Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

And I’d like to stay there for ever, but Bambù is calling me. I’d like to stay and go on listening to Carlo, who has the gift of telling stories, of captivating you and transporting you far away. But life moves swiftly in this conscious youth, it calls and I must go. Life cannot be stopped. Pietro is dying and he needs me.

But none of us would have known it if the doctor hadn’t whispered to us as he hurriedly went out: ‘Indeed, he has little time left now!’ Seated in a roomy armchair, his head barely supported, Pietro is staring at something beyond the open window.

‘Pietro has never stayed in bed when the sun is high, and this little worm tickling my chest certainly won’t put me there.’

‘Are you in pain, Pietro?’

‘No, Mody, staiu aspittannu me figghia , I’m waiting for my daughter. Afterwards, when I’ve seen her, I can go … How long have I been waiting for her, Bambolina?’

‘Two days, Pietro. But she should be here soon. She’s stuck at the airport.’

‘America is a long way off, Bambù!’

‘But Crispina is in Palermo now, and if it weren’t for the strikes…’

‘Strikes, Mody?’

‘Yes, Pietro.’

‘It took some doing, didn’t it, Mody, to be able to say that word out loud and in broad daylight! You’re young, Bambuccia, but at one time you could only talk in the dark, and you couldn’t even feel secure within the walls of your own house. You remember Pasquale, don’t you, Mody? He was slender and bionnu , fair as an archangel, then thanks to betrayals and kowtowing to the Fascists, he became bloated and sweaty like a pig, and like a pig this hand of mine got rid of him … Bambù, will you hold my hand like you did yesterday? Bambolina’s hand sees, heals and restores. That’s why she can then recount whatever she touches in poems, like the balladeers. My father used to say that a person born with the talent to tell stories is also someone who heals … What is my little sparrow doing, Bambù? My Argentovivo isn’t off crying somewhere, is she?’

‘No, she’s making a cassata … Crispina will be famished.’

‘That’s my little sparrow, she listened to me. You’ll take care of her for me afterwards, won’t you, Bambù? You’ll guide her along? That’s how she is. Many people are like that. It’s not that they’re less capable than others, it’s that they’re meek by nature and they need to be steered along.’

‘Of course, Pietro.’

‘I knew you would. I’m just talking to pass the time while we wait.’

‘Speaking of talking, Zia, if you knew what fantastic stories Pietro has told me these past few days! I’ll write them all down, Pietro. You’ll let me, won’t you?’

‘If they stir your imagination, they’re yours.’

‘Never mind imagination! You should hear all the things he knows about Nonna Gaia, and about Uncle Jacopo and the time he came to liberate you from the island. Tell Zia too about the island, Pietro.’

‘I’ve told it all by now, Bambuccia.’

‘But about that German who was kind…’

‘Well, I don’t know if he didn’t see us on purpose, or if he really didn’t see us, but certainly if he had stopped us we would have been done for.’

Timur!.. so I had encountered Timur? A chilling terror fills me at the thought of that name that I myself had summoned up. They only mentioned a German.

‘What is it, Zia? You’ve turned pale.’

‘What did that German look like, Pietro? Tell me.’

‘How should I know, my dear Mody! With those helmets, all their faces looked alike.’

‘Let’s not talk about Germans. I don’t like Zia’s expression when we speak of them. Tell us about your masterstroke, about how you routed Inès … Pietro considers it his greatest work, Zia.’

‘Of course! I can fight forcefully with my hands and legs, but with a woman, well! With a woman!.. Pietro had to make himself small as a snake and spy on her … But Mody knows everything, Bambù. I had nothing against Inès, but she was tormenting my Ippolito so I blackmailed her. She had a cascamorto , a lovesick suitor, but she couldn’t make up her mind to run off with him. She kept accumulating money, so I made her decide in a jiffy. But afterwards she too was happy. Women! Who can understand them! She said she couldn’t leave her son Jacopo, that her duty was to stay close to him. But while we’re on the subject, Mody, I shouldn’t, but … for my peace of mind can I be sure that you’ll find a companion for my dear Prince, to go fishing, walking with him?’

‘Of course, Pietro.’

‘Go open the door, Bambù. Crispina is here! She’s come just in time. I’m tired, and this languor that’s come over me even while talking about happy moments is a sign that I am truly exhausted and must sleep.’

* * *

Pietro sleeps deeply, and faced with that profound sleep, no one dares weep or shriek. His composed body, the smile that Crispina’s arrival fixed on his face for ever, inspire only respect.

Everyone was notified by Bambolina’s elegant script with its irrevocable words … Like back then, at Carmelo, when we could do anything we wanted, right, Cavallina? but only during the hours that Gaia’s calligraphy had firmly penned on that piece of paper, shiny as silk. Jacopo squeezes my arm for a moment. His clothes have a new smell of aseptic wards mixed with the whiff of a train — they’ve travelled all night — and he holds his Olimpia by the waist, as if to support her. That’s right, I had almost forgotten; even good things are forgotten. For every life that’s taken, another life is born: Olimpia is expecting a baby with my Jacopo.

‘How lovely Crispina is, Nonna! Every time she comes back, she’s even more beautiful! Is it true that I was in love with her as a child? Pietro always told me so.’

‘Yes, Carluzzu.’

‘I don’t remember being in love, only her singing. I have two Crispinas in my head: the one ’Ntoni used to push into the middle of the room to sing, and the impressive, confident woman on that immense stage. Remember how Pietro was sweating? Where was that, Nonna?’

‘In Milan, I think; it was so long ago. Pietro was happy! Life flies by when you’re happy.’

‘It’s true. But what are you looking at, Nonna? Why are you so pale?’

Prando is back there, standing near ’Ntoni and smiling at me. After so many years, he wants to talk to me. I’d rather stay there with them, listen to the stories about Pietro, drink some wine. But Prando needs me. I have to go to him.

‘What is it, Mama? Why are you looking at me like that? Your silence is humiliating me. Prando has come, and by coming he is apologizing for his past behaviour. Let’s put it behind us.’

Why is he speaking in the same voice he used as a child, when his foot in a plaster cast made him fidget and fret?

‘I had to see the doctor. Something is wrong with my heart. They tell me I have to make up my mind: either change my life and live another thirty years, or…’

With my hands I grasp the wiry curls and look closely at him: not a single white strand, not a shadow on those marmoreal features. But Prando isn’t lying. Only this warning could have bent his pride and made him return to the one who gave birth to him.

‘But you know what I told that blatant idiot? That without my work, which is more intoxicating to me than wine, and without my motorcycle, I can’t live. What should I do, end up like that wimp Mattia, who looks after himself like a delicate, sickly woman?’

‘But he’s happy.’

‘That may be, but I’d rather…’

‘Whom do you want to spite by dying, eh, old man?’

‘Old man, you call me — and you’re right. Why did you bring me into this world if you knew I would have to grow old?’