Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

I don’t want to hate him. How could I hate him, Carmine, Tuzzu and even Mimmo, when just the day before, with my own eyes, I witnessed how the arrival of a girl is received even by a mother? Mattia kisses me gently and goes away quietly in that firm, solid body of a confident male. I no longer see him. My attention is now focused on Beatrice’s desperate face as she weeps.

‘But Beatrice, what does it matter? I don’t understand you. She’s beautiful, it’s a life and … and then she’s like us, Beatrice! Please, don’t act like that!’

‘Oh, sure! It’s easy for you to talk. You had a boy right away.’

‘But it’s all the same, Beatrice! At the time I…’

‘Liar! You’re just saying that to console me. Liar!’

I don’t want to hate her, but that ‘liar’ has haunted me for days, forcing me to revisit the past, painfully resurrecting all the words spoken by Mother Leonora, by Gaia, by my mother — words that I would have preferred to bury along with their dead bodies. But you can’t bury anyone until you’ve fully understood what they were saying. And what were they saying? That women are women’s enemy, just as men are.

* * *

‘ Voscenza can’t sleep. Is that why you’ve come to see us? Look Prando, it’s Mama. First you wanted her, and now that she’s here you go and hide. What’s wrong? Why don’t you answer? It’s impossible to get him to say a word when he’s decided he won’t talk. He was sleeping so soundly, but then he woke up. Would Voscenza like some coffee?’

‘Call me Modesta, Stella.’

‘I’ve tried, I’m trying to, but I just can’t say it … Look at that! It’s always that way between a mother and son. They’re bound by unseen roots; twins are too, they say. What woke you up, Prando?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘And Voscenza ? What woke me was a foreboding, or this crazy moon that calls out the lunatics, widows and souls in torment. I don’t like it when it shines too bright like this. This is a year of great changes! First drought, then torrential rains that wash away the fields. And now this wintry light that confuses night with day! What are you doing now, Prando? Why are you tugging at me like that? Do you want me to hold you?’

‘No! I want Modesta to hold me!’

‘And you’re telling me? So go to her! What are you waiting for?’

‘No more now. Now I’m going back to bed, but later I’ll come back again.’

‘How is Beatrice? Has she recovered?’

‘She’s very well, Stella.’

‘And la nicaredda , the little one?’

‘She’s doing well too; at least we hope so.’

‘What did they name her? You told me, but I’ve forgotten. I want to tell Prando about this little cousin of his … Ida, did you say? A lovely name! So that was the name of Signor Carlo’s mother?’

‘Yes, Stella, but he’s already calling her Bambolina, little doll, like you call my son Prando.’

‘Only because Eriprando seemed so long and sober. Maybe I shouldn’t have?’

‘No, no, you were right to. See how quickly he took to it?’

‘My name is Prando. And also Eriprando. I have two names, two of them.’

‘And now you also have a little cousin, Prando.’

‘ ’Na femminuccia , a girl like you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And like Mama?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you always holding Jacopo? Put him down!’

‘Because he’s little. He can’t stand up by himself, like you can.’

‘Oh! So I’m stronger?’

‘Of course, and more capable.’

‘What does capable mean?’

‘Grown up like a man, big and strong.’

‘And he’s not capable?’

‘Oh no, he’s little and he’s not strong yet.’

‘Can I touch him?’

Encouraged by Stella, Eriprando gave in and patted Jacopo.

‘How do you do it, Stella? Where did you learn the secret of how to talk to these carusi ?’

‘I had six brothers, and I’m not taken in by their empty bullying, that smokescreen of words that looks like fire but isn’t.’

‘Why do you say “I had”, Stella? As far as I know, they’re still alive.’

‘Alive, but alienated by rancour and bad blood. As long as my mother was alive, she kept the peace and we spoke to one another. Later, what she said to me three days before she died came true. It wasn’t foresight, it was an understanding of life. She said: “Love them, Stella, even though they will be separated by pride and a lust for money. Be strong. A woman must remain unfazed by shouting and quarrelling. In time, when the grudges heal, they come back. It’s up to us to take them in and mend their wounds.”

‘She was a wise woman! I learned some things from her, but I don’t measure up to her. Only with picciriddi am I able to hear her voice showing me the way, but with Pietro and Rinaldo and Melo and my father, I get irritated. I shouldn’t say it, but now that Melo writes me these letters that Voscenza reads to me, he seems like a stranger to me, and I feel guilty about not having the patience to be able to wait for him like my mother.’

‘They were different times, Stella! Everything is changing!’

‘ Voscenza always knows the right words to say to me. Everything changes by the hour, by the day. Quann’ero nica , when I was little, coming to Catania from the village was a long trip; now it only takes a few hours.’

‘But there are benefits to these changes, Stella.’

‘Benefits? For them, for their male restlessness. But for us?… Prando is asleep. He always wants to stay here! I hope Signorina Elena doesn’t mind. Does she? I wouldn’t want that. I don’t want to displease her. She knows so much! And she’s promised to teach my ’Ntoni like she teaches Prando, who accussì nicu , so young, can already speak and express himself like a grown-up. Are you sure Elena doesn’t mind?’

The dogs are barking at the gate: it can’t be Mattia. Selassié and Lupo know his scent. Maybe the full moon dancing wildly among the treetops woke the dogs? Behind the gate, in the darkness, two men are carrying a sack.

Nunzio: ‘What’s going on? Stay back, Princess. Who are you?’

Pasquale: ‘Quiet the dogs, Nunzio. It’s me, Pasquale!’

They’re dragging a sack: empty clothes or a dummy? I don’t dare ask or look. I merely follow the path their feet trace, shadowy tracks in the grass. I don’t want to recognize those black shoes, and I run ahead.

Pasquale: ‘Quick, Nunzio, run and get the doctor! Let’s take him upstairs to Beatrice’s room.’

Stella, a black shawl flung over her nightgown, and Elena, in a light-coloured flannel robe, watch us silently as we go by. At the first step Pasquale says:

‘Easy, Jose, take him by the armpits and I’ll carry him up … that’s it, good! You hold his head, so it doesn’t get jolted. There, that’s the way, very, very slowly.’

I don’t want to look, but on the stairs there are no trees to obscure the moon, and I can’t help but see Carlo’s swollen, bloodied face staring at me clear-eyed and seemingly smiling. He is, in fact, smiling as he now rests on Beatrice’s pink pillow: silk sheets and pillowcases, pale green or blue, the same ones from her room as a girl in Carmelo. Here, too, she wanted her room left untouched. The traditional lace, delicate and pervasive, unfolds before my eyes. I shouldn’t have agreed to Cavallina’s terms. I close my eyes so I won’t see that nauseating, sugary pink.

* * *

The doctor is pacing up and down the room. He’s sweating, and at regular intervals he takes off his glasses and wipes them with a white linen handkerchief. What is his name? Oh, yes. Licata. Comrade Antonio Licata from Messina, that’s why he addresses me informally … What are we waiting for? Carlo speaks. We take a step toward the bed, just one step, to leave him room to breathe. I have to look. Elena is here. How did she manage to dress so quickly? Only she thought to carefully push aside the dark mop of hair from his forehead. His face, now cleansed of blood and soil, is almost unharmed. Putting his glasses back on, the doctor — what is his name? — whispers to me: ‘I understand your concern, but you see I was right? There is no concussion. Do you hear him? He’s talking, and his gaze is lucid.’