I had grown up now. And though earlier I had been careful enough to measure every word, every gesture, now I was nothing but prudent: a cluster of nerves and veins firmly linked by fear of acting rashly. Even now, although she kept asking me to open my eyes, I didn’t dare look at her. That face had stirred too much emotion in me. The fear of seeing it again after so long, that something in its features might set off some odd notion in my brain, told me that it would be better to wait at least until the next visit.
‘Till tomorrow, Modesta. Our time is up. Rest quietly and pray. Pray like you’re doing now. I can tell, you know, by the way your lips are moving.’
Only when the swish of her skirt told me that she was about to go out the door, only then did I open my eyes a slit and get a glimpse of her: she had become very small, like a scrap of cloth that has shrunk after too many washings. It was a good thing I hadn’t opened my eyes before, because my heart leapt and I was shaken. Unable to help it, I started crying and sobbing. But for real, with real tears, as the Poet says.12
My tears curdled, froze in astonishment, when I saw her the next day. She was no longer herself. Two harsh lines at the corners of her mouth drew her lips into a pinched grimace. Was this the reason her voice was now shrill and metallic and spoke of nothing but sin, hell, repentance and death? As soon as she left, I wished never to see her again, something I would have thought impossible at one time. I decided to get better quickly so I wouldn’t have to be subjected to that hour of fire-and-brimstone. Each day I had her find me dressed, my cheeks rosy and fresh thanks to pinching and a splash of cold water.
‘Excellent, Modesta. I see you have responded well, and haven’t let yourself be sinfully lulled by the languor of convalescence. I am quite pleased to see how you have grown these past months. In bed you looked very small, like you once were. But you’ve grown tall and strong. Don’t let it be a source of pride, however. Temptation may lurk even in bodily well-being. Pray! This healthiness of yours is all due to prayer, and to Saint Agatha who has watched over you. I’ve dreamt of her constantly in recent months and, at times, I saw her living and breathing as I see you now. She came to me, and with her eyes told me not to worry because she was watching over you. Now I must go. My visits would only be an indulgence now that I see you are back on your feet. I must go at once; other afflicted souls are awaiting me. Starting tomorrow, we will see each other only at prayer in the chapel, and during classes. Sister Angelica will be happy to see you back at the embroidery frame again. She says that since you’ve been absent, the tapestry has not progressed as before.’
At last that stranger’s voice fell silent, and she left. By now I hated her. Unexpectedly, that feeling of hate — which they said was a sin — gave me a burst of joy so intense that I had to clench my fists and clamp my mouth shut to keep from singing and jumping up and down. As soon as I felt calm again, I timidly whispered I hate her to see whether the effect would repeat itself or whether a lightning bolt would strike my head. It was raining outside. My voice hit me like a fresh breeze that set me free from dread and dejection. How could those forbidden words give me so much energy? I would think about it later. Now I just had to repeat them out loud, so they would never again elude me: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, I shouted, after making sure that the door was firmly shut. The carapace of depression broke off my body in pieces as my chest expanded, jolted by the energy of that feeling. Wrapped in my smock, I can’t breathe anymore. What is it that’s still squeezing my chest?
Tearing off my smock and shirt, my hands found those tight strips ‘so your breasts won’t show,’ which until that moment had felt like a second skin to me. A seemingly compliant skin that bound me with its reassuring whiteness. I took the scissors and cut them to shreds. I had to breathe. And finally naked — how long had it been since I’d felt my naked body? we even had to bathe with our shirts on — I rediscover my flesh. My released breasts explode beneath my palms and I stroke myself there on the floor, taking pleasure in the caresses which those magic words had triggered.
15
No lightning struck my head while outside the rain continued beating against the window panes. My naked body, flushed with pleasure, felt it falling faintly. A gentle April rain between my breasts, hips wide open to welcome spring’s freshness. I had rediscovered my body. During those months of exile, locked up in that armour of despair, I had stopped stroking myself. Blinded by terror, I had forgotten that I had breasts, a belly, legs. So sorrow, humiliation and fear were not, as they said, a source of purification and beatitude. They were slimy thieves that took advantage of sleep to creep to your bedside in the night and rob you of the joy of being alive. Those women didn’t make a sound when they passed you or went in and out of their cells: they had no body. I didn’t want to become insubstantial like them. And now that I had rediscovered the intensity of my pleasure, I would never again surrender to the renunciation and humiliation that they preached so much. I had those words to fight back with. And my physical exercise — that’s how I thought of it now. In the chapel, a rosary between my fingers, I kept repeating: I hate. Bent over the embroidery frame under Sister Angelica’s dull gaze, I said over and over again: I hate. At night before going to sleep: I hate. From that day on, this was my new prayer.
Along with praying, I studied. I searched for the meaning of those words in books. But other than God’s wrath and Lucifer’s envy, I didn’t find anything. Maybe all those people who hated the Church had different books. Mimmo had talked about them with respect and fear: ‘I don’t agree with them, but I have to admit that since Giovanni made contact with those people, he seems like a different man: confident, forceful…’
So they, too, were happy by virtue of hatred. How could I get to know them? The doctor had been one of them, but I was just a child then. What could I know? Now he was gone. Too bad! I resigned myself to not knowing anything about it. But if I continued studying with that hatred in my body which was more nutritious than bread and which gave me the strength to apply myself day and night — everyone in the convent marvelled at it — I could become a teacher. From what they said, women were beginning to teach on the continent. And as a teacher I would certainly meet those people. Plus, Mother Leonora had remembered me in her will … I just had to be patient. Mother Leonora was suffering from an incurable disease. Another year or two, and I would be free. But even Mother Leonora’s affliction must have had enormous magical powers, because, despite her illness, each day she appeared straighter and less gaunt … and she’d gotten her wind back! Far from having breathing difficulties, all she did was talk. And they weren’t tremulous, humble words like before, but insidious, confident words, not open to discussion. Listen to this: