Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘ Uffa! There you go, quarrelling. Never mind, Carlo. Tell me about Nonna Valentina and the clan. What were they, British?’

‘British? Not on your life! They came from some barbaric north, loaded down with household chattels and poultry, playing the long horn as they made their way through the Alps. You should have seen my grandmother’s firm hand when she gripped the musket to chase off some unfortunate chicken thief, or in the big kitchen, when she wielded the knife to carve a piece of meat for the midget…’

‘Why, were you small?’

‘Small? Of course not, Beatrice! This went on until I was fourteen years old! She would grab me by the ear and pull me towards her yelling: “Are you going to grow or not, midget?”’

‘You, a midget?’

‘Yes, and I believed it! Afterwards, in Pavia, in Milan — in the civilized world I mean — I realized that while I wasn’t exceptionally tall, neither was I a midget. But there, surrounded by those tall, blond uncles and cousins…’

‘But you’re dark-haired.’

‘My mother’s fault.’

‘Oh God, you’re so funny, Carlo! Did you hear what he said, Modesta?’

‘At least that’s what Nonna Valentina kept saying: blame my mother, and above all my father. A fine, decent member of the family, but absent-minded and without the slightest sense of reality, interested only in his microscope. And so, in his distraction, in Milan, a city possessed by Satan, he went and fell in love with a tiny young girl, dwarfish and very, very dark, a Neapolitan to boot, though aristocratic and wealthy. Bambolina , little doll, Grandmother called her with insincere sweetness: “ Oh no! Bambolina is delicate, it’s better if you go. Bambolina already climbed the stairs twice today! She’s so thin, I wouldn’t want her to get sick like last year! ” Still, I was fond of that name because she really did look like a porcelain doll, with her black wavy hair, her small rosy lips and eyelashes so long that when she lowered her gaze they cast a shadow on her cheeks. I remember that at fourteen, I could already pick her up when she was tired and carry her up the stairs to her room. I remember that even the last time, I was the one who lifted her up from the armchair where it seemed she had fallen asleep. At that moment I didn’t realize. She was only slightly heavier than other times.’

‘Was she dead?’

‘Oh, yes! Of tuberculosis. I owe my weak lungs to her, besides my being a midget. Or so they said. Yet all those horrors that Bambolina bequeathed me are dear to me and I consider them precious gifts.’

‘Why do you refer to her as Bambolina? Didn’t you call her Mama?’

‘Of course! But since she died, I don’t know why, I can’t think of her without calling her that. Maybe because my father and I always called her that. He loved her very much. He never got over her death. And while before he used to disappear from the house for weeks at a time, afterwards we hardly ever saw him. By then, all he cared about was politics.’

‘Oh! Your father too was involved in politics?’

‘Yes, of course, Princess. That was another thing my grandmother Valentina fumed about: why at the most unlikely moments she was given to frequent fits of impervious mumbling to which she gave vent as she walked, or rather, marched, up and down the parlour with those long, gnarled legs of hers. I, when I heard the thud of those heavy feet on the parquet floor … in my house we didn’t have rugs, they were considered a luxury! Only Bambolina’s room had carpets. I used to like to run around that warm, colourful room, when she was in bed. She let me take off my shoes and…’

‘And Nonna Valentina didn’t get angry?’

‘She never went into Bambolina’s room. In fact, once when Mama was in bed with a fever, I heard her say to the doctor: “I won’t step foot in that room again. It’s suffocating! Not only does she never open the window, but as if that weren’t enough, she drenches herself in perfume like a … Never mind. These women from the south! They could transform even a church into…” — may I, Princess? — “into a brothel!”’

‘Did she actually say that word?’

‘Oh, yes! She swore, too, sometimes. But please believe me, always in order to express her chaste indignation over the world’s permissive ways.’

‘You were telling us about when you heard those thuds on the floor.’

‘Oh, yes! When I heard those thuds, I would go and hide under the bed in my room.’

‘And what did you do under the bed?’

‘Well, I would doze off so I wouldn’t hear that martial stride thumping up and down, or else I’d read all my father’s forbidden books.’

‘What books were they, Carlo?’

‘Political books.’

‘Political? So you were already grown up then?’

‘It’s awful to admit, Beatrice, but I’ve never had the makings of a hero. Yes, I was fourteen when I hid under the bed and began to get interested in politics, falling victim, like my father and grandfather, to this curse some witch must have cast on our family’s sound, lucid thinking. My relatives would walk past my grandfather’s library quickly, throwing blistering glances at the books and journals: instruments of corruption that the devil forged at night in some cauldron. Only the hefty tome of the Bible was permitted in the other clan houses.’

‘And they didn’t say anything? How come?’

‘For an old, compelling reason, Beatrice, at least since the time Ecclesiastes took pleasure in cogitating and writing about what he cogitated.’

‘What do you mean, Ecclesiastes in the Bible?’

‘Of course, dear Beatrice: “ … money is the answer for everything … Do not revile the king even in your thoughts, or curse the rich in your bedroom, because a bird in the sky may carry your words…” 32We were the richest of the clan. And then there was Aunt Clara, a sharp spinster, serene and hard-working, who soothed everyone with her absolute optimism about the vigour of our sturdy, enduring stock. She would always say: “ Now, now! Let’s not exaggerate, this politics is merely a childhood disease that my Federico came down with .” Federico was her brother and my grandfather, just to be clear. Except that this childhood disease persisted until his death: “ A mild childhood disease ,” Aunt Clara kept repeating, throughout her long life. I wouldn’t say it was so “mild”, however, considering the massive purchases of expensive books, the frequent night-time visits by certain Carbonari, 33the pranks in Rome peppered here and there by the occasional drowning of a papal informer in the Blond Tiber. 34All silly trifles that never impressed Aunt Clara. But when Federico officially followed that outlaw Garibaldi to Sicily, the outrage was horrific! And he would no longer have been able to return to the clan if Garibaldi had not met with the gentleman king in Teano. 35Afterwards, despite the bitterness that gripped him, whenever he spoke to me of his lost dream of an Italian republic, deep down I was grateful for the “General’s betrayal” which had allowed me to get to know him. He was a big, bearded, childlike man, with a vulnerable look … How can I describe him to you, Beatrice? He appeared to be straight out of a storybook. When he recounted his wartime experiences — atrocious, really — he could clothe them in such an aura of adventure and mystery that he made them as exciting and soothing as a good fairy tale.’

‘Why do you say “good”, Carlo? Aren’t all fairy tales good?’

‘Oh no, Beatrice, not all fairy tales are good. Indeed, as our comrade Montessori says, and I agree with her in this respect, almost all fairy tales are evil: they are a tool to terrorize children and teach them to fear law and authority. We spoke about this at length, or rather, she talked to me about it, urging me to write a new kind of fairy tale. I remember that in Rome, as soon as she broached the subject of fairy tales, everyone fled. Certainly her stance against the tales of Andersen, Grimm and many others is a valid one. But to expect all comrades — doctors, engineers or firemen — to force themselves to come up with different plots and adventures for the revolution every evening instead of sleeping…’