Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Why did you close your eyes, Modesta? Don’t you feel well? How lovely you are with your eyes closed! When you close your eyes you’re more beautiful and I always want to kiss you, but we can’t.’

‘And why can’t we?’

‘Because I have things to do.’

‘But did Carlo reply? When is he coming?’

‘He’s down in the parlour, waiting. That’s why I can’t kiss you. I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see him, so I told Argentovivo to have him wait downstairs. He’s been waiting quite a while. Come on. Now that everything is cleared up, come down with me.’

‘Why don’t you go by yourself?’

‘But it isn’t appropriate, Modesta! I’m an unmarried young lady. Come on, come with me!’

‘Yes, of course, I’ll come, but just for today. In the future, I permit you to see him alone. I’m the head of this household, aren’t I? Times have changed, Beatrice.’

‘But what will people say?’

‘Didn’t we decide not to be concerned about what people say, as Jacopo advised us?’

‘You’re right. Later on I’ll see, but not today! I’m afraid!’

Her small, trembling hand pulled me along as it had in the past (how many years ago had it been?). But back then her pallid face did not blush with that deep red that now makes her seem like a stranger. A stranger, but dear to me. The way it should be.

In the parlour, in Carlo’s presence, the blush vanished as swiftly as it had arisen. So swiftly that I became concerned (how could that small body stand so much excitement?) and put my arm around her slender waist for fear that she might shatter. Grateful, Beatrice leaned on me and together we went to greet the young man, who seemed taller and more serious now that he wore a double-breasted winter jacket, as though he had aged.

‘You see, Princess, I followed your advice and I’ve grown a beard. And just as you predicted, I gained years and patients as a result. You are invaluable, Princess!’

‘I am happy to have been of help to you, Doctor, and besides, the beard suits you. Isn’t that right, Beatrice? Doesn’t it suit him?’

‘Well, it can’t yet be called a bona fide beard like the ones you see in Catania … It will take another month or two before the scraggly thing can be called such. So I hope, at least.’

‘Nevertheless, it becomes you. Doesn’t it, Beatrice?’

Beatrice was rigid. Her back weighed so heavily on my chest that I was almost unable to speak. Carlo could not sit down in front of ladies who insisted on standing; that was the rule. So the three of us, standing stock-still in the middle of the room, looked like tin soldiers awaiting an order to attack.

‘I’m afraid Beatrice doesn’t approve of my beard. She’s looking at me as though she doesn’t recognize me.’

Beatrice didn’t answer. And while I, beginning to sweat, tried to nudge her toward a chair, Carlo’s smile turned into a disappointed pout.

‘Clearly my beard has not been as successful here, among friends, as it has been out there among foes. What would the Princess say if I were to go home and shave and come back in about an hour? That way we can begin all over again, as if this beard had never existed.’

Unexpectedly turning to me and hugging me, Beatrice burst out laughing so hard that Carlo jumped back and I had to dig in my heels not to totter.

‘Oh God, how funny he is, Modesta! Did you see how he was plucking at those few hairs when he said “clearly”? Oh God, Carlo, how funny you look with that beard! I’ve never laughed so much in my life! I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe!’

Little by little her contagious laughter spread to us, too, and somehow we frozen tin soldiers found ourselves huddling on the sofa, all three of us in hysterics. ‘Just like kids,’ Carlo said, and added, ‘kids who claim to have a beard, of course!’

The laughter we had managed to stifle seized us feverishly again until Beatrice stood up and yelled, ‘Enough! Enough, Carlo! Have mercy, I’m dying!’

‘Have mercy? I should have mercy for you who showed no mercy at my attempt to enter the austere world of our masculine, bearded heroes with these few hairs of mine?’

‘No! Don’t say that word again. I can’t take anymore!’

‘All right, I won’t utter the scandalous word “bearded” anymore, Signorina Beatrice! But it’s my duty to plead the cause of the beard, which has always been and always will be a symbol of genius and virility! At least in our country, where hair is abundantly profuse. Would you laugh, little girl, at the beard of Garibaldi, Galileo Galilei or Turati?’

‘And who is this Turati? Do you know him, Modesta?’

‘Ah, foolish girl, ignorant and unaware! Yours is an act of true irreverence, not only toward our ancient forefathers, but also toward the luminous greatness of our contemporaries who, with their elaborate beards, have erected the pillars of our bearded culture.’

‘Oh God, Modesta, bearded culture! Bearded culture!’

And we doubled up laughing, until Argentovivo came in carrying tea. Exhausted from the hysterics, we fell upon the cakes and biscuits in silence; I didn’t know fun could be so tiring.

‘It’s true, Princess, I haven’t felt so tired since I was six or seven years old. But it’s a good, pleasant fatigue … I had forgotten! It reminds me of a time many, many years ago when I still lived with my parents in the country…’

‘No, we’re not from Milan, but from the countryside. Oh, yes, Princess, there’s a big difference, just like here in Sicily, for that matter. My ancestors came from northern Europe: wealthy farmers, but not rich enough to live a prosperous life in town, they went in search of fertile, affordable lands. In our “clan”, as we called that band of seven families of thirty or forty individuals — I never did a proper count — those pioneer-forefathers were vaguely described as a tribe of heroes. But as my father used to say, they were merely the usual predators who have always roamed around our country, robbing here and there. Come to think of it, they could actually be called colonialists. “ A strong, sturdy stock bred by the cold, by austere customs, and by no contamination from indigenous elements ” … And by constant stealing, I would mentally add to the end of this sermon, which some uncle fed us before dinner at least three times a week. You’re laughing, aren’t you, Beatrice? It’s no laughing matter. I would have liked to see you deal with it! I was so afraid of that strong breed! Not to mention the women! I still remember how frightened I was by my grandmother’s voice. So frightened that, after her death, I could no longer recall her face, just her voice. Yet throughout my childhood she sat before me at breakfast, lunch and dinner. That’s right, laugh all you want! But I can still hear Nonna Valentina’s terrifying voice thunder as she stared at me: “Why, he’s a midget! This child isn’t growing!” So it was steak at every meal. I exuded the smell of meat from every pore. I, who always despised meat! Or maybe I began to despise it afterwards? It doesn’t matter; psychology doesn’t interest me. God how boring all those subtle psychological novels are! Let’s leave them to our dear comrade Montessori. Dear God, how tedious she is!’

‘And who is this Montessori?’

‘A comrade of ours who deals with child psychology. I haven’t read anything of hers, but they say she’s worthy of note. I think she invented a new methodology for educating children. I see this interests you, Princess. I will procure her writings for you.’

‘They don’t interest you because they are written by a woman?’

‘No, no, Princess, what I said was that psychology doesn’t interest me.’