Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘You still think about your old man?’

‘When he helps me.’

‘When are they getting married?’

‘Oh, they’re not getting married. I said that to make you understand. They’re already together, and things seem fine, even in bed. Read this: “And don’t worry, Zia, even though everything is fine between me and Mattia, I won’t ever become one of those legitimate … whom our friend talks about.”’

‘What do the three dots stand for, Mody?’

‘Whores. She didn’t write it because she was afraid of censorship.’

‘And who is this friend?’

‘August Bebel … Here, there’s more: “I got to know him well, not like Mela, who only pretended to read him. And now I know that Papa was right when he said that our friend’s words will be the new bible for the women of tomorrow. But enough of these serious matters. I want to tell you how wonderful the villa has become with all the rooms full of life. Even Pietro and Crispina are with us because of the bombings. Catania is an inferno.” And so Carmelo has returned to the Brandiforti, as Beatrice hoped it would.’

‘And Mela? Crispina?’

‘Crispina is studying with a real teacher, and Mela has had a series of successes. In America, life goes on.’

‘Still with her Ippolita?’

‘Still. Who can understand nature! I think that she will always love only women, although for the press she passes as a virgin devoted solely to Music. Maybe in time, she’ll take a husband as a cover … unless the world changes.’

‘Oh sure, the world is going to change tomorrow! Please!’

‘Still, it might change.’

‘We’re comrades and we can say it, Mody: where do you see that it’s changed? In Russia, they’ve discarded everything that mattered to our individual freedom. After only a few years, they forgot about free love and went right back to marriage. And that’s not all!’

‘I like it when you talk like that, Nina.’

‘Well I don’t! I’m sick and tired of talking virtuously and reading books full of dreams. It’s easy for you to talk, but in Spain the man of my life was killed by our communist comrades!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure as can be: eyewitnesses. You yourself know that when the time came, they did away with all the anarchists, and not just them.’

‘The dream was too far ahead of its time, Nina. Anarchy is a destination, not…’

‘Oh sure, too far ahead! And when is it that we’ll really decide to take a small step forward, eh, my worthless Princess? And your Gramsci? You condemned him! Arminio, my brother, saw him, you know! Always alone in a cell, or outdoors, isolated from the comrades and scorned. The jailers had a free hand.’

‘So?’

‘So Gramsci suffered from insomnia, and the guards banged on the bars every hour to wake him up. You’re as good as dead in prison if the comrades abandon you. “They” killed him!’

‘But even though Arminio knew these things, he continued the struggle like you, it seems to me.’

‘Thank you kindly! One must always stay on the side of what’s right! But with your eyes open, don’t make me angry, Mody!’

Nina is terrifying when she gets infuriated. Her eyes flash yellow sparks and her deep voice echoes cavernously.

‘I don’t want to lose my temper, Mody, over these stories from the past! Tell me about ’Ntoni. I like that young man from your descriptions of him. Have you heard anything about him?’

‘No. I only know that he fled after my arrest.’

‘Many were arrested in Rome. I heard it yesterday at the port where the ship that unloads water is docked. They were talking about Rome.’

‘What were they saying?’

‘That in Rome all you see are women, children and the elderly, and that people are starving in the streets…’

’Ntoni drags his pale, swollen legs through the streets of Rome, shoved about by indifferent old people and women. He is just one of many who are doomed: the flesh swells with water and the skin becomes taut and white, whiter and whiter before you starve to death.

‘What is it, micia , why are you screaming? Open your eyes. Nina is right here. Wake up!’

‘I had a bad dream, Nina … and my stomach hurts.’

‘It’s nothing, micia : it’s hunger.’

‘You’re right. You can’t find anything anymore on this shitty island!’

‘They’re bombing everywhere, Mody.’

‘They’ve forgotten us. Did you see them yesterday, Nina, those pale, swollen children?’

‘I’ve told you over and over again that you shouldn’t look at them.’

‘You’re right. It’s just that, like Carmine — how could I understand it at the time? — I’m worried about my children. I dreamed that ’Ntoni was starving to death in Rome.’

‘I shouldn’t have told you about Rome. Stupid Nina! But ’Ntoni is strong, you said.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then is it Jacopo you’re worried about?’

‘No, just yesterday a letter arrived. Luckily they found he has tuberculosis.’

‘ Porco cane , bloody hell. Happy about a son who has tuberculosis!’

‘It’s not serious, and it’s always better than going to war, like Prando.’

‘The hell it is!’

‘Prando is strong. Have you seen the fiery letters he writes from the front? In our coded language, that patriotic passion means they’re doing everything they can to bring about a defeat.’

‘Wishing for the defeat of their own country?!’

‘That’s the only way Fascism can fall, Prando says. But he’s different. Jacopo would be dead, Nina, dead for sure.’

‘Hey now, don’t cry, micia .’

‘It’s partly hunger.’

‘So do this for me. Even if I have to pry open your mouth with a knife, you’re going to eat this cat. Nina pickled it: it’s a delicacy. There are people who are eating rats…’

‘Oh no, Nina, no!’

‘Do you think I like the idea? It must have been the last one on the island! They’re eating everything and anything, like in Russia after the revolution. Everything, even the rats. Angelica used to tell me about it when I was a little girl. But the hell with Angelica and her revolution! Now it’s you who have to steel yourself. After months of roots and some lentils, Mody, your complexion looks like something out of La Traviata , and I don’t like it one bit!

‘Do you like La Traviata ? I was crazy about Verdi. When my father opened the shop in Rome, he told me “in Rome there is the Opera” and so my sorrow over having to leave Civitavecchia — I was little at the time — vanished in a flash. And then he kept his promise. Every Sunday afternoon, up there in the gallery — with all those eccentric old people leafing through the scores and singing under their breath — he would always say: “You see, little one, to prepare for the revolution one must soak up lots and lots of fantasy.” A great anarchist, Ottavio! To keep Nicola quiet when he started shouting — Nicola was his cousin, a raging, all-out Leninist — he would whisper very, very softly: “It’s not your fault, Nicola, it’s that you don’t have any imagination! We agree that everything depends on the economy, but then the real revolution has to be invented!”’

‘And now it’s our turn, Mody, or rather the cat’s! Don’t run away! Would you rather I had lied to you, maybe? And then what would I do? You have eyes to see, don’t you? They’ve eaten everything, and I can’t blame them. The birds are gone … Because of the bombings, you say? Oh well … Come on, another little piece. Think of it as medicine! Remember the whipped egg? Damn, it was good! Who would have said we’d be longing for an egg we had in prison, eh, Mody? If it weren’t for your horrified face, I’d laugh. How comical you are! Now swallow, or you’ll choke on it! Did you chew it, at least? Oh God, this one is going to choke herself! I apologize for laughing, little one, but I just had a crazy thought! Given the way things are going, don’t you think that before long — and despite all your grimacing — we’ll end up looking back with longing at this little creature too?’