What had I said? A long scream, followed by a fluttering of white wings, pushes me away. What had I said? Crazy! I must have said something terrible, because Mother Leonora is now running around the tower like a bat blinded by the light; something terrible, since she falls to her knees and begins making the sign of the cross, crying desperately:
‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.’
How to make amends?
10
A high fever took care of making amends, gripping me the instant I saw Mother Leonora shut me out as she went on praying, frozen as a corpse. A fever caused by fear, I think. How could I have been so foolish as to tell Mother Leonora what I was thinking? Shivering, my teeth chattering, I tried to make sense of what had happened to me. The terrible fever lasted three days and three nights, gouging my brain with the question: why did you do it? I had done it because like a fool, I who thought I was so clever had put too much faith in Mother Leonora. And so the disillusionment of seeing her cowardice day after day, and consequently, no longer loving her, had made me commit one of the most predictable errors. Once I realized my mistake, the fever went away. But not the terror of being exiled from all those women who, though fatuous and contemptible, were essential to me. For years they had seemed so sweet and beautiful and tall! They weren’t even tall. At fifteen I was already taller than Sister Costanza, who was the homeliest, true, but also the tallest. Too bad. I almost wished I could go back to the time when I admired them and tried to walk and talk like them. Careful, Modesta, even this desire to return to a past that can no longer be is a sentimental trap that can cost you dearly. No! Look at the reality: what happened happened and could not have been otherwise. Now I have to get out of this exile in which Mother Leonora has plunged me. In three days I haven’t seen anyone except the nursing sister and the old, bald doctor. If he were at least young! I wonder where Tuzzu is? Maybe he went to sea.
The sea … now I knew what it was. I had glimpsed it in so many reproductions of famous paintings, they almost made me forget the desire I once had to see it.
‘What is the sea like, Tuzzu?’
‘A vast stretch of water as far as the eye can see. See, it’s like this stony ground you see before you from morning till night. Only instead of these rocks and mud and — let’s not even mention the eyesores! — there’s water, blue water. Sometimes calm like the water in the well, sometimes tossing like the reeds when the fagoniu7 blows.’
‘So it’s just like in the paintings in the nuns’ house?’
‘What are you saying, you silly ninny! Those pieces of canvas hung on the walls are fake, false and deceitful. Nature can’t be painted or bought. Besides, what can you expect from those shrivelled-up mummies? They’ve betrayed their own nature and all of nature, as my father and my uncle, God rest his soul, used to say. He could even read and write too. Barren, is what they are! They chose to be barren like the treacherous, deceitful sand. Never mind paintings! Come on, let’s walk a little, come…’
Tuzzu led me by the hand along an endless expanse of springy blue grass that swayed so much it made you feel like you do after drinking rosolio at Easter.
‘Such a silly monkey this picciriddais! First she pesters you like a fly because she wants to see the sea, then when you take her there she doesn’t even recognize it.’
The grass gave way beneath my feet and pulled me down; I clung to Tuzzu’s arm, terrorized … How did you save us from the fire, Tuzzu?
‘Don’t be afraid! Can’t you see I’m holding you? As long as I’m holding you, you don’t have to fear either water or fire.’
And it was so. I didn’t sink. And we walked along, hand in hand, in the blue sea of Tuzzu’s eyes. His hand was hot and gripped me tight …
No, it wasn’t Tuzzu. It was that bald little man with the lizard eyes, gripping my wrist and shouting. He was always shouting, that little man. Maybe because he didn’t wear either a white or a black skirt?
‘Look, a seizure! And to make matters worse, her fever has risen again! This girl is going to die on us! Run, Sister Costanza, go immediately to Mother Leonora, and tell her that whatever sin this child has committed, she’d better come quickly or this one will die!’
So that was how to get out of there. That little man wasn’t as bad as he seemed. He must also be intelligent. I had to do as he said, and not be quiet and good like I had been those three days.
I closed my eyes to rejoin Tuzzu and the sea that left me fearful and breathless. And with all the strength inspired by desire and terror, I cried out loudly, but with one small variation. Instead of Tuzzu’s name, I said: ‘Mother! Forgive me, Mother!’ And I thought of Tuzzu, whom I had forgotten for so long: ‘Forgive me, Mother, forgive me!’
11
Everyone was moved, but Mother Leonora did not appear. She sent word via Sister Costanza’s sour, toothless mouth that she had forgiven me, but that she was waiting for God to give me a sign of His forgiveness before she could consider seeing me again.
How will I know when God has forgiven me?
As if she had read my thoughts, Sister Costanza added: ‘Don’t worry. If this sign manifests itself, Mother Leonora will know about it. We were not deaf to your intention to repent. But intention cannot yet be called repentance. There was too much passion in your tears. Nevertheless, given the state of your health and your good resolve, we accepted Dr Milazzo’s suggestion that starting tomorrow, you may go out for a few hours during the day. But take care not to disturb our quiet in the corridors and in the garden with your tears and sighs. This is a great favour that you have been granted; remember that. And pray for the doctor as well, since he interceded for you with such great affection.’
While waiting for God to give me a sign of His forgiveness, I began roaming through the corridors, the colonnade, the garden. That garden had seemed enormous to me when I raced across it so as not to miss a single new word, an adjective, a musical note. Now, like in dreams, it had grown smaller, a shrunken, crowded space. All those women knew but, as if by tacit agreement, they pretended not to see me even when I brushed by them. Exiled from their severe, impassive faces, I felt transparent: only my hands and shoulders felt heavy, forcing me to bend my head toward the ground. I had no appetite anymore. All I longed for was Mother Leonora’s smile in the morning, there in the room with the bookshelves that I thought were cupboards when I was little. How Mother Leonora had laughed once when I told her that.
Can such longing weigh you down even if you no longer love her as you did before? Having nothing better to do, I began trying to understand what that longing was. Never mind repenting. What I had to do was study myself and others like you study grammar and music, and stop indulging in my emotions. Such a beautiful word, ‘emotions’! But I had no time for words now. I had to think about what that longing was.
After days and days of meditation, I understood. It wasn’t Mother Leonora I missed, but all the privileges and attention those women had heaped on me solely for fear of Mother Leonora. Indeed, she gave the orders. Those tears and sighs were nothing but anger over no longer being the darling of the mistress of those handmaidens. Once I realized this, I stopped crying. Because affection, once it’s gone, doesn’t return.