‘Is that what made you doubtful?’
‘That, too … or maybe it’s because I learned to read and write, as you said, whereas Carmine couldn’t, other than the accounts and his signature … What do you think? Did I lose my wife and treasure and my son because, as the ancients said, if you don’t look after them and protect them with your presence, your watchful eye, you expose them to hail and wind, and to La Certa?’
‘Maybe, Mattia, maybe…’
68
Perhaps Joyce, left to her grief alone in her room, has not been able to resist the lure of La Certa. Modesta had never before forgotten her friend’s presence so completely. Realizing this, a remorseful anxiety makes her run up the stairs. The partly open door confirms that Joyce has waited for her. In fact, the small lamp of pink milk glass on the nightstand illuminates a pale, lifeless face, like stone. Trembling at that unnatural pallor, Modesta leans over the bed until she discerns a faint breath, so fragrant that it carries her far back in memory, to a time when Prando was just a tiny, soft dumpling of flesh. At the memory, tears inexplicably press against her eyelids … Jò breathes softly, gazing inward at some peaceful dream. Why, then, as soon as the sun rises, does a secret mask of sadness descend over her face?
‘The sphinx, Mody, the sphinx! If you look closely, she is surely hiding gold teeth under her vivid lips, with a diamond set in her long canine.’
A foolish terror makes me run out of the house. And only when I’m far away from that room, walking up and down a deserted beach barely tinged by the sun’s rays, am I able to smile at that childish fear of monsters, of sphinxes, of the ominous mirages that always gather at dawn, according to Tuzzu, to haunt the vineyards, the huge overhanging lava cliffs and the scaly backs of the sea’s blue Le Certe … Even now, among myriads of sleepless, ravenous seagulls, the small island of the Prophet seems like a giant head, convulsive, half submerged by the sea … It’s drowning, or as Stella says, it’s about to be sucked back by its mother island.
Leaning against the wooden shelter, Modesta can empty her mind of thoughts, of her past and future, and follow the cries of the gulls, the deep rumble of the surf, the strident silver-gold of the sun’s first rays. She almost doesn’t notice the hushed whispering from inside the hut. It must be the gulls, she thinks, but then she slowly moves her head closer to the wall … Isn’t that Bambolina’s distinct voice?
‘Didn’t you hear footsteps, Mela?’
‘No, it must be the seagulls gleefully finishing up the leftovers from our little party.’
‘Still…’
‘They have a right to their own party, don’t they?’
‘How beautiful you are when you smile, Mela!’
‘You’re always beautiful! And it’s true beauty, even when you don’t smile.’
‘No, you’re more beautiful, always.’
‘All right then. Come here, on top of me, Bambù, and we’ll blend together and make one single beauty.’
‘Do you think we can become one single person by holding each other very tight? We’ve done it so many times and it hasn’t happened, Mela!’
‘Who says it hasn’t happened? I’ve felt it.’
‘Hold me, hold me tight. I want to feel it, too.’
‘You have to keep your eyes shut and think of me, only me.’
‘Oh yes, I feel you, Mela, I feel you!’
Modesta is cold, but Beatrice covers her with her silky hair.
‘Oh yes, Mody, silk warms you even more than wool. But you wouldn’t know these things. I bet it was forbidden even to talk about them in the convent.’
‘It was.’
‘But did you hug each other? Did you kiss the way we do? Well? Was that forbidden too?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Poor things! Oh Mody, don’t go … let’s do the scene from Page Fernando:83 you be Page Fernando and stare into my eyes. That’s it, like that, and you’ll see, we’ll feel each other even without kissing. How delightful, isn’t it, Mody? Now let’s hold each other close and talk. I have so much to tell you.’
‘How wonderful, Mela! I actually felt you inside! No, don’t get dressed, it’s early. Don’t get dressed — that way I can caress you and you can talk to me.’
Why can’t we be happy for ever? Beatrice’s diary, which has turned up again, keeps asking:
‘Why can’t we be happy for ever? Is it the fate of the Brandiforti, Modesta?’
‘It’s not fate. It’s that everyone in this house only tries to be unhappy. Even when they’re happy, I suspect they don’t want to admit it.’
‘But we’re happy, aren’t we, Modesta? Even though Nonna yells and we can’t go to Catania, I’m happy, so happy here with you!’
Yes, Beatrice, happy for ever, like those soft voices whispering behind the wall.
* * *
Perhaps the effort of holding her breath makes Modesta cry, huddled up against the wood: a silent moan rises slowly to her lips, and will soon become a howl. Not wanting to disturb the seagulls’ soundless flight, Modesta quietly goes away. Only when she crosses the threshold of her room, protected by the darkness of its walls, can she let go and surrender to tears.
‘Where have you been? It’s almost seven … why are you sobbing like that?’
‘Oh, Jò, excuse me.’
‘You look deranged! Why are you sobbing?’
‘It’s nostalgia, Jò. Don’t worry, just nostalgia.’
‘Nostalgia? I don’t understand. You look like you’ve been through torture.’
‘No. Help me, Joyce! Are you happy with me? We’ve been happy, haven’t we? Why won’t you answer me?’
‘I’ve been awake all night waiting for you.’
‘That’s not so! When I came back up I saw you sleeping, peacefully too. Why the mask now?’
‘What are you talking about? Come, go to bed, you’re tired.’
‘Help me, Jò.’
‘Help you with your insanities? I’ve tried. You’re wasting yourself, Modesta. You waste your time, your money. You know how hard I’ve tried to make you reason. You haven’t even been able to put your poems together. By now we could have had a volume ready to publish.’
‘What do the poems have to do with anything? I’ve told you over and over, Jò: for me written words are just a pastime.’
‘Then why did you urge Mela to study so hard?’
‘Because she’s poor! And the poor girl can only rely on her own abilities if she doesn’t want to wind up married to some lowly clerk or…’
‘And you, on the other hand, being rich, can waste your abilities.’
‘Oh, Jò! I got rid of my properties when I was twenty because I didn’t want to become a slave to my estate. At thirty, I rid myself of the word “artist” because I didn’t want to become a slave to my talent. I’ve told you that before, and I’m telling you again. And besides, this morning I discovered why Mela is so peaceful, and why Bambù has been too since Mela landed in our midst.’
‘What did you discover?’
‘If you hug me and smile, I’ll tell you.’
‘It’s incredible. After all those tears your eyes aren’t even red, and your face is as fresh as if you’d slept all night.’