Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘I only remember that I followed you and that it was hot…’

In the dim light, I stare at Nina’s face and try to remember. Maybe if she’d turn on the lamp …

‘Why the lamp, micia ? It’s still daylight. I’ll open the window.’

To open the window Nina has to move aside waves of white tulle, like the veil the novices wear when they become brides of Christ. The gauzy white makes me nauseous. Who knows why Beatrice insisted on that fatal symbol, and why Carlo didn’t rebel? ‘ No one can defy Beatrice. You know that, Modesta. ’

Nina moves away from the curtains, satisfied, and goes over to the large mirror framed by gilded vine leaves and flowers. Who can defy Cavallina? She insisted on that mirror until she got her way, and now, like every morning, Nina looks at herself in the glass and brushes her hair as she gazes at her image.

‘It’s beautiful here, micia , lovelier than you’d described. Eh, you rich folks! Either you don’t realize what you have or you mock the rest of us: the country house, a cottage … Hell, this place is a palace!’

Nina combs hair that shines like burnished gold — or is it the sun?

‘Naturally, your Bambù got me some henna! Hey, it’s not true that everything natural is always good. Sometimes nature needs some touching up.’

She’s right: that silky golden mass softens her somewhat plebeian features, as Nonna Gaia would say, and gives Nina’s face ‘a certain something sweet that’s touching’. Right, Carlo?

‘ Un po’ di luna, un po’ di mare, un po’ di musica nel cuor … Solo così potrò scordare il mio dolor…, a little moon, a little sea, a little music in my heart … only then can I forget my sorrow…’ 105

Nina is singing a new song.

‘Oh, did you know I met your famous Jose?’

‘Where?’

‘Here. He landed with the Americans. He found us some penicillin and left again. Who could have imagined it, an Italian in an American uniform fighting against his country! He sends you his warm regards. What a magnificent man! Your Nina, for two days at least, was in love, and not because she’s a cottarola , as her father used to say, someone who loses her head easily. The truth is, that guy is a real man!’

‘Everyone falls in love with Jose.’

‘Look at that! You too?’

‘No, not me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I was certain I’d never see him again. I won’t see him again. It’s Timur I’m going to meet up with.’

‘Timur! Come on! You said every German helmet we saw was him.’

‘Yes, it’s the only thing I remember: faceless helmets and shiny metal badges on their chests. A hundred, two hundred, maybe a thousand helmets and badges with that cruel slogan.’

‘Actually, we only saw a few of them, micia ! “Only the essential quota of Germans!” that’s what your Jacopo said.’

A warm rush of pride when Nina talks about Jacopo that way always clears away the fog of lethargy. To hear her speak about him, and for that reason only, I have her tell me the story of our liberation, which I know by heart …

‘Yes, yes, it was him. While everyone was celebrating the fall of Fascism, deluding themselves that it was all over, that very morning, with Pietro, he began pulling strings, and didn’t let up … Yes, he was the one who persuaded your friend Pasquale to help them. Hardly timid or hesitant! He planned the trip, dealt with everybody. And after bringing us here, he quickly departed again for Rome to bring back my Olimpia. Just in time, too!’

To hear it again and make certain of Nina’s admiration for my Jacopo, all I have to do is ask, ‘But is it possible that he carried me in his arms for so long?’

‘Of course he did! He and Pietro, but nearly always him.’

Nearly always him!.. Even though he’s far away (Jose took him along to fight in the north), in Jacopo’s arms I’m transported tenderly from bed to chair. And if it’s not too hot: ‘You mustn’t sweat,’ she told me, her gentle hands supporting my waist as we move toward the window, so distant; it’s a struggle to reach it, but it’s clean, no bedbugs or rats that scratch.

‘It’s nice here, isn’t it, micia ? All these trees are restful on the eye. Greenery outside, and so clean inside! Remember how those dark bastards used to scratch? You were really brave to never mention them, Mody, I have to tell you.’

‘All we could do was ignore them.’

‘Sure, but now that I see all this cleanliness — almost excessively spotless — I realize even more how courageous you were.’

‘And how about you? You never told me about your seasickness or island sickness, whatever you want to call it.’

‘I still dream about that little scrap of land the size of a handkerchief! Oh! You couldn’t raise your eyes without seeing that fearful water constantly in motion.’

‘That’s why you often kept your head down. So it wasn’t a headache!’

‘Oh sure, you must be joking! You’re talking about the kind of headache a signorina gets! It was as if my head was stretched and pulled by the waves. Oh, they know that being confined on the island has this effect on almost everyone, except you, my fine little one!’

‘Nina, hold me. You’re right, but I’m still afraid. I’m ashamed, but I’m afraid!’

‘Come, stay quietly in my arms and the fear will go away. Not to brag, but Nina is a master at calming her micia .’

Nina is a master at soothing every quiver, her stroking sure and confident on my burning forehead. And that’s why today, too, I look into her eyes to endure the long waiting, the anxiety, the fear, the lack of news, bombarded by echoes of massacres, torturing, mass killings that only those who have lived through can know, and afterwards have the right to tell.

But that comes later … Now, if it weren’t for Nina, I would remain supine, waiting, suspended in a void of anxiety and fever, trying only to decipher the closed faces, sealed by terror, of those who return amid the indecipherable chatter the radio constantly blares … And nothing can console me, not Bambolina’s beauty, a new beauty, her face tanned, proud of her work in the fields, nor Carluzzu, Stella’s son, who when he falls already knows how to get up by himself without crying, not the birth of little Beatrice — all white and golden — the daughter of Bambù and Mattia, nor the sight of Olimpia, Nina’s daughter, as she plays with Crispina.

‘They’re always together, aren’t they, Nina?’

‘She’s a force of nature, that Crispina! In a few months she’s transformed my Olimpia. When she got here, her eyes were those of a terrified sheep. She wouldn’t speak. Now she runs and leaps around like a little goat…’

At night I continue to reach for Nina’s hand, the dark-haired, serious Nina of the island who still lives in my memory. By day: the golden, smiling Nina who runs through the delicate green of the vineyard at sunset. Finally I can run beside her and drink in her stories, her jokes.

‘God the hare, Nina? That’s a new one!’

‘No, little one, old as madonna eight!’

‘What do you mean, eight?’

‘Eight! Like the number eight. Or madonna the ballerina, or if you prefer, God the tightrope-walker, whatever you like.’

‘You make me laugh, Nina. Where do you get these things? Do you make them up?’

‘Make them up? Not a word! They’re all passed down as part of the family legacy. It takes centuries to arrive at such refinements. In his serene old age my grandfather, a pure-blooded product of Viareggio, enjoyed digging up and collecting various oaths. “Now that Italy has finally been united” — he used to say — “and now that the parasitic papacy has been chased out, it’s our duty to gather together the expressions of revolt that rose spontaneously from the oppressed people…” That’s right, like popular songs and poems: part of the cultural heritage, he said. Poor Nonno ! He was completely unshakeable. I only saw him cry twice: over the Concordat 106and over Sacco and Vanzetti.’ 107