Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

At last that stranger’s voice fell silent, and she left. By now I hated her. Unexpectedly, that feeling of hate — which they said was a sin — gave me a burst of joy so intense that I had to clench my fists and clamp my mouth shut to keep from singing and jumping up and down. As soon as I felt calm again, I timidly whispered I hate her to see whether the effect would repeat itself or whether a lightning bolt would strike my head. It was raining outside. My voice hit me like a fresh breeze that set me free from dread and dejection. How could those forbidden words give me so much energy? I would think about it later. Now I just had to repeat them out loud, so they would never again elude me: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her , I shouted, after making sure that the door was firmly shut. The carapace of depression broke off my body in pieces as my chest expanded, jolted by the energy of that feeling. Wrapped in my smock, I can’t breathe anymore. What is it that’s still squeezing my chest?

Tearing off my smock and shirt, my hands found those tight strips ‘so your breasts won’t show,’ which until that moment had felt like a second skin to me. A seemingly compliant skin that bound me with its reassuring whiteness. I took the scissors and cut them to shreds. I had to breathe. And finally naked — how long had it been since I’d felt my naked body? we even had to bathe with our shirts on — I rediscover my flesh. My released breasts explode beneath my palms and I stroke myself there on the floor, taking pleasure in the caresses which those magic words had triggered.

No lightning struck my head while outside the rain continued beating against the window panes. My naked body, flushed with pleasure, felt it falling faintly. A gentle April rain between my breasts, hips wide open to welcome spring’s freshness. I had rediscovered my body. During those months of exile, locked up in that armour of despair, I had stopped stroking myself. Blinded by terror, I had forgotten that I had breasts, a belly, legs. So sorrow, humiliation and fear were not, as they said, a source of purification and beatitude. They were slimy thieves that took advantage of sleep to creep to your bedside in the night and rob you of the joy of being alive. Those women didn’t make a sound when they passed you or went in and out of their cells: they had no body. I didn’t want to become insubstantial like them. And now that I had rediscovered the intensity of my pleasure, I would never again surrender to the renunciation and humiliation that they preached so much. I had those words to fight back with. And my physical exercise — that’s how I thought of it now. In the chapel, a rosary between my fingers, I kept repeating: I hate . Bent over the embroidery frame under Sister Angelica’s dull gaze, I said over and over again: I hate . At night before going to sleep: I hate . From that day on, this was my new prayer.

Along with praying, I studied. I searched for the meaning of those words in books. But other than God’s wrath and Lucifer’s envy, I didn’t find anything. Maybe all those people who hated the Church had different books. Mimmo had talked about them with respect and fear: ‘I don’t agree with them, but I have to admit that since Giovanni made contact with those people, he seems like a different man: confident, forceful…’

So they, too, were happy by virtue of hatred. How could I get to know them? The doctor had been one of them, but I was just a child then. What could I know? Now he was gone. Too bad! I resigned myself to not knowing anything about it. But if I continued studying with that hatred in my body which was more nutritious than bread and which gave me the strength to apply myself day and night — everyone in the convent marvelled at it — I could become a teacher. From what they said, women were beginning to teach on the continent. And as a teacher I would certainly meet those people. Plus, Mother Leonora had remembered me in her will … I just had to be patient. Mother Leonora was suffering from an incurable disease. Another year or two, and I would be free. But even Mother Leonora’s affliction must have had enormous magical powers, because, despite her illness, each day she appeared straighter and less gaunt … and she’d gotten her wind back! Far from having breathing difficulties, all she did was talk. And they weren’t tremulous, humble words like before, but insidious, confident words, not open to discussion. Listen to this:

‘I’ve been sentenced, Modesta. The doctor gave me five or six years at the most. But I thank God for these years that He has still granted me because I know that they will be enough to mould you and make your vocation blossom from your soul. I can tell you keep it hidden in your breast like a precious jewel. I will close my eyes only when I see you wearing this habit that I, too, wear. Because you should know that my entire trousseau as Christ’s bride will go to you when I die. A costly trousseau, which fits you perfectly, as though it were a sign from God. When I was your age, I was the same size as you.’

Did you hear that? There’s more:

‘Don’t be frightened, Modesta. You’re frightened because you don’t yet know the blissful sweetness of renunciation and humility. Your youthful fibre is still too full of animal vitality, of physical well-being. In fact, I spoke to Sister Costanza about it. We would like you, please, to decrease your food intake, at least in the evening. By now you are all grown up and healthy. Any denial at the table can only help you pray. Starting tomorrow, your supper will be bread and milk like the lay sisters. But, as I said, don’t be frightened. I won’t force you, and to prove it to you, I would like you to read a copy of my will. The original has been entrusted to a notary in Modica, for safekeeping … You see? It says that you will receive this annuity even if God does not grant you the grace to become part of His ranks. And so sincere is my desire to do nothing but honour your wishes that, here, attached to the will, is a document signed by the doctor confirming that you lost your virginity due to causes … but never mind. I don’t want to remind you of all those terrible things, that infernal suffering. The important thing is that if after my death you would prefer to re-enter the world, this document will be of help to you, since you must know that no man will wed a girl unless he is assured of her physical and moral integrity.’

And on and on for days, for months. Here’s more, even if you no longer care to listen:

‘Don’t be afraid, these documents are proof that I do not wish to force you to do anything, and that, whether I am dead or alive, you will only take your vows when and if you are ready. But I also know that God will not call me to Him before I have carried out this charge. Perhaps all my suffering had only this as its purpose: to lead you to Him.’

Whether because of this steady stream day after day, or the supper of bread and milk that made me wake up hungry and tired, the effect of that hatred deserted me. The doctor had given her five or six years, at least. And what if the illness that was buoying her up was so powerful that it might actually sustain her until she completed her mission? Oh, no! That was too many years, even if I had achieved the power of hate and the cunning of prudence. Indeed, it was precisely because of these achievements that I now recognized the fragility of my nature and all natures. I was afraid I would not be able to keep up the lie for such a long time. No! Even just five or six years were too many. I either had to run away from here or be fortunate enough to have her God call her back to His eternal side as soon as possible.

Running away was unthinkable. Where could she go? Even if she were able to get across the lava wall that surrounded the convent, which wouldn’t be easy, Mimmo said it took five or six hours to reach the town on foot … what was its name? To her dismay, she realized that in all those years she had studied French, even Latin, but she had not spoken to anyone who wasn’t a nun or a priest. She sensed that their language was different from the one she would have to speak outside, in the world. With Mimmo it was different. Like it or not, he was part of the convent.