Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

He laughed, swiftly overtaking me with his Orlando and urging me to gallop toward the valley. And that loud laugh, along with the steely curls on his head, filled me with a sweet terror that drove me to catch up with him, grab those wiry ringlets and pull and pull. I hated him, I wanted to hurt him, but when I was away from him that mysterious chill gripped me again and I had to go back.

‘Of course you’re hurting me! What am I, made of iron?’

‘You’re made of iron, and I can’t stand the sight of you!’

‘Fine, figghia , so don’t look at me. Anyway, for some reason people make love with their eyes closed. You’re a real woman, real and forceful. And to think, I swear to God, that I thought you only liked the caresses of other women! Just look at that. Even an old man like me can be wrong!’

How did he know? My surprise made me tug too hard on the reins and Morella almost threw me off.

‘What is it? Are you upset over a silly thing like that? What do you think, that you’re the first to be initiated by a woman’s hand? There’s nothing wrong with it, figghia . And don’t worry, you’re a woman, a real woman, even if you wake up with whiskers one of these days.

What I learned from Carmine I tried to relay to Beatrice. My caresses became more watchful and more penetrating. Of course, I wasn’t a man, but I entered her more deeply with my hand and she came more intensely. Besides, as Carmine said, I was preparing her for when she would meet the right man. Naturally it was difficult there, but the war would end, and in Catania …

‘Can you see the sea from our palazzo in Catania?’

‘Not only the sea, Modesta: shops, the market. Look how big our beautiful Catania is…’

Her small hand feverishly pointed out streets and piazzas on the map. She showed me photographs of the palazzo with many shops nearby, full of marvellous things.

‘And this is the villa at Ognina, amid the orange groves. That’s what orange groves are like! Here there are only these woods; woods are gloomy! An orange grove is something else, because you know the sea is nearby even if you don’t see it. These woods are dismal because they’re so far from the sea. It seems like a century since I’ve been back there! Damn this war! Why are men always at war, Modesta?’

‘Gains, Beatrice. Simply for profits and gains disguised as ideals. And maybe for something else that’s more difficult to understand.’

‘Oh God, there you go, answering me like Uncle Jacopo! What a pity you didn’t know him.’

‘I’ve come to know him through you.’

‘Sometimes I almost believe this game you play. Sometimes I actually think you knew him somehow.’

‘It’s thanks to you. Through you I’ve come to know him so well that sometimes, in sleep, he visits me and tells me what we should think, do…’

‘Oh, yes, Modesta, tell me about it. I like it when you tell me stories. What did he say we will do? When did you see him? Did he tell you what we will be doing in two or three years?… Will I marry? Did he tell you whether I’ll get married? Nonna doesn’t want me to, and besides, I’m afraid of men. You’re the only one I want.’

No matter how I put the subject of men, she wept and clung to me. Something had to be done. She was crying so hard that I didn’t hear Argentovivo yelling behind the door.

‘What is it, Modesta? Who’s shrieking like that? And in the courtyard too, do you hear how they’re shouting?’

I barely had time to open the door when we were swept down to the courtyard where a crowd of peasants and servants nearly crushed us. I had never seen so many of them all together. Some carried flags, some were tossing their caps in the air like a discus, others were weeping and hugging. Everyone was shouting something different. You couldn’t understand a thing. Until my ears began to grasp the underlying cry that linked all those exclamations: ‘The war is over! The war is over!’ A few are shoving me now, saying over and over: ‘The war is over!’ Overwhelmed by hugs and handshakes, I can’t find Beatrice anymore, until a familiar, high-pitched voice from above yells more loudly than all the others: ‘Not for us!’

With a final whisper, all those voices fell silent and the upturned faces quickly bowed their heads, speechless. The Princess, pale, very tall, gripping the balcony, hurled her words into the silence a second time: ‘Not for us!’

Then after a pause:

‘And you, Mody, Beatrice, up here with me, immediately!’

* * *

‘Have you lost your minds mingling with those foolish beggars? They even dragged out the Italian flag! The same ones who were screaming for war earlier. Sit down! And lest this vulgarity be infectious, let me make our position clear to you. For us, the war is not over. With Ignazio’s death, for me the war will never be over. And I shall never allow anyone to imply the contrary. We will not budge from here. I can see it in your eyes; I can see it’s what you had hoped! I will never agree to go back to Catania or Palermo, where I saw him going about strong and healthy. And when I, too, am gone, you two will remain here to care for my room, as if I might always return. Just as my husband, God rest his soul, insisted on for himself and for the others. And to make it absolutely clear, I’ve drawn up a will attesting to this. Anyone who crosses the threshold to leave this house will become a stranger to the family, and the money will go to whoever remains. And if no one remains, the money will go to a pious institution whose name I will not tell you. Now, go and tell those imbeciles not to let me see them laughing and smiling. Advise the tutor and dance instructor as well. Not a word about this peace that doesn’t pertain to me. For me and for you, the mourning continues.’

I didn’t dare look at Beatrice who, white as a sheet, let me drag her to her room where I settled her on the bed as best I could before rushing off to warn everyone about that madwoman’s orders not to celebrate. So why all those dance lessons, all those dresses, as if to prepare us for life, only to then decide that the villa would become our tomb? She had gone mad. As I spoke to the servants, I read on their pallid faces the uncertain looks that the prospect of insanity arouses in us all. She had gone mad, and for the moment it was best not to oppose her.

‘But, Voscenza , but…’

‘No buts. The Princess wants it that way and that’s how it must be. Send all those people away. Yes, of course, offer them a little wine, but quietly please. Then off they go, back to work. Today is a day like any other.’

Gaia was not crazy, nor had she ever been. By now I was beginning to understand the human animal, and I knew that any intent others have seems like madness to us if it is contrary to our wishes, while that which serves our purposes and leaves us content with our way of thinking appears reasonable. It wasn’t madness. She was determined to die, taking us all with her. And she was firmly determined! I trembled before another individual’s resolve, which I was facing once again, but I was no longer panic-stricken. And since I had my own objective, or plan, or intent, call it what you will, which might seem crazy to others, I would deal with this madness with the same firm hand as that grand old woman whom I so admired. I admired her, but she had to die. How? There was time. Both Beatrice and I were only eighteen years old. We had to be patient and go along with her without making her suspicious. The opportunity would come. The first thing I had to do was reassure Beatrice, then see to the will. Find out where she kept it, at least. Not lose sight of it.

‘I see, Mody, that I did well to place my trust in you. You’re the only one in recent months who hasn’t regarded me as insane, and whose disposition hasn’t changed. Yesterday I tossed out Don Antonio. He started acting crafty — like an elephant in a china shop, though! — asking me about my will: whether my wishes are in a safe place, whether I deposited the will with a notary, if it was here, if it was there, and on and on. As if I needed anyone besides myself. The will is here … As if I needed a notary or a doctor, or whatever. What that old fool was really trying to say is that I’m crazy, right, Mody?’