Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

The sun’s first rays wash over my forehead, freeing me from the burden of anxiety, which for months and months had made me jump at the slightest noise or shadow. I feel like going out and running in that joyous sun which keeps repeating: you’re free. The sweet pleasure of not having to expect him anymore, of no longer having to depend on someone else’s bidding. No one will ever again take away this pleasure, Mattia. Tiny flowers have sprung up at the edges of the path; was it overnight? Or was I so captured by your will, old Carmine, that I didn’t hear spring thumping at the ground, making its debut?

* * *

‘Modesta, Mody! Oh, Princess, good thing you’re awake!’

‘What is it, Pietro?’

‘Come down, come. Oh, Mody, such a commotion!’

‘Has the baby come, Pietro? Is it excitement that’s making you stammer?’

‘It’s come, yes, it’s come!’

‘Judging from your smile, I can tell it’s a boy.’

‘Yes, Mody, it’s a boy! Two doctors and Signor Carlo examined him. He’s healthy and strong, I swear to God! My dear Prince has fathered a giant. He was born with his eyes open, Mody!’

‘All right, Pietro. Now calm down. I’ll get dressed and we’ll go right over.’

‘Oh, yes, Mody, hurry, hurry…’

I was afraid that Pietro, in his joy, might be mistaken, yet seeing the ten-pound bundle that Signorina Inès had churned out, a proud laugh at having gambled against nature rose to my lips. But I couldn’t let it out; holding a handkerchief to my mouth, I tried to cover up that laughter. Two doctors and a nurse were staring at me, very serious, and Signorina Inès, lying worn out in the bed, was screaming:

‘No, no! I don’t want to! Oh, Princess, such a state! And such pain! Tell them. You’ve given birth; tell them that I can’t breastfeed him. An infernal night it’s been, with them shouting “Push, push!”’

In bed, heavy and drenched with sweat, Inès spoke to me wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling.

‘It was a difficult birth, Princess. Afterwards we made her sleep. Unfortunately the sleeping pill’s effects have now worn off. But please believe me; she only just woke up.’

‘So give her another sleeping pill.’

‘But she has to breastfeed…’

Hearing those words, Inès began to writhe and scream. ‘If I had known it would be like this, I would never have done it! Never again, never again!’

It had scared her so that she wouldn’t try it again, so much the better.

‘Leave her alone! Can’t you see she doesn’t want to hold him? Sister, take the baby away.’

‘As you say, Princess! We waited for you to decide…’

‘Yes, of course, of course. Make her sleep and bring the baby to me in there. I must take my time and get a good look at him! I swear to God, this room seems more like a slaughterhouse than a hospital ward.’

I escape to the little parlour just in time because, despite the handkerchief, I can’t contain my laughter any longer.

‘Listen to her! Screaming like that at the child God has blessed her with!’

‘We didn’t ask for your opinion, Sister Clara. Let the Princess see the baby and spare us your comments! Oh, Modesta, at last we see each other again. But why are you holding that handkerchief to your mouth? Don’t you feel well?’

Sister Clara glared at us angrily.

‘Put him in the cradle and leave us to ourselves.’

‘Oh, Carlo! Thank goodness you sent her away. I couldn’t take it anymore.’

‘What are you doing laughing?’

‘What else could I do? Such a fit of helpless giggles, I have to let it out.’

‘Always unpredictable, Modesta. Looking at you makes me feel like laughing too. What a joy to see you!’

‘Why, has it been that long since we’ve seen each other?’

‘Well, I should say so, Princess! It’s been months…’

‘But we saw each other…’

‘Yes, with other people … I wanted to talk with you the way we used to.’

Carlo, that dark mop of hair falling over his watchful eyes, looks at me reproachfully, his delicate hands holding mine tightly. In his quiet gaze I realized how much I’d missed him all those months. I had returned from a distant journey that cannot be summed up. His voice, his way of speaking, the contrast between my dark language of passion and his — lucid and elegant — which I loved so much, but which I could not reconcile with my imagination, gave me a glimpse of the struggle I would have to face in the future. Would I ever be able to sort out the ambivalence that had kept me from loving Carlo?

‘Will I be able to, Carlo?’

‘That’s my Modesta: in a split second her expression and mood have already changed. Will you be able to what?’

‘Oh, if only I could talk to you!’

‘About what, Modesta?’

‘About things that are so unclear to me … Mental and emotional obstacles that are hard to talk about.’

‘Everything can always be talked about. I learned it from you.’

Hopelessly, I read in his eyes that my image would always be split by a white chalk line.

‘What is it, Modesta?’

‘Carlo, I need help.’

‘With me you can speak frankly; you know that.’

‘I know that. Thank you. That was all I wanted to hear you say.’

Hand in hand, enclosed in a circle, he drew reassurance from me and I, from him, an awareness that I was not alone.

‘Who’s that crying, Carlo?’

‘What do you mean, who’s crying, Modesta? You’re strange. I’ve never seen you like this. It’s as if you were young again, but distant.’

‘He’s healthy, isn’t he, Carlo?’

‘Very healthy! Come and see him. Then, if you want to keep him you’ll have to choose a wet-nurse. Three of them are already waiting.’

‘But why is he crying?’

‘He’s hungry, Modesta! You too had a child; have you forgotten? Come and see him.’

‘I’m keeping him!’

‘But you haven’t seen him.’

‘What does it matter! You saw him; that’s good enough for me.’

‘No, I must be firm about this. You have to see him for yourself and make certain he’s normal. He seems sturdier than Eriprando.’

‘But Eriprando isn’t Ippolito’s son.’

‘You told me that before. Tell me, Modesta, are you still worried about the father’s mongolism?’

‘I, too, am the sister of a mongoloid.’

‘Oh!’

‘But no one knows that, not even Beatrice.’

‘Is that what’s bothering you?’

‘Not at all. I told you because for the first time in my life I know that, with you, I can talk about anything. And I’m happy to have entrusted you with a secret that I’ve had to keep walled up inside me like so many others. Things we can’t say fester inside us.’

‘You move me, Modesta.’

‘How softly he’s crying … Eriprando wailed like a banshee.’

‘But if we keep talking, without feeding him, you’ll soon hear him wail all right. Come and see him. He’s a beautiful specimen. It seems that nature wanted to make amends for her past sins.’

In the crib, instead of the dumpling of indistinct flesh that Eriprando had been, a well-moulded little face with pensive temples rests on the pillow.

‘Pietro is right; his eyes are open! It took Eriprando several weeks.’

‘Yes, but we’re beginning to see many of these cases.’

‘Can he see us?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He has a somewhat prominent chin too … he looks like…’

‘Like who, Modesta?’

‘He looks like Jacopo, Beatrice’s uncle.’

At the sound of that barely murmured name, the pale eyes, a faint misty grey, stared at me. Of course he couldn’t see, but the conviction that he had recognized me made me lean over the crib and reach out my hands.