Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Why princess, Mimmo? I’m not a princess.’

‘But you are, you are! A princess by a caprice of Nature, who sometimes enjoys making a royal princess bowlegged while giving a willowy, regal bearing to a nobody. Ah, little princess, my heart aches at the thought that this lily-white skin of yours is destined to wither away among these four walls. Last night at sunset, may God strike me if I’m lying, you looked like a pale rose gilded by the sun. And if I were a bee I would have no other desire than to alight upon the rosebud of your sweet lips.’

Rising on tiptoe, facing him, I responded by closing my eyes:

‘Go on Mimmo, make believe you’re that bee and alight on me.’ But he didn’t move. Only when I opened my eyes did he say:

‘With your eyes closed, no, princess. The flower and the bee kiss with their eyes open.’

And moving close he placed his large hand between my shoulder and my neck with a touch lighter than I ever thought an oak could possess.

‘Besides, my attentions aren’t self-serving, princess. Or rather, their only interest is feeling this silky, swanlike neck beneath my fingers. Once I was in Catania, a large city that is far, far away from here, down by the sea. In this city there was an immense park called Villa Bellini — who knows if it’s still there? I’m talking about many years ago. They told me that this Bellini had been a great local figure, one of the men whose statues are all around amid the trees. So many statues! And there are not only statues. There’s also a kind of platform, where the band plays, not like in theatres where you have to pay, but free for everybody. And then there are a lot of old men sitting under the trees near the statues, ready to tell ancient stories of adventure to those who stop. These old men make you pay, but not much, just a few cents. The best thing in the park is a big lake, full of swans that you can pet if you’re polite. And I can assure you, princess, that your skin is as delicate and smooth as…’

Incredible. It was true that he had good manners and showed no self-interest. In fact, without finishing the sentence he removed his hand from my neck and touched his cap, departing with a ‘Good day, princess’. So not all men were interested in only one thing, as my mother and the nuns insisted. Especially now that I had fallen into disgrace, what interest could he have in talking to me?

‘Don’t you feel well, princess? Collapsing on the ground like a frightened little chick?’

A voice, after more than a month! I’d like to run away, but he goes on: ‘It’s damp here, my little chick, extremely damp.’

‘That’s true, Mimmo, thank you. Now I have to go.’

‘Go where? From riches to rags, eh, princess? But don’t take it to heart. It happens to everyone at least once. If only it were just once in a lifetime! But you certainly caused a stir! Who would have thought so, a little thing like you! You caused such an uproar that the whole convent is still reeling from it!’

‘So you think when someone falls, Mimmo, she can choose whether to fall down hard or gently?’

‘ Brava , princess! I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour! A good sign. To tell you the truth, I was a little worried seeing you wandering around like a sleepwalker, all bent over. I said to myself: don’t tell me she’s becoming hunchbacked from all that praying and penance! You wouldn’t be the first young girl I’ve seen enter these walls nice and straight as a ramrod, who little by little becomes stooped like a beast of burden until she withers away and goes out feet first, pardon the expression, without ever experiencing the rewards of a long, happy old age. My wife and my sister-in-law have white hair, yet they’re content, having escaped hunger and illness. But these nuns … who can understand them? They say they live chastely, yet they’re bowed down as though bearing the most grievous sins.’

Before, when Mimmo started talking that way about the sisters and the convent, I would run away, but now his remarks entered my blood like a soothing balm. I felt the need to straighten up and raise my head.

‘There, that’s better, brava , princess, brava : stand straight like you did before.’

‘It’s just that my hands and arms feel so heavy.’

‘Of course. When the body loses its vital spirit, whether due to grief or disgrace or lack of food, the hands and arms sag lifelessly. But that’s a bad sign. It means the soul is tired of the body and wants to die. It happened to me when I got the notice that my oldest son, Nunziato, had died in the war in Libya. My arms felt heavy; they were pulling me toward him. And to keep going — six children, flesh of my flesh, were depending on me for bread — to keep going, I had to cut off those arms. Now they work, they move, but I don’t feel them anymore. They’re gone along with him, princess.’

‘I have to go now, Mimmo; they might come.’

‘No, for now no one is coming: the oak is silent. But if you feel uneasy, go. But nice and straight, eh! Grab yourself by the hair and pull your spirit up. Because all they’re waiting for, even if they don’t know it, is to see you stoop so far over that you’ll find yourself six feet under.’

‘No, don’t say that, Mimmo. You’re such a good man, why do you talk like that?’

‘Because it’s the truth. What do you think? That a good person can’t see the truth? You know who you have to thank for at least being able to go outside?’

‘Of course I know: the doctor.’

‘That’s right, the doctor. But the doctor alone wouldn’t have been able to do it if a novice hadn’t died eight or ten years ago. She was your age more or less and, like you, she too was a protégée of Mother Leonora.’

‘How did she die?’

‘She killed herself, dear child. And who could blame her? Locked up in that room for more than a month, she became despondent and jumped from the window. See, that one over there. I found her splattered on the ground at daybreak. No one had heard a thing. These convents have thick walls, bomb-proof walls, so as not to hear either the tears or the joys of this world. Look, that’s the window.’

‘That’s the room I’m in.’

‘Of course! Because it’s the cell adjacent to Mother Leonora’s. That’s where her protégées end up.’

‘But how did she do it? There are iron grilles…’

‘No, they put those in afterwards. As they say in Catania, Saint Agatha’s sanctuary was robbed first, then later they put in a gate … Anyway, as I was telling you, the doctor — who just so you know is a man of pure mind and heart, who knows the law besides medicine — the doctor was able to obtain approval for you to have a breath of fresh air and some recreation by reminding them of that suicide which everybody here, apart from me, had forgotten. Of course, now they’ve sent him away. But he is a man of true conviction, and he went away untroubled. I’ll say goodbye now, princess. The oak tree is telling me that the troops are on the move and that you and I had better go our separate ways.’

The oak is telling me … It was actually true. All he had to do was lean his head against the gnarled trunk to know if there was any movement in the woods. I tried it too, but the tree said nothing to me. Yet after a few minutes the white skirts of the novices began to appear amidst the low-growing shrubbery. They came toward me and then pretended to be startled, scampering away in exaggerated terror punctuated by shrieks and laughter. The oak did not speak to me, but it had been right to warn Mimmo. That’s it, come and laugh as much as you please. Now I know how to put a stop to all this fun you’re having. Enjoy yourselves while the farce lasts since, as Mimmo says, ‘he who laughs last laughs best’.