Jacopo: ‘I think it requires a dispensation from the Church.’
Bambù: ‘Uffa, what unpleasant talk! Besides I’m never getting married! I asked you, please, to go and see if Joyce…’
Prando: ‘Ah! I see that Mama’s book hit the mark, cuginetta.’
Jacopo: ‘What book?’
Prando: ‘A certain little 800-page book about women and socialism.’
Bambù: ‘All I asked you to do was go and see if Joyce…’
Prando: ‘Come on, Bambù! It’s hopeless! You know that when she has a headache … and when doesn’t she have one? What do you say, Jacopo, maybe every other Sunday? Provided, of course, that it’s not too bright or too dark or too hot or too cold.’
Bambù: ‘Don’t talk that way about Joyce, Prando! When you act like that, you’re vulgar.’
Prando: ‘Just look at how our Bambù rails in defence of the signora! What is it? Are you, too, perhaps in love with the beautiful foreign lady, like all the other women in this house? Hey Jacopo, do you know that everyone calls her Greta Garbo? The femme fatale who robs us of our mothers and cousins.’
Jacopo: ‘Even male cousins for that matter.’
Prando: ‘Ah! Have you fallen at her feet as well, my dear Jacopone? Don’t tell me.’
Jacopo: ‘I adore her, Prando.’
Prando: ‘Even though she’s always so pale and long-suffering?’
Jacopo: ‘Maybe for that very reason.’
Prando: ‘What a romantic!’
Jacopo: ‘And I think Bambù is right. What do you think, Mama? Should I go and see if I can persuade her to join us?’
Modesta: ‘No, Jacopo, don’t get up. She won’t come. Joyce doesn’t want to be disturbed. Though, as Bambolina says, when Prando acts like that it’s vulgar and irritating.’
Prando: ‘Thanks, Mama.’
Modesta: ‘You’re welcome. And don’t look at me that way!’
Prando: ‘You don’t like me when I do that, do you, Mama?’
Modesta: ‘No!’
Prando: ‘And to think I do it on purpose.’
Modesta: ‘Why?’
Prando: ‘Because I actually like you when you get angry. Isn’t it true, Bambù, that she’s beautiful when she’s incensed? Remember that day we were arguing, and she came down like a fury and slapped us silly? Cesare and Ciccio too, did they catch it!’
Bambù: ‘Of course I remember! I can still feel the sting of her fingers on my cheeks, even as you say it.’
Jacopo: ‘I don’t remember.’
’Ntoni: ‘Me neither.’
Prando: ‘How can you two possibly remember — your mouths were still full of breast milk!’
Jacopo: ‘I never saw Mama hit anybody, did you, ’Ntoni?’
’Ntoni: ‘Don’t wind him up, Jacopo. Drop it!’
Prando: ‘Naturally she doesn’t go around hitting sheep like you two, but wolves like me and Bambù.’
Bambù: ‘I’m not a wolf!’
Prando: ‘You’re more of a wolf than I am, beautiful cuginetta! Only, being female, you wear docile sheepskins to conceal the bristly hide you have underneath.’
Bambù: ‘Oh Prando, that’s enough! Why are you doing this? Always being a killjoy.’
Mela: ‘Leave Bambù alone, Prando! Can’t you see she’s crying?’
Prando: ‘There she is, the silent musician rushing to the defense of her little friend! Too many women in this company, my dear Jacopo! And now that ’Ntoni is leaving, and me too, what will become of you?’
Bambù: ‘Will you stop it? What’s come over you?’
Prando: ‘Look at the fire in my cuginetta’s eyes! So they weren’t a sheep’s tears, were they?’
Bambù: ‘Tears of anger, Prando, anger! When you act like this I hate you! And why are you looking at Mama when I’m speaking to you?’
Prando: ‘Because I haven’t seen her in ages.’
Prando’s scar flares up, purplish. A roar rises from the sea, tracing a luminous crescent against the black sky.
Bambù: ‘An airplane! A plane went by! Like a lightning bolt, Zia, did you see it?’
Prando: ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, Bambù. Great strides are now being made in the sky. You sound like Stella, who’s still afraid of trains.’
Bambù: ‘But so many of them have been passing by lately.’
Prando: ‘Come, don’t worry! Give me your hand, and you won’t be afraid anymore. Forgive my earlier vulgarity, cuginetta, but everything seems out of kilter to me since…’
Bambù: ‘Since when, dearest Prando?’
Prando: ‘It’s obvious! Everyone in black shirts! Even this morning — I didn’t want to say anything, not to spoil the party — but even Carlo…’
Bambù: ‘Carlo, Lo Preti’s son? But he was a socialist!’
Prando: ‘That’s right, Bambù, him too! He says that without a party membership card, he can’t take part in the Mille Miglia. He says that in his heart he doesn’t give a damn about it but…’
Bambù: ‘So?’
Prando: ‘So I don’t believe all these people laughing it off anymore. They dismiss it as trivial, yet no foreign domination of the past has sunk as many roots into our land like this goddamn Dux! But come on! We’ve sat at the table long enough. There’s a surprise for you, Bambù, and for you, Mela.’
Bambù: ‘What kind of surprise?’
Prando: ‘How can a midnight party on the island continue without…’
Bambù: ‘Mandolins! Don’t tell me!’
Prando: ‘An impromptu concert by Don Ciccio the barber and the boys from his shop: mazurka vs mazurka, waltz vs waltz, duelling melodies. And the one who comes up with the most will be the only one to pluck the stars, and earn a chaste kiss from the prettiest girl!’
Jacopo: ‘Who is the prettiest, Prando? Who?’
Prando: ‘We’ll find out! The winning mandolinist will select the whitest gardenia blooming in the heat of this night. Here they come, let’s go meet the musicians.’
67
‘… And this is Don Donato from Santa Ninfa with his carusi. He’s the only one we were missing. He’s the oldest, and an expert on the guitar. See, Alberto, we have three complete shops…’
Prando explains to an attentive thin face, surely a new friend from the university:
‘… the barber and his boys sitting in a circle, like on sunny afternoons in front of the empty shop — that’s the beauty of the job! Mornings are spent touching up trims and moustaches, sharpening razors — an occupation requiring a skilful hand, not hard labour. Later, waiting until evening for any customers, sitting on the sidewalk shaded by acacia trees and oaks, fingers practise on the delicate, razor-thin mandolin strings. A mason, a porter, or a dockhand can’t bend his deformed wrists over the strings. In Catania, Palermo and Messina they’ve lost the tradition that flourishes only in the shade of centuries-old oak trees. They cut down the trees there, to pile building upon building, but here…’
For a moment the three shops face off silently, in tightly knit groups. At an invisible sign, the great duel of improvised melodies and rhythms splits the night, while a flock of frightened birds takes flight after the notes, revealing the silvery stars to watching eyes.
Mela: ‘So many stars, Bambù, I hadn’t realized it!’
Bambù: ‘Legend says that the mandolin has the power to multiply them.’
Mela: ‘And listen to them play! A far cry from the conservatory! I think I would have done better studying with them.’