Jacopo: ‘Pleased to meet you, signore, a pleasure … Did he appear, ’Ntoni? Did he appear?’
’Ntoni: ‘No.’
Jacopo: ‘Too bad!’
’Ntoni: ‘But you were sleeping…’
Jacopo: ‘Well, you could have described it. You can imitate anything.’
’Ntoni: ‘I’ve never thought of imitating a mirage. Not a bad idea.’
Prando: ‘Oh, sure! Maybe with Mela accompanying you on the piano. Whoever heard of such a thing!’
’Ntoni: ‘Well, why not, Prando? Always a defeatist.’
Prando: ‘Look, saying “defeatist” is just as bad as saying me ne frega, “I don’t give a damn.”82 It’s best not to use vulgar Fascist terms, as Mama tells us. What is it you say, Mama? Oh, yes: by using the words of the Fascists you end up absorbing them. Slowly but surely they’ll go to work inside you, and one fine morning you’ll find yourself ready and waiting for them, with a black shirt and breeches. To me, it’s always seemed like an exaggeration, but … How come you’re not answering, Mama? Maybe I didn’t express your thoughts very well?’
Mattia’s smile has erased any irritation Modesta might feel toward that stony profile, so flawless even after a night without sleep. ’Ntoni’s features are gaunt, like after a fever. Mela, her eyes mere slits, looks like she’s wearing her orphan’s smock again. Bambolina, pale, nearly asleep, is leaning against the boat, perhaps shivering. Prando’s impassive profile and harsh voice are nothing but strength. Maybe the irritation she felt toward him was simply fear.
Prando: ‘From all indications, my dear ’Ntoni, even though my beautiful mother didn’t deign to look at us before, at least she spoke to us. Now it seems she has decided to ignore us completely.’
Modesta: ‘You expressed my thoughts perfectly. Words nourish us, and like food they should be carefully chosen before they are swallowed.’
Prando: ‘Such a sweet disposition my mother woke up with this morning! Or is it because she hasn’t slept?’
Prando must have sensed the fear Modesta disguised as irritation; he must have been aware of it from childhood, since he’s so defiant. Nature doesn’t allow us to repair in an hour what we’ve done wrong for years, so Modesta is forced to act as before, waiting for time to apply a soothing balm.
Modesta: ‘You’re insufferable, Prando, and I forbid you to be a killjoy, as Bambù says!’
Bambù: ‘You’re right, Zia, just ignore him! Even with me he’s always that way, he likes to be a naughty boy.’
’Ntoni: ‘You mean a tough guy, Bambolina. The movies are to blame. He’s in love with Jean Gabin.’
Bambù: ‘Oh, that’s true! If he didn’t have such perfect features, he’d look like Jean Gabin.’
’Ntoni: ‘Of course! I saw him coming out of the cinema, copying his walk.’
Prando: ‘Idiot! I don’t copy anybody!’
Bambù: ‘But you’re too beautiful, cuginetto, to be a tough guy like him.’
Prando: ‘Oh, stop that beautiful stuff, Ida! It’s offensive to a man.’
Bambù: ‘Since when is it offensive?’
Prando: ‘To hell with you all, and damn me for stooping to the level of such picciriddi! I’m going for a ride on the motorcycle.’
Bambù: ‘I’ll come with you, Prando.’
Prando: ‘But you’re so sleepy you’re ready to drop!’
Bambù: ‘Not any more. Take me with you.’
Prando: ‘But you’re shivering all over!’
Bambù: ‘I’m cold! Don’t go! I’m cold! Will you hold me?’
Prando: ‘Hey, Mama, I have the feeling this party will end up in the hospital. I’ll bet they’ll all be in bed with a fever tomorrow.’
’Ntoni: ‘The fishermen! Here come the fishermen!’
Jacopo: ‘Come on, let’s go prepare the fire. Who knows how many fish they’ve caught! I’m so hungry! You’ll see how good the soup is when they make it.’
Prando: ‘Listen to this little Jacopo of ours telling me how good the fishermen’s soup is, as if I didn’t know! What patience you need with these picciriddi, eh, Pietro? And you, my beautiful cuginetta, my little white dove, have you warmed up? Can you manage to walk?’
Bambù: ‘I can! Mela, Stella, the fishermen are here!’
Modesta: ‘Off they go, Mattia, look … off they go!’
Mattia: ‘They’re flocking toward the horizon like sparrows who’ve learned to fly. But you nurtured them, and that should be a consolation to you. Tell me the truth, my little lava devil, is Prando Carmine’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘He doesn’t look like me, but he’s the spitting-image of my father when he was young.’
‘He resembles you, too.’
‘You think so?’
‘I took a gamble having you meet him. I watched everyone closely to see if they noticed anything, even Stella. But no one spotted the resemblance.’
‘You like to take chances, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do. No one noticed it. It’s incredible!’
‘If they don’t know … No one is clairvoyant; clairvoyants don’t exist … So, as I told you, all you have to do is remove the frames and roll up the canvases — I’m sending you an expert — then each canvas has to be placed in a tube like this. As you know, I have a history of trips to that country, and, what’s more important, unsullied trips.’
‘But you also said that you didn’t want to go back to America.’
‘I didn’t want to because it was associated in my mind with the grief I carry, but deep down I was waiting for an opportunity. New York is the most beautiful city in the world if you have money.’
‘Oh! Antonia died while you were over there?’
‘Yes, I stayed too long that time and my wife, perhaps distraught — or maybe it’s my imagination — punished me by dying along with our child. Or maybe it was fate, like with my father. Loss surprised him when he was distracted by his travels, as it did me. Or then again, maybe we Tudia males — did you hear your Prando? — harbour an egoism so absolute that it kills those who aren’t strong enough to fend off the fury that constantly possesses us.’
‘Carmine freed himself of what you call fury only just before he died, and he was serene.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that La Certa is coming for me, Modesta, since I’m having doubts about the appropriateness of that fury?’
‘No, your father never uttered the word “doubt”; he felt that death was a liberation from his obligations. You’re not ill, nor old, as he was.’
‘No, and yet I’m doubtful, as you’ve gathered.’
‘It’s as it should be, Mattia.’
‘I was taught that there’s no place in a man’s soul for doubt.’
‘They teach you that in order to imprison you carusi in a suit of armour made up of obligations and false certainties. Like they do with us women, Mattia: different obligations, different armour. Silken ties, but it’s the same thing.’
‘You must be right, because an unfamiliar melancholy came over me and has stayed with me ever since I encountered the word “doubt”.’
‘It’s fear of this melancholy that leads man to affect certainties and impose dogmas. But man is still too young to know. He’s only just learned to read and write. And those he thinks are gods are idols that only want human sacrifices.’
‘This winter I was in Berlin. I hadn’t been there in years, Modesta, and I saw men and women walking in the street though the sidewalk was empty. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but then I took a closer look: they all had a mark on their arm. Branded, the way livestock is branded here. As the cars rushed by, they hurried along, hugging the sidewalk … I’ve fought in the war, and they don’t fool me. Where is that branded herd being driven to? I didn’t ask any questions when I came across the same sign on doors and shops, but I took the first train out and never went back to that country, which I’d remembered as clean and carefree.’