Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

I can’t believe his words. I have to hear what Carlo is saying.

Carlo: ‘Thank you, Elena, one of these days I should make up my mind and cut my hair. I always think of it in the morning, but I must confess: I have a real aversion to barbers … Oh, you’re all here! Did I sleep? It’s light outside.’

Licata: ‘You must remain still, Carlo. Don’t move about.’

Carlo: ‘I see. But if I recognize you all, I can presume that those gentlemen had the kindness to spare my head.’

Licata: ‘Don’t talk, Carlo. You mustn’t tire yourself.’

Carlo: ‘Hah! I always enjoyed talking more than anything else.’

Licata: ‘I know, but now clear out, all of you!

Carlo: ‘Even Elena?’

Licata: ‘No! She’ll stay here, precisely because I know she won’t let you move or open your mouth. Come on, all of you, let’s go!’

Carlo: ‘Wait! You can take the others away, but leave Modesta here too.’

Pasquale: ‘Ever the same old ingrate! You prefer female company to us carusi , huh?’

Licata: ‘Be quiet, Pasquale. Don’t humour him. Out of the room, all of you, or I’ll lose my temper, by God!’

Carlo: ‘You won’t say anything to me, Modesta? Were you frightened? I’m sorry.’

Modesta: ‘No, no, Carlo. It’s just that … that I’m glad to hear you speak, and…’

Licata: ‘Come, that’s enough, Modesta! Let’s go. I said let’s go!’

Comrade Licata was right. What was I saying? Why was I stammering? I couldn’t find the right words to say to him. How could that be? For the first time in my life, I found myself sobbing incoherently behind a closed door, with three strange men, and I wasn’t ashamed to be led to an armchair.

Licata: ‘Don’t, Modesta, don’t! He might hear you, and that wouldn’t help him.’

Modesta: ‘But he’s all beaten up, Doctor, shattered!’

Licata: ‘He’s young, Modesta, and we’ll help him. For God’s sake, Modesta, compose yourself. This isn’t like you!’

Pasquale: ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have brought him here, but he asked us to before he lost consciousness. What else could we do, Antonio?’

Licata: ‘You did the right thing. Where else could you take him? To the emergency room, crawling with Black Shirts? This goddamn country! Overnight they’ve all become Fascists.’

Pasquale: ‘That’s what Jose and I thought. We’re sorry, Modesta. What could we do? Either your house or home to his wife.’

Licata: ‘Oh, please, dear God! Beatrice isn’t well, and unfortunately she has to be informed … Modesta, I insist that she should not see him! We all know what would happen. Between swooning and moaning, it would be hell!’

What was I doing? Comrade Antonio’s last words brought me back to reality with a jolt, and I finally looked at them: Pasquale, his arm bracing his neck, arm and hand mangled, Jose with eyes swollen like a boxer’s. I flushed with shame.

* * *

Licata: ‘What shame! Don’t be silly, Modesta! Let’s not overdo it now! You’ve been very helpful, bandaging and treating all night long. Oh, I swear to God I felt like I was in a hospital! And now that you’re smiling, either I’m going to go lie down for a couple of hours at least, or else I think I’ll start crying too. Dear God! It’s one thing to treat strangers, and another thing … never mind! I’ll see you tomorrow … Today I have a full schedule at the hospital. I’ll send Guido. He’s reliable. And since you’ve gone this far, Modesta, you might as well go a little further and let these carusi stay here until things settle down in Catania. Maria is safe in prison, but they set fire to the newspaper. Now I must go. Chin up, carusi , I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Get some rest!’

Finally I looked at them: they were young and didn’t care about lack of sleep or injuries. In the course of a night Jose’s lips, swollen earlier, were regaining the delicate, ironic shape they had in his photographs. It would be that way for Carlo as well: ‘He’s young, he’ll pull through.’ Comrade Licata, the doctor, had said so.

Modesta: ‘Are you Jose, Maria’s son?’

Jose: ‘Yes, how did you recognize me?’

Modesta: ‘All they talk about is you. Carlo keeps your photograph next to Bambolina’s.’

Pasquale: ‘Does that surprise you, Jose? You still hope to get by unnoticed with that lanky figure and…’

Jose: ‘Big nose? Go ahead and say it, Pasquale. He’s envious of this nose, Modesta. It gives me a unique appeal with the police and with the girls. It’s all envy, because Mother Nature, tightfisted but wise, made me homely but intelligent, and him good-looking and…’

Pasquale: ‘Dumb? Say it!’

Jose: ‘No, not exactly dumb, but with an intelligence level that is barely normal.’

Modesta: ‘He jokes around just like Carlo, doesn’t he, Pasquale?’

Pasquale: ‘Exactly like him! When they’re together, you’d better run. They don’t spare anyone.’

Modesta: ‘When did you get here, Jose?’

Jose: ‘Just in time for the fun and games. Luckily the train was late! I told you about it, Modesta.’

Modesta: ‘Oh, really? I don’t remember anything about last night.’

Pasquale: ‘I was waiting for him at the station … the train was two hours late. And to think that I was disappointed about missing the meeting! That delay in fact caused us to arrive at just the right time. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if we had all been up there, at the meeting. They would have finished him.’

Modesta: ‘But didn’t they hear anything up there?’

Pasquale: ‘How could they, Modesta? They attacked him three blocks away. As always, all the lower floor doors and windows were bolted, at nine in the evening, damn them! And damn Catania!’

Jose: ‘Don’t blame Catania, Pasquale! It’s the same thing up north, and to make matters worse, a great many take action against us. And if they sound the alarm, the police will even come and protect the Black Shirts.’

Modesta: ‘But why Carlo, why him?’

Jose: ‘From what I can see, here too the rallying cry is: down with the communists. Ex-comrade Mussolini knows his brother socialists all too well. He lets them prattle on, scares them with a spanking or purges them mildly with castor oil, like fidgety children. They enter his ranks in droves. Those who resist his invitations are often promised command posts. Many of the best have already sold out. So, with patience, he can eliminate those of us communists who have remained isolated, one by one.’

Pasquale: ‘They’ll never succeed, Jose, never!’

Jose: ‘Do you hear him, Modesta? They’ll never succeed, he says. What does that mean, they’ll never succeed? Why — because progress cannot be stopped? Because history is a teacher of life? All it teaches us is to repeat mistakes, it seems. You haven’t missed making one single mistake, you socialists! How can you not get it? Even if you’re young, Pasquale, you should know your history … The same mistakes of May 1898. 59The same Turati, with his words Non mollare, don’t give up! Yet the Soviets’ success said it clearly. But of course, I forgot that you only read Avanti : “United against Soviet crimes”.’

Pasquale: ‘But violence leads to more violence!’

Jose: ‘That’s it, Pasquale! Keep going around with that socialist bible in your pocket instead of a gun, and may your God, whom you say you don’t believe in, help you. Tell me, how would we have been able to rescue Carlo from those five thugs if I hadn’t shot them?’

Modesta: ‘Oh, you carry a gun?’

Jose: ‘Of course, Modesta, even though they inculcated this non-violence in me, too, unfortunately. I wounded two of them, but in the legs; don’t worry.’