Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Do you remember the Great War, Mama?’

‘Very little, Prando. I was buried in a convent at that time.’

‘What is war like? How does it start? Sometimes I find myself wishing that war would break out.’

‘Because you’re young, and youth craves adventure.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Do you remember that as a child you wanted to be a pirate, and then an explorer? Learn to question your feelings. War is not an adventure. Adventure is something an individual chooses, not something you’re forced to do.’

‘They say that if war breaks out everything will be destroyed. They say the Germans have new, very powerful weapons.’

‘Remember Daniel? He told us that entire villages were destroyed by aircraft in Spain.’

‘Yes, but he’s a timorous soul! I’ve heard different stories about the war in Abyssinia, for example…’

‘From the Fascists, Prando. Don’t trust them. I’m certain that one day, which perhaps neither you nor I will ever see, war will be seen as an abomination.’

‘But your side also talks about war.’

‘About revolution; that’s different! Revolution means legitimate self-defence against those who abuse you with the weapons of hunger and ignorance. How long we’ve talked, Prando! Please, ask for the bill and let’s go home. The lights haven’t come back on and I have the feeling this darkness may last for ever. Let’s go home.’

‘Of course, Mama. The bill, please, waiter!.. What is it, Mama? You’re shivering. Are you cold?’

‘No, I’ll be frank with you, Prando. Your desire for adventure upset me. Buy the car you wanted and go back to competing with males like you, or leave for America … Steal … in short, do whatever you want! As long as it comes from you and is not by order of the King, the Duce or the Führer! To want war is certainly to lead the future toward disaster, and not just your own future. Can’t you see that? This is the last time I’ll try to make myself understood by you and arrogant males like you. You don’t belong either to the State or to me, and don’t kid yourself that I’m giving orders. By God! What do I have to do to make you see that many of the things you want are instilled in you from above in order to use you? I understand that it’s hard for someone poor who has to satisfy his hunger and learn to read before he can know who he is and what he wants. But you? You have food on the table and books. There’s no excuse for you. You’re responsible for yourself and for those whom you may drag with you tomorrow. Now, why are you just sitting there with the engine running? Can we please go home? I’m sleepy!’

The lights of Villa Suvarita appear through the rippling pine trees like those of a festive vessel. The gate is wide open, the dogs, silent, are circling around an ambulance. Prando brakes, pulling over to the shoulder of the drive, which is flooded with brightness; the rapid banging of doors is followed by the metallic shriek of a siren.

The door too is wide open, as if for a party. In the empty parlour, five figures wander about, spread here and there. Only Mela and Bambù hug each other tight, huddled on the red velvet sofa. On the armchairs are masks, wigs, a black silk cape, like at Carnival time.

Stella: ‘Oh, Mody, finally! Pietro looked everywhere for you!’

Modesta: ‘Yes, all right, but what happened?’

Jacopo: ‘We were playing theatre, Mama, after dinner…’

Modesta: ‘And…?’

Stella: ‘I had brought tea and biscuits up to the signora … there are many times when she doesn’t come down to dinner — I didn’t think…’

Modesta: ‘But what happened? Hush, Stella, let Jacopo talk! He seems to be the only one who hasn’t lost his head.’

Jacopo: ‘Around eleven o’clock Bambolina went up to Joyce — she needed her cape for a routine — and she found the door ajar and the bedside light on. She knocked at the bathroom door, but there was no answer. Then she noticed that there was water running out from under the door, and … she’s still shaking over there, poor Bambù! Fortunately Mattia was here! We had to, or rather he had to shoot the lock open and … it’s awful! There was so much blood, Mama! ’Ntoni fainted.’

Modesta: ‘And where is Mattia now?’

Jacopo: ‘He went with the ambulance. Mattia offered to give blood for the transfusion. Oh, Mama, let’s hope they can save her! The thing that scared me the most is that Bambù came screaming down the stairs, holding Joyce’s cape tightly in her arms. Why?’

Bambù: ‘I told you, Jacopo, the cape was on a chair, so I picked it up. I had it in my hand when I noticed…’

Jacopo: ‘But why were you holding it so tight?’

Bambù: ‘How frightening, Zia, when I think that I might not have suspected anything! Luckily I felt the carpet all squelchy under my feet and I knocked on the door. Oh, Mela, how horrible! I don’t want Joyce to die, Mela, I don’t want her to!’

Prando: ‘Sit down, Mama, you’re pale as a ghost. Sit down! Do you want me to go to the hospital?’

Modesta: ‘No.’

Bambù: ‘Even Antonio said to stay here, because if she dies they’ll have to bring her here, on account of the Fascists. He said it softly to Mattia, but I heard him. Oh, Prando, hold me! Where on earth were you? Pietro has been looking for you in the restaurants for two hours. Where were you?’

Prando: ‘Well, a fine idea I had! A new restaurant.’

Jacopo: ‘Such silence, Mama! I can’t stand it anymore.’

Stella: ‘The silence of summer’s end, Jacopo. It happens every hundred years.’

Bambù: ‘What happens every hundred years, Stella?’

Stella: ‘This silence! During the day we move around and we don’t hear it, but it’s there! And at night it takes over everything. Many years ago, we waited until December.’

Bambù: ‘Waited for what, Stella?’

Stella: ‘Water from the sky, my Bambuccia! After months and months of heat, the mouths of the rivers and streams become silent, waiting for water. But last night around three, from the window, I saw the first dry lightning on the horizon. It’s a good sign.’

Jacopo: ‘You were at the window at three in the morning, Stella?’

Stella: ‘I like the night. Night reveals so many things.’

Jacopo: ‘I can’t take it anymore, Mama. Say something!’

Every hundred years … it’s been a hundred years since the serpent of silence slithered around this house as Carlo fought for his life. A supple, powerful slithering around the walls, which fall silent, mesmerized by the serpents’ coils, staring at its scales …

Jacopo: ‘A car, Mama, a car!’

Bambù: ‘That’s impossible; the dogs didn’t bark.’

Stella: ‘But Nunzio is at the gate. He must have quieted them. Let’s go see.’

Stella was right. As soon as we step outside, big drops, furious, like long-withheld tears, strike our foreheads, our cheeks. From the car door, Mattia hands Pietro a small bundle.

Jacopo: ‘She’s alive, Mama. Mattia is smiling!’

* * *

The bandaged hands on the white sheet have no feeling, nor do they convey emotion: repulsive relics on the silver tray kept in the blessed reliquary. What sculptor bent his talent to portray that lifeless, hopeless sorrow?

‘Forgive me, Modesta. All I wanted was to die.’

‘I know.’

‘Why didn’t you all let me die?’

‘Fate, Joyce. I wasn’t here. Bambolina came up by chance and Mattia broke down the door.’

‘Mattia? And me, naked in the tub? How shameful! I disgust you, Modesta, I know.’

‘No, I just feel a sense of helplessness and a great deal of affection.’

‘When did they bring me back?’

‘Tonight, around three or four, I don’t recall. I remember it had started to rain, fortunately. Look how it’s coming down! Stella says it’s a blessing.’