Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘I can’t embrace you, Modesta.’

Perhaps she can’t embrace me because her wrists still hurt? But I can rest my palms on her soft shoulders, her gently arched back, and fold my arms tightly around her, to ensure that I’ll never lose her.

‘Unfortunately people lose each other, bambina ! Life separates even those who are most alike. At times we are torn apart, déchirés , even from ourselves … You will send me away, Modesta.’

‘Why do you say that, Joyce? Why?’

‘When you know…’

‘But I trust you now. I proved it to you.’

‘Have you heard anything from the comrades?’

This reference to the comrades irritates me. I told her everything about me. Why doesn’t she do the same? She does all she can to see that I always learn things from others, from the outside. Why? Why not tell her what comrade Cianca ordered me to do? This time he came to see me not just to collect his usual money:

‘ You see, Modesta, in Signora Joyce’s dossier there’s no mention of weakness or fainting of any kind. She’s described as a woman of extraordinary courage and strength. It’s impressive how hard she’s worked for the cause. We added it up and it seems she’s spent quite a bit of time in prison, a little here and a little there. If she attempted suicide, it means she’s worn out, she’s given up … Ten years of struggle, of persecution, are a lot.

‘We’ve seen so many like that! You remember Franco, don’t you? Who would have expected that after his release from prison, at the first warning not to sleep at home, since it’s risky, not only does he sleep at home, but at dawn, prompted by a false alarm, he jumps out the window and breaks every bone in his body … Oh!

‘Mind you: assuming it’s her, of course … From your description, it does appear to be. It says here that she must have scars on her breasts because she was tortured: that nasty little trick of putting out their cigarettes on you, while interrogating you. ’

‘Yes, I have, Joyce, and I also have here with me in this note the name of the ship that sets sail Monday for Buenos Aires. They want you to leave, Joyce.’

‘Oh, thank goodness, Modesta! That’s very fortunate. I haven’t been the same for a year now. You may not believe me, but I wasn’t like this before! It’s as if something has broken inside me. I can’t control my nerves anymore. But all these words are useless. The fact is that I now represent a danger to everyone, and I have to leave.’

‘And I, on the contrary, am telling you that your words haven’t been useless. It says here that you must leave on Monday, according to them … And according to the absurd demands that you make of yourself, I see.’

‘What absurd demands?’

‘To be a hero at all costs, or die.’

‘But—’

‘No buts. As I’ve told you, I don’t believe in heroes, dead or alive, and I won’t let you leave. Not only because I love you, Joyce, as you think, but because I wouldn’t let any comrade leave in your condition. If you help me, you’re safe here. You’ll regain your strength, you’ll see, and in time, if your sense of duty really compels you to return to the struggle, I’ll go with you. But only if you prove to me that you’ve recovered the strength and composure you had before.’

‘I’m afraid, Modesta. I’m afraid of myself!’

‘Help me, Joyce. Let’s defy the verdict to which the comrades, sincere and false, have sentenced you. We’ll defy them together, and I’ll help you! Let’s show them that they aren’t infallible. Let’s thwart their greedy expectation of another martyr to add to the list that’s already too long. Don’t listen to the flattery: a Carlo or a Joyce will only be a tiny name on a memorial plaque. Whereas if you live, I know that afterwards it will all be over; afterwards, you can resume the struggle alive and expose those who — I can already hear them — will exploit the names of Carlo, of Gramsci and of so many others. The dead are wrong if no one defends them after their death.’

‘You’re relentless — and maybe you’re right, but I’m no longer sure of myself. Right now, I feel that I could let you help me by helping you, as you say … But when I’m alone, at night, or like last evening? I can’t do it, Modesta! If, in a moment of weakness here … you, Stella, the children … you’d be ruined.’

‘Then I’ll take responsibility for that risk as well. But look me in the eye. If you betray me, not as a comrade but as a human being, by killing yourself, I will bury you in the garden, six feet under, like any common traitor, without bothering to call the gravediggers and comrades.’

‘You’d do that, Modesta? By yourself?’

‘I’m not by myself. Pietro looks after me, silent and watchful.’

‘And my baggage? My presence here?’

‘Baggage is easily burned, and as for you: a guest who left — and was never heard from again.’

‘And Stella? What would you tell Stella?’

‘Stella doesn’t ask. At most she’ll say what she said about Jose: “He seemed like such a polite young man! Who would have guessed that we’d never hear from him again, not even a postcard.”’

‘Since I’ve been in this country, I don’t understand anything anymore. If someone had spoken to me in the past the way you’re speaking to me now, I wouldn’t have believed it and I would have been frightened, whereas your decision for some reason calms me.’

‘Because I’m giving you the choice of whether to live or die. If we’re denied the right to die, the pressure of living becomes an atrocious prison. You are free here, Joyce, because neither your life nor your death will be a burden to anyone in this house. Let’s tear up this ship with its captain, which obliges you to live. Better yet, let’s burn it! Come over to the fire. Look how easily they burn: paper, wood, constraints! I’ve burned many ships and their captains and crews this way!’

‘Really, Modesta?’

‘At least four! The last one was with Pietro. I hate ships! I love the sea — I’ve learned to swim — but I’ve remained attached to land, an inlander at heart. And no one can convince me that a heap of iron as big as a building can float … Will you help me, Joyce?’

‘So you never wanted me to leave?’

‘Never!’

‘If you help me, Modesta, I think I can make it.’

‘Now that you’re calling me by the informal “tu”, we’ll definitely make it, Jò. May I call you Jò?’

‘Of course.’

‘You have to let me see your breasts, Jò.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You must have scars.’

‘I’m ashamed!’

‘Who’s to say whether it’s shame, or simply that you’re not Jò?’

‘Oh God, Modesta, no, I can’t! No one has ever seen me naked!’

‘But the interrogators must have seen you if you’re Jò.’

‘Oh, yes! My shame stung me more than those cigarettes!’

‘Why are you crying? What shame is there in a beautiful naked body like yours? Why the shame?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve always been this way. Even with my mother. Always.’

‘Let me see your breasts. I can’t force your arms open; I might hurt your wrists … There, take off the bathrobe, the nightgown. It’s nothing terrible. Why are you covering your face like a child? I only want to gaze lovingly at the marks that will prove to me that you are my Jò. There they are: scars! Is it these scars you’re ashamed of?’

‘No, no! I’ve always been this way, always, even before!’

‘Maybe you were afraid of being unappealing?’

‘Oh yes, with such pale skin. And then with all these scars…’

‘They’re beautiful, Jò! They’re like the veins in marble and they invite the lips … For each scar a kiss … A kiss in every wound where the pain, as it heals, deepens the pleasure.’