Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Come in, Joyce. It’s open.’

‘Oh, Modesta! Just for a moment, I really need to talk to you. I must leave. Forgive me for insisting, but I must leave! Somehow or other I must join Jose in Paris. This physical and moral comfort, the exuberance of your children — such wonderful children! — and Stella’s ’Ntoni as well, all so elegant and intelligent … in them lies the living proof of what we Marxists know: it’s the environment that makes the man. Here, amid Stella’s kindness and the appeal of these pines and the sea, I was about to forget my duty to Jose and the comrades. Until last night’s terrible nightmares! I still can’t forget Jose’s harrowed face staring at me … I could never forgive myself for not being alongside Jose at this time of conflict within our own party. Silone, Tresso, Leonetti, all expelled! Intransigence, sectarianism toward the socialists have divided and confused the anti-fascist forces, thereby only helping capitalism which at the 5th Congress, as a result of the crisis, we had already written off. 70So many hopes for the cause, so many real achievements had flourished staunchly before us in this Europe of ours! All wiped out in a few years! Atatürk’s turnabout, the Spartacist movement crushed, Rosa Luxemburg assassinated! And now that petit-bourgeois Hitler, whom everyone derided until his Beer Hall Putsch, is in power by “democratically” winning the elections. A hellish night, Modesta! As though someone had taken pleasure in projecting my entire long past in a dream, all of my nearly forty years! I saw my mother’s joy as she embraced me and kept saying: “You at least will be free, my child! A new era is dawning for Turkish women. From today on, you will vote and be the master of your destiny.” Then the next instant I saw her face, now old and gaunt, in exile in Paris, and beside hers, the racked face of … Oh, Modesta, I must go! The peace and serenity of this house aren’t fitting for us old, uprooted and perhaps defeated survivors. For those of us who, as Jose says, find our raison d’être only in the struggle.’

‘I could find you a ship, Joyce, but only if I knew the real reason you are so anxious to leave. You’ve spoken at length about many things, but you haven’t given me an idea of who you are, as a person, I mean. And that “we old survivors who find our raison d’être only in the struggle” prompts me not to let you leave. You say you’re old, Joyce, but you’re just tired and, forgive my effrontery, out of your senses. How could I take the responsibility of letting you embark in this state? It’s not 1922 or 1924 anymore; it’s 1933. I will only let you leave if you tell me that someone who can take care of you is waiting for you.’

For the first time, Joyce looks at me for a long time. Without her screen of words to hide behind, she lowers her head and buries her face in her arms. Her mass of black hair is spread on the desk between us: a gleaming summer night …

‘ What is night made of, Tuzzu? ’

‘ What do I know ?’

‘ If you lift me on your shoulders, I’ll touch it and I’ll tell you. ’

‘ So then, let’s hear it. Now that you’ve touched it, what is it made of? ’

‘If no one is waiting for you, Joyce, I won’t let you leave.’

The hair accepts my touch — or is it just that my arm prevents her from moving? I withdraw my hand and, liberated, she rolls her shoulders. Disappointed, my hand is left lying midway on the desk.

‘What beautiful hands you have, Modesta. I hadn’t noticed. No, leave it there, your stroking raised my spirits, just like when I was a child and my mother used to stroke me.’

I wasn’t aware of the long journey I’d made around the desk until I was seated next to her and saw my other hand, ice-cold, disappear between hers.

‘And how small they are, up close like this! You’re strange, Modesta. Sometimes you seem tall and strong; at other times, like now, you seem small and fragile, like a child. Before, when you said “I won’t let you leave”, I felt relieved — like when, as a child, I knew I could depend on the decision of someone older and stronger than me. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to rely on anyone. Of course there are the comrades; Jose has always been close to me. But a woman friend is different, and I feel you are a friend. I’ve never had a female friend, Modesta.’

My hands, revived in hers, found strength and determination. Leaving the warmth of her palms and encircling her waist, I heard myself say with the forcefulness she needed at that moment (or was I going too far and would she pull away?): ‘A friend, Joyce, of course. You must rely on me and put yourself in my hands. Rest.’ Obeying my order, she let her head drop on my shoulder.

‘What about Jose, who’s waiting for me? What will he think of me? I should let him know, but how?’

‘I’ll write to Jose myself.’

‘But it’s risky! The mail,…’

‘No, no, I’ll find another way to get a letter to him.’

‘How peaceful it is here, Modesta, after the suspicious looks, the innuendos, the signs of alarm every time the phone rang there in Milan, in the houses of the few friends who didn’t slam the door in my face. It was terrible! Only two of the old comrades and friends took me in … And one of them for just a few seconds! I’ll never forget. It was a Saturday; he was in black shirt, shaking, only a brief greeting before going to the weekly assembly.’ 71

‘Don’t judge them. Il Duce has won everyone over with the help of his elegant Arturo Bocchini. 72Not a day goes by without witnessing the conversion of a friend, an acquaintance. Or simply entering a shop and seeing from the errand boy’s determined look that he has gone over to the other side.’

‘Even here in Sicily, Modesta?’

‘Yes, here too, though more quietly than in the north.’

‘But you’re so calm, so serene!’

‘It’s no use squandering your energies on misguided fear. You just have to be wary…’

‘Be wary? You suspected me, didn’t you, Modesta?’

‘Of course, and I still suspect you, because anyone who turns up these days — even with a letter from a trusted friend — could be an agent sent by our dear Bocchini.’

She didn’t answer, but her head grew heavier on my shoulder. I didn’t understand the silent language of those gestures. Until that moment, no one had ever spoken to me that way. Either that woman, perhaps sent to spy, was more cunning than I had thought, or her submission was sincere. To get past that jasmine-scented silence, I clasped her tightly to me; let her say something or move away.

‘You’ve never spoken about Carlo, Modesta.’

‘You’ve never asked me, Joyce.’

‘Jose told me to be careful, not to reopen your grief. He told me how much you had suffered over Carlo’s death. Were the killers ever found?’

‘Jose was right. It’s too horrible for me to talk about it.’

‘Do you still suspect me, Modesta?’

‘It’s only been a few seconds, Joyce. Why shouldn’t I suspect you?’

‘Forgive me for insisting, but you’ve been so kind to me from the very first moment that I can’t make sense of it, and only now do I realize that you’ve never let a single name slip out during our conversations.’

‘Nor will a name ever slip out. Don’t worry. That way, if you were a spy, all you would leave with was the discovery that “perhaps” I am an anti-fascist since I gave you asylum, and since you observed that this house contains neither a portrait of Il Duce nor the King, that my children do not go to the Saturday rallies and that they don’t wear the uniform. But that much is well known to everyone in Catania, just as I’m known to be eccentric and perhaps a little touched. It’s a prerogative of the Brandiforti.’