Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘The sun has reached our table, Princess. Shall we move inside for coffee? You will have coffee, I hope? I confess that lunch and dinner for me, when I’m in Italy, are merely a prelude to our incomparable coffee. Or would you prefer that we stay here and have them open the umbrella?’

Joyce’s smile, quick to be switched on and off, lingers a bit longer among those scars, following the waiter in a white jacket. With a few deft strokes he creates a circle of green shade around us.

‘I confess, Princess, that I never cease to be amazed at our people’s grace and style. Sometimes, forgetting an engagement, I’ve found myself contemplating the spare, ethereal gestures of any one of our policemen directing traffic. It may sound exaggerated, but those movements have always reminded me more of those of a great orchestra conductor than a military man. Similarly, you — it’s not indiscretion, believe me, simply admiration that compels me to stare at you like this — you have an ancient, solemn grace, so rare in this era wholly intent on making women sturdy and athletic so that they can keep pace with men in the marches.

‘Unfortunately, all progress requires sacrifice! And our Führer, realizing that the value of women has for too long been squandered in the shadows of the confessional, has rightly summoned woman to duty toward our people, awakening her from the erroneous, individualistic conviction that her guardian-angel wings should enfold only the limited, if hallowed, sphere of her own family. Hitler has shrewdly recognized the limitation of this mission, until recently imposed on women, and identified it as an attitude opposed to progress and the advancement of our peoples.

‘And women have flocked to his summons. The Berlin Olympics were an exciting revelation. Having given up their binding, braided tresses, their newly released heads were worthy of our ancient Dianas! Don’t be sad, I understand you perfectly. Freeing myself of aestheticism and frailty was costly to me too, brought up as I was in a depleted, corrupt culture. And I’m not afraid to admit that occasionally, during the long process of re-education that I’ve set myself, in light of the absolute truth of new ideas that are vital and no longer contemplative, I am overcome by nostalgia for a world destined to perish. But I’m able to stifle these faint attacks and get back on the right track of action, which has finally been mapped out! Of what use were we intellectuals, greater or lesser? While we satisfied ourselves with abstract, poetic study, our people continued to rot away in illness and impotence! Without being modest, I, like other young people, am able to glimpse in the Führer’s speeches the goal toward which he is urging us: Europe will be one great nation, led by technocrats, by intellectuals finally raised only to serve their State, and not their own sterile narcissism. Who am I? What are fifty or a hundred years to history? Men like us will be swept away, and in our place men and women will grow up whole and strong, strengthened by a single will! If only Joyce had allowed a dialogue to take place between us many years ago! Men like Carl Gustav Jung have put their science at the service of Germany. Russia is willing to coexist with us …

‘You must forgive this long speech, Princess, inspired only by the cut of your hair, so at odds with your way of moving, with your ancient beauty. Your entire person had misled me … It takes time to accurately date a vase, a hand, a mutilated torso. Seeing the absence of long hair that your profile brings to mind, I had thought of — how shall I put it? — a mutilation. But slowly, during this time that you’ve been kind enough to grant me, I caught in your chin and in your neck a glimpse of the temerity of Artemis Toxotis, 91unquestionably intended by the great sculptor that is nature … Don’t be embarrassed, it’s not a compliment, simply the objective opinion of a connoisseur. And though aesthetically I can see the sculptor’s intent, psychologically, the fact that you’ve sacrificed your hair to freedom of movement leads me to delude myself that you are not lost to our cause. We need women like you, like Joyce … Joyce, my ungrateful sister!

‘Regrettably, even times like this must end, and the dig awaits me. Having met you, I’m more persuaded by Himmler’s conviction that a Germanic presence on this island may be deduced from arrows and tools dating back to the Siculans or even earlier. I had my doubts, because when the German spirit falls hopelessly in love with a country or with a face, it doesn’t accept the fact that it is not part of its own stock. In this case, Himmler is so taken by this island that he’s trying to make his loving dream a reality. But who knows!

‘Well, Timur, duty calls … The bill, waiter! Unfortunately, Joyce prevents me from accompanying you, Princess, and from … seeing you again, but please, on behalf of my mother, try to persuade her to write a few lines, to reassure the woman that her daughter is alive and to make her days of illness less atrocious. Promise me you’ll do that?’

‘Of course. I’ll do everything I can, rest assured.’

‘Thank you. I had no doubt that you would understand. Princess, we may not see each other again. But I will preserve your profile in my mind as the most beautiful among the many Greco-Sicilian coins I have studied. 92Adieu!’

In the dense greenery of the garden, Timur’s voice lingers, sealed with a smile, as black belts tight as corsets flash among the white tablecloths. Occasional pairs of officers halt, waiting patiently. From a distance, their massive boots seem to reduce the graceful orange trees to fragile miniatures.

When I got home, I nearly bumped into Joyce at the entrance to the grounds; she was hidden behind the gate, but I did not stop. Only when I reached the door to the parlour did my anxiety ease, comforted by the quiet of the books, the tables, the armchairs. So as not to disturb anyone, I dropped quietly onto the small settee near the French door. Mela, her back to me, engaged the soft pedal and ran her hands silently over the keyboard. Jacopo, ever taller and thinner, was bent over the table, guiding Crispina’s little hand on a large sheet of paper covered with marks. Prando, stretched out on the sofa, seemed to be asleep. Through half-closed eyes, he was tracing smoke rings in the air, a cigarette between his fingers. It was the first time I’d seen him smoking. ’Ntoni, sprawled on the carpet, was leafing through a hefty volume. Bambolina, circling the oval table, was checking her masterpiece: cups, pastries, small napkins, and especially the floral centrepiece. Moving closer to straighten one of the flowers, she steps back again to get a better look …

Bambù: ‘Oh, Zia! Do you like it?’

Modesta: ‘Very much.’

Bambù: ‘Will you have tea with us?’

Modesta: ‘Of course.’

Jacopo: ‘Dear Mama, I proclaim that Crispina has an astounding ability to learn, as professor Montaldo would say.’

Bambù: ‘Oh, Zia, he made us split our sides laughing with his professor Montaldo. Go on, Jacopo, do it again!’

Jacopo: ‘I’m sorry, my dear Bambù, but Paganini doesn’t repeat a performance. Am I right, ’Ntoni?’

’Ntoni: ‘Right! Never! Encores spoil the audience, and besides, they’re so old theatre. Nowadays we tend not to ruin the mood with applause and encores. Just think: at one time Giovanni Grasso 93used to perform the main scene of a play such as La morte civile as an encore.’

Mela: ‘So! Why not? Like at the Opera.’

’Ntoni: ‘But it’s old theatre, Mela, excuse me for insisting.’

Bambù: ‘Old theatre or not, Jacopo must do his imitation of his professor for his mother … what did he used to tell you, Jacopo?’