‘Running at high noon can make your blood go haywire! Don’t move. Lie down in the shade — that’s it — and don’t talk.’
In the silence, the green canopy of the branches battles the black sun.
‘This is where she was standing before. See? The grass is crushed.’
‘Don’t talk, lie quietly. I don’t like your colour.’
‘She was here.’
‘Who, Mody?’
‘The apparition … She stood here motionless and spied on us.’
‘The apparition has vanished, and if you lie still and rest it won’t return.’
In the silence, the green shade of the tall willow stoops over my forehead.
‘Your hands are cool, Mattia. How can that be?’
‘I didn’t run and I didn’t see any apparitions. Hush, Modesta. If she’s dead to you, forget her or she’ll come to haunt you for ever.’
‘She’s evil, that woman, like Inès. They don’t know the art of forgetting and they take their revenge on everyone: on themselves, on men, on children. Do you know why she came here? Like Santa Rosalia, she wants to wear the gold, diamond-studded mantle but also be a man with a sword.’
‘Your pulse has stopped racing.’
‘And your hand has grown warm.’
‘Now just be quiet, and Mattia will pick you up and carry you to the house. We’ll face the heat together and then at home we’ll put a nice cool cloth on that troubled brow.’
* * *
‘You’re feeling better with the damp towel, aren’t you? You’re smiling again.’
‘Yes, and I don’t want to go out in the midday heat anymore, Mattia.’
‘Of course, no one should go out at this time of day. Only stray dogs are out and about … They slink along the meagre shadow of the walls or stand stock-still like goats. Have you seen goats at this hour in the stony fields? If you don’t look closely, you almost don’t notice them; they seem like statues. Not even their eyes move as they wait for the midday heat to pass, so they can breathe again.’
As I wait for the hour when the heat abates and apparitions vanish, I cling to his chest. At dusk, lava radiates the heat it has absorbed throughout the day, and if you lie on it, it warms you as the wind becomes glacial.
‘You’re trembling now, Mody. What is it? Are you cold again?’
‘A little.’
‘I’ll find another blanket for you.’
‘You’re trembling too.’
‘Yes, but not from the cold. I wanted you, Modesta. Your touch aroused me.’
‘So why did you hide it?’
‘One doesn’t take advantage of an embrace that comes from gratitude, or sleepiness or sorrow. So while you slept, I went to a velluta to quench my burning thirst.’
‘You still call them vellute?’
‘What should I call them? Those offensive names foreigners call them?’
‘Velluta, a silken lady … I hadn’t heard that word in so long! We’re losing our language, Mattia, and the island will be left with great regret. Tuzzu used to say: “Colours come from the heart, thoughts from memory, words from passion.”’
‘Who was Tuzzu?’
‘A carusu who knew all the words and taught them to me. Do you like words, Mattia?’
‘No, I like silence.’
‘And you absorb it…’
‘It’s going to rain tonight; the heat was so extreme … You don’t feel cold anymore?’
‘No, and you? You don’t feel desirous anymore?’
‘It subsided as we talked, Modesta.’
‘Why are you way over there?’
‘I know I could have you now; you told me so. But I don’t want to mix things. I’m still sated from the velluta’s attentions. Go to sleep, and tomorrow we’ll see if you’ve caught a cold or if it was just the stress of coming back.’
‘And where are you going?’
‘To my own bed.’
‘I’m afraid. This house is becoming more and more silent. While you were making me race through the heat, I saw that all the balconies and windows of the house were deserted.’
‘There’s no one here. Rows of rooms closed on the emptiness of a man alone. If you’re afraid, I’ll sleep on the sofa. Don’t be frightened. I won’t leave you by yourself. Now go to sleep.’
As if sleep had been awaiting his command to bend over me with its forgetfulness, I fall asleep, lulled by the reassurance of his breathing. And I’m not afraid when he leans over me in the grey dawn and whispers softly: ‘I told you so, Mody: it rained all night. For four or five hours it will be cool. Do you want me? Or shall I take you home while it’s still cool?’
‘No, I want to stay here.’
I place first my palms, then my cheek on the warm rock of his chest and he takes me in his arms. How could I have known if he hadn’t told me that even amid the grass of quiet friendship a pleasure stronger than passion can grow? A sure, carnal pleasure, no wounding, no uncertainty. He doesn’t believe it either. He looks at me, surprised. I feel his hands exploring my body to understand, blind hands that see for the first time. I was right to run away from that swamp of false sentiment. I was right to run to him. After looking at me, he drops back down on me, heavy yet light, confident of my body’s equilibrium.
78
‘I thought you had gone, Joyce.’
‘No, first I wanted to see if you had the guts to tell me. Well? Do you insist on saying that all this time all you did was talk?’
‘At first, yes, but after you appeared we started making love.’
‘You’re disgusting! I knew you were just waiting for the chance to return to normality.’
‘I’m a woman, Joyce, and for me being normal means loving men and women. If I want to give birth, I have to love the one who can plant a seed in my womb. It may be different for a man; he can perhaps look the other way after sowing his seed.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That I’m expecting a son or a daughter. Who knows!’
‘Bastard! As soon as they can, they grab the chance to make you a slave.’
‘You’re wrong. He’s able to make love without enslaving anyone: he knows how to use the little glove, as Carmine called it.’
‘How repulsive!’
‘Weren’t our kisses and our caresses just as repulsive, Joyce? I’m the one who asked him. While I’m still fertile, I want all the children my body and my fancy demand.’
Don’t pay any attention to this dialogue. I was lying to unmask her entirely and give her the strength to leave. But now that’s she gone, indignant and fierce — some cultured, refined individuals find the strength to act only in moral indignation — now that’s she gone, I can tell you the truth: I’m not the one who’s pregnant, it’s Stella. Swollen and dreamy, she’s been roaming distractedly around the house and is expecting a baby without even knowing it. For five months Stella has been thinking she’s ill, but she’s serene. How did I fail to understand the dewy languor of her dark-ringed eyes, those remote gestures, the way she slips into quiet concentration more and more often, her face bowed as she listens to her own body?
For a month we wandered through white corridors, glass doors closed softly on the word tumour … Long trips on dark velvet seats amid the clamour of the rails, that word repeated by the whoosh of the train until we met the amused smile of a young doctor up there in the distant north, in that vast city that intimidated Stella …
‘Nothing serious. She’s just expecting a baby. It’s not the first such case. Here too — in the countryside, of course — they think they’re in menopause and … but I won’t bore you with useless details. She’s in excellent health, but by now the pregnancy is quite advanced and I’m afraid she’ll have to carry it to term.’