Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

Following Uncle Jacopo’s hunched steps, I retraced the stages of his trips and returned with yet another theatre programme, another good book, some ribbons and fabric for Stella. After years of mourning, first for her husband and then for her father, she strokes the silks and velvets, thirsty for colour. Confined in mourning, her sturdy limbs seemed to have grown thinner, giving her slow gestures an adolescent uncertainty. Stella was being reborn from the anguish of separating from her dead. Or was it habitually talking to the children, gazing into their eyes and anticipating their needs that filled her gaze and voice with that childlike wonder and enthusiasm? Modesta had never in her life witnessed such an absolute metamorphosis. Astounded, she stares at the new Stella, who laughs as she unrolls on the carpet a long stream of turquoise silk strewn with countless golden suns.

‘How beautiful it is! Oh, when Bambolina comes she’ll be so happy!’

‘Actually, I brought it for you, Stella.’

‘Oh Mody, do you think I can? Could I…’

‘Of course you can!’

‘But my older brother is ill! Maybe it’s pointless to stop wearing mourning when in…’

‘Oh, nonsense! You’ve worn mourning long enough! Plus, you have to think of the children.’

‘It’s true! Just yesterday Prando said to me: “Either you take off that black or I’m leaving”. And I said: “Where will you go?” “With Mody,” he said. “Abroad, where the women dress in hundreds of colours!”’

‘You see, Stella?’

‘Yes, yes, of course … but the one who surprised me was Jacopo. He doesn’t seem to notice these things; he always has his nose in a book, that picciriddu .’

‘What did Jacopo say?’

‘With a very serious face he tells me: “That’s right, Stella! It’s about time Prando said that. I’m leaving too.”’

‘So, a mutiny?’

‘What does that mean, Mody?’

‘A rebellion.’

‘Oh, right, even my ’Ntoni: “I don’t want a Mama who’s always wearing black. Look at this photo: that’s how I want to see you!”’ Imagine, Mody, it was a picture of a blond actress wearing a very low-cut neckline. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! These carusi ! The movies, always the movies! It isn’t wrong, Mody, is it? I don’t know what to think. This silk is certainly beautiful. It looks like a bit of sky!’

‘Good! Then with this bit of sky make yourself a dress for the mid-summer feast day; you’ll see what a hit you’ll be with the children!’

‘All right, Mody. I’ll brace myself, I’ll forget about my sisters-in-law and their looks … oh, I can just see them, but I won’t think about them.’ Stella steels herself and accepts the fabric. ‘Oh Mody, my hands are trembling just folding it. It isn’t wrong, is it?’

‘Wrong, Stella? What harm can there be in colours?’

‘What harm can there be in making my children happy? As my mother used to say: “When you make your children happy, they promptly return the happiness a hundredfold.” Elena was happy here with them.’

‘Well, now she’s found a new happiness, I would imagine.’

‘Happiness, Mody? Please! Yesterday she came and she was crying, not even married one year and already she was crying, miserable, pinched, scared of everything and everybody. I felt like I was seeing myself, meeting myself as I used to be. It gave me a scare! And those two, my brothers I mean, want me to marry again! Not a month goes by when they don’t show up with a match, and they keep at it. They say I’ve changed, that I talk like a foreigner, that … what do they want from me?’

‘They think they’re doing it for your own good. You’re young…’

‘Never! Anyone who has ever gone through serving a man once — never again! Besides, give my ’Ntoni a stepfather, I…’

‘All right, Stella, calm down. In time, we’ll see. Now why are you blushing like a little girl?’

‘Because now you’ll get angry, Stella knows it. You’ve been back one hour and now you’ll get angry.’

‘And why should I get angry?’

‘It’s that girl … Mela, the one whose father and mother were killed by the Fascists.’

‘Yes, I know, the one Pasquale sent to us. So?’

‘Oh, Pasquale did the right thing, taking her out of that convent where they first brought her. The things she’s told me! And to think they’re nuns, oh! No one would believe it!’

‘I know all about it, Stella. Please, what are you trying to say? Why are you beating around the bush like that?’

‘Do you hear the piano?’

‘What does the piano have to do with it, Stella! Now I really will get angry! Of course I hear it. I’m not deaf! It must be one of Prando’s friends playing so well, certainly not Bambù or ’Ntoni, who are hopeless at music.’

‘It’s Mela.’

‘Her? She’s still here? But Pasquale said…’

‘Yes, I know, but it’s hard to find a decent boarding school without money, Mody!’

‘Exactly! We have no more money, Stella. Everything is in decline, another reason why I came back … and who knows when I’ll be able to travel again! Don’t make such a face. What do you think, that I’m stingy, like Prando does?’

‘No, Mody, frugal…’

‘Who would have said it, eh, Stella? That even offering a piece of bread would be a luxury! And this incessant piano playing!’

‘First you said she played well.’

‘She does!’

‘So what do you say, shall we go and see her? She and Bambù have become such great friends. We needed a girl for Bambù! Always surrounded by rowdy boys. Do you want to meet her?’

‘No, I don’t want to see her! She has to go and that’s that!’

‘Now what? Are you going away?’

‘Of course I’m going!’

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Of course not! I’m going to my room. This idle female prattle and the thought of money have put me in a bad mood. I must find some money!’

‘I’ve told you, Mody, I have the house, the farm. I could…’

‘Don’t be silly! Your money and Bambolina’s can’t be touched. I’ll see you later, Stella.’

‘Mody!’

‘What now?’

‘Wait, I … I didn’t tell you everything. I have to tell you what happens when you’re away…’

‘What else happened? Let’s hear it.’

‘The fact is that there’s another woman, a signora who…’

‘Another woman?’

‘Well, yes. She arrived four days ago. I put her in Signorina Elena’s room.’

‘Oh no, that’s enough now! I’ll phone Pasquale right away. He has to stop sending us these people. The devil take him! He’s gone too far!’

‘But that’s the point! It’s not Signor Pasquale who sent her, it’s Signor Jose.’

‘Jose?’

‘At least, that’s what the signora said. She said: “I have a letter from Signor Jose Giudice for the Princess.”’

Jose! Although I had read in his parting smile, that long-ago evening, that we would never see each other again, I had constantly looked for him in my travels, often going miles and miles out of my way, whenever I was able, to obtain some news of him. In Basel, in that room littered with newspapers, saturated with lead and oil, filled with the din of the rotary press:

‘ The editor has left, ma’am. You’ve come from Italy? Sorry, but we have orders not to tell strangers … I’m sorry, ma’am! ’

In Paris, in the barbershop of comrade Reggiani of Padua:

‘ Ah, so you’re the famous princess? So it’s true! Just think, we didn’t believe him. Forgive me, comrade, but who believes in Sicilian princesses anymore! It’s really too bad, but he left a week ago. Where? You can imagine, with Jose, knowing his haunts is easier said than done! ’