Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

Determined, Modesta managed to get up from her chair and stand up straight, but she still had to cross the hall and go down the grand marble staircase. And though in Joyce’s presence irony had helped conceal the emptiness that slowly rose from her chest to her head, once she was outside in that broad, marmoreal avenue, in a Rome that stood intact among the wasteland of rubble throughout the peninsula, a Rome protected by the vast, roseate wings of the papacy, she could not help giving in to despondency. So as not to fall, she groped around for a seat in a bar crammed with people from many different regions who continually flowed through those streets seeking refuge, hope, among the untouched walls … The unsettling crowd milled around her as in a dream: starving Italians side by side with the plump, rosy faces of Americans looking for business. Men from East-Central Europe shoulder to shoulder with former inmates of concentration camps: emaciated Jews followed by the barely more secure steps of ex-prisoners … Starting a year or two ago, women have been walking in the streets without hats or stockings. Back there, a small blond woman, timid perhaps, still wears a kerchief on her head and hugs the wall, trying to pass unnoticed: a new treasure is clutched to her chest, the glossy American magazine Grand Hotel , which is all the rage. On the tables are gelati, espressos, and a jungle of slim bottles of Coca-Cola.

‘What would you like, signora ?’

‘An espresso, please.’

The round, smiling eyes, still rimmed by hunger’s dark circles, cast rapid glances in search of opportunities, the darting eyes of a former shoeshine boy skilled in picking out the big, blond prey: an American. For those of us who were deprived of it for so many years, coffee is still a miracle, of course, and fills the emptiness of confusion. I have to hurry to the hotel before the stench of our soldiers’ wretched bodies, mixed with the scent of hundreds of American bath soaps and musty French fragrances, suffocate me. But I don’t have the strength to walk. Drained, Modesta stares at her image in a shop window. For years she hasn’t had time to look at herself in the mirror. Does she look older, maybe? Is her weariness merely the first sign of old age, perhaps? All in all, it was time: she’s fifty years old. Look at her there, Modesta: her breasts are heavier, her cheeks full … but she was always a little too thin. And the rounded hips, slim legs and trim torso don’t give the impression of a mature matron, but rather a carusa , a young girl who aged overnight, but gracefully, as her Nina the shopkeeper says. What does she say in her letter? ‘I saw you in the newspaper. You were really funny, Mody! Lots of kisses from your shopkeeper, who’s loaded with money. I can’t wait to tell you how good I’ve become at robbing those citrulli , those American fools. All you have to do is tell them that something is traditional, antique, and they’re ready to shell out…’

A young girl grown old! But there in the shop window she can’t see her wrinkles, her hair. Therefore, Modesta, if you want to know more about that weariness, you must have the courage to look at yourself in a mirror at least once. ‘ Oh, shit, you’re far-sighted, Mody! You see everything cloudy and indistinct … Will you, or won’t you wear these glasses?’ So Modesta had better wear the glasses that Bambolina gave her. ‘ You’ll get a crick in your neck, Zia, every time you have to read! ’

Reassured by the lenses, all she sees are the usual white strands and a few more wrinkles. Her teeth? Strong. And if she smiles, the wrinkles are erased by magic. That smile at the end of her speeches had sparked cries of enthusiasm and applause. It was satisfying and comforting to be understood, to be loved. That was the reason — she realized it now — why each day she acquiesced to watering down her ideas, impoverishing their content, reducing her language. Even so, success was certain; in fact, even more certain than before. That was the catch! In recent months, the less she said the more applause she received from the crowd. And she, content, tried not to see it. Now she realized that during those years, all she had had was personal success. Like an actress who, just to please the audience, passes off even the most hackneyed or reactionary script as good. She understood Mela; she finally understood the radiant eyes, the confident demeanour of that girl … Surrounded by applause, accepted and loved by the crowd, Mela had no need for anyone, except for some casual affair with a woman. Lucky her! But Mela made sounds spring from her keyboard: exquisite, classic sounds, not words that spewed fire more terrible than cannons …

With her arms on the mirror, Modesta’s happy smile vanishes, and she weeps in despair. She’s never felt so despondent, not when she decided to stop getting richer and richer by accumulating money, nor when she felt called to poetry. With her face buried in her arms, she tries to find the strength not to be corrupted by herself, that self who says: ‘Besides, if you don’t do it, someone else — surely worse than you — will promptly do it.’

‘What do you plan to do, Mama?’

‘Enjoy the sunshine, can’t you see? I feel like I’ve been away from this sun for a hundred years!’

‘Do you think it’s fair to keep me in the dark? Make me look bad?’

‘Bad how, Prando?’

‘Like a fool, down in Catania and in Rome. Is it possible that I always have to hear about things from other people, from strangers?’

‘Did Lucio phone you?’

‘He was desperate! You left without even calling him, and he wanted to know from your know-nothing, idiot of a son if it’s true that you intend to drop everything.’

‘Nonsense, Prando; an excuse to call you. I cancelled all my engagements properly. I spent an additional week in Rome, in that bogus peace, to call off all my commitments. A nightmarish week! Gilded clouds, celebrations! And to make matters worse, Via Veneto, with those “happy few” who feign a grim cheerfulness when they meet one another.’

‘Never mind Rome! Why won’t you answer me? What’s the story about the article?’

‘Why are you bothering to ask, Prando, when you know everything?’

‘All because of ten lines in an article!’

‘For that matter, twelve lines and a title. And even if it were only one line, I don’t accept censorship of any kind. You people are young, but for me twenty years was enough. I feel all censored out, as Nina would say.’

‘Nina this, Nina that! Forget about her! It’s she and that spineless existentialist Libero who gave you a swollen head.’

‘I can tell you that Libero is one of the few genuine Marxists I met in Rome.’

‘A beaten individualist, that’s what he is!’

‘Naturally, compared to your absolute triumphalism. Drop it, Prando; I’m tired of controversy. Who would have said that after only four years — imagine! — I’d have to agree with that warped Jesuit, Sartre!’ 113

‘What does Sartre have to do with it?’

‘It’s related, listen. In Milan, in 1946, I think, it was summer and everyone was suffocating … such heat in that sunless northern city, you wouldn’t believe it!’

‘Spare me the poetic descriptions, Mama!’

‘I’ll spare you. Sartre said that a little angst wouldn’t hurt against your triumphalism, and he attracted all the young people to him.’

‘All the spineless young people you know! I know other young people, like me…’

‘You, Prando, young? You’re as old as the power of this island, and you’re handsome too, like its ancient beauty. I like looking at you. You remind me of an old man, as wise as the sea and as calm as the Mountain, who enchanted me as a little girl.’