Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Zia, Zia, are you sleeping? May I come in?’

Let her come in? Or, like Gaia, give in to fear and chase her away with harsh words? No, you took the coward’s way, Gaia! I won’t follow you any further.

‘I’m not sleeping, Ida. Come in.’

‘Did you say “fear”, Zia? You, afraid? Of what?’

‘Of everything, Ida, and you know it.’

‘I’m always afraid too, but as you taught me, even fear can be useful.’

‘Indeed, I was just thinking about that before you came in.’

‘I’ll leave you then.’

‘No, why? I can continue later. I have all the time in the world.’

‘How beautiful you are lying there! The bedside lamp makes your skin look so delicate and your hair shiny, vivid … It was Mama who chose the colours of the furnishings, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Beatrice had an extraordinary aptitude for colours, as do you, for that matter. I’m afraid all of it will soon have to be replaced though. When I came back from Switzerland, everything seemed worn out, aged.’

‘To some degree, it’s true! And if you think we can afford the expense … what I mean is, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You’ll see, with new, more modern fabrics, I’ll be able to recapture Mama’s beautiful colours and that way everything will be new and at the same time like it was before.’

‘That’s your dream, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes!’

‘But I think maybe you didn’t come to talk about the furnishings.’

‘I’m afraid now that I’m here with you.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, if you hug me maybe I’ll have the courage to tell you.’

It must be something very serious to make Bambù take on such a grave, proper look. But no! I’m forgetting that when Ida speaks with Modesta she becomes more adult, more composed and self-assured.

‘I’m forgetting…’

‘What are you forgetting, Zia? You’re strange!’

‘Oh, nothing! But what is it? Tell me. You’re trembling too.’

‘Oh, hug me, hold me tight, and don’t get angry at Prando.’

‘What does Prando have to do with it?’

‘I’ll tell you if you promise me you won’t be angry with him. He doesn’t mean any harm. It’s the way he is; he can’t help it!’

‘What did he do this time?’

‘Well, yesterday morning after we took a walk he slapped me.’

‘Slapped you? Why?’

‘Well, he doesn’t like Mattia. Who knows why! Sometimes I have the feeling that they resemble each other. I’m not sure why … something in their eyes, the way they walk. Maybe that’s why … I’ve thought about it, you know? Maybe that’s why I’ve fallen in love with Mattia.’

Bambolina had thought about it. You could tell by the shadow that widened her eyes to dark circles, giving her a striking resemblance to her father.

As she repeats softly, ‘Seriously, I’ve thought about it, Zia,’ the resemblance to the sorrowful Carlo now imbues her voice, her gestures, until she suddenly rears up, freeing herself from the embrace in order to face Modesta fearlessly, eye to eye. It was Modesta who hadn’t thought about it. I’m getting old. I’m becoming deaf to others if something so predictable hadn’t even crossed my mind.

‘It’s not infatuation, as Prando says, Zia. I’m in love and even for me it was like a bolt out of the blue. It took me months to realize why I was so happy when I was with him. How could I have imagined it? He seemed like an old man when I saw him the first time at the party. An old man with all that white hair … What’s wrong, Zia? Why are you staring out the window and not saying anything?’

‘It’s nothing, Ida. I have an awful headache.’

‘A headache? So bad that you won’t say anything? I know you; you’re stalling because you’re against it! You too are opposed to Mattia, like Prando, like Mela.’

‘Mela too?’

‘Yes! Oh, why can’t we be happy for ever, Zia, why?’

As Bambolina utters her mother’s words, Beatrice, evoked by them, sweeps away Carlo’s voice like a wind, invading Bambolina and making her fall on the bed, beating her fists and weeping desperately.

‘Everyone is against Mattia, all of you! I can understand Prando, but she really has no right.’

‘She who?’

‘Mela! I didn’t say a word when she became attached to that cold statue, Ippolita. All she sees is her, always studying with her. What does she expect from me? Now that she’s got her diploma, she’ll leave, she’ll go out into the world! Why does she continue to disapprove of my love for Mattia? Why is she so harsh? Why destroy all the memories of our friendship? Why? I don’t want to hate anyone, no one. Oh Zia, help me. I don’t want to hate Prando, or you. Help me!’

‘ Help me, Modesta, help me! ’ Once again Beatrice has returned and weeps in my arms: her despair fervent and fragile, like when she runs along the sand or whirls round and round the silk-covered walls of the parlour, by herself, to show me the exact steps of the waltz. Yet those small, trembling hands irritate me, that wispy hair makes it hard to breathe.

‘What are you doing, Zia? Are you pushing me away? Why?’

‘I’m not pushing you away! I’m tired, I told you. Go to bed!’

‘Like this, without your consent?’

‘You’re a big girl, Ida. You don’t need anyone’s consent.’

‘You’re vile. You know I need it! You’re abandoning me by doing this, you’re letting me know that I’ll lose you. It’s either you or Mattia, isn’t it?’

Ida was right, and being right made her bearing solemn, her face intent, unafraid of her decision. Or is it the moon that makes her seem so tall and beautiful? I must stall for time against that sudden beauty that pains me.

‘You’re right. It’s just that I’m upset because I have to leave soon.’

What am I saying? Where must I go?

‘Leave? Where are you going? You’re frightening me, Zia.’

‘Well, I’m frightened too, Ida. Be patient, at least until tomorrow.’

‘Zia, are you ill, maybe, and haven’t told us?’

‘No, no, I’m in very good health.’

‘Oh, thank goodness! What with everything that’s happened!’

‘There now, go to bed. Let’s wait till tomorrow. Please, Ida. Tomorrow we’ll talk it all over.’

The moon must have hidden itself, because darkness has fallen over the spot where Ida’s slender body stood, perfectly sculpted by her white tunic. The absolute darkness announces the diaphanous spectre of the coming dawn. I can’t get to sleep, partly because now that the house is sleeping, the noise I thought I had dreamt the night before starts lapping against my closed window again. The muffled sound of giant paws raking the distant sand: one, two, three long scrapes, then a silence quickly followed by a deep rumbling (the waves or an engine?). From the window that rumble now moves to the door, crashing into it forcefully, or is it still the paw that resumes its scraping in the distance, hidden in some cove along the beach? No, I’m not dreaming, the door is thrown open and two silent giants enter, followed by a tall, slim young woman, perfectly sculpted by an opulent dressing gown of white silk. Her mother, too, always wore white.

They’re not so tall now that they’re standing beside me. It’s the uniform that makes their legs seem longer and the epaulettes that create those enormous shoulders. Leaning on someone’s arm as I climb into the big black car, I feel the muscles of a man, yes, but someone like Mattia, like ’Ntoni, not giants. It’s the specially fitted uniform that makes those chest muscles, those back muscles, look huge. I turn away to the window opposite me so I won’t have to hear Mela crying in Jacopo’s arms, or see the terrified, blank stare in Ida’s eyes. It’s been many years since I’ve gone outside at dawn and maybe this is a chance to find out who’s been digging in the sand the past two or three nights … There, once we turn the corner, massive German trucks are parked along the road, loaded with sand, their engines running, while among the dunes huge bulldozers descend to dig up the ‘sun’s flour’; that’s what Tuzzu used to call the sand. Are the Germans stealing our sand … to make fortifications?