Jacopo: ‘But you have music, signorina, music! The sublime art of sound, a universal language. You will be understood by everyone.’
Mela: ‘Yes, and meanwhile you tease me and I stand here like a fool.’
Jacopo: ‘You can’t have everything, my dear! Come, Crispina, it’s getting dark and your papa must already be worried sick about you. Oh Mama, it’s incredible how Pietro frets about his daughter. The power of fatherhood! Crispina, my sweet, I’m very fond of you, but your uncle will never fall prey to those paternal anxieties that can overcome even a tried and true giant like your father. Shall I turn on the light for you, carusi?’
Bambù: ‘Oh, no, thank you. It’s lovely to follow these shadows ever so slowly until they darken, isn’t it, Prando?’
Prando: ‘Very lovely, my dear Bambuccia, especially knowing, as we now do, that a man’s whim can wrest away our peace and quiet and our sunsets with a flick of the hand.’
Should I stop here in the peacefulness that Prando’s voice suggests at sunset? Rest content with being called old, a clear sign of having given life and, with life, rebellion? He doesn’t know the joy his resolve has brought me. But Prando can’t be satisfied to hear the voice that whispers inside me: ‘He’s one of us.’ His young life needs to rage in order to grow. And even today, remembering it, I have no right to leave that room and close my eyes on that difficult day. Even though I’m very sleepy, I must remain there …
Prando: ‘And do you know who empowered the hand that with one decree can sweep away years of gains?’
Bambù: ‘Capitalism, dear cousin; England, France, we know.’
Prando: ‘You know, do you, Bambolina! Of course, but also the sectarianism of your communists. For a year now, my eyes have been opened; insane sectarianism that drove the socialists and all the democratic forces into the arms of Fascism.’
Bambù: ‘If your eyes were opened by listening to Andrea, you could also have listened to Daniel, it seems to me.’
Prando: ‘That ridiculous half French and half Italian intellectual?’
Bambù: ‘Lenin, too, was an intellectual, and so is your Andrea. You’re contradicting yourself, Prando.’
Prando: ‘But Andrea is the son of labourers, and the only thing your Daniel’s mouth is full of is his Rosselli and wails and tears over the international committee’s mistakes. They were convinced that capitalism was at an end, given the economic crisis. They thought the revolution was around the corner, etc., etc. Meanwhile, the anti-fascist forces were scattered, divided. Easy to mourn the dead, Bambù!’
Bambù: ‘I’m not mourning the dead — not even my father, and you know it. Now it’s you who are making me angry. If mistakes were made, they can be put right. That’s what Daniel used to say. And it seems to me he also showed us a different course, didn’t he? You’re the one who keeps rehashing and snivelling about the past now.’
Prando: ‘I’m not snivelling, but I don’t want to forget the mistakes and then repeat them. Plus, if you really want to know, nowadays it’s not as easy as your Daniel thinks, coming here for a week, chic and elegant from Paris, to recommend an about-turn. As if it were a trick by the magician Bustelli! Talk to the communists here in Italy, and you’ll see how easy it is to make them budge from the sectarianism they’ve been locked in for years! As soon as you mention the socialists to Lentini, to Carlentini, you’ll see one spit, and the other blow his nose. You’ll say: those people are peasants, okay. But let’s take Joyce, your Joyce I mean — and to think I adored her! What does she do? I bring her young men ready and eager to learn, and she wrinkles her nose: a liberal! a republican! As if there were a vast meadow full of flowers from which to choose! Here we need everybody, everybody, not for the long-awaited chimera of the revolution, but to survive. You and your Joyce, dear Mama, talk a lot about Fascism, but you too are Fascists! The same fanaticism, the same stentorian speeches.’
Jacopo: ‘Oh, you’re at it again? Fine. But it’s so dark! Shall I turn on the light, Bambù?’
Prando: ‘Yes, turn it on, Jacopo. That’s better.’
Jacopo: ‘Sorry, but sunsets make me feel terribly melancholy. Oh, Mela’s fallen asleep! And you, ’Ntoni? Why such a gloomy face?’
’Ntoni: ‘It’s just that … well! I’m afraid Prando is right. Only it upsets me to hear him call his mother a Fascist, and so help me God, Prando, I’d beat you up if it weren’t a Fascist thing to do.’
Prando: ‘Don’t get excited, ’Ntoni. Besides, as you can see, my mother is unfazed by what she surely considers childish prattle.’
Modesta: ‘Will you stop making those oblique remarks?’
Prando: ‘Like what, Mama?’
Modesta: ‘Number one! You know I’ve always let you talk without interfering.’
Prando: ‘And?’
Modesta: ‘Number two! A number of things have been said this afternoon that until now had been left unspoken, and it seemed appropriate for me to understand before responding.’
Prando: ‘So, now why don’t you tell us what you think?’
Modesta: ‘Because I sense that you are determined not to believe me, Prando. But let’s see: do you believe me if I tell you that I agree with you?’
Prando: ‘Oh, sure! So you say! When I asked your permission to take part in the Littoriali you put on a face…’
Modesta: ‘Because I didn’t know the motivation driving you to it.’
Prando: ‘You see? You doubted me!’
Modesta: ‘I didn’t doubt you. I was afraid; there’s a difference.’
Prando: ‘You, afraid? That’s a good one!’
Modesta: ‘Afraid, yes. The Littoriali are the breeding ground for the Fascist hounds, aren’t they? How was I to know why you wanted to go if you didn’t tell me?’
Prando: ‘You should have had confidence in me!’
Modesta: ‘You’re demanding an act of faith that I don’t have in anyone, not even in myself.’
Prando: ‘But from the look of things you have it in your friend Joyce. Would you like a cigarette, Mama? You’re very tense…’
Modesta: ‘I don’t care for cigarettes. You know that.’
Prando: ‘I don’t know. She smokes a lot and I thought…’
Modesta: ‘Prando, I’m willing to answer you only if you speak clearly.’
Prando: ‘Maybe this is not the time or place.’
Modesta: ‘But it is! You’re no longer a child, and I must remind you, and everyone else for that matter, that in this house we don’t invade anyone’s privacy. Did I ever enter your room without knocking?’
Prando: ‘No.’
Modesta: ‘Have I ever opened a letter addressed to you or Bambolina?’
Prando: ‘Never.’
Modesta: ‘Then I forbid you to trespass into the personal space that is due to me just as it is to ’Ntoni, Bambolina, Mela and Jacopo. Oh no! Don’t turn red like that, Prando. You’re a man — or would you prefer that I still call you “my baby boy”? I don’t think so. So know this — all of you as well — that just as I did not put up with older people’s intimidation when I was your age, now that I’m old, compared to you, I have no intention of being bullied by the young!’
Prando: ‘I’m not bullying you, Mama.’
Modesta: ‘Oh yes you are. Because of your youth and the fact that I am your mother, you’re telling me that I should devote myself to you and only you! With your insinuation about smoking, you’re asking me to choose between you and Joyce, and I reject your intimidation. I’m telling you that I am neither your property nor hers, just as you yourself are not the absolute property of Modesta. If we can love each other dispassionately, let’s love each other, but if this tension — more typical of property owners — continues to worsen, I advise you to go away for a while and think about it. You were right when you said you needed more adult companions, and the Littoriali may be just the opportunity. You can get an apartment in Palermo starting next month, if you wish. No, let me finish. You talked all afternoon. Now it’s my turn, and don’t think I enjoy it. All lengthy cohabitations create tensions, and there are no blood bonds or other foolish ties that can resolve them. Fortunately we are not poor, and we can afford the cure for each of us. Tomorrow I’ll telephone Attorney Santangelo so he can open an account for you in Palermo. You’re always dreaming about Palermo, aren’t you? Get some fresh air, Prando, and bring us good news when you return.’