Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘So why didn’t she?’

‘Who knows! She said either ending my life or letting me live was a sin, and she chose the convent. What do I know? Maybe you can understand; she had a vocation.’

‘And Carmine? Why does he still come here?’

‘He was left a widower and never remarried.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

‘I wonder why he never remarried. Nonna pressed him to marry Agata three years ago…’

‘I didn’t mean that, I meant why…’

‘Why what?’

‘Well, if Carmine got a Brandiforti woman in trouble, why didn’t your grandfather, your uncles…’

‘What do you mean! We’re noble and he’s just a peasant. Do you expect someone in our family to dirty his hands over a commoner? Of course, if he had been someone of our class, or an officer maybe, a bourgeois, but a commoner … Imagine challenging a commoner to a duel!’

‘But he wasn’t thrown out or anything…’

‘Thrown out? What are you saying! Nonno adored him and always said: “It’s one thing to lose a daughter, who besides being a woman is foolish to boot, and another thing to lose a gabellotto like Carmine. Without a daughter you have fewer worries and you’re spared a dowry, but without a gabellotto like Carmine, who’s going to look after your lands?” Naturally! He manages everything and has trained so many men with his shotgun that they protect the estates and are as submissive as dogs. He frightens me!’

‘But he’s your father!’

‘Some father! As my tata used to say, he’s a pedi ’ncritati , a coarse peasant. 20I’ve never looked at him directly. I don’t like him and he scares me … I’m cold. Everything here scares me. Look how overcast the sky is! It’s going to rain, Modesta. It’s a sign that you’re going away.’

‘Let’s go back inside, Beatrice. You’re shivering. I wouldn’t want you to come down with something.’

‘I wish I would get sick. That way you’d have to…’

‘Come now, Beatrice, come! I’m responsible for your health.’

I tried to pull her but she wouldn’t budge. I didn’t think she was that strong; I couldn’t make her take a step. And I wouldn’t have managed to if a gust of wind hadn’t made her wobble. I grabbed her around the waist just in time to withstand the second squall that hit us from behind. Drops as big as flintstones battered our faces and made the villa’s white facade appear to waver. Beatrice murmured, ‘Dear God! The rain, it’s a sign. You see? They closed all the shutters. They closed everything up … Oh God! Modesta, look, look!.. The wind blew open the window on the second floor! God, I’m scared. I’ve never seen it open!’

It wasn’t the wind: two arms now reached out, almost as if someone wanted to climb onto the windowsill and jump.

‘It’s Pietro, Modesta! It’s Pietro shouting. What’s happened?’

‘Don’t look, don’t look!’

I pressed her head against my shoulder, so she wouldn’t see all that blood covering Pietro’s face. Only the hands and arms could be distinguished.

‘Why wouldn’t you let me look? What is it, Modesta? What’s wrong? You look like a ghost.’

‘Never mind, Beatrice. Go dry yourself off and find Argentovivo. Have her send for the doctor right away.’

‘The doctor? Where are you going, Modesta? No!’

Peeling off her hands, which were clinging to my skirt, I raced up the stairs. I just had to get to my door and from there climb the last flight of stairs. I knew the route Pietro took. Every morning I had followed that iron tread. This was the corridor … It must be one of those doors. I was running down a long hall similar to mine, when a door at the end opened and Pietro slowly stepped out, blood trickling down his face.

‘Watch out, signorina ! Go back downstairs. I have him under control. Go back down and have them send for the doctor. This is no place for you, signorina !’

He was calm, but he must have been in a lot of pain because he slumped on a bench. His voice was loud and threatening. Maybe he was right, but I wanted to know. So, holding my breath to overcome my fear, I entered the room and saw the ‘thing’, his hands tied. Hunched in a chair, he was writhing and biting, his mouth oozing saliva. The ‘thing’ was nothing but a stumpy, fat man with a round head who was staring at me with Tina’s eyes. I stepped back, and for the first time I had my doubts about whether the dead could return. Seeing me, that male Tina stopped thrashing and whining, and gaped at me open-mouthed, just as if he recognized me.

Drawn by the resemblance, I couldn’t stop my legs from rigidly approaching him. He waited, his eyes spellbound. Only when I was nearly close enough to touch him was I sure it wasn’t Tina, and to overcome the fear that had seized me, I smiled and kept telling myself: take a closer look, it’s a man. He probably just has the same malady Tina had. Tina wasn’t a monster or a ‘thing’, she was just sick. The doctor at the convent had told me about it: mongolism. I smile to make sure it’s not Tina, and I start calling his name softly: Ippolito, Ippolito! He screws up his face in what he must mean to be a smile, and with his big, bound hands begins pushing at my skirt, but slowly, almost gently. It’s not Tina.

‘It’s a miracle! A miracle!’

Pietro stares at me, ecstatic, wiping off the blood.

‘You shouldn’t have done it, signorina , but it’s a miracle! Prince Ippolito has never done that with anyone … only with me, twice in ten years. You are a saint, signorina . Just look at that, he’s quieted down. It’s a miracle! And without pills or injections. He saw you and he calmed down.’

There! That’s what would free me from my vocation: that miracle. But to substantiate it I had to stay there, so everyone could see me and know.

‘You see, Pietro, nothing is going to happen. Go and treat your cuts or you’ll bleed to death. Go ahead, and if you really want to put your mind at ease, send someone to stay outside. Nothing is going to happen to me. The Madonna led me here. I myself will watch over this poor soul!’

And unafraid, touched by Jesus, as they later said, I reached out and put my hand on that head. What fear could I possibly have, having grown up with a ‘thing’ like this? In fact, he had more hair than Tina. I began stroking it, and he lowered his head delightedly just as Tina used to do with Mama. He had no other way to show that he liked me.

In less than a quarter of an hour the news had spread throughout the villa. They came running. I could hear them behind the door, in the corridor, praying. Beatrice was there too. I could not retreat; the victory had to be complete. I loosened his ties as he watched me docilely, his eyes black and moist like a dog’s. After I untied him I knelt in front of him, staring into his eyes. Then he lowered his eyes to my skirt and began to stroke it shyly. I was beginning to understand. The ‘thing’ had never seen anyone but Pietro, the doctor and maybe the priest. Probably my size or my gentle voice — I continued calling his name and telling him ‘good boy, good boy’ — or maybe the colour of my skirt amazed and captivated him. I let him go on until, confident by now, I began saying: ‘Me Mama, me Mama…’ He must have been breastfed by someone, the poor soul. Then I took his hand and placed it on my breast, repeating: ‘Mama, Mama…’ Then, something that astounded even me — I was beginning to sweat from the effort of repeating and looking into his eyes — he said awkwardly between his teeth: ‘Mama, Mama, Mama.’

I heard something like a shudder pass through the corridor in response to the announcement someone had made: ‘He called her Mama!’ And after a silence, the word ‘miracle’, loudly shouted by everyone.