Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘A revolution through fairy tales! It’s a nice idea, though.’

‘Of course, Princess. But first there are slightly more serious problems to solve: unemployment, hunger…’

‘It seems to me that Montessori counts fairy tales among these serious problems. Fairy tales, along with bread, are children’s food, and it’s important that this food be different from what they are usually offered.’

‘You never fail to amaze me, Princess! If only Montessori expressed her ideas so clearly…’

‘ Uffa! There you two go again! Carlo is right, Modesta, this Montessori is boring. Why do you keep interrupting him? Let him talk.’

Without realizing it, Beatrice was calling me a bore. Everything changes. Eriprando wriggles out of my arms; playing horsey on my legs bores him now that he can balance on an almost real horse and rock himself up and down. For me too: Beatrice’s coy flirtatiousness, which enthrals Carlo, now leaves me indifferent and at times irritates me.

‘And you, Carlo, stop bringing Modesta more and more books. All she does is read! It’s not good for her. Plus, they make her become even more serious than she’s always been.’

‘Just listen to our Beatrice, talking like Nonna Valentina.’

‘What do you mean! I’m not against books, but this is overdoing it a bit, it seems to me. Come on, finish your story, it’s almost time for dinner. I hear Argentovivo setting the table. But afterwards you’ll stay with us, won’t you? That way we can play Shanghai Rummy.’

‘What story, Beatrice? I lost my train of thought at the idea of the delicious dishes Argentovivo must have prepared. A real Paganini, your Argentovivo, she never repeats herself.’

‘The one about the childhood disease! God, how funny to call something as serious as politics by that name. Because I understand it’s something serious. What do you think Modesta? I know it; you needn’t look at me with such a stern face.’

‘Oh, yes, Aunt Clara. Poor thing! It was terrible for her to have to acknowledge that Grandfather’s childhood disease had become hereditary. The same evening, back in 1889, that my father came to dinner with Turati to celebrate the birth of the Socialist League and Turati himself drank a toast to my father calling him comrade, she was unable to bear the blow, and died.’

‘Your aunt?’

‘Yes, Aunt Clara. She died of grief, poor woman! At least that’s what my grandmother used to remind us of at the table, staring at my father with rancour. But he would respond mildly: “What grief, Mama? Old age is making you muddled. You know very well she died of indigestion.”’

‘So you too inherited the disease?’

‘It must be so, although medical history has no record of the fact that the germ of an idea may penetrate a mother’s chaste womb. However, even assuming that this can happen, the symptoms of this hereditary disease were slow to emerge, hampered by the recollection of my grandfather’s heartache over Garibaldi’s betrayal and by the disappointment Turati had caused my father as he walked along Via Volta in May of 1898.’ 36

‘Your father was also betrayed? Betrayed how, if he was out walking?’

‘Walking, yes — in a manner of speaking! If you think about it, ours must be a family destiny. In each generation, a betrayal. Not so bad though; not everyone can say that. What do you think?’

‘But Doctor, do you mean Turati…’

‘Yes, the very one, the same Filippo Turati who’s still active in the Chamber today.’

‘But he must be ancient!’

‘You should know, you ignorant, sweet girl, that God or his representative grants petty politicos, not politicians, a very long life. Assuming some anarchist doesn’t think of…’

‘Oh God, Carlo, what would this anarchist do? Who are these anarchists?’

‘Individuals who are gentle, moral and impetuous like you. The Princess can tell you. By now she knows as much about them as I do, if not more. Our Princess has a real talent for politics.’

‘Oh, I see, Carlo. Turati betrayed your father by becoming a monarchist as well?’

‘Oh God, Beatrice! Now it’s you who’s making me die laughing! Did you hear that, Princess? It’s an ingenious idea, and not all that far from reality. Beatrice has squarely grasped the essence of Turati’s socialism. Let me explain: the socialists fell into the psychological trap of liberal thinking. They too believe in the fundamental goodness of democratic institutions. Whereas we know, after the success of the Russian Revolution, that it’s perfectly useless to tinker with the laws here and there, correct them timidly, if you don’t change everything from the very foundations. We must abolish private property, abolish the class structure, and involve everyone in the control of power.’

‘Oh God, Carlo, stop, I don’t understand a thing. Why do you say “they believe”? Don’t you believe that?’

‘I belong to the communist faction, which is waiting to be established as the Italian Communist Party. It will happen soon, within a few months. But I see by the glazed expression on our Beatrice’s little face that I’m becoming boring. Forgive me; I let myself get carried away. Well then, my father found himself caught up in the events of 1898. A spontaneous uprising to protest the inhumane working conditions of an eleven- yes, eleven- hour workday. The incident was occasioned by the Pirelli clothing factory, Pirelli being a great friend of my father for that matter, except in politics, I mean … Do you know what they called him? May I, Princess?’

‘Of course, Doctor, as you please.’

‘They called him “women’s secret procurer”.’

‘How funny! Why?’

‘Because he was the one who “perfected” women and young ladies whose breasts, shoulders, hips and thighs were deficient. Calves too, I think, though I wouldn’t swear to it.’

‘Of course, since at that time all those curves were stylish. I’ve seen them in the weekly Domenica del Corriere . How comical they were!’

‘Well, the revolt broke out suddenly and was terrible. The troops under General Bava Beccaris’s command came armed with all the deadly weapons of the modern era. My father was on the barricades with his trusty sling shirt full of stones. Many fell, but others held out, while our Turati, during pauses in the fighting, was carried around on the shoulders of two comrades, yelling and urging everyone to cease fighting. I can just hear him; even now all he does is preach peace and nonviolence … So, then he said: “As deputy of your constituency I invoke your calmness and patience! Not the patience of a jackass, mind you, but the patience of reason. Listen to my advice: I tell you in good conscience, the time has not yet come, it has not come!” It was then that a worker, a comrade, next to him shouted: “ E quand l’è ch’el vegnerà donc el dì? When will the day come then?” Did you understand? I see you’re laughing; good thing, I don’t like translating foreign languages … To end the story: those “God-fearing” socialists, as my father called them, allowed themselves to be swayed and let the workers pay for a revolt that for better or worse might also have … who knows!’

‘And so your father never spoke again, the poor thing? It’s a sad story, Carlo. I don’t know why, but it’s sad! It’s not like the others.’

‘In fact, it’s so sad that to me, as a boy, these stories served as an antidote to the poison of politics. And I would never, ever, have taken an interest in it if I hadn’t met a midget like me in Turin … indeed, thinking back, I listened to him not only because of the intelligence and goodness his face inspired, but because I could finally look someone in the eye.’