Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘The signori are always prompt to act, as Carmine used to tell me when I was a boy: “This is something you must learn from them, only this. Because we peasants are slow, but with the strength of our arms and their alacrity you’ll be riding high like your father Carmine for your whole life and that of your children.” Only now do I understand why it gave me so much joy to lose at the gaming table. It was like a beneficial blood-letting, Mody; it drained away all the bad black blood of us ill-fated Tudia!’

‘You Tudia may be ill-fated, but not us Brandiforti! Thanks to our mother’s teachings, we found ourselves on the right side, and we will make the price we paid — first, through anti-fascism and later, fighting in the war and in the mountains — count for something. I warn you, Mattia Tudia, that nothing is solved by such defeatism.’

‘Defeatism was a Fascist word, Prando.’

‘We’ll find another one, don’t worry! We’ll find other words, right, Mama? The important thing is to act!

‘How beautiful you are, Mama. I’m ashamed to say so, but I was afraid I’d find you old. It’s strange, but in the midst of that inferno, my only concern was that I wouldn’t find you as I’d left you. Mama, you know what I’ll call you from now on? And maybe it will help to make you stay young for ever…’

‘What, Prando?’

‘My mamma bambina , my child-Mama … What a strange creature man is!’

‘Why, Prando?’

‘Oh yes, strange! Before, I had you all to myself and I didn’t understand you. Then, when I was far away I realized who you were and I was afraid of losing you: a kind of remorse for not having understood you earlier, as if fate wanted to punish me for my inattention. That was the only thing I was afraid of, not killing or being killed. Let me rest my head on your lap. Touching you is the only way I feel sure I’ve found you again.’

As soon as he lays his head on my lap he falls asleep. His face, unchanged, shows no signs of distance. As if he had gone and returned from a ride on his motorcycle. Only his eyes have become more thoughtful. Another wound, still red, can be seen parallel to the long scar on his cheek that has now faded. His skin has lost the gloss of stone polished by the sea, but even in sleep it is still firm and smooth under my fingers. Why can’t I rejoice in his return? Is it Nonna Gaia’s refrain perhaps? ‘ In every war the best are lost…’ Or maybe it’s the presence of ’Ntoni who, cloaked in his sorrow, wanders distractedly in the garden without speaking? From a distance, his restored body makes him look just as he was before, but when you get closer, his eyes bleed from a wound that is still open.

An airplane passes overhead, obscuring the sun, and Prando’s eyes open, somewhat troubled.‘You’re here, Mama? Thank goodness! I always fall sleep. I wonder why? It’s as if I never get enough sleep and … But are you sad, Mama? Oh, I’m sorry, what a moron! Your Prando will always be a self-centred idiot! Is it because of Jacopo? Are you worried about Jacopo? But he must come back, Mama, he must … He was the best of all of us.’

Those words make me cry out loud in his arms. If Jacopo is dead, I won’t add another line to these memoirs of mine and I’ll remain silent for ever.

And just as silence fell over the brief reminders of my life in that distant 1945, I fall silent again now as I write, trembling as I search for Jacopo’s name among the papers. I’m afraid I’ve lost the date of his return.

Waiting makes us impervious, distracted … Here it is: 6 August 1945, Hiroshima. Jacopo returned at just that time. Clearly that was why I didn’t note the date. The A-bomb was able to distract even me. Merely a bomb more powerful than the others, they said. And later on, in fact, they gave the name ‘bikini’ to a bathing suit and the uplifting nickname ‘atomic’ to a movie star.

I close my eyes and hear only the memory of that waiting, which draws out the seconds and minutes in a single bleak sound. And I don’t notice ’Ntoni coming toward me on the beach at Villa Suvarita … From a distance — his body strong again, his hair trimmed — he looks like he did many years earlier. But as soon as he comes closer I have to look away to avoid seeing his bitter, unsmiling face.

‘You really missed the sea, didn’t you, Modesta? You don’t even seem concerned about the mines.’

‘Don’t worry, ’Ntoni. I settle for going back and forth along the permitted space. See, there are signs posted. Besides, sooner or later we have to decide to fix up this villa.’

‘It’s seen a lot, poor Suvarita! I haven’t had the heart to go inside yet. Bambù sounds like a madwoman when she talks about it, yet no one can say that Bambù isn’t strong, right, Modesta?’

‘No, that’s for sure.’

‘Is it true that all the walls are smeared and soiled in the room we used as a theatre? Are there bloodstains on the walls?’

‘We cleaned everything, ’Ntoni.’

‘Are the stains gone?’

‘They’re gone.’

‘Good.’

‘Nina helped me.’

‘Nina is the dearest, most beautiful woman I have ever known. Poor Nina! You can tell she’s suffering over her Arminio … how she waited for him! War is atrocious! After the news, she became thin and old. But now she seems like a young girl again. How can it be? How old is she?’

‘I don’t know, ’Ntoni. You know I can never remember anyone’s age.’

‘Where does she get that strength? From her daughter, maybe? She’s certainly a wonderful girl. It would be nice to have a daughter like her! But I think — I spoke with Prando about this and he agrees — I think it will be better, I’d say appropriate, not to have any more children. Not to bring any more unfortunate creatures into the world. What kind of a future can children have in these times? All we needed besides everything else was this bomb, Mody! What a death: disintegrated, pulverized in an instant! Plus, who knows what else they’re not telling us … We owe this to our American friends.’

‘Please, ’Ntoni … it’s really all so sad.

‘Oh, forgive me, Modesta, you’re right, it’s just … I can’t help it! What were we saying? Oh, yes, Nina is fantastic! And can she sing! It’s a shame she wasn’t with us when we used to put on performances; she’d have driven everyone wild. Too bad she didn’t know us then, right, Mody!

‘Let’s go, I can’t stand to see our house destroyed like this. Yet even now, if I stare at it, I can see you all the way you used to be: My mother in those funny outfits, part peasant, part signora . Prando always muddy and tattered, trying to be like Jean Gabin, 110the big snob! Bambù always the prettiest in her white dresses … oh, I can still see her coming down the stairs! Then behind her, the starring couple: the Princess arm in arm with her favourite … even though you never said so, did you, Mody?… arm in arm with her Jacopo, tall, lanky, with his childlike face and old man’s walk … There, now the Princess and her darling deign to come down the stairs. Oh, Modesta, I’m losing my mind, losing it! Look, I see you there, dressed in white, with Jacopo, and yet you’re here. Modesta, help. You look too!’

A deep terror makes me turn toward him at once: his face is ashen, like that of someone who has seen a ghost.

‘Look, I haven’t lost my mind. It’s Bambolina, with Jacopo! It’s him, Modesta, it’s him! There can’t be anyone else that tall but him!’

Can joy transfix you like lightning, and rip through your body? Riveted by that joy, I barely have a chance to see him before I faint in his arms.

When I open my eyes again, years seem to have passed, even though the sea is there, lit by the same dazzling sun.