tells you that: Woman and Socialism .’

Jacopo: ‘And who gave it to you? Your mother?’

Modesta: ‘Oh, no. My mother couldn’t read or write; you always forget that. I found it among Uncle Jacopo’s books. I told you about Uncle Jacopo’s treasure trove, remember?’

Jacopo: ‘Oh yes, of course. But I thought … well … is it because I’m a boy that you never gave it to me?’

The doleful chords of the last mandolin are echoed in Jacopo’s crestfallen eyes, exposing an injustice to Modesta. Unfair Modesta! In her eagerness to protect the future woman in Bambù, she has overlooked Jacopo, Prando and ’Ntoni.

Jacopo: ‘You haven’t answered, Mama. Why? Is it a book only for women?’

Modesta: ‘No, Jacopo, I’m at a loss. Your words showed me a mistake I made. Certainly, it’s a book aimed at women, but it’s written by a man, and I should have recommended it to you and Prando as well.’

Jacopo: ‘That’s what I wanted to know, Mama. You’ve always said that both men and women should read the same books, the same newspapers … I remember, you know, how you got angry at Stella because she didn’t want Mela to read L’Avventuroso 81and…’

Modesta: ‘Of course, Jacopo … I made a mistake. But we can remedy that. You’ll find it among Uncle Jacopo’s other books, the old ones in my study, but don’t take it to school or around with you because it’s banned.’

Jacopo: ‘Oh — that book too?’

Modesta: ‘Yes, indeed! And they’re right … given the way they see things … It says a thing or two about the condition of women, and that upsets the Fascists and the Nazis.’

Jacopo: ‘Is it one of the many books that have been burned? So many of them have! I’ll read it, partly because I hope it will enable me to understand Bambolina and Stella a little. Well! I just don’t understand women. I’m not like Prando, who says women are an insoluble mystery, but it’s because sometimes they scare me … I don’t know, when Stella accuses ’Ntoni … it’s not that she shouts at him or anything, but it scares me.’

Modesta: ‘Do I scare you too, Jacopo?’

Jacopo: ‘With you it’s different … if anything, you scare me like Pietro or like Prando. Do you know that ’Ntoni always says he feels, with mathematical certainty, that he’s your son and not Stella’s?’

Modesta: ‘Maybe because Stella is uneducated. Don’t forget, Jacopo: culture is a privilege, and by now he’s too well educated for Stella, and even for his age.’

Jacopo: ‘That may be. But there’s more than that, I think, more! I myself adore Stella and I’d like to be like ’Ntoni.’

Modesta: ‘Why like ’Ntoni?’

Jacopo: ‘You see, Mama, many times I dreamed that you weren’t my mother … What I mean is, the mother who gave birth to me, like Stella did to ’Ntoni.’

Modesta: ‘Well then? Go on, why are you trembling?’

Jacopo: ‘I’m ashamed … But I dream that you found me when I was little, wrapped in a blanket … sometimes on a street corner in the Civita, sometimes on the beach.’

Modesta: ‘And it upsets you to dream like that?’

Jacopo: ‘Oh, no! On the contrary, I like it. I feel like having chosen me without having had me, you … I can’t explain it, you see: it seems to me, well, a choice, not something fated. And because of this I feel like you love me more than the others. Is it awful, what I said?’

Modesta: ‘Why awful, Jacopo? Dreams are wonderful. Then too, as always, there’s some truth in dreams, because if I hadn’t given birth to you I would have chosen you among thousands.’

Jacopo: ‘Oh, Mama, I’ve been wanting to tell you for so long, but I was afraid. Can I rest my head on your shoulder? This mandolin is beginning to give me a headache. How about you?’