Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Did Elena tell you that we will soon have a femminuccia here with us?’

‘No, but I thought so. With her mother gripped by dead spirits, I imagined that we would have Bambolina with us.’

‘They’re bringing her tomorrow morning.’

‘Poor child, removed from her mother’s sight! What will we do about milk?’

‘Don’t worry, Stella. Carlo sent for a powdered milk from Switzerland.’

‘How can that be?’

‘It exists, Stella. It seems that this milk is lighter. Not only doesn’t she spit it up like she did before, even with donkey’s milk, but in eight days the vomiting has stopped and she’s gained weight.’

‘These new things scare me…’

‘So then, Stella, are you still planning to make me that coffee?’

‘Oh, Holy Virgin! Right away!’

‘Tell me, what’s wrong? Is your father bothering you again? Does he want you back with him?’

‘No, Princess. He came to see me, yes, but to tell me that he was setting off with my brothers to avenge a death. And so it’s starting all over again, like when I was a child. They leave, they come back wounded or they don’t come back at all. But I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to be like my mother, crying and waiting only to learn of their death.’

‘Are you afraid for Melo, Stella?’

‘Not anymore! For years I cried and anticipated his death, seeing the frenzied life he led. And now if you still need me, all I want is to stay here in peace with these carusi .’

* * *

The book remained closed on the nightstand. Carlo looked at it, smiling, in the rare moments of respite.

‘Tomorrow you’ll read me a line or two, won’t you, Modesta?’

‘Of course, Carlo, tomorrow.’

Tomorrow … Tomorrow … it went on for fifteen days, that agony of silences, coughing and sudden slumbers, immediately shattered by convulsions and red blood on his white teeth. Fifteen days of struggling, never once despairing or giving in to the darkness that hour by hour crept over his eyes. Carlo was dying the difficult death of an atheist, like the hero whom he had so loved.

Already around me they were whispering: ‘a hero’s death’. But those who die are wrong, they’re mistaken. I turn away from that error to follow Pietro’s trail; his reports reach me from afar:

‘Ciccio Musumeci shot in front of the entrance to Cinema Mirone.’

‘Turi Musumeci found with a bullet between his eyes in the gardens of Villa Pacini.’

‘Vincenzo Tudia is still bedridden because of his leg, but the first time he goes out they’ll be waiting for him, my dear Mody.’

I wait patiently, staring at Carlo’s serene face. Someone whispers:

‘It’s like he’s been rejuvenated!’

He was growing younger as he died: the dark mop of hair widened the pools of dark shadow around his eyes, giving his pale face an expression of childlike bewilderment.

‘He seems like a child!’ Elena exclaimed in surprise.

I turn away from that child to hear Pietro finally announce:

‘Vincenzo Tudia: the first time he goes out for a walk with a cane, his leg still in a cast, slumps to the ground behind his own house.’

After each name, Jose smiles and looks at me.

‘Thank you, Modesta. I’m leaving tomorrow after the funeral. The only reason I had come was for Carlo, to persuade him to act or escape abroad. I’m going back up north. I’m glad I got to know you. I’m going back up there and I’ll kill as many of them as I can. And if we lose, I’ll cross the mountains and seek refuge in Switzerland.’

I’d like to turn away from that coffin, but I have to look, because among the red of the flags, the carnations and the shirts of Carlo’s comrades, who take turns shouldering their hero’s coffin, a dark silhouette replaces Jose. Is my vision dazed by the strong sunlight? Or is that big-boned man Mattia Tudia, in deep mourning over the loss of his brother Vincenzo? It’s not the sun; it’s the red of the carnations that’s clouding my vision. When the coffin stops for a moment in the darkness of Via dei Crociferi — it was always dark as night in those narrow streets — Jose leaves my side and takes his place once more where Mattia was. They have the same build. The coffin goes on its way again without a jolt, and Mattia comes up beside me.

‘You shouldn’t be surprised, Princess. I came to pay my respects to a man of honour, as you had the goodness to do for my father, Carmine Tudia.’

Celso comes up alongside Mattia:

‘ Vossia will excuse me, Don Mattia, but I have orders to stay close to the Princess. Bad things are happening in our streets.’

‘That’s good, Celso, and I’ll tell you right away that Don Mattia has not come to disturb the ceremony, but to honour this procession.’

‘If he says so, it is so, Celso! We thank him and ask Don Mattia if he would like to have a glass of wine with us at the house afterwards.’

‘I accept with pleasure and sorrow, Princess.’

‘Three months I’ve waited, Modesta. Three times I watched the moon wax and wane with the protracted pace of a life sentence. Why do you want to condemn me to this solitude, why?’

‘I’m not condemning anyone. I don’t have the heart to listen to anyone anymore. My heart has become a wasteland, and the name Tudia is now stamped on me like a mark of death.’

‘Damn Vincenzo for coming between us! I feel like a wolf caught in a trap. Why did he do it?’

‘He was a Fascist.’

‘Don’t be silly; he was no Fascist! He was out of his mind! That morning before going out to meet his death — death makes you talk, you know! — he told me things … unspeakable things about our father, which I can’t even stand to think about.’

‘You see how the memory is still too vivid between us? Let’s wait a little longer. Maybe in a year … If Beatrice would at least snap out of her psychosis and if her innocent child, Bambolina, could only swallow a sip of milk without spitting it up. Bambolina is wasting away, and I’m tormented by it. Now go!’

‘For three months I’ve had your face imprinted on my eyes, night and day. Come away with me! There are other places outside this narrow-minded island. I’ve seen them … I’m not like those people who look at me disapprovingly because I haven’t avenged Vincenzo’s death. I haven’t even wanted to find out who did it or who didn’t. I don’t want to know anymore. I don’t give a damn!’

‘Don’t say that!’

‘On the contrary, I’ll say it! And I want you, even if it was a friend of yours who killed Vincenzo, even if it was that Jose…’

‘Jose didn’t leave my house even for a moment.’

‘You’re defending him, are you? So say it: you’ve changed because of him. Say it! Since he set foot on this island, you’ve changed.’

‘I’ve changed because of Carlo’s death, Mattia. Try to use your head.’

‘No! The death of a brother-in-law can’t change someone to that extent!’

‘He was a friend.’

‘No! I don’t believe it. It was that Jose, and if you want to know, I came to the funeral to see him, just to see him.’

‘So?’

‘I saw him! Mattia isn’t fooled. That guy has the body you like. He’s a man I’d like to test my skill against, by God! Arrogant, solid as a rock, and contemptuous! If it weren’t for you, I’d like to ask him a thing or two!’

‘He’s gone, Mattia. Stop ranting. I won’t see him again. I read in his face that I won’t see him again.’

‘You don’t fool me.’

‘Like I read in your eyes that day at your father’s bedside that death could come to me from you. I won’t see him again.’

‘Again she says it. She says it again, almost in tears! Don’t you see that he’s captured you, at least in your imagination?’