Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘In that rats’ nest? In that shady neighbourhood? Are you crazy?’

‘Nina lives there, doesn’t she? And if she’s there…’

‘Nina, always Nina! I won’t allow it. Never! I’ll never consent to seeing you behind a counter!’

‘I have to earn a living, and in the least unpleasant way. At a guess, we’ll have roughly twenty years of white Fascism.’ 115

‘What are you talking about? The gradual revolution…’

‘The reformist shambles, you mean? Like the joke about agrarian reform, right, Mattia?’

‘I don’t know much about politics, Prando, but it’s true that agrarian reform was all smoke and mirrors, a sop: a few feet of stony ground improperly allocated and no money for seed or machinery. So to cultivate those few feet of soil, farmers went into debt. They fell into the hands of loan sharks everywhere, and already the young people are leaving the land.’

‘You’re all crazy, Mattia! What can you expect overnight? I’ve had enough. You with the land, this one with the women’s issue!’

‘All right, Prando, I’ve told you before and I’ll say it again: I want to be independent from men like Lucio. And watch out, because at this rate when women realize how you leftist men smile smugly and paternalistically at what they say, when your Amalia realizes she isn’t being heard and that she’s wearing herself out doing two jobs, at the stove and in the laboratory — how come you never speak to me about Amalia’s work, huh? why do I only hear how sweet, or pretty or jealous she is? — when they realize all this, their vengeance will be awesome, Prando, like in America. They will turn their backs on you and…’

‘That’s enough!’

‘Exactly! I don’t want to hate you. I love men like Jacopo, Mattia…’

‘Sappy fools, Mama!’

‘Careful, Prando! Because I might break your neck if you say that again.’

‘Calm down, Mattia. Don’t take offence. It’s not his fault; he grew up in the Duce’s breeding ground.’

‘You’ll never see me again, Mama. One more word and you’ll never see me again!’

‘It was to be expected, Prando. The last time, too, our brothers, our children deserted us. It’s a time for big decisions. Think about it. I’ve made mine … What did your Malatesta 116do when Fascism arose, Nina? And he was seventy-one years old. I’m a young girl by comparison.’

‘He went back to his work as an electrician in a small shop in San Lorenzo.’

‘There you are. I’ll take advantage of it to read Bakunin and so many others. What did your Arminio rightly say, Nina?’

‘He said that a Leninist doesn’t read out of self-censorship. It’s incredible, but that’s how it is!’

In front of the small artificial pond that has miraculously risen before her, Modesta stops and ripples the green water with her hand. But no joy comes from that miracle. Prando turns his back and stalks away. ‘You’ll never see me again, Mama, never!’ To rebel against a son … This was something she hadn’t known: that rebelling against a son produces unbounded sadness, doesn’t it, Modesta? Why? Think hard, Modesta; don’t fall into a trap. If you think hard and don’t lose your head — just like during the bombings — you’ll find the answer. Here: sit down on the small gilded stool where your Beatrice used to sit while you splashed about in the water: ‘ I’ll set it here, Modesta. It’s charming, such an antique in this modern setting … It’s original, plus this way we can go on talking. ’ There, sit on the stool and light a cigarette. The bathwater can wait. Amid smoke and tears Modesta thinks: rebelling against a father occurs when you think you’re young and have all eternity ahead of you, but rebelling against a son — when you are perhaps nearing the end of the journey — reveals thoughts of carnal loneliness that smack of death. So then, what to do? I’m still dressed. I can run outside and call him back, and by so doing decree my own living death, submitting to words and actions contrary to my own thinking, watching the systematic destruction of that poor Amalia, who’s confident like all intelligent women yet new to the art of being an adult. Watching the reverse destruction to which Carluzzu is subjected day by day: ‘ You’re a man. You have to prove how manly you are, Carluzzu! Not womanish like today’s young men! ’

They’re not even thirty and already, as always, they’re railing against fourteen- and twenty-year-olds. No, Modesta! To accept this is vile, more vile than siding with the jailers there on the island. If you held out on that windswept scrap of rock … if you held out then, you cannot nullify that action now by totally surrendering to Prando (or the fear of death?) or to the fear of old age that has been instilled in you to preserve order in society, just to safeguard that first line of defence which — Fascism or not — is still the family, the training ground for future soldiers, soldier-mothers, grandmother-queens. Besides, why that eternal glorification of youth? The young work, produce, bear children, go to war, all before gaining self-awareness. But at forty, at fifty years of age, a human being — if he hasn’t perished in the incessant social war — becomes dangerous: he poses questions, he demands freedom, rest, joy. Even the term ‘old age’ is a lie, Modesta. It’s been crammed with scary ghosts, like the word ‘death’, to make you be quiet, deferential to the established rules. Who knows what old age is? When it starts? In Stendhal’s day, a woman was old at thirty. At thirty I had just begun to understand things and to live. How many have dared cross the threshold of that word without listening to the preconceptions and clichés? Maybe more than you imagine, since among those cast aside you can find serene faces and calm, wise gazes. But no one has ever dared speak out because of fear — always that eternal fear — of toppling the bogus equilibrium that has been established. Standing before the closed door of that frightening word, the temptation to go in and look around takes hold of you, doesn’t it, Modesta? Of course, after entering that door, you could meet your death just around the corner. But why wait for it out there, shoulders hunched, hands limp in your lap? Why not go and meet it? Challenge it day by day, hour by hour, stealing all the life you can from it?

The cigarette between your fingers has gone out and the water inspires you to fight. Glowing pink, green and blue on the shelf in the shadows are scented soaps straight out of The Arabian Nights — who would have imagined it back then, eh, Beatrice? Bambù put them there to bring me joy. Perhaps she understood my fearfulness? ‘ You seem distant, Zia. Why? Distant and distracted. Please, go back to being your old self! ’ Soaping myself is pleasurable; my firm body only needs some exercise. It’s time to move, to fight with every muscle and every bit of brain power in the chess game with La Certa that awaits me. Every year that’s stolen, won, every hour wrested from the chessboard of time, becomes eternal in that final match. Think, Modesta: maybe growing old is nothing more than an ultimate act of revolution …

Revolution? Modesta smiles, trying to float in that small pool of artificial water.

‘ You float in the tub as if you were out at sea, Mody! ’

‘ It’s raining outside, Beatrice. It’s winter, but all I have to do is close my eyes and remember … It’s just that I’m afraid I’ll forget how to swim. What do you think? When summer comes, will I still know how to swim? ’

‘ Once you’ve learned to swim, Mody, you never forget how. ’

‘ Once you’ve learned the joy of revolution, you mean. ’