Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

The first week of Carlo’s absence

‘Will he really no longer come? But why, Modesta, why?’

It was best not to answer … ‘ Think me vile if you like, but don’t hold it against me, because I loved you for an hour .’ He had spirit, that lanky young man with his awkward gait.

* * *

The second week of Carlo’s absence

‘So what you found out about him was true? It wasn’t a joke?’

‘What did I find out, Beatrice?’

‘Have you already forgotten? Go on, of course you remember! That he was a socialist! Is that why you sent him away?’

‘You yourself pointed out that we have the good fortune of not knowing any of those atheists.’

‘So it was true? It seems impossible. What a pity, he was so cheerful!’

It was best not to respond.

‘Why don’t you answer when I talk about him? You’re insufferable when you do that! You remind me of Nonna Gaia. You’re just like her, distant and self-centred. You never think about me.’

‘And why do you say I never think about you?’

‘Oh, of course! What do you care if Carlo doesn’t come anymore? You’re always shut up in that damn room, working! Uffa , what a bore! In the morning with Attorney Santangelo, in the afternoon by yourself, and later you’re always with Eriprando and…’

‘And with you, it seems to me, no?’

‘Oh, sure, scraps … And I get bored, uffa ! Especially now with these clouds. Uffa, how tedious!’

‘It’s autumn, Beatrice.’

‘At least before, we could go to the beach. Then too, it’s not as if I don’t love Eriprando. But he’s little. How can you expect me to talk to him? With Carlo we could have such interesting talks!’

‘But he was a socialist, Beatrice; don’t forget that.’

‘I haven’t forgotten. It’s a very serious thing, I know. It’s serious, isn’t it, Modesta?’

* * *

The third week of Carlo’s absence

‘All those amusing things he taught me! Remember when he came with tambourines? You have no idea how much fun it was to play the tambourines. You can’t imagine; you never wanted to learn. He’d promised to bring me several new games, once summer ended … When summer is over and we’re forced to stay shut up indoors, it’s important, he said, to think up diversions to amuse ourselves, to distract us from nature’s lethargy. He also said that autumn and winter are the most difficult seasons but also the most … the most…’

‘Productive, Beatrice.’

‘Ah, yes, productive! That’s right, for the imagination! And that summer, though beguiling, can be more fruitless in the long run. How well those from the continent express themselves! Maybe it’s because, as he said, they have long winters and are forced to think a lot?’

‘You could also say: to play with their intellects.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s what he said, delightful, isn’t it? It’s strange, but I thought people on the continent were all blond and sombre, but he has dark hair, dark eyes too, and he’s always joking. Of course, his hands are pale; remember how white his hands are? What am I saying? You never looked at him; how could you remember! But why does everyone have it in for those socialists, Modesta? He doesn’t seem like a monster. Maybe he’s an exception, like Uncle Jacopo, who was so gentle even though he didn’t believe in God.’

‘He must be an exception, Beatrice.’

‘Well then, in that case, why don’t you write to him and let him come back? Maybe then, in time and with your influence, he’ll stop being a socialist.’

‘If you miss him so much why don’t you write to him yourself and ask him to return?’

‘Me? Have you lost your mind? I’m a Brandiforti and an unmarried young lady!’

‘I haven’t lost my mind. You’re the one who misses him, so it should be you…’

‘You’re jealous, that’s what! You’re jealous and that’s why you don’t want to write to him. I figured it out, you know! You used the fact that he’s a socialist as an excuse to shut me up. You’re jealous…’

It was better not to respond and to let her cry, though those tears led me to take her in my arms and made me aware of that sad, unbearable tremor which for some days had been causing her to limp more.

‘You’re jealous of Carlo. Tell the truth! You’re jealous!’

* * *

Two days after the third week of Carlo’s absence

‘I decided to write to Carlo because I realize you didn’t send him away because he’s a socialist, but because you’re jealous. Besides, as Uncle Jacopo used to say, maybe being a socialist is not as horrible as they say.’

‘You’re free to do what you like, Beatrice.’

‘What does that mean? Nonna used to say that too and then … What does that mean? That you’ll give him a cold reception, or that you won’t receive him at all? Tell me now, at least. So I’ll know what to do!’

Now that she was finally rebelling — and because I did not want her to confuse me with Gaia — I could speak. Taking her in my arms, I tried to still for a moment those curls shaken by years of fears and insecurities. I had to still that little face that started at the slightest sound or shadow.

I take her cheeks in my hands, and like before, her hair falls softly over my fingers. And though not one shiver now blurs my gaze, the touch of her hair fills me with a peace which, while holding no surprises, is perhaps deeper than the pleasure of the past.

‘Listen to me, Beatrice. For once, listen to me! I am not like your grandmother, even though I learned many things from her. I love you in a different way than she did. All I want is your contentment. I’m not opposed to Carlo. I have a lot of confidence in you, and the fact that you care so much for him convinces me that perhaps there is nothing wrong with being a socialist. What do we know, right?’

‘Nothing, actually. Nothing.’

‘Who was it who spoke ill of the socialists, hmm? Try and remember.’

‘Well, Attorney Santangelo, my aunts and … all those others.’

‘But those people are all antipatiche , disagreeable, aren’t they, Beatrice? Tedious.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Modesta, don’t even speak of them! So then you don’t find Carlo antipatico ?’

‘Beatrice, hold your little head still for a moment; try to look me in the eye. I don’t find Carlo either likeable or unlikeable. For me he was just a doctor who came to check on the health of Ippolito and Eriprando. But if his company is important to you, I will try to get to know him and love him as you love him.’

‘But I don’t love him, Modesta! What are you saying? It’s just that I enjoy myself with him!’

‘All right! Then I’ll try to enjoy his conversation as well.’

‘Oh, yes! That’s just what I wanted, Modesta! Thank goodness you understand. I was feeling resentful toward you. It’s just that when you won’t talk, it scares me. I’m not intelligent like you, like Nonna, who understand even when something is unspoken. Uncle Jacopo was like you too, but I, I … I need you to explain things to me, and now that you’ve spoken, I believe you. I believe you and I love you so, so much. It’s you I love, not him. You mustn’t be jealous. It’s just that I have fun with him.’

‘When is he coming?’

A deep blush rising from her neck to her cheeks, which I had never seen in her before, disturbed me so that for a moment I felt as though the old passion for her was coming over me again. I closed my eyes to try to understand. No, it was only recollection of a time when I trembled at her sudden, unpredictable changes — recollection or nostalgia? — as we walked hand in hand through the corridors and gardens.