Why are they shrieking like that? I’d never see Jose again. Or is it ’Ntoni I’d never see again? I miss Stella so much and I’m so tired … Dear Stella, in our day we spoke quietly at the table, the candles weren’t strident. They were a gentle light, respectful of the meal … Light bulbs screech in your brain, the radio blares, forgotten, on the other side of the room, the telephone rings: other guests, maybe … A low-flying plane thunders by. For some nights now, that punctual phantom plane has flown around the house, and they don’t even hear it. Or am I getting old? How does old age begin? With sharp scratching sounds in your head? The elderly, in fact, squint sometimes, perhaps to ward off sounds or lights that have become too shrill for their weary senses. How does the term ‘old age’ herald itself? It has a gentle sound, that dreaded term, a reassuring sound. Does one let oneself go and hide in the folds of that sound, unemotionally?
She flees up the stairs, slowly, into old age: a slow escape into the silence of that word, shutting herself in her room and not listening. The door turns on well-oiled hinges, revealing a dark, bottomless well. I must jump! To come out into the light, I must once again climb up onto the old corroded rim and let myself fall, but fear grips me like it did then. There are no trees in that orderly room, where Mimmo can hide and keep watch. Jump or let go and forget? That’s the hidden meaning of the words ‘old age’: deserting a life that’s comforting, leaving the field clear, mowed down by the rapid fire of young voices, young emotions. The young remind you that you must grow old, maybe they want you to get old and perhaps even to die, and you tell yourself: they’re tiresome, a foolish word that conceals envy and fear. And fear leads you to make yourself old, to inspire their awe via the flame of wisdom. And through that awe to drive them back: fight fire with fire, like in war. A long-standing contention that no socialism will ever be able to heal. I’ve barely had time to slip into bed when Ida knocks on the door:
‘Zia, Zia, are you sleeping? May I come in?’
Let her come in? Or, like Gaia, give in to fear and chase her away with harsh words? No, you took the coward’s way, Gaia! I won’t follow you any further.
‘I’m not sleeping, Ida. Come in.’
‘Did you say “fear”, Zia? You, afraid? Of what?’
‘Of everything, Ida, and you know it.’
‘I’m always afraid too, but as you taught me, even fear can be useful.’
‘Indeed, I was just thinking about that before you came in.’
‘I’ll leave you then.’
‘No, why? I can continue later. I have all the time in the world.’
‘How beautiful you are lying there! The bedside lamp makes your skin look so delicate and your hair shiny, vivid … It was Mama who chose the colours of the furnishings, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, Beatrice had an extraordinary aptitude for colours, as do you, for that matter. I’m afraid all of it will soon have to be replaced though. When I came back from Switzerland, everything seemed worn out, aged.’
‘To some degree, it’s true! And if you think we can afford the expense … what I mean is, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You’ll see, with new, more modern fabrics, I’ll be able to recapture Mama’s beautiful colours and that way everything will be new and at the same time like it was before.’
‘That’s your dream, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes!’
‘But I think maybe you didn’t come to talk about the furnishings.’
‘I’m afraid now that I’m here with you.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, if you hug me maybe I’ll have the courage to tell you.’
It must be something very serious to make Bambù take on such a grave, proper look. But no! I’m forgetting that when Ida speaks with Modesta she becomes more adult, more composed and self-assured.
‘I’m forgetting…’
‘What are you forgetting, Zia? You’re strange!’
‘Oh, nothing! But what is it? Tell me. You’re trembling too.’
‘Oh, hug me, hold me tight, and don’t get angry at Prando.’
‘What does Prando have to do with it?’
‘I’ll tell you if you promise me you won’t be angry with him. He doesn’t mean any harm. It’s the way he is; he can’t help it!’
‘What did he do this time?’
‘Well, yesterday morning after we took a walk he slapped me.’
‘Slapped you? Why?’
‘Well, he doesn’t like Mattia. Who knows why! Sometimes I have the feeling that they resemble each other. I’m not sure why … something in their eyes, the way they walk. Maybe that’s why … I’ve thought about it, you know? Maybe that’s why I’ve fallen in love with Mattia.’
Bambolina had thought about it. You could tell by the shadow that widened her eyes to dark circles, giving her a striking resemblance to her father.
As she repeats softly, ‘Seriously, I’ve thought about it, Zia,’ the resemblance to the sorrowful Carlo now imbues her voice, her gestures, until she suddenly rears up, freeing herself from the embrace in order to face Modesta fearlessly, eye to eye. It was Modesta who hadn’t thought about it. I’m getting old. I’m becoming deaf to others if something so predictable hadn’t even crossed my mind.
‘It’s not infatuation, as Prando says, Zia. I’m in love and even for me it was like a bolt out of the blue. It took me months to realize why I was so happy when I was with him. How could I have imagined it? He seemed like an old man when I saw him the first time at the party. An old man with all that white hair … What’s wrong, Zia? Why are you staring out the window and not saying anything?’
‘It’s nothing, Ida. I have an awful headache.’
‘A headache? So bad that you won’t say anything? I know you; you’re stalling because you’re against it! You too are opposed to Mattia, like Prando, like Mela.’
‘Mela too?’
‘Yes! Oh, why can’t we be happy for ever, Zia, why?’
As Bambolina utters her mother’s words, Beatrice, evoked by them, sweeps away Carlo’s voice like a wind, invading Bambolina and making her fall on the bed, beating her fists and weeping desperately.
‘Everyone is against Mattia, all of you! I can understand Prando, but she really has no right.’
‘She who?’
‘Mela! I didn’t say a word when she became attached to that cold statue, Ippolita. All she sees is her, always studying with her. What does she expect from me? Now that she’s got her diploma, she’ll leave, she’ll go out into the world! Why does she continue to disapprove of my love for Mattia? Why is she so harsh? Why destroy all the memories of our friendship? Why? I don’t want to hate anyone, no one. Oh Zia, help me. I don’t want to hate Prando, or you. Help me!’
‘Help me, Modesta, help me!’ Once again Beatrice has returned and weeps in my arms: her despair fervent and fragile, like when she runs along the sand or whirls round and round the silk-covered walls of the parlour, by herself, to show me the exact steps of the waltz. Yet those small, trembling hands irritate me, that wispy hair makes it hard to breathe.
‘What are you doing, Zia? Are you pushing me away? Why?’
‘I’m not pushing you away! I’m tired, I told you. Go to bed!’
‘Like this, without your consent?’