Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘ Voscenza has understood: Argentovivo, my wife that Voscenza was good enough to grant me … after two years, who could have hoped any more, Mody … she’s … she’s…’

‘Is she expecting a baby, Pietro? You seem like a carusu !’

‘Naturally, Mody; a child holds death and old age at bay. With a child to raise, as my father used to say, it’s easier to close your ears to the siren songs of those old women, the lava spirits, who extol the praises of giving up the struggle and yielding to the peace of La Certa .’

‘I’m happy for you, Pietro. And how is Argentovivo?’

‘She’s very well. My little sparrow sings and chatters from morning till night! And she’s preparing the layette with Signorina Inès who has had the good grace to embroider with her … Well!’

‘So why are you frowning now, Pietro? Is there some doubt, some drawback that keeps you from being happy about this lovely news you’ve brought me?’

‘The second point, as I said earlier, Princess … And I hesitate to tell you because I’m afraid I acted recklessly, even though out of respect for Voscenza and for your tranquillity.’

‘We’ll see, Pietro. Explain the situation and then we’ll see.’

‘Does Voscenza recall that friend of Signor Carlo, God rest his soul, that republican Bartolomeo Inzerillo, with the heart condition, whom Signor Carlo treated with such care and concern?’

‘What about him?’

‘Two years after Signor Carlo passed away, he sent for me. He was at the point of death. Remorse kills, Mody, unless you are a lava demon.’

‘I know what you’re trying to tell me: that before dying he declared himself repentant, said that he had turned his back on the Fascists, that Mussolini had deceived them…’

‘Not only that! He confessed to me that he was among those five men who attacked Signor Carlo and told me the name of the fifth man, a certain Serge Greco, a journalist.’

‘It must be Grecò, Pietro: a Frenchman.’

‘He wasn’t French. He was the traitor Sergio Greco, an expatriate. His father was Giovanni Greco of Piana dei Greci, now called Piana degli Albanesi. 63Now tell me, Mody, what could I do, come here and disturb Voscenza , grieving over our Beatrice who was wasting away? I thought it best to follow his movements from a distance, and when I had the opportunity, I nailed him here on the island, six feet under his own land: he travelled too much!’

Six feet under myself, I struggle in the dark to break out of memory’s mantle of lava that Pietro has thrown over me. I stare at him and I see the rat of vengeance scurry out of the eyes of a man who is a slave to men’s laws, embedded in the island’s millennial Mountain. I don’t want to hate him, but my revulsion for that look drives me out of the mantle of lava, out of the island.

‘You won’t look at me, Mody. Are you angry?’

‘Weren’t three lives enough for one death, Pietro?’

‘A life that is taken has no price, Princess. Voscenza said so, and with conviction!’

‘You are about to have a child, Pietro. If you are devoted to me, forget about the past and be happy over this joy that destiny has given you.’

‘I am happy, but first there is an offence to vindicate.’

‘What else is there, Pietro?’

‘I heard from reliable friends that that Pasquale, who said he was a friend of our Signor Carlo, and who has now been made a prefect by the Fascists, knew about the attack on that cursed night. He must die, Mody. He must die!’

‘That’s enough, Pietro! All of Carlo’s friends have gone over to the Fascists, except those who were killed or imprisoned. As for Pasquale, I’ll tell you what Carlo would have said: either we all rebel together — because we’re talking about politics here, and not a family quarrel — and it may be that we’ll all rebel together in five or ten years and get rid of them all — but no private retaliation!

‘Back then, I agreed to those just killings because there was still hope. But to kill Pasquale today would be a personal vendetta that makes no sense. Not only that: it would compromise the many, many friends who still resist in their mind. Plus, Pasquale protects these friends out of old feelings of remorse. We as real men, and not hysterical women, pretend to believe in his partial loyalty to our ideas; we make the most of him, we use him. Who else could have saved Maria from Ucciardone, 64from the blissful Villa Mori, as they call it in Palermo, where people are tortured and killed without a trial?

‘This is not the time for action, Pietro, it’s a time to winter, a time to hibernate. And don’t worry; when the time is right, we won’t fail to disillusion Pasquale, who thinks he’s bought us for eternity for the few favours he’s doing us. Our gratitude will be a bullet between the eyes like it was for Tudia and the others. Don’t you worry.’

‘You’ve said a lot of things, Mody, and I think I’ve understood. But you’re angry at Pietro, since you never looked at me when you spoke.’

From the dark depths of the island his heart perceived the slightest falling shadow, the subtlest change in nerves and veins.

‘If I was wrong, Mody, tell me! Pietro doesn’t deserve a silent condemnation.’

‘Do you trust me, Pietro? Then listen to me. Times are changing, and we have to be cautious: look around and see how we should act.’

‘Oh! Is that why you’ve crossed the sea so many times then? I had some idea, mainly because Prince Jacopo did like Voscenza does. And he gained great knowledge from those trips.’

‘Yes, Pietro, and it’s becoming more and more plain to me that the island, our land, must abandon its isolation.’

‘You mean abandon our thinking, Mody? Accept the ways and customs of the continent?’

‘The train, the airplane and the radio have made the world a smaller place, and it may overtake us and overwhelm us if we’re unprepared.’

‘The Prince used to say that too, but the Princess, God rest her soul, didn’t agree.’

‘Gaia was a grand old woman, Pietro, but out of date, no offence to the dead, obsolete! Fascism might last a hundred years, but it might also end in a moment, and Carlo’s world might come back. So our children must be prepared to make their way in life alone, to cope on their own, both materially and morally.’

‘Is that why you send them to public schools? Now I understand.’

‘And abroad in the summer, Pietro. They need to know.’

‘The old timers used to say you lose your roots by wandering around the world. Prince Jacopo came back from his travels more and more stooped.’

‘You lose roots that are rotten, and he became stooped because he found here a failure to understand his problems.’

‘You have explained things to me, and I see that it is not Pietro who angered you, but Pietro’s old-fashioned heart. And I accept that I was wrong. I’m old and I tremble at this struggle you are facing. I understand your intent, but I don’t see a way forward, both because I am ignorant and because of my age. But I have confidence in you. First, because you’re educated. And second, because you are my mistress and I accept your orders without question.’

‘Then it’s understood, Pietro? We leave Pasquale where he is. It’s not the time to act, understood?’

Troubled but silent, Pietro stoops to kiss my hand. I have to look him in the eye. You can’t escape the sweep of his gaze, either by crossing the sea, as he says, or by staring from the window of a train at the endless tracts of woodland and cultivated fields, laid out unnaturally and with no imagination: straight, neat towns and cities, pale faces with colourless eyes and no smile. Mouths without teeth to bite bread. I had hoped … by crossing the sea, I had hoped to find what Tuzzu used to say: ‘ There are cities full of all sorts of wonderful things, huge ports where ships come and go, laden with treasures. ’ But behind the ornately painted facades of sumptuous palazzos lay the same twisted streets in the throes of hunger, the same wretched litany of poverty and constraints, only just a little more hidden and more resigned.