It had been that way with the lay sister Annina as well. She had seemed so sweet, Annina! We had become such close friends and then she, too, had proved to be a coward. No, affection no longer returns, but favour, yes. You could win back favour.
To do this she had to continue studying her actions and those of others and not forget anything. Forgetting had also been a mistake. Mother Leonora had urged her to forget the past as if it could never return. Instead, a few misguided words were all it took to cast her back into an isolation marked by dry bread and a few bland soups identical to those when, as a child, she would wander about the chiana looking for Tuzzu.
Tuzzu was the only thing she remembered … why him? Maybe it was natural to try to remember only pleasant times. But if that was so, maybe it wasn’t a good thing. Because you learn more from your enemies — she had read that somewhere — and from the bad things of the past that … Yes, that must be so. And I decided that from that day on I would always remember everything about the past — both the good things and the bad — in order to bear it in mind and at least avoid repeating the mistakes that had already been made.
‘Don’t worry about it, princess! There’s a cure for everything, except for La Certa, Death!’8
Mimmo’s voice! It had been more than a month since anyone had spoken to me and I looked at him, startled. As usual, he was leaning against a tree, smoking and smiling. From afar his body, clad in dark brown velvet, looked like another trunk, which by some quirk of nature had sprung up from the oak.
‘For those like me who work among the trees, it’s an ancient custom to wear nature’s colours, to satisfy her whims and be protected by that lady. Nature is a woman and capricious. Take these nuns … Oh, not to speak ill of anyone, but with such a small plot of land, who would think they’d have me planting geraniums and hydrangeas…’
We had chatted together many times there where the woods were so dense that you couldn’t see anything from half a yard away. But given my situation, I couldn’t take the chance. Too bad. Not answering, I lowered my head and turned away from him. Truly a pity. Mimmo always had nice things to say to me and hundreds of names for me when I used to run about without a care and would hardly listen to him. He called me sunflower, little missy, princess …
‘Why princess, Mimmo? I’m not a princess.’
‘But you are, you are! A princess by a caprice of Nature, who sometimes enjoys making a royal princess bowlegged while giving a willowy, regal bearing to a nobody. Ah, little princess, my heart aches at the thought that this lily-white skin of yours is destined to wither away among these four walls. Last night at sunset, may God strike me if I’m lying, you looked like a pale rose gilded by the sun. And if I were a bee I would have no other desire than to alight upon the rosebud of your sweet lips.’
Rising on tiptoe, facing him, I responded by closing my eyes:
‘Go on Mimmo, make believe you’re that bee and alight on me.’ But he didn’t move. Only when I opened my eyes did he say:
‘With your eyes closed, no, princess. The flower and the bee kiss with their eyes open.’
And moving close he placed his large hand between my shoulder and my neck with a touch lighter than I ever thought an oak could possess.
‘Besides, my attentions aren’t self-serving, princess. Or rather, their only interest is feeling this silky, swanlike neck beneath my fingers. Once I was in Catania, a large city that is far, far away from here, down by the sea. In this city there was an immense park called Villa Bellini — who knows if it’s still there? I’m talking about many years ago. They told me that this Bellini had been a great local figure, one of the men whose statues are all around amid the trees. So many statues! And there are not only statues. There’s also a kind of platform, where the band plays, not like in theatres where you have to pay, but free for everybody. And then there are a lot of old men sitting under the trees near the statues, ready to tell ancient stories of adventure to those who stop. These old men make you pay, but not much, just a few cents. The best thing in the park is a big lake, full of swans that you can pet if you’re polite. And I can assure you, princess, that your skin is as delicate and smooth as…’
Incredible. It was true that he had good manners and showed no self-interest. In fact, without finishing the sentence he removed his hand from my neck and touched his cap, departing with a ‘Good day, princess’. So not all men were interested in only one thing, as my mother and the nuns insisted. Especially now that I had fallen into disgrace, what interest could he have in talking to me?
‘Don’t you feel well, princess? Collapsing on the ground like a frightened little chick?’
A voice, after more than a month! I’d like to run away, but he goes on: ‘It’s damp here, my little chick, extremely damp.’
‘That’s true, Mimmo, thank you. Now I have to go.’
‘Go where? From riches to rags, eh, princess? But don’t take it to heart. It happens to everyone at least once. If only it were just once in a lifetime! But you certainly caused a stir! Who would have thought so, a little thing like you! You caused such an uproar that the whole convent is still reeling from it!’
‘So you think when someone falls, Mimmo, she can choose whether to fall down hard or gently?’
‘Brava, princess! I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour! A good sign. To tell you the truth, I was a little worried seeing you wandering around like a sleepwalker, all bent over. I said to myself: don’t tell me she’s becoming hunchbacked from all that praying and penance! You wouldn’t be the first young girl I’ve seen enter these walls nice and straight as a ramrod, who little by little becomes stooped like a beast of burden until she withers away and goes out feet first, pardon the expression, without ever experiencing the rewards of a long, happy old age. My wife and my sister-in-law have white hair, yet they’re content, having escaped hunger and illness. But these nuns … who can understand them? They say they live chastely, yet they’re bowed down as though bearing the most grievous sins.’
Before, when Mimmo started talking that way about the sisters and the convent, I would run away, but now his remarks entered my blood like a soothing balm. I felt the need to straighten up and raise my head.
‘There, that’s better, brava, princess, brava: stand straight like you did before.’
‘It’s just that my hands and arms feel so heavy.’
‘Of course. When the body loses its vital spirit, whether due to grief or disgrace or lack of food, the hands and arms sag lifelessly. But that’s a bad sign. It means the soul is tired of the body and wants to die. It happened to me when I got the notice that my oldest son, Nunziato, had died in the war in Libya. My arms felt heavy; they were pulling me toward him. And to keep going — six children, flesh of my flesh, were depending on me for bread — to keep going, I had to cut off those arms. Now they work, they move, but I don’t feel them anymore. They’re gone along with him, princess.’
‘I have to go now, Mimmo; they might come.’
‘No, for now no one is coming: the oak is silent. But if you feel uneasy, go. But nice and straight, eh! Grab yourself by the hair and pull your spirit up. Because all they’re waiting for, even if they don’t know it, is to see you stoop so far over that you’ll find yourself six feet under.’