Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘Oh, Modesta, I’m unworthy, unworthy!’

What is she saying? I try to follow her but all I find is the door closed behind her as she flees. My head, my forehead are aflame, as joyous laughter rises from my chest to my lips. So that’s all it was, the mystery, the partial confessions, the trembling. And I thought she was a spy!

I don’t know how long I stood there, my head against the door, laughing excitedly over my naivety, when hurried steps coming up the stairs snapped me out of my reverie. Was it her, returning? I too would have done the same. But my hand dropped from the doorknob at the sound of Stella’s voice asking to come in. Jacopo and Bambù must have hurt themselves chasing each other around. No, not Bambù, Jacopo! He’s the fragile one. All he does is shut himself up in his room, reading and studying.

‘Mody, Mody, it’s me, Stella. Please open the door!’

‘What’s wrong, Stella? Don’t tell me Jacopo hurt himself because this time I’ll give him a good spanking! Then we’ll see if he makes up his mind to play some sports, and stop chasing after Bambù!’

‘No, Mody, no! It’s the foreign signora , she’s distressed, and I, I … I’m so sorry I thought badly of her!’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know! She called for me and she seemed calm. When I saw the bags in the middle of the room I thought: “She wants me to help her … it’s time for her to leave.” Wasn’t she supposed to leave, Mody? Instead she told me that she wanted to sleep and didn’t want to be disturbed until tomorrow morning. But as she was getting into bed I saw that she was crying. When I got back to the kitchen I couldn’t stop thinking about those tears. So I went back and knocked at the door, thinking maybe she might want something warm.’

‘Get to the point, Stella. What happened?’

‘She didn’t answer. I knocked and knocked, over and over again, a hundred times. No response. I’m worried, Mody! Maybe the signora isn’t well.’

‘Oh dear God! Princess, the water is all red. It’s blood!’

Nunzio is yelling like a madman. I’ve never seen him in such a state. He broke down two doors: her room and the bathroom. As I hold Joyce’s head, Nunzio pulls her out of the water and lays her on the bed, muttering:

‘Look at this! Such a beautiful woman, and she doesn’t want to live! With the Princess’s permission, I’ll tear up this sheet and bandage her. It has to be tight … like this! From the colour of the water, she hasn’t lost a lot of blood … Oh! She did a good job with the razor blade!.. Like a fellow from Milan at the front, who for some reason performed the same service on himself one night — without a bath tub, naturally. He slept in the bunk above me and the blood dripping on my face woke me. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone!’

So I wasn’t the only one who saw her as beautiful, through the filter of love that had clouded my eyes since that first day, given that Nunzio too kept saying: ‘So beautiful, so beautiful…’, as he helped Stella remove the blood-soaked nightgown.

‘That’s it, under the covers! Or rather, we should dry her hair first…’

Stella dried her hair which, wet like that, seemed longer. Her hair was slightly wavy, so naturally it would look shorter when dry.

She opened her eyes at the exact moment Dr Licata left.

From the serene gaze with which she glanced around at the walls, the drapes, the luggage still closed in the middle of the room, pausing at Stella’s smiling face, I realized that between us there would be no more talk about leaving, nor unfortunately any kissing.

‘Oh, Modesta, you’re here too? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing, signora . You fell ill in the bathroom.’

I would never have imagined such tact in Stella and I looked at her gratefully. She, too, hoped that Joyce had forgotten. But, as the doctor had predicted, that wasn’t the case, and Stella was already glancing at the hypodermic syringe ready on the nightstand: ‘ If she seems depressed when she wakes up, give her this sedative and call me. ’

‘Oh God! Princess, Stella, my wrists…’

‘Never mind, signora , leave them under the covers. It’s nothing!’

But she had already slipped her arms out from under the sheet and, letting them drop, was now staring at the white bandages that covered her hands. Stella and I awaited the crisis that Licata had forecast. But when Joyce began speaking again, Stella put down the syringe she had already picked up.

‘This dressing is the work of a doctor. You even had to call a doctor! How shameful!’

‘Don’t upset yourself, signora , the doctor is a close friend of Mody and the family!’

‘I’m unworthy of your trust or Jose’s. My God! How could I have forgotten, in my despair, that I would put you all in danger by dying?’

‘Danger, did you say? Shame? Oh, Holy Virgin, why suffer like that without saying a word? We’re women, friends…’

It was time to send Stella away. I was looking for a way to make her leave the room when she spoke up:

‘Talk with my Mody, signora , she’s able to understand anything … I’ll go now. I have to drop in on the picciriddi a moment before they go to sleep. Jacopo especially becomes grumpy in the morning if I don’t kiss him on the forehead in the evening. Goodnight, signora , and you too, Mody.’

Once Stella left, the child Modesta, who for years had dozed inside me no matter how hard I tried to ignore her, was scared to be alone with that grown woman, her mournful eyes still studying the bandages.

‘I’d better go too, Joyce. The doctor said you must rest, and he’ll scold me tomorrow if he knows I kept you awake.’

‘Someone scold you, Modesta?’

Embarrassed, I tried to make amends for that child’s gaffe.

‘He’s an old comrade, and I let him scold me sometimes.’

‘Finally you mention someone who frequents this house. Don’t you suspect me anymore, Modesta?’

‘No, Joyce!’

‘Because of the silly thing I did? Come here. Why are you sitting so far away?’

‘The doctor gave strict orders.’

‘Just for a moment or two, just enough to make me see that you’re not angry with me, even though you have every right to be.’

‘I’m not angry, Joyce. You can tell that I’m not.’

‘Yes, I can tell. Thank you.’

In the dim light, I waited for her to go on talking, to tell me what grief — and it must be an enormous one — drove her to take her life, but she remained silent. I got up from the armchair and looked at her: she was sleeping. The deep, regular breathing was reassuring … Should I try to turn off the bedside lamp or not? Licata had said that she shouldn’t be left alone, at least not that night: ‘Often when the despair is so great that it has managed to overcome fear that one time, they realize how easy and convenient death is, and they get the urge to try again — unless the subject, upon awakening, displays a crucial fear over what he has done.’ But Joyce had shown no fear over that act. Only shame and remorse toward us.

* * *

When I open my eyes, I’m not surprised at having slept so well in an armchair, or that someone has laid a blanket over me, or that an intense joy fills me when I meet Joyce’s smiling eyes. That smile is for me, I think. And in the rush of happiness, I have the urge to leap out of my impromptu bed and cover her with kisses. For a moment, the awareness of my adult body stops me, but she continues to smile. And forgetting my legs and arms, grown too quickly, I run along the path that smile shows me and shower her with kisses — so she told me afterwards — her eyes, her forehead, her cheeks. She lets me, her eyes still smiling, but it’s not enough for me. I want her to be happy, and I stop only when her lips part too, as serene as her eyes, her forehead and her neck, which throbs with silent laughter. Now my happiness knows no bounds, and I can return to my armchair.