Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Here we are. This is Uncle Jacopo’s room. Close your eyes for a few seconds so you’ll get used to the dimness. “Only at sunset is that malevolent lamp acceptable,” he used to tell me. At other times he joked: “Would you mind turning off this shitty sun!” He always said merde , maybe because he had studied in Paris and was a republican. Uncle Jacopo was Maman’s favourite brother, only they argued all the time. That’s because he was also a heretic. In this room there are only scandalous books. Reading them is forbidden. I’ve always been very curious, but I never dared take one, even though the key is right there in the vase where he left it …

‘What is it, why are you so pale? Is it because he was a heretic? Yes, I know, they’re against God and they read all those books against God, but he was a good man, believe me. Or is it the skeleton and all these strange contraptions that scare you? They scared me too when I was little. But then, hearing them talk about him, I got over my fear. If you only knew what a gentle voice he had! I always came here to help him with his collections of butterflies, shells and minerals. He kept live things in these little jars. I don’t know why … he did experiments. He wrote and published many books, in Rome and in France. Maman says you can’t understand a word of what he wrote. He was a physician and also a chemist, did you know? Complicated things … I loved him very much, even though he swore against God and the priests. Besides, he did me a great favour. By yelling and shouting he convinced Maman not to make me embroider anymore. It was torture for me. He said that embroidering made women stupid. Only once did I manage to get him to tell me why he didn’t believe in God. He said that the invention of God is too simple an explanation — or maybe he said convenient, I don’t recall — to account for the beauty and mystery of butterflies. He also said that ugliness and beauty are one and the same thing, and cannot be separated, that … wait, how did he put it? Oh yes, that beauty is born from ugliness, ugliness from beauty, and so on. It’s very tricky. When he spoke like that it was difficult to understand him and … All this was the reason he wanted to be cremated. Don’t ever let it slip out of your mouth. See that vase on the mantelpiece? That’s where his ashes are. Come on, let’s go. Why are you standing there like a statue? He wasn’t a bad man, Modesta, really, even though…’

At last I had found another heretic. Those books flirting with me in the dim light attracted me more than Beatrice’s brisk, caressing voice. If she hadn’t been there I would promptly have taken one of those books, at least one … but she was tugging at me now, and I had to be prudent. I let myself be led away by her warm little hand, down the stairs to the last room on the right overlooking the small lake. The room was so different that I didn’t dare go in. Windows took up all the walls, from floor to ceiling, allowing the light and the trees to spill onto long, pale wood tables, their strange lamps like slender snakes with large bent heads. In addition to the tables, there were bookcases along a single wall. In front of them was a cot with a grey-green blanket, sheets and a pillow neatly straightened, waiting …

‘Yes, that’s where he slept. It’s lovely here, isn’t it? But it was lovelier when Ignazio was alive. Too bad you didn’t get to know him. He died the very day you arrived. How come I’m not wearing mourning? Maman doesn’t want me to. She says her brother Jacopo was right, at least on this issue. Uncle Jacopo said that wearing mourning is barbaric … that if someone is truly grieving he bears his sorrow in his heart, without the need for pointless exhibitionism. And I am truly grieving.

‘Come, look how handsome Ignazio was. This is where he kept the things that were most dear to him. Look: a receipt from the London Underground … here’s a ticket from the Paris Opera; a postcard from Weimar. He studied in London and in Germany … And here, his photograph in civilian clothes: that’s me he’s holding, when I was little. But come, look at this one above the cot, in uniform. He was even more handsome, wasn’t he? It’s from when he entered the air force. He also designed airplanes, did you know? He always said that the world’s future would be decided in the sky, on these wings. See, these are his drawings. He was always working, even at night, under these big lamps. The large windows too, he had them put in. He needed a lot of light, before. Later, he no longer wanted to look out and he had those dark drapes hung. When he died I opened them, because I only want to remember when he was handsome and fit. These bookcases too are full of his designs and calculations.

‘You’re amazed at all those photos of airplanes, aren’t you? The photo above the cot, the one with him in it, I put it there myself, afterwards … All he wanted on the walls were airplanes. That’s why Maman used to say that he didn’t love anyone, only his infernal machines. But it’s not true; he loved me. I was the only one he wanted around after the tragedy. A year he lay paralysed on this cot. He was wounded just three months after the war began. He had enlisted voluntarily. He said the war would end quickly because of the airplanes, and instead … this war is never ending. Why won’t it ever end?… Every afternoon I would come and find him increasingly thinner and paler on this cot, and he would talk to me about the war, about the Socialists, about a certain Mussolini whom he greatly admired: he said he was a man who believed in youth, not in those old men in parliament who pretend they’re taking care of Italy, while instead they’re digging her grave. He loved Italy very much. He smoked constantly, and when he fell silent he would make smoke rings … like men do. But of course, you have no experience with these things. I can tell, you know, that when I talk about men you become distracted, and maybe I shouldn’t speak about them. Still, it’s too bad you didn’t get to know him.’

Dazzled by Ignazio’s good looks as he stared at me from the photograph, I heard my voice say: ‘Too bad…’

Terrified, I glanced at Beatrice, but, captivated by her Ignazio, she hadn’t understood.

‘Yes, unfortunately, because now the family will die out. He was the only male left, the youngest of the Brandiforti. And if he hadn’t let himself get caught up in politics, as Maman says … she’s right about that. What do we Sicilians care about a war that the King of Italy is waging for his own gain? On this point Maman and Uncle Jacopo were in agreement. But Ignazio, up in Rome at the university, got carried away and so he enlisted. He was shot down after only three months. But I already told you that. Sorry. It’s just that I loved him so much. I would read to him. I was the only one he wanted to see. Sometimes he got tired. He turned his head to the wall and I kept silent. Once I was getting up to leave, but he said: “No, stay here, little one. It’s just that I’m tired, but I like knowing you’re there, as long as you aren’t bored.” Bored! I lived for those hours in the afternoon when I came here. After a while, maybe half an hour, twenty minutes, he would turn his head back and I continued reading. I was happy with him…’

At the word ‘happy’, perhaps because she was smiling, her unexpected, desperate tears blinded me. Or had the sun gone down? There was darkness all around. How long had I been listening to her voice? In the dark, in response to her sobbing, I embrace her. She’s trembling all over. I feel her silky hair against my neck and cheek and, what surprises me even more, I begin cradling her, singing something I didn’t know I knew: 15

‘ Si Beatrice nun voli durmiri coppa nno’ culu sa quantu n’ha aviri…’. If Beatrice won’t go to sleep, whack goes the ladle on her little behind …