Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Who is Carmine?’

‘Indeed. That’s the point. Will you let me undo your braids?’

‘No, Beatrice, no. It’s not permitted. But then, whose daughter are you?’

‘That I can’t tell you. I really can’t. I might cause you to lose your vocation and like Nonna says, your vocation is the only asset you have.’

‘It’s not as easy as you may think. When it’s deeply rooted, as it is in me, nothing can change it. But wait: you said you might cause me to lose…’

‘There, you figured it out! Yes, because Mother Leonora was my mother. Dear God, how pale you are! But I didn’t tell you! You realized it yourself, didn’t you? You figured it out yourself! I don’t want to take away your vocation.’

‘It’s all right, Beatrice. No, you didn’t tell me. I realized it myself.’

‘Still it’s one thing to assume something and another thing to know for sure, isn’t it? How pale you are!’

‘Just a minute. I’m going to wash my face.’

In the small bathroom I leaned over the sink and nearly vomited. I was trembling all over but not because I was upset, as Beatrice thought … That abominable woman … The appalling fiancé, the debutantes’ ball, her panic in the face of worldly corruption … Not to mention the Madonna who had enlightened her about the man’s dreadfulness. God’s grace, her vocation! Yet all the while she had had a man!

To cool that hatred, I began slapping myself with cold water, until I saw the face of a serene, unsmiling nun in the mirror. As I went back to Beatrice, who was waiting anxiously, her hands full of hairpins, I kept thinking damn you, you liar, I hate you .

‘I didn’t tell you, Modesta! It was you who realized it, you!’

‘Of course, Beatrice, of course.’

‘How calm you are now! Did Mother Leonora’s sin make you lose your vocation?’

‘“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone”, Beatrice. Besides, Mother Leonora completely atoned for her sin in solitude and prayer. Though I haven’t sinned, none the less I feel unworthy compared to her!’

Horrified, I could hear Mother Leonora’s voice speaking through my lips. Could the hatred have reawakened her inside me? The prayer of hatred can do anything; it can bestow both life and death, anything.

‘Now tell me, there’s a good girl, tell me. Who was your father? The officer to whom she had been promised?’

‘If you let me undo your braids here, in the sunlight, I’ll tell you.’

‘Go ahead, little one.’

‘How sweet your voice is now. You’re a saint, Modesta! You let people do anything to you and you accept it all without rebelling. How do you do it? I wish I were like you! Such beautiful hair! Can I comb it for you?’

‘Tell me who your father was. Or don’t you know?’

‘Someday I’ll show him to you.’

‘You have a photograph?’

‘There’s no need for one.’

‘Then it’s someone who lives in this house.’

‘You’re getting colder … Not really, he comes sometimes … Haven’t you noticed him?’

I did a quick review: the priest, too old … the tutor? the Russian concert artist? No, both too old … That skinny man who came to examine ‘the thing’?

‘The doctor, Beatrice? Is it him?’

‘Cold, colder…’

‘The notary who came the other night?’

‘Colder, colder…’

‘That man who comes every once in a while?’

‘Warm, warmer … warmer…’

‘No! Then it’s…’

‘Hot! Come here, look, he’s coming up the terrace … I always run away when he comes.’

Behind the window, standing close together, we followed the slow steps of a tall, strapping man … As if he felt our gaze, he raised his head, with its curly white hair, and looked in our direction. For a moment, a pair of blue eyes fixed on us. Glints of gold flashed in those dark blue depths. He was dressed in velvet like Mimmo, except that instead of being brown, the velvet he wore was a blue so dark it seemed black.

‘Who is he? The gardener?’

‘No, the gabellotto , the estate manager. 17Don’t you see the shotgun he’s carrying?’

Of course! That man dressed and moved like Mimmo, but he carried a shotgun slung over his shoulder. A doubt struck me. Beatrice was impetuous, so the Princess had said, capricious and unreliable. Could she be teasing me, as she often did with Argentovivo and the other women? I mustn’t lose sight of the fact that she was the mistress, and that only a ‘consecrated veil’ kept me from being a servant in that house.

‘That can’t be, Beatrice. And even if it were true, you wouldn’t know about it. These things are difficult to find out.’

Pulling away from me and hurling herself onto the bed, she’s screaming now and crying, thumping the cover and thrashing the air.

‘You’re calling me a liar! To protect your Mother Leonora, you’re calling me a liar! She was such a coward! A coward, like you! She abandoned me here, leaving me with these madmen! If it hadn’t been for my tata and then Ignazio, I would have died. Died of loneliness, concealed from everyone. They kept me hidden away, don’t you see? Earlier I told you about all the people who came, in Catania too … but I only saw them from a distance, or from behind a door. Go away! Go like that coward who abandoned me!’

She seemed sincere. What should I do? I had to make her quiet down. Not so much for her sake — something inside me told me that those tears were good for her, a healthy outburst that would leave her calm and serene — but because Argentovivo might hear her. And the only way to silence her was to embrace her.

‘You’re right, Beatrice. It was cowardly of me not to believe you, but you have to understand…’

She smiled, the tears running down her chin and neck. Those tears were begging to be dried — by now I knew it — and taking her in my arms I caressed her cheeks, her chin, her neck.

‘Ignazio used to dry my tears like that too when I cried. He called me his personal fountain. Once he said to me: “I’m thirsty, will you let me drink these tears?” And you, aren’t you thirsty?’

I was very thirsty, and my lips sucked up those tears. I didn’t know they were so salty.

‘How salty they are!’

‘Didn’t you know that?’

‘No.’

‘Why? Haven’t you ever cried?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘You’ve cried and you never tasted them? How strange! I did it right away … ever since I can remember. And then I discovered that they tasted like sea water — less salty, but the same taste.’

‘Have you seen the sea?’

‘Of course! Haven’t you? That’s incredible! It’s not possible!’

‘Now it’s you calling me a liar. Watch out or I’ll start crying like you.’

‘Go ahead! That way I can drink too. But how come you’ve never seen it?’

‘I was born in the mountains, but there was someone who always talked to me about it.’

‘Your brother?’

‘Almost.’

‘You never talk about yourself.’

‘It’s not permitted.’

‘Liar!’

‘Watch out, or I’ll start crying and screaming.’

‘That’s what I want.’

‘Why?’

‘I told you, because I’m thirsty, and sleepy too. Will you let me put my hand on your breast?’

She didn’t wait for me to answer. She quickly untied my smock and, shifting aside the bands, wasn’t satisfied to place her hand on my breast like before, but pulled it out altogether. I closed my eyes to resist the tantalizing arousal until, hearing her so quiet, I thought she had fallen asleep. Then I looked at her. She wasn’t sleeping. She was staring at my breasts, wide-eyed.

‘How big and firm they are! They’re more beautiful than my tata ’s, even the nipples … they’re pale. My tata ’s were dark. Will you give me some milk?’