Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘May it never happen. Fine, Inès! Now, don’t worry.’

That mournful face, which grew sombre as soon as she stopped smiling, chilled me. It had never happened to me before but once she was gone I found myself making superstitious gestures like horns and knocking on wood. All the more because a small, sterile room with pink gladioli and that shady Dr Modica were waiting for me.

After a lengthy silence, Beatrice formally accepted Carlo’s marriage proposal, but on condition that everything take place in accordance with tradition. She was adamant about this.

‘I can’t see him right away. You be the ambassador. Tell him to put his mind at ease, since I have promised you, who are father, mother and older sister to me, that I will be his bride. I will see him in three days, as prescribed, in your presence and in the presence of a notary who will draw up the engagement agreement. Then, after this formal procedure, I must leave immediately.

‘Following this observance, he may return every day for three months, but always in the afternoon, with the true light of day and not in darkness, which is a bad counsellor. And only for two hours in your presence or, if you’re busy, that of someone you assign to represent you. During these three months, we must talk seriously about our future and get to know each other. Of course, three months is a short time. But given that there have been no recent deaths in the family, and since times have changed, as you rightly point out, and Carlo and I know each other a little, I agree to a three-month engagement.

‘If it so happened that during these three months Carlo and I were to realize that we did not share enough views to face a future together — a bride and groom must become one single mind and one single heart — then the engagement must be dissolved without dishonour, either to him or to me, to our family or his.’

Opening the huge hope chest containing the trousseau, Beatrice and Argentovivo counted the sheets, pillowcases, blankets and bedspreads with the care one takes in handling glass. They placed them in large travelling bags for the day of Beatrice’s departure from her home and family.

‘See this blanket, Modesta? My tata and I crocheted it together. It was my first one; that’s why I remember it. I was only seven or eight years old! See these stitches that are not quite as perfect as the others? See them? Those are mine…’

Beatrice spoke gravely with Carlo, never meeting his eyes as she used to do. She told him about herself, enumerating her faults and virtues. She asked him if he wanted to have children. Carlo, dazed, stared at her radiantly and agreed to everything, answering all her questions. If his gaze at times became too intense, Beatrice stood up with dignified authority and, offering him a tray without looking at him, said, ‘Would you care for another pastry, Carlo?’

At the stroke of seven, no matter what they were speaking about, no matter what music they were listening to, Beatrice rose gracefully, said goodbye to Carlo, kissed me on the forehead and disappeared.

‘I would like Argentovivo to stay here with you. You’ll feel very lonely after I leave.’

‘But Beatrice, Catania is only twenty minutes away by car.’

‘Yes, I know, but I’m worried about you. I can’t stand to think of you alone. Keep Argentovivo with you.’

‘That will never work! She’s too attached to you. All she does is cry over you. Besides, you know that with me she doesn’t talk. Don’t take offence, Beatrice, but I find Argentovivo a little annoying. I’ll find a cook.’

‘Really? If you assure me that it’s all right with you, for me it will be a great comfort to have her there in that strange house.’

Carlo was not permitted to see the house that his wife was making ready for him, even though the layout of the rooms, the arrangement of the furniture and even the flower vases were described and submitted for his approval during the two-hour conversations in the parlour.

Absorbed in quiet action, Beatrice was withdrawing from me. In her solitary pursuit, she seemed young again. Her eyes grew wider and full of wonder. She cleansed herself of all past emotions so she could join her husband purified.

And never had I seen her so radiant and ‘pure’, as Carlo said, as on that morning in the sun’s glow and in her white bridal veils. But I will stop in front of the church door, because all I remember is the great boredom I had to endure, that of all the marriages, baptisms and confirmations I’ve been forced to attend. And I return home just in time, because the tedium of the long ceremony had reawakened a latent hatred in my brain’s chemistry that I had somehow managed to keep at bay during those months of formalities, tradition, rituals. Of course, Beatrice’s beauty, serenity and happiness had compensated for it, but ten more minutes of incense and hugs and tears, and I would have hated her for the rest of our lives.

Once past the gate, the grounds seemed suddenly immense and solitary. As I entered the parlour, a tomb-like silence hung over the sofas and chairs, the piano. The gigantic Moor’s head 47on the piano was now merely a skull. I had to fill it with flowers, as Beatrice had always done, or throw out that lifeless vase. I looked for roses and vine shoots in the garden, but darkness had fallen, obscuring the colours, and all my fingers found were thorns. Not a sound came from the first or second floor. Maybe there was someone in the kitchen, but it was far away. I found myself crying, sucking the blood from my fingertip. A few tears, not really sad … a quirk of the emotions! I would have liked to run upstairs to Eriprando and have him hug me, make him laugh and play, but at that hour Eriprando was sleeping. In sleep he pulled away from me, independent.

Her fingertip was no longer bleeding. Modesta could finally take off the dress worn for the wedding ceremony and, in her robe, try to finish the little story about a fish and a seaweed that she had begun for Eriprando. But faced with her minute handwriting — why was her script so tiny? — she gave up and, lowering her head to her arms, listened to the silence that from the trees in the garden entered the parlour, ascended the stairs and now pressed its hushed palms against the door. She was afraid. A new, unfamiliar fear. In the chiana , the lava plain, she had feared her mother’s rages, Tuzzu’s indifference. In the convent, she had been afraid of being imprisoned there and later, in that other, silken convent, she had been afraid of Gaia, Argentovivo, of Beatrice herself. That’s what it was: she had never been alone in an empty house, free to come and go as she pleased. That’s what that fear was: she had almost mistaken it, thinking she missed Beatrice and even Argentovivo. No, she didn’t miss them; she only missed a way of life that had been impressed on her emotions for so long, that couldn’t be expected to change overnight. She had to accept that fear, and slowly get used to the solitude which now, she saw clearly, carried with it the word ‘freedom’. To prove to herself that solitude was a treasure compared to the limitations of convention, she jumped out of bed and turned on all the lights in the room. She put on a skirt, a blouse, her shawl. And — something she could never have done for fear of upsetting Beatrice — she took the revolver with her and ran off from the house, the grounds, with Menelik happily sprinting in front of her, barking at the sea foam and at the palm trees — towers — castles — bisons awakened by the moon among sand dunes, which for miles and miles unfolded the night’s sleepless dreams.

His joy exhausted, Menelik, panting, stared at the shroud the moon had cast over the sea. Or worn out by the joy of running, had he too, like me, been gripped by an eagerness to see the sun appear on the stage of the horizon, armed with shield and scimitar, to rout the pallid face that fomented grief and madness in its aimless orbit?