Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Yet despite this suspicion, you’re embracing me and stroking my hair like a sister?’

‘I don’t see why a spy shouldn’t have a sister.’

Her deep, lingering laughter swept away the scent of jasmine like a sudden wind. No, it wasn’t the wind. She had stood up, leaving the warm impression of her waist in my arms, flustering me. I got up too, but did not follow her. Laughing as she went to the window, Joyce again became tall, austere and unapproachable.

‘Being with you, Modesta, brings back a gaiety I had thought I’d lost for ever. “Even spies should have a sister!” What a great title it would be for a novel! Jose told me you write.’

‘Yes, but not about politics. Sorry to squash your hopes, you wouldn’t find anything there either, not a name or a fact. Rather, you’d find many abstruse notions that would only confirm my eccentricity.’

‘Like your way of life, right? Indeed, what could I say? No tables laid either for lunch or dinner, everyone comes and goes when and as they please. Wealthy, aristocratic children made to set the table and serve themselves, sometimes even forced to cook if by some whim they decide to eat at times that depart from the cook’s schedule … That bird-faced Mela, all eyes, thin as a rail, alongside a young lady as elegant as your Bambù. And you let her study at your expense with the best concert artists. Oh, Modesta, besides feeling cheerful, I’m terribly hungry!’

‘Hungry for information, or for food?’

‘Hungry, famished, like I haven’t been in years! Forget your work for today and let’s have lunch together, Modesta, please. Oh, look! what an amazing sight! Look how the storm is moving in!’

‘It’s the Tropea screaming her fury … the Tropea with her windswept hair dripping blood and squalls.’

We had to shut the window tightly or the storm would hurl it open and no one would save us from the rain that was advancing, driven by the sun: fire and water were mowing down the pines, decapitating the birds and flowers. Just in time, pushing hard with my entire body, I managed to close the shutters, the windows, the jalousies and the drapes. We were in darkness now, but outside the fists and nails of that raging woman kept battering away, trying to get in.

‘How strong you are, Modesta! You always amaze me.’

‘Clearly I was born to amaze people. It’s a refrain that has haunted me as long as I’ve lived. Don’t be amazed, please — and turn on the light.’

‘Oh, Modesta, look at the chandelier: the house is shaking!’

‘The Tropea’s fury doesn’t last long. It blows over in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette. Why don’t you smoke?’

‘It’s awful … Like you said, it sounds like the shrieks of a madwoman.’

‘It’s the trees and the sea responding to her shrieks, and there may have been a slight earthquake. But be assured, it will be over in a few minutes.’

‘You’re so calm. Does it happen often?’

‘At least once a year that woman recalls ancient grievances and wages war against the Mountain. We islanders have a history of women warriors, women with swords who slaughter those who offend them.’

‘Are they perhaps saints?’

‘Not at all! Female paladins, valiant and fearless, equal to Orlando when it comes to swinging a Durendal.’ 73

‘The marionettes? Jose had told me about them. But he hadn’t mentioned the female puppets.’

‘I’ll take you to see these heroines, with profiles as delicate as Stella’s and nerves of steel. You’ll see how tremendous they are in their warriors’ fury! For centuries, the Church has been trying to banish them, as our puppeteer Insanguine says. Just like Fascism wants to take away our dead, and with them the memory of our vital traditions.’

‘Your dead, Modesta? I don’t understand.’

‘Yes, they declared that the only feast day for children must be the Fascist La Befana, like in the north. This greatly offended our people, who for the sake of peace and quiet formally agreed. But we continue to remember our dead and, on the night of November first, leave the door open for them to enter our homes on tiptoe, bringing gifts and messages to our carusi . Sweets and toys, so the children won’t forget that death exists, and that our deceased live on even in death.’

‘That’s why there was no tree at Christmas! When I asked Jacopo if he was sorry about it, he replied: “But those are just stories. For us it’s the dead themselves who bring us gifts.” I admit, Modesta, that those words spoken by a child frightened me so that I didn’t dare ask. I thought he was joking. Jacopo is so ironic that sometimes he makes you uncomfortable. Now that I think about it, even Bambù, when I asked her who gave her that magnificent amber necklace she often wears, told me: “Mama and Papa brought them to me this year.”’

‘Of course. That way Bambolina remembers her father, who was killed, but without fear.’

‘In fact, she was unperturbed.’

‘When they go out to play on the second of November, all the island children talk about their dead, who are neither in hell nor in heaven, but with them. Even the Church has always had to turn a blind eye to this pagan custom. And it’s the first time a king or a foreign leader has dared to try and abolish this tradition. But if by November neither of us is in prison, I’ll take you down to Catania and you’ll see the great Chiana dei Morti that continues to be rekindled each year, brought back to life with lanterns and torches, mountains of toys and sweets, laughing at outsiders and at death.’

‘Oh God, Modesta, what is this Chiana dei Morti ?’

‘It’s Catania’s large central piazza, where everyone — parents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, rich and poor — spends the entire night strolling among colourful stalls, lit-up shops, teeming cafés and restaurants. And between one glass of wine and another, they look for gifts for the youngest children on behalf of the dearly departed.’

‘I’d be happy to go with you to see the puppets, as well as this strange feast of the dead. Assuming they don’t arrest us first! Although, I must confess, I find any idea of death very frightening. But you frighten me too, Modesta. I mean it. Since the storm you’ve changed toward me. I enjoyed your stories very much, but I sensed something like hostility toward me in them. Or is it the Tropea that’s making you anxious?’

‘No, Joyce. We’re used to storms and earthquakes. It’s something you said that offended me, as it would offend Stella and every other woman in the world. But perhaps I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. Don’t pay any attention to me. We islanders are suspicious.’

‘I don’t understand. Did I say something to offend you and Stella?’

‘This artificial light is gloomy, Joyce. If you want, you can open the drapes again now.’

‘But the storm…?’

‘Open them, I’m telling you.’

‘Oh God, Modesta, how did you know? The sky is all blue now and calm. This silence is more frightening than the thunder and lightning. I’ll never find peace, Modesta, not here or anywhere else!’

I had never seen her tremble. Or maybe she’s just cold. Even the white of her blouse is trembling.

‘You’re cold, Joyce. Come and sit by the fire.’

She curls up trembling on the sofa, as though trying to hide. And here I’ve been tormenting her for hours with disturbing tales and insinuations! Her anguish communicates shivers of pleasure to me. I should at least embrace her.

‘I’m not worthy of your sisterly love, Modesta!’

What does she mean? The fireplace’s heat burns my mouth. No, not the fire; it’s her lips pressed against mine, her tongue sliding into my saliva. I want to seize that tongue between my teeth, but: