Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

Nina is right, my dress tossed on the chair is a sickly colour. It might be fine in artificial light, but in the sun like that it has the putrid colour of a poisonous mushroom. I’m embarrassed, and I don’t dare take my eyes off that purplish mushroom. And then who knows what colour undergarments I’m wearing! I’m embarrassed in front of that tall, tall stranger who stands silent, motionless at the foot of the bed. I pull the covers up and with my hands try to guess the colour of my slip. My only hope is that Bambolina put something of hers on me, like the time when they arrested me. It must be so, because I touch a fabric as light as silk. It must be one of those glamorous cotton nightshirts they wear now.

‘So, shall we proceed with this examination?’

From the looks of him I thought the musician would have a faltering way of speaking, as many Englishmen do. How annoying when they start in with “that … um … er … and … um…” But he must be an exception, because after palpating me all over like a rabbit, he pronounces seriously in a deep, well-modulated voice:

‘In my opinion you are quite healthy, but I advise you to have some tests done. Today the clinical eye no longer exists … Tell me: did either of your parents suffer from diabetes?’

‘But aren’t you a musician?’

‘A musician? What makes you say that? Truthfully music is a mystery to me; it sounds like noise and nothing but noise. But you haven’t answered my question.’

From a distance, his musician’s face seemed too smooth and perfect, but up close it has myriads of anxious, elegant lines that enchant the eye.

‘You have such elegant wrinkles, Marco. I’ve never seen wrinkles like that.’

‘It’s taken a lot of work, Modesta: fifty-eight years of dogged effort! But you haven’t answered me.’

‘My parents?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who knew them! I may have exchanged four or five words with my mother. She was a woman who didn’t know if she was alive or already dead. My sister was a mongoloid. Does that have anything to do with diabetes? Why are you laughing? Is it related or not?’

‘No, it isn’t. And your father?’

‘I met a man who claimed to be my father, but I didn’t have a chance to ask him if he had diabetes or not.’

* * *

‘Are you done in there? If you’re laughing like that, it means the examination is over and I can come in. Nonna, please. I have to leave, and as is customary, a grandson can’t leave without his grandmother’s blessing.’

Why are they making such a fuss? She had been tempted to stay at Carmelo, but now she saw that it was a foolish idea; she craved the silence of her little room, her simple objects and her papers. That nightshirt was nice, but it cut into her armpits. And Carluzzu too, why was he so effusive? All that joviality made you think of birds of passage, who slam into the lighthouse on stormy nights … 123No, that was a poem, a poem learned many years ago. The discovery of poetry! That was what she should do: go back to her room and take up reading again. New voices called to her from the book covers: Kerouac, Burroughs and that other one … She was always glad she had learned some foreign languages; even now that the world had shrunk to a small piazza, translations were always slow in coming …

I’m slow too, I want to get up but Carluzzu hugs me, the vein on his forehead throbbing against my neck. Whenever Carluzzu is sad, he covers up his sadness with those jokes that make others laugh so much. I like him better when he’s serious.

‘You’re right, Mody, I’m very nervous about the journey. All in all, I’m just a neurotic — like the rest of my generation.’

‘We were neurotic too, Carlo — only we didn’t know it.’

‘I’m taking away this magazine that caused you to pass out suddenly … Just one question, Mody: what was it that upset you like that?’

‘Look at the cover, Carlo; it’s obvious.’

‘Well then, Nonna?’

‘Well, I think we were presumptuous. I think it’s time we realized that we’re still nothing but a small, meagre group of anti-fascists, exactly as we were all those years ago.’

Why is everyone so silent, eyes cast down, like at Pietro’s final sleep? Am I perhaps ill and, as always in these cases, they’re hiding it from me? That stranger — musician or doctor, whatever he is — is pleasant enough now that he’s moved away and is looking at Bambolina. But he’s too tall and perfect, too polished, as we say.

‘You really won’t come to the station with me, Nonna?’

‘No, Carlo.’

Finally they’ve gone, and I can take a leisurely bath, get dressed, and — why not? — even smoke a cigarette gazing at those beautiful red roses, vibrant in the sun.

The cigarette burns down between my fingers, and I remain suspended there between a death, a party and a departure. I had been tempted to stay at Carmelo, but now the silence of those walls chills my blood. Even at the window, the sun fails to warm me, nor does Pietro’s slow wave reassure me as he rounds the corner of the villa with his steady step, unsmiling.

‘Oh, micia , what are you doing there all alone? Come, we’ll take you home … Marco, come back, my micia will come down with us now. Right, micia ?’

For a moment I stare at that man, stopped midstride. His indecision is becoming comical.

‘And this villa seems deadly to me when isn’t full of people. Come on, Mody, come down and we’ll get out of here!’

Nina is right. For the young people there’s air, space and light here, but for me that light is darkened by ghosts. Besides, even though she’s joking, I hear Nina’s apprehension for me loud and clear; she knows about desertions, all of them, she knows the thickness of each wall. She’s the one I must follow.

‘Finally! How about a nice swim, Mody, so we can shake off these departures and funerals? How strange life is! For years we’re all together, then in a flash Olimpia leaves, marries, has a child … and now Carluzzu. And your head becomes a whirl of speeding trains and station masters’ whistles!’

In the close space inside the car, the man who’s driving seems like someone I’ve known for ever. But maybe it’s just because I always saw him in a crowd of people before. Is it the ‘Marco’, whispered by Nina, that makes him seem familiar? Or is it simply because he’s laughing now as he chases Nina on the beach?

They laugh, and in the meantime I’ve learned to dive. Bambolina taught me. I rise up on my toes, get a running start and plunge into the water. ‘ When you’re under, give a forceful lunge, and there’s nothing to fear. The water itself brings you up .’ The cold water must have washed away the mists of sleep, because when I open my eyes I find myself fully alert, and I can finally see the blue sky racing over the expanse of sea.

Without his clothes, the man appears to be smaller and more agile. Nina too, with her long, girlish legs, runs toward the waves, pretending to be afraid of that man as she once did with Carluzzu, and yesterday with little Ignazio. The deserted beach encourages the game; plus there are arms, teeth and claws of lava extending beyond the sand where one can hide. ‘ Come on, Nina, let’s play hide-and-seek! Count to a hundred, and Nonna, make sure she doesn’t peek … There! I found you, Nina. There’s no use hiding…’

‘Oh no, micia , sleeping in the sun, no! How do you feel?’

‘Fine, Nina, but why such a sad face? You’re not becoming anxious about me like Bambù is, are you?’

‘But why are you sleeping so much, Mody? I…’

‘For heaven’s sake, Nina, I’m fine. Your friend even confirmed it.’

‘Well, as a friend I trust Marco a great deal, but as a doctor less so.’