Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

Modesta: ‘Rest your head and close your eyes. The sound will fade.’

A few more notes, now furiously joyful, knowing it is the last mandolin to reach the finishing post of the stars, and Jacopo’s head becomes heavy. From his breathing, Modesta knows he’s fallen asleep like Crispina: wrapped in a shawl, she dozes on Pietro’s chest as he sits at the edge of the sand where the rocky reef emerges. Pietro, motionless, a rock on rock, listens intently to the fireworks of those notes, mesmerized … It’s his music. He is able to surrender to the magnetism of the Jew’s harp just like Modesta, now that Jacopo is silent.

* * *

The last note glides off the black glass of the sky and plunges down — a shooting star — exposing the silence.

Jacopo: ‘How maddening, Mama: I fell asleep! Who’s the prettiest? Did the winning mandolinist choose?’

Modesta: ‘No, but we’ll know very soon. See how he’s looking around?’

Jacopo: ‘Why is he taking so long? It’s so simple!’

Modesta: ‘It’s part of the ritual, Jacopo. Besides, maybe he really is undecided. I would find it hard to choose too. Bambù, as you say, is in the bloom of youth, but Emanuela … who would have said so? In a year she’s become more beautiful than her mother.’

Jacopo: ‘Can grown women be chosen too, Mama?’

Modesta: ‘Of course. You were too young to remember: Stella was chosen three years in a row.’

Jacopo: ‘Even now, she may be the most beautiful, but I’d…’

Modesta: ‘Hush, Jacopo, we shouldn’t make any noise. Pietro is glaring at us. The right decision is only made in silence, so he says. Let’s go over there. The mandolinist won’t choose if the circle around the musicians isn’t complete.’

The winning mandolinist goes around the circle once, twice. On his third time around, he stops and stares at Bambù and Mela, who are holding hands. Then he steps back, but only to make his decision more evident, and removing the gardenia from the buttonhole of his jacket, slowly extends his arm. Everyone follows the silent trajectory of that white star, which comes to rest under Mela’s chin. Bambù lets go of her hand and steps back with the others.

1st Mandolinist: ‘After careful consideration, I tell you with certainty that this carusa , Mela, is the prettiest!’

Everyone but Mela applauds his decision. Jacopo jumps for joy, yelling,‘I knew it! I knew it! Bravo, mandolinist!’

Mela whispers, ‘But why me, why? Where should I put the gardenia now? Where is it supposed to go?’

1st Mandolinist: ‘On your chest. Enfold it in your musician’s soul and play for us and our children and our grandchildren for ever!’

Crispina laughs. Her eyes, heavy with sleep, can’t see, but she laughs at the joyous applause. That joy, though later forgotten, is destined to nourish her always.

In the parlour, the circle forms again around the piano and Mela competes alone on the keyboard against all three of the groups. No spotlight shines on her, yet she is the prettiest. Her arms, her fragile torso, filled out thanks to proper nourishment, have lost the grim scrawniness they once had. Dressed by Joyce, her hair done by Bambolina, and nurtured by Modesta, the former scarecrow in a grey smock — the Mela who first arrived — has dissolved with the past.

‘Oh, Zia, remember how awful that smock was? I had never noticed orphans, but what you used to say is really true: they look like prisoners! Since Mela has come to be with us, I understand and I notice them when I run into them on the street, all grey, lined up in a row. I feel so sorry for them! How she used to eat in the early days! You know that sometimes at night she would wake up and ask permission to go to the kitchen? Once she ate a whole jar of jam with a soup spoon. Can you imagine?’

* * *

Pietro: ‘A great honour for our Mela, isn’t it, Mody? You seem sad. Or are you just tired?’

Modesta: ‘No, Pietro. I’m worried about money. We’re nearly penniless. I stopped the sale of the house. Selling is one thing, but being left without a roof? No. Attorney Santangelo is right about that. We have to find that man, Pietro…’

Pietro: ‘There’s only one man. But the Princess doesn’t want to hear him mentioned. Or is the despondency that’s come over you perhaps teaching you wisdom?’

Modesta: ‘I don’t know, Pietro…’

Pietro: ‘Your hesitation tells me that Pietro was right to take the liberty of acting to hasten your decision …

‘I’ll take Jacopo and Crispina to bed. They’ve fallen asleep like two little lambs. Then I’ll come back and we’ll see.’

‘ How did you save us from the fire, Tuzzu? ’

‘ One under one arm and one under the other, like two sleepy little lambs. ’

Pietro ploughs through the waves of sound carrying Jacopo and Crispina to safety. Modesta follows him. But when she reaches the big window she has to stop. It wasn’t a hallucination: Mimmo is now climbing the stairs at Carmelo … his large body sheathed in dark green velvet …

Bambù: ‘Who is that, Zia?’

Modesta: ‘Mimmo the gardener. Don’t you see the big frame and the dark velvet outfit people in the country wear?’

Bambù: ‘Always joking, Zia. Hardly a gardener! Stella would say he’s dressed like a true gentleman.’

Mattia: ‘ Bacio le mani , my respects, Princess. I hope I’m not disturbing all this joy and merriment.’

Modesta: ‘Welcome! Joy, like bread, should be for everyone, Mattia. May I introduce my niece Ida?’

Mattia: ‘It’s an honour, signorina . Joy, like bread and tears, should be shared by one and all. That’s what Pietro told me two minutes ago. That’s the only reason I allowed myself to join your party.’

Modesta: ‘I’m glad you did, Mattia. But how did you come to be in this area?’

Mattia: ‘Actually, I’ve come by the villa several times since I returned from America, but I didn’t know whether time had put things between the Brandiforti and the Tudia in a more favourable light.’

Modesta: ‘Time is always favourable to us Brandiforti.’

Mattia: ‘I’m pleased to hear it. And I’m also pleased to see that time and nature have bestowed health and beauty on the late principessina Beatrice’s daughter.’

Bambù: ‘I’ll go now. They’ve stopped playing, and maybe they’re hungry or will be. We still have many hours to go. I’ll go help Stella. A pleasure to have met you, signor …’

Mattia: ‘The pleasure is mine, signorina … I see that you have kept to our traditions in bringing up these picciriddi .’

Modesta: ‘One must respect the good traditions and sever the bad ones.’

Mattia: ‘That’s right. Here comes Pietro … His presence is comforting, isn’t it, Modesta?’

Modesta: ‘Would you care to join the party and peacefully await dawn with us?’

Mattia: ‘With pleasure, Princess.’

Modesta: ‘Let’s hope the Prophet appears so we can end with a flourish. What do you think, Pietro? Will the children’s expectations be met?’

Pietro: ‘The sky is like glass, and that clarity bodes well. But the world has been gripped with a mania for speed. And just one of those evil iron birds is all it takes to frighten the sky, the sparrows and people’s minds … Here it comes again, the damn thing!’

Death caused by a mania for speed. Prando and his motorcycle. Mattia’s iron horse. The scar is throbbing. Is it in his fiery gaze, in those sparks that La Certa lurks? If he’s harbouring her in the copper-flecked blue of his eyes, Modesta must look up and face her …

Mattia: ‘Finally you’re looking at me, Modesta! And now I know how much I loved you. I’ve never forgotten your eyes in all these years … Youth bewilders us. Mistaking passion for a prison at the time, I fought you, rather than surrender to the rare sweetness of loving.’