Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Hey, Nina, excuse me but I have other things to do than worry about these spoiled picciriddi and their crises!’

Prando gets up slowly and heads for the French door; on the way, he rights an overturned chair upholstered in red silk. For an instant, the silk focuses the sunset’s hundred tongues of fire and those of his hair; for a moment, his tall, lithe body pauses as he stares in silence at the tables full of glasses, pitchers, dishes … Maybe he noticed the dismay in our eyes over what he said. Perhaps he, too, was somewhat struck by his own words, since he is moved to add, ‘It was lovely, Mama! A party after years and years! I should give you all a hand cleaning up, but, well … I have to run. Forgive me. See you later.’

‘What can I say, Mody? No offence to anyone, but the more I see of these men, the happier I am to have had a little girl. Tell me, didn’t you have him read Voltaire?’

‘Of course I did!’

‘Are you sure? Including the terms “fanaticism”, “tolerance”? If I were in government, I’d see to it that the various Prandos were settled down nice and comfortably, amid fresh meadows and spouting water fountains, and I would make them read over and over again what Voltaire said about fanaticism … What a fanatic, wow! As if he were the only one who had gone to war!’

‘Oh Nina, you make me feel cheerful again. Do you know what I would do if I were in government?’

‘What would you do?’

‘I would give a lifelong income to people like you who have the talent to cheer others up.’

‘Don’t even mention income, please! What can I do to earn a living? Shit, the only thing I’m experienced in is prisons! Say, Mody, isn’t there some school where I can teach that subject?’

‘Stop, Nina, or I’ll die laughing!’

‘But there should be, or it should be created. Because, well, Fascism is over but the prisons are still there. Yesterday I took a little stroll through Catania … those prisons must be protected by God! Everything destroyed, Mody, bombed, but the prison is untouched, as if nothing had happened … But what are those kids doing? Those carusi , as you people say. I really like carusi, meschini, picciotti … There, I could study Sicilian and go teach it abroad.’

‘Abroad, Nina?’

‘Sure, in Italy … It’s given you some bitter disappointments, hasn’t it, this Italy! Tell me, Mody, couldn’t we have gone directly from the earlier little states to socialism?’

‘Apparently not, Nina.’

‘A pity! But what on earth are they doing? They’ve been standing there chatting on the stairs for an hour … Now look at that, instead of coming down, they’re going back up. Hell, who can understand them! Daytime parties are really nice, but like everything else, they have their downside: the sun sinks, and after the warmth of all that company the shadows deepen and you think … you think about the fact that there’s an entire night ahead of you, and melancholy slips in en pointe like a sad ballerina. You too, Mody, shit! If I don’t fire up the engines to make you smile … I see you, don’t you realize it? Even in the dark I see you. It may be because I feel like I’ve spent a hundred years with you! I see you all huddled and pale, as if harbouring bitter thoughts. My beautiful, sad Mody, what’s come over you?’

‘You’re sad too, Nina, come on!’

‘It’s because the party’s over, I think.’

‘It’s not because of the party and you know it.’

‘Of course, you have to admit that it seemed more like a farewell party than a welcome home party.’

‘When Prando stalked off that way, I had the same feeling I had when he left for the war.’

‘Certainly, imprisoned down on the island, we weren’t hoping for such a quick end to Fascism. We were thinking of a different kind of peace.’

‘That’s exactly right, Nina.’

‘And yet my father and his old buddies had warned us.’

‘Yes, you told me many times, and Maria down in Catania said so as well.’

‘I’m afraid comrade Angelo was right.’

‘Angelo who?’

‘Angelo Tasca, when he said back then that with the Lateran Treaty, the Church wasn’t so much forming an alliance with Fascism as preparing to assume its legacy … Oh, damn! You startled me, Bambolina! Are you all crazy, appearing like ghosts and turning on the light so abruptly?’

‘Are you angry, Nina?’

‘No, no! But I have to say something. Sorry. It must be because of being in prison; six years take their toll, after all! Every time the light is suddenly switched on or someone yells, it makes me jump. May I ask what you were all doing, going up and down the stairs? Hey, don’t tell me something serious has happened?’

‘It’s just that we had to make some decisions, Nina, Zia … Or rather, Jacopo had to make them because I can’t do it. I … I’d dreamt of this moment so often. I was so happy! All of us here together like before, and instead … oh, Nina, I can’t believe it! Just reunited and we have to…’

‘Come, sweetheart, come. Don’t cry. What am I saying? Cry, cry, let it all out here in Nina’s arms.’

Bambolina sobs in her arms, and her shoulders, toughened by the outdoor air and sunshine, become fragile and tremulous again, shaken by those sobs. Nina holds her gently, tenderly. She knows, as I knew, that that slim waist, barely marked by a black patent-leather belt, can break under the pressure of a harsh gesture, an unkind word. Like my Beatrice, Bambolina strives for absolute joy as a natural right, and she knows how to achieve it and how to offer it to others. Even Mattia, who slowly enters through the French door and looks at me gravely — why hadn’t I noticed him before? — even he, despite the problem with his heart, seems like a young man again, his skin and his gaze soothed by Bambù’s caresses.

‘ Happiness is a right .’ Yes, Carlo, like bread, water, sunshine. And together we will fight for Bambolina and for little Beatrice who, we can already see, ‘ lacks the shrewdness and ruthlessness needed to fight, which fortunately you have, Modesta ’.

Jacopo studies an overturned pitcher, trying not to listen to Bambolina’s sobs. ‘ Oh, Mama, when I hear a woman cry I want to die. I can’t take it! ’ Jacopo, his tall body once erect, now humbled, takes off his glasses and wipes them. Jacopo, like Bambolina, lacks shrewdness and ruthlessness. It’s for them that we must fight, Carlo, only for them … for that Carluzzu, who fell asleep on the sofa and is now rubbing his eyes, staring at the chandelier. ‘ … Well, Mama, with this child about to be born to Stella and Prando, we’re at the fourth generation of atheists. I know you don’t like the word, but four generations are already almost a nobility .’ ‘ What do you mean, Jacopo? ’ ‘ Uncle Jacopo, then you, Mama, then me, Prando and Bambù. And Carluzzu makes four…’

Look at him there: a big-boned little man, sliding off the sofa and running, dazed, toward his aunt. In that wide-eyed gaze you can read everything, those eyes still full of the earlier fun and games, the cheerful singing. Clearly undecided whether to leave the joy behind and cry too, he clings to Bambolina’s skirt, asking for help in his own way. The tiny hands have the power to rouse Bambù, who lets go of Nina and exclaims: ‘ Ma che semu pazzi , are we all crazy in this house! Carluzzu, what did they do, abandon you? Just look at that, forgetting about such a sweet piccioletto ! My little one, my little kitten! What are we today, eh, Carluzzo? Come, tell your aunt what you are today: a kitten or a little ant?’

‘I’m a sciccareddu today, Zia, a little donkey.’