The Romana is silent now. She bends over me, the yellow beacons of her pupils peering closely at my forehead, my neck, and on her resolute face I see subtle cuts. Joyce was right; they use razor blades.
‘Nothing, sure! Mummy’s little darling, not a mark! You come and go from there without a scratch, not a hair out of place, not even your lipstick is smudged, is it, Princess! Who are you, an informer? Tell Nina! Either you tell me or I’ll beat you up but good. Who are you?’
I’m sleepy. I could have followed Joyce’s example, but I have no intention of being a hero, and when she rushes at me with her sharp fingernails I grab her wrists with one hand — Nina is tall, but she has slim wrists — and slap her with the other, once, twice, three times. The slaps reopen the cuts, and she’s finally forced to get off of me and stop talking.
‘That’s so you never try it again. Remember that! Keep in mind, I’m convinced that you’re the one who’s an informer. Yes you, with your bruises, an informer! Bruises make informers more convincing, right! Who are you? Tell me or I’ll start slapping you again. Who are you?’
‘Cazzi mia! My fucking business!’
I had never heard that word on a woman’s lips, and maybe because I instinctively smile, or because of the dialect that breaks the words into gentle, hesitant pauses, I’m left flabbergasted.
‘Cazzi mia, bitch! You made me bleed. But I’m glad. You’re no informer if you’re so incensed. Get some sleep now. Tomorrow we’ll talk, the two of us…’
‘Please, Princess, tomorrow let’s try to make our conversation more productive. Think about it: if we can see a way to resolve one or two things, tomorrow could be more pleasant, with this beautiful sunshine outside, being able to talk with you in a café, in a park…’
* * *
‘Do you have breath to spare, Princess, that you want to talk? Save it for those signori. From the looks of things, we’ll have plenty of time to chat!’
Never had Joyce been so sympathetic and smiling, despite the numerous grim cuts that blur her features in the dark room; bringing a long, shapely finger to her lips she gestures me to be silent to save my strength after my return from those discussions with the lawyers … No matter what time it is, she waits for me, still on her feet or lying down, but always attentive, her huge eyes wide open. And she doesn’t get upset if I make noise trying to find my cot.
‘Thank you, Jò, for your understanding. Thank you, my love.’
‘They worked you over but good, didn’t they, Princess? Wake up! Who is this Jò? your husband?’
‘I killed her…’
‘Oh, no, Princess! You have to wake up! Up to now I went along with you. I left you in peace because you weren’t raving, but talking nonsense like that is dangerous! Shit, if only there were a real lamp instead of this dim blue light from purgatory … they think of everything! Come on, sit up and open your eyes. That’s it: take a good look at me — good, so to speak — look at me: I’m Nina, not your husband.’
‘Oh, yes!.. What did they do to your face? You look like you ran into a cheese grater.’
‘Just don’t touch me. Ignore it; otherwise you’ll make the goddamned stinging worse.’
‘But what did they do to you, Nina?’
‘Nothing. They went to town with the razor blade. You know, the usual fun and games … if only that were all, Princess!’
‘For God’s sake, what else, Nina?’
‘Ah! I see the subject has brought you back down to earth. Good!’
‘For the love of God, what else did they do to you?’
‘Think about it: when it comes to games men in uniform play, what else can they do to reduce you to a colander, front and back, huh?’
‘And you can smile about it?’
‘What should I do, cry about it? Crying doesn’t fill the holes.’
‘How many men were there?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know! I have the impression there were three of them — you know how it is in all the confusion — but I’d swear that a regiment marched over me, a regiment with sabres and brass bands!’
‘You’re so funny when you talk, Nina!’
‘Oh, if you only knew, fijetta, how much I like to talk, kid! Like my father, who was an anarchist and taught us to be plain-spoken and not to worship false prophets. I remember at the time Italy entered the war — I was only seven, but I remember because at home we didn’t cook and I was so hungry — I remember my father at the window, spitting as he kept saying: “Don’t believe it, Nina, those people who want to go to war aren’t socialists, they’re traitors.”’
‘Oh, but you’re young then!’
‘I was born in 1908. Are you shocked? I can believe it! And don’t look at me that way! You think I don’t know I look like an old lady? But as soon as these cuts heal and I can dye my hair again … it’s these dark roots that make me seem old … I could use some henna! Tomorrow I’ll ask Sister Giuliana, just for laughs!’
‘What’s henna?’
‘Well, a balm! It gives you a nice reddish colour without damaging the hair like other dyes do. In fact, it nourishes the hair since it’s made from a plant, and since when has a plant ever done any harm, right? While we’re on the subject of health, I have to tell you something but … I know you’re going to get embarrassed.’
‘Me? About what?’
‘Naturally, you landed gentry aren’t taught. Like my father used to say, they spoil you. It was okay before, because who could take your privilege away from you? But now … Who would have thought that even you might sometimes end up in jail!’
‘What are you talking about? I don’t understand.’
‘It’s that I’ve noticed your modesty — I’ve watched you, what do you think! — and I don’t know how to tell you but … To make a long story short, can you feel how hard and bloated your belly is? It looks like a drum. You need to take a crap, fijetta bella. You have to shit, kid, or your head will split and your bowels will be on fire.’
It’s that plain talk or the warmth of Nina’s hand as she palpates the taut surface of my belly that makes me cry so hard and repeat in a distant, long-forgotten voice: ‘I can’t, Nina, I can’t.’ When had I last heard that childish voice echoing in a dark room? Was it Prando who kept saying: ‘I can’t, Mama, I can’t’, or was it Bambolina? Jacopo never cried; he just frowned like a sobre, mindful little old man.
‘When you’re done crying — crying is good for you — we have to do it, nennella!100 Come on now, what are you ashamed of? It’s only the two of us. What if they had tossed you in with ten others — all having to shit in the same bucket in the middle of the room — what would you have done then, huh?’
‘One bucket for ten women, Nina? What a horror!’
‘And not women who are as delicate as you … all staring at you to see how you make out.’
‘Ghastly!’
‘No, it’s just that by the time you get there, they’ve already spent years and years inside, and inside you get bored. So a newcomer is a novelty, a sensation. How can I explain it? She takes your mind off things, like at the movies. If only they were satisfied to just look. On the other hand, what can you expect? Common prisoners, thieves, whores. Oh, not that I have anything against thieves and whores; hating them doesn’t fit with anarchist thinking. We hate the masters who reduce them to stealing and make them become whores. As the song rightly goes: “Son nostre figlie le prostitute, son…, the prostitutes are our daughters”.101 But what the hell! I try to hold to an ideal, but they become hyenas! If this sainted lady hadn’t come, this teacher in the cell next to ours, they’d have eaten me alive! She was the one who made them send me here to the infirmary …