Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Who could that be, Attorney? Find me a man.’

‘But it’s contraband, Modesta! I don’t see why you should risk trouble with the law when there is all the land that Carlo left to Ida.’

‘No, Bambolina’s money won’t be touched! A woman is helpless without money!’

‘Judas Priest! But why? She too has contributed to eating up your money, it seems to me, and stills does, am I right? Besides what are you worried about? Ida is a real beauty. She’ll make a good match!’

‘Oh, no! She won’t marry for that reason, my dear old liberal.’

‘She’ll work then! It was you who claimed that women should work, if I’m not mistaken!’

‘Before, my dear man, before, when we believed the revolution was around the corner. But the way things stand now, no! Bambolina will work only if she wants to.’

‘Ah, well! That’s news to me. What is it, the idea of some anarchist in your house? You want her to become a lazy, idle woman?’

‘Put it however you want. Bambolina will be lazy and idle!’

‘In any case, I can’t help you. Find him yourself, this expert!’

An expert! It has to be an expert! Or shall I go myself? An adventure like any other. But first I must find out how one goes about smuggling … the techniques … the skills … Piano technique, smuggling technique, the technique of falling asleep … Unless I resume my technique of counting — not sheep, of course! — the beautiful sights encountered during the day: clouds at sunset, furious waves crashing on the rocks … Stella’s and Bambolina’s expressions … Bambolina has so many quirky gestures! And Stella, who pulls her hair up because of the heat, unknowingly imitating her ancient sisters on the Syracusan coins. 67Those coins, too … indeed, they alone are worth a fortune.

I wasn’t surprised when I opened my eyes and Stella told me that I had slept for nearly two days in a row; nor is she any longer surprised by it.

‘It’s a blessing, Mody, a blessing! Why get so upset? Even Carlo said that this sleep was good for you. What a fright, the first time! I was afraid you’d starve to death! And he just smiled … You know what he used to say when I got scared at something new? He’d say: “Ignorance, Stella, ignorance!” He was so right! Oh! I was forgetting Signora Joyce … she asked me just now if she could come up and see you.’

‘Signora Joyce?’

‘Yes, I found out. She’s married, and widowed: she told me so. She also said that she doesn’t always wear her wedding band because sometimes looking at it reminds her of the sorrow that … Oh, the poor thing, the way she talks! She talks like a schoolmarm, but she’s not as horrible as she seemed, Mody! Recently she came to the kitchen to have coffee, like you always do, and you know what she said? “Do you mind if I steal Modesta’s place for a little while, Stella?” If only she would take off that hat! Why does she always keep it on? Oh, you know what Bambù said? That maybe she’s bald!.. Oh, dear God! Bambù is waiting for me!.. I have to go … So should I let her come up or not?’

I had been racking my brain for weeks trying to find an excuse to get her to come up here. Was I now going to let Stella leave without seizing that rare opportunity? Gripping the covers, I almost shouted as the door was already closing.

‘No, Stella, let her come up. She’ll be offended otherwise.’

Had Stella heard me or not? Did I have time to run to the bathroom and at least brush my teeth and comb my hair? Suddenly I was aware of my condition. Stella had managed to put me to bed, take off my skirt and whatever was too binding, as Carlo had taught her. But I had been under the covers with that sweater for two days … Touching my hair, I found it sweaty and sticky. I was already inelegant and awkward when I was washed and wearing a clean cardigan; imagine what I must be like after two days in bed. I almost prayed to any god at all that Stella hadn’t heard me. But Stella had a very fine ear, and already the door was opening. Too late! I pulled the covers up so she would see as little of me as possible, and closed my eyes. In the dark ‘the voice’ — that’s what I now privately called the only voice worthy of the name — washed warmly over my wretched body.

‘Oh God, Stella! She’s asleep again. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with such a prolonged sleep, Stella? Does it happen often? I’m worried about her!’

‘No, she’s not sleeping; my Mody likes to do this. Either she runs around like a spinning top all the blessed day, or she snuggles up in bed … please be kind enough to sit down and wait. Oh, I’ll leave the tray.’

The ‘voice’ was worried about me. This revelation dissolved my hunger completely. And here I am, unworthy of her, awkward and filthy, with that awful sweater and my badly trimmed nails! As soon as Stella left the room, I opened my eyes to see her again. I stare at her as if I haven’t seen her in years. But just like after a long absence, when the desire to see the beloved face becomes so strong that it blinds you, so I, blinded, stare at her but do not see her.

Is she smoking? The pale hands emerge slowly from a hazy curtain. No, they don’t emerge; rather, they seem to be resting on a velvet cushion. Long, tapered hands, severed, with the perfect nails of a saint’s statue. What the devil is that saint’s name? Agatha? No — Saint Agatha had had her breasts lopped off, not her hands. Yet Mother Leonora had often recounted the story of those strong, transparent hands, strong enough to endure all the torture without the knuckles being marred or the nails broken. Mine, clutching the blanket, must be filthy …

‘I shouldn’t have been so persistent with Stella. I can see I’m disturbing you, Modesta. I apologize, but I was a bit sad. I’ll see you later on.’

The cushion was already moving before my eyes … Two black infidels, blacker than hell, were raising it to carry it to the Great Khan, 68blacker than his minions, who with his brutish, pitch-black paws, would rip those chaste fingers to pieces.

Forgetting my dirty nails, I quickly hastened to grab the cushion.

‘Oh God, Modesta! You’re not well and you don’t want to say so. Are you afraid of worrying Stella? But if it comforts you to grip my skirt, I’ll stay here. Don’t worry! Still, forgive me for insisting, but I think I should call a doctor.’

What was she talking about? I had never heard anything so silly! Since when have doctors been able to help someone who is in love? Even Mimmo used to say that there is no cure for that pernicious plague that — to make it seem less frightening — we call love. I could hear Mela practising bass chords up and down the keyboard. The sharp clarity of those notes and a deep gentle laugh from the ‘voice’ dispelled the fog in front of me. And I saw her. How foolish, Stella! Not only wasn’t she bald — though even bald she would have been beautiful — but she was laughing, brushing back a soft mass of black hair from her face. So that was it: the ‘voice’s’ hair was lovelier and blacker than Stella’s, and Stella was envious.

‘But of course, of course I’ll stay, Modesta! Now that I see you’re joking, I feel reassured. How right you are! No doctor, no science, has the ability to cure that monstrous illness that fools, as you said, call love.’

Stella is not only jealous of her hair, but also of the fact that, without those trousers, a pair of smooth, slender calves led to two ankles so slight they seemed made of glass. Letting go of her skirt, I was about to grab one to see if it really was glass when that envious Stella came in, calling me back to reality. She was envious, but she cared about me. And her words — ‘Would you ladies like me to bring up some coffee?’ — saved me from doing one silly thing after another.