‘What else did you do, you goddamn, idiotic woman! What did you do?’
Pasquale shouts and runs around the room like a crazed chicken. In just a few years he’s gone bald. Without the thick mass of blond ringlets — like a little angel! — his small round pate looks like a perfect ostrich egg. He doesn’t even have those few black strands that Mama carefully combed over Tina’s head … And for a moment Modesta is tempted to lop off that scrawny neck with a knife, the big one that Mama used to kill the hens. It wouldn’t be bad to watch that egg roll among the dark, opulent furniture in the Prefect’s office, enjoy the amusing spectacle a little while, smoking a cigarette … thereby putting a worthy end to his sweaty, drawing-room performances in uniform, when he entertains everyone with anti-fascist jokes, winking at some big shot: ‘All winds blow over the island and we are excellent sailors!’
‘Good God, are you crazy? Have you forgotten the special tribunals? They suspect you of espionage. Do you or don’t you understand?’
‘Are you reminding me that the death penalty has been reinstated?’
‘And you’re looking at yourself in the mirror?’
‘Luckily in my haste, I grabbed Bambù’s purse. She’s pretty, isn’t she, Pasquale? Look at these beautiful pearls … Fortunately there’s powder and lipstick! Bambolina is right about these things, like her mother. I’ve been neglecting myself for some time, and that’s not wise.’
‘What are you doing? Putting on makeup? Look, I won’t be able to go with you to Palermo. You’ll be in the hands of men who will interrogate you. They won’t give you a moment’s peace, never mind powder!’
‘On the contrary, you’re wrong! Powder and lipstick! I’m not so bad yet, am I, Pasquale? The tall one was giving me a certain look!’
80
‘Princess, Princess, Voscenza will do us the favour of sleeping here for tonight. You may close this curtain. That way you won’t see that woman over there … Anyway, all she does is sleep! Unfortunately we haven’t had any instructions … If she bothers you, have them call me at once. But tomorrow, you’ll see, we’ll arrange for a room just for Voscenza.’
That voice — do you hear it? — isn’t gentle like Mother Leonora’s, but I have to listen to it and do just what it suggests. For now it’s telling me to be sickened by the sight of that ageless, unkempt woman who lies shaking, hands in her hair, facing the wall. And I, like the voice tells me, make a face of disgust, but not too much so: disgust tempered by great compassion. I am in the hands of people who say they believe in compassion.
‘Voscenza is too good to be moved by that woman. There’s no call to pity a subversive communist!’
‘But who is she?’
‘Someone from the continent, a wretched fool! She’s not even a teacher like the one in the next cell, who’s rumoured to be an organizer of the reds. A woman leader of the reds — what will we see next! Oh, Princess, I see you are upset … Voscenza is tired, I’ll let you rest.’
She turns away with a slight bow and a hint of a smile, repeating: ‘Good night, Princess.’ You can tell she likes to call me that. Jacopo, Bambolina, tell all the children not to kid themselves: even in prison, princesses and leaders are treated differently. As soon as Sister Giuliana disappears behind the door, the woman leaps to her feet and starts talking to me like someone forced to remain silent for years, rushing at me like a starving person reaching for bread.
‘Who are you? Why did that slut Sister Giuliana make such a fuss over you? Plus, I’m not from the continent: I’m Roman!’
The voice is husky, maybe due to the long silence, but beneath the bruises and scratches (knife wounds?), the face, lit by flashing yellow-green eyes, doesn’t seem unattractive.
‘Who are you? Do you mind answering me?’
Pinned by that implacable yellow gaze, Modesta is tempted to respond just to close her eyes and have a little darkness.
‘No, Modesta, the danger lies precisely in the cells: for every two real prisoners there is one, maybe even more convincing-looking than the others, who is an informer instead.’
Joyce has had some experience with prisons, and what she says should be noted; it might be useful.
‘You never can tell, Bambù.’
‘But she’s boring when she starts in on that subject, Zia!’
‘We should listen, and then remember.’
‘Besides, you? in prison? Just imagine!’
‘You never can tell, Bambù, never!’
Modesta remembers and opens her eyes again to observe that relentless creature, who talks and talks and asks questions … And when she turns to the wall and pounds her fists on the damp, flaking plaster, it’s even more excruciating to the eye and ear than the floodlight pointed at Modesta, and the individual sitting behind the desk:
‘Why, Princess, do you force me to sit at this table? It pains me more than it does you, you must believe me! Under this uniform is a man who is saddened to see you so exhausted, but unfortunately it is my duty. I beg you once again: try to remember something specific. Did someone perhaps want to seek revenge by involving you in matters that pertain to men? A rejected lover? With your charm, it would come as no surprise! Sometimes men who are rejected can become ruthless … Try to remember. All we need are two or three names. We’ll hand them over to the law, and you’ll be back home in less than no time!’
Behind the dark grille of the confessional, the thin voice of the priest in Palermo coiled like a snake and made me tremble with fear and horror, more so than Mother Leonora’s shouts or those of this officer, who for three hours has been pacing around the room shrieking like a lunatic.
‘No, no sitting today! Today we’ll talk better on our feet! Outside, the sun is shining … talk … You are so beautiful, Princess, so young! Why let your silence prolong a conversation that is so distasteful to us both?’
Now what is he doing? Why has he stopped? I had just got used to the steady gallop of those short bowlegs. Now though, at regular intervals, he stops and clicks his heels together, as if on parade.
And in the days that followed, each time I entered and sat down: ‘No, no sitting, we’ll talk better on our feet.’… The cigar! Why does he now stare at the small ember of his cigar, then look at me lingeringly as he twirls it between his fingers and feigns a smile? Years later, Joyce’s breasts were still scarred by a faint tracery … ‘I’m sorry, I see your eyes are closing, but we have to talk.’ Now, he too sits down, but he’s no longer smoking … They haven’t even changed my clothes yet. I’ve been here for several days.
‘Well, my dear Modesta, my discovery was horrifying and my decision even more horrific. It’s chilling to sit in a cell and see those poor women come back beaten and raped, and realize with disgust that you, being privileged, remain healthy, with your clothes intact. Of course, they use words like weapons with the leaders, but that’s not saying much: words don’t cut the flesh like the razor blades they often use.’
‘And you?’
‘After a month I realized that I would lose all my credibility with those comrades who were farm women and workers. To get them to do these “embroideries” on me, as you poetically call them, I had to insult them personally and in any way I could. Only after days and days of this was I able to return to the cell with my head held high. It’s incredible to have to fight to be tortured, but the suspicious looks finally stopped, and we were united again.’