Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

He was joking. And if Carlo was joking, it must be true that Eriprando would recover.

‘Vocation or not, Carlo, I’m grateful to you and … forgive me for everything.’

‘For what?’

‘So, no hard feelings, Carlo?’

‘No hard feelings. Just loving ones I’d say, Princess.’

‘May I come in? What’s wrong, Modesta, why are you still in your dressing gown? Carlo is downstairs waiting and…’

‘Beatrice, these past two months, as I promised after your illness, I’ve spent every evening with you two in the hope that you would make up your mind to give up your insane devotion — I find no other word for it after our talks — to outmoded customs or prejudices. But starting today, I’ve had enough.’

‘But…’

‘There is no “but” that will make me reconsider! I’m not coming down. You know how much time I’ve had to spend with Eriprando to distract him from your agitation and Argentovivo’s apprehensions. Now that he’s happy with Elena, I have to get back to work.’

‘That Elena! You’d rather have that cold, silent stranger instead of me and Argentovivo, Modesta! Even today, she only let me see him for a few minutes and she watched over me like a gendarme .’

‘I don’t seem to recall that you spent a great deal of time with him before. Besides, Elena is cold and silent mainly because you two have certainly not treated her well.’

‘But she’s an outsider!’

‘She’s someone who’s doing her job! Open your eyes and ears, Beatrice. Can’t you hear how Eriprando laughs? How could we have got this result with you, when you started crying as soon as you saw him? Naturally, he reminded you of your own affliction, because that’s all it was, an illness, not a curse, Beatrice! Come now, when you get over it too, you can see him as often as you want. But as long as you look so remorseful, just talking about Eriprando, no!’

‘Yes, of course, Carlo said so too, but I can’t help it. I’m always afraid he’ll remain…’

‘All right. Now go because I have to finish writing some letters.’

‘So you really won’t come down?’

‘I can’t Beatrice! How can I make you understand? Between your illness and Eriprando’s, I’ve lost too much time. Look at all the letters, the documents to be signed, the accounts, the damned accounts!’

‘But you’ll come down to dinner at least, won’t you?’

‘Of course. I have to eat, don’t I?’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Afterwards I’ll see.’

‘God, all these documents, Modesta! I’m really an ingrate. Here you are working for us. I hate myself, Modesta, I hate myself! And all these handwritten pages … such odd, tiny handwriting, it looks like a doctor’s writing. It’s illegible. What are these pages?’

‘My work, poems, notes.’

‘Oh, yes, you told me. Like Nonna used to say, I’m really a scatterbrain!’

‘That’s enough about your grandmother! I don’t want to hear you mention her again. She’s dead, Beatrice.’

‘But she thought so highly of you … and I’m sure she still does.

‘I doubt it. Or maybe she does. Why not? You’re not entirely wrong. It’s typical of people like her to admire those who are able to outplay them. Remember how happy she was when the old doctor beat her at chess?’

‘But you didn’t outplay her, you simply disobeyed her, and I think…’

‘Disobeyed? Did you say “disobeyed”, Beatrice? You make me laugh.’

‘Oh, Modesta, you’re finally smiling! You’re finally looking at me. It’s been months since you’ve looked at me!’

In fact, it had been months … since hearing those screams of Eriprando that sometimes still woke me up at night; only the sight of his face rapt in deep sleep could drive them out of my memory. She was right too, and regaining my composure, I put my arm around her waist and kissed her wispy, hay-scented hair: the same scent as Eriprando’s hair, as Carmine’s. Only the texture was different. Hers still retained the softness of Eriprando’s hair when he was a baby; later, after his battle with illness, his hair grew into wiry curls like those of Carmine, the father of both Eriprando and Beatrice. Up close like that, I saw a few grey strands already showing among the blond. Beatrice had inherited that premature grey hair and her bad foot from the paternal line of the family. From the peasant stock of that man of honour, Carmine, came two overly refined, exquisitely fin de râce signs.

‘Oh, Modesta, you’re smiling and stroking my hair. You don’t hate me anymore?’

‘I’ve never hated you, Beatrice, it’s just that you—’

‘Yes, I know, Carlo told me that it was only that you were worried, exhausted. He also used a word … what was it?’

‘Trauma, Beatrice.’

‘Yes, saying that, like me, you too had suffered a trauma. But I can’t bear it, I can’t stand it when you’re so distant. I can’t help it. I feel it’s my fault, but at the same time I keep on doing things that I know are wrong. Why do I do things I know I shouldn’t do?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that you’re not used to affection. How would you know about affection? All you ever got were reprimands.’

‘Oh, that must be it, Modesta, because I’m always imagining I’m unworthy of you, of Eriprando, of Carlo.’

‘Fine. That’s enough now! We forgot about him, and the poor thing is waiting. Come, that’s a good girl, go to your Carlo, Beatrice. And don’t feel unworthy because you’re the best, most beautiful little girl.’

‘You think so? But why did you say “your Carlo”, Modesta?’

‘Because we’re fond of him. I said “your Carlo” just as I might have said “my Carlo”. Come now, don’t get upset. We’re grateful to him, aren’t we? He saved our Eriprando. There, you see? I said “our Eriprando”. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes! Our Carlo and our Eriprando. Oh God! It’s already six-thirty; I have to run. We’ll expect you for dinner. Argentovivo made something you really love, but I can’t tell you what it is. She asked me please not to tell you. You’ll see; it’ll be a surprise!’

The door closed just in time behind that lace skirt of luminous ivory, like her neck and arms. No, it wasn’t a skirt. A shawl, perhaps? Where did Beatrice find those laces and silks? The door closed just in time, for already the bitter saliva she’d been holding in the back of her throat flowed over her tongue, her teeth: ‘Argentovivo made something you really love .’ She ran to the porcelain washbasin dotted with tiny flowers. There, too: gleaming, shimmering ivory. The surprise must be custard, a custard pudding. With that custard wavering before her eyes, she threw up. It was a confirmation of the sweet languor that for weeks had been keeping her in bed, and that had suddenly become as gentle and welcoming as a lover’s warm embrace. Or that held her for hours and hours on the chair by the open window, staring at the trees, the sky, the distant sea. Without looking at the ivory she cleaned her teeth, her tongue, and with some misgiving looked at herself in the mirror: two wide eyes stared back at her, dazed, yet serene. Her cheeks had thinned, but her breasts and hips were already pressing against her skirt, her blouse. Abandoning her image there in the mirror, she escaped to stare at the sea. She should get to work. Behind her, on the desk, piles and piles of documents awaited her. With an effort, she broke away from the window and sat down, contemplating the inkwell, the pen, the stamped paper. 43Revolted by the acrid smell of the ink, she closed the bottle and rested her head on her arms. The warmth of her arms was pleasant, sweet and cool at the same time; her feverish brow found solace in that coolness … It was nice to let one’s imagination wander between the heat of the sand and the cool shade of the woods.