Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘One child.’

‘One child, and now…’

‘And now I love you, a woman. And I don’t care about my past or my future.’

‘You’re an exception.’

‘And what about Beatrice? For years we loved each other and later she loved Carlo. And the same can be said for countless other men and women. I know of many, and you met one of them at the party.’

‘Who?’

‘The winning mandolinist. He loved a male cousin and now he has a son and even…’

‘Stop! Enough! Talking to you is impossible. That’s awful!’

‘But have you ever tried making love with a man?’

‘Even though I can’t stand the way you’ve taken to interrogating me in the last few days, I’ll answer you: no, never! The very idea is repugnant to me.’

‘You’ve been questioning me for years, Joyce, and this helped me to understand my past, to draw logical conclusions and to express them. So why this reserve since I started asking you some questions?’

‘Because you’re sick, at least as sick as me, and it’s my duty to tell you so because some day this illness will explode like…’

‘How? By my trying to kill myself? Like you did?’

‘When you realize that you’ve wasted your time, that you didn’t make use of your talent, that you didn’t accomplish anything.’

‘You may be right to say I’m sick, Joyce, but I don’t have the same illness as yours. It’s you who are identifying with me now: your illness has other origins.’

‘And what would those origins be?’

‘Power, Joyce, power acquired by imitating men. Your contempt for women, which at first I thought was the usual condescension acquired through upbringing, comes from imitating men, from joining the chorus of learned males; your contempt for old Gaia, for Beatrice, for Stella, is rooted in hatred.’

‘So? I don’t see where you’re going with this.’

‘It’s simple. By joining this elite group that keeps telling you, “You’re an exception, you are worthy of entering our Olympus”…’

‘I still don’t see…’

‘You’ve gone over to their side, and in you, the old bias dictated by the norms of our mothers and sisters turned into hatred for your female side, since like it or not, you have breasts and you menstruate — a hatred intense enough to sterilize your breasts and your womb.’

‘I can’t stand this anatomical language!’

‘On the contrary, it’s time we returned to this language, the only precise one for the time being. I’ve thought about it. What do you think? You’ve sterilized and mutilated yourself. But every mutilation seeks compensation. And the only compensation left to you, just as for men, was exercising power, shaping things, giving orders. Because it’s not just women who have penis envy, who feel mutilated. Men also feel mutilated.’

‘In what way?’

‘They can’t carnally create a life. And so they try to give birth to ideas. Think of Pygmalion, of Zeus, who makes up for his mutilation by impregnating his cranium and bringing forth not a naked, unformed creature, but a splendid warrior-woman armed with helmet and shield. This is because a man is a mother just like a woman, except that I have never met a mother-man who had your power. Carmine becomes a tender little mummy compared to you.’

‘And you think that’s funny?’

‘Maternal transference! 87That may be, Mama Jò, that may be!’

‘Enough of this. Stop laughing! It’s getting on my nerves, like your amateurish theories.’

‘Now what. Are you leaving, Mama Jò?’

‘Ignorant bitch!’

‘Finally! This is the first time you’ve lost control. What is it, are you becoming vulgar on me?’

Joyce leaps at Modesta and strikes her repeatedly with her fists. No woman has ever hit me. Beatrice trembled and cried when I slapped her, but for me that slight sting on my cheeks only has the power to make me laugh even harder.

When Joyce, her anger spent, falls to the carpet rubbing her hands, Modesta follows her and hugs her. Maybe Joyce hurt herself like Modesta used to when she hit Carmine on the face and shoulders.

‘Did you hurt yourself, Joyce?’

‘Oh, I did!’

‘Your hands are too delicate for hitting like that.’

‘And your head is as hard as marble!’

‘The bone structure of us country folk. Heads, hearts and minds as hard as stone. Tuzzu used to say, “Who knows who knocked up your mother?” Your hands are frozen. Let me rub them.’

‘Oh, they hurt!’

‘I’ll be gentle … And you? Who knows who knocked up your mother?’

‘A frigid, elegant mannequin. And to think that abroad all they talk about is the warmth and humanity of the Italians. Compared to my father, any Englishman I met always seemed like a Neapolitan to me.’

‘You can never be sure whose child you are, Joyce. Only a mother knows, but in most cases she doesn’t say.’

‘Oh, I’m sure about me and Renan.’

‘And who is Renan?’

‘My sister.’

‘But wasn’t her name…? I’m sorry, you called her by another name, or were there three of you?’

‘No, please, Modesta! Don’t interrogate me, don’t interrogate me!’

‘I’m not interrogating you, Joyce! It’s just that I love you. When you love someone you want to know what they were like ten, twenty years ago. That’s all it is, believe me. Oh, Joyce, I’ve already experienced this moment.’

‘What moment?’

‘We two, sitting here on the carpet, talking, the light fading into darkness, and … you too must have felt that there are certain moments you’ve already experienced. Haven’t you? If only we were able to remember, we could avoid all the mistakes we’re compelled to make, because I’m certain these moments we’ve already experienced are warnings.’

‘Ridiculous, Modesta!’

‘Maybe … So, getting back to your sister … did you say her name was Renan? Are you sure about her?’

‘Sure about what?’

‘Come on, play along … Are you sure she was your father’s daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the other one, the one who died in Milan? What was her name? Oh, yes … Joland.’

‘Yes … she was too.’

‘My, my, what a respectable family! What a proper mother! Three children with the same man. Of course, times were different! Women had a lot of patience!’

‘It’s Timur I’m absolutely certain about. He’s not my father’s son.’

‘Timur? You have a brother too?’

‘He showed up yesterday.’

‘Well, where is he?’

‘I sent him away.’

‘Why? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Did you tell me that your Mattia had returned? Brava , Modesta. You’re really gifted at describing people. You could be an excellent writer if you only put your mind to it. He’s exactly the way you described him to me.’

‘Oh, stop it, Joyce. You have the same talent for omitting things. How could I tell you about Mattia when all you’ve done since I woke up is attack me, saying awful things? Or is it Mattia’s return that’s bothering you?’

‘Given that you spent a whole night with him, it seems to me that…’

‘Oh, Joyce, how stupid I am! Is that what’s changed you like this? Mattia’s return? Of course I should have told you, but I assure you it slipped my mind. Are you jealous? That would explain your harshness. Oh, if that’s the case, all those awful remarks don’t mean a thing. I feel relieved. If it’s jealousy, it’s fitting. I too would be jealous … Tell me that’s what it is, and I swear that if his presence upsets you, I’ll send him away. Hold me, Joyce, hold me!’

‘Don’t be melodramatic. I can’t stand these scenes. No one is asking you to make any sacrifices, and besides … let me up, I hurt all over from lying on the floor. It’s time to turn on the light. With you, one loses all sense of reality.’