To hear it again and make certain of Nina’s admiration for my Jacopo, all I have to do is ask, ‘But is it possible that he carried me in his arms for so long?’
‘Of course he did! He and Pietro, but nearly always him.’
Nearly always him!.. Even though he’s far away (Jose took him along to fight in the north), in Jacopo’s arms I’m transported tenderly from bed to chair. And if it’s not too hot: ‘You mustn’t sweat,’ she told me, her gentle hands supporting my waist as we move toward the window, so distant; it’s a struggle to reach it, but it’s clean, no bedbugs or rats that scratch.
‘It’s nice here, isn’t it, micia? All these trees are restful on the eye. Greenery outside, and so clean inside! Remember how those dark bastards used to scratch? You were really brave to never mention them, Mody, I have to tell you.’
‘All we could do was ignore them.’
‘Sure, but now that I see all this cleanliness — almost excessively spotless — I realize even more how courageous you were.’
‘And how about you? You never told me about your seasickness or island sickness, whatever you want to call it.’
‘I still dream about that little scrap of land the size of a handkerchief! Oh! You couldn’t raise your eyes without seeing that fearful water constantly in motion.’
‘That’s why you often kept your head down. So it wasn’t a headache!’
‘Oh sure, you must be joking! You’re talking about the kind of headache a signorina gets! It was as if my head was stretched and pulled by the waves. Oh, they know that being confined on the island has this effect on almost everyone, except you, my fine little one!’
‘Nina, hold me. You’re right, but I’m still afraid. I’m ashamed, but I’m afraid!’
‘Come, stay quietly in my arms and the fear will go away. Not to brag, but Nina is a master at calming her micia.’
Nina is a master at soothing every quiver, her stroking sure and confident on my burning forehead. And that’s why today, too, I look into her eyes to endure the long waiting, the anxiety, the fear, the lack of news, bombarded by echoes of massacres, torturing, mass killings that only those who have lived through can know, and afterwards have the right to tell.
But that comes later … Now, if it weren’t for Nina, I would remain supine, waiting, suspended in a void of anxiety and fever, trying only to decipher the closed faces, sealed by terror, of those who return amid the indecipherable chatter the radio constantly blares … And nothing can console me, not Bambolina’s beauty, a new beauty, her face tanned, proud of her work in the fields, nor Carluzzu, Stella’s son, who when he falls already knows how to get up by himself without crying, not the birth of little Beatrice — all white and golden — the daughter of Bambù and Mattia, nor the sight of Olimpia, Nina’s daughter, as she plays with Crispina.
‘They’re always together, aren’t they, Nina?’
‘She’s a force of nature, that Crispina! In a few months she’s transformed my Olimpia. When she got here, her eyes were those of a terrified sheep. She wouldn’t speak. Now she runs and leaps around like a little goat…’
At night I continue to reach for Nina’s hand, the dark-haired, serious Nina of the island who still lives in my memory. By day: the golden, smiling Nina who runs through the delicate green of the vineyard at sunset. Finally I can run beside her and drink in her stories, her jokes.
‘God the hare, Nina? That’s a new one!’
‘No, little one, old as madonna eight!’
‘What do you mean, eight?’
‘Eight! Like the number eight. Or madonna the ballerina, or if you prefer, God the tightrope-walker, whatever you like.’
‘You make me laugh, Nina. Where do you get these things? Do you make them up?’
‘Make them up? Not a word! They’re all passed down as part of the family legacy. It takes centuries to arrive at such refinements. In his serene old age my grandfather, a pure-blooded product of Viareggio, enjoyed digging up and collecting various oaths. “Now that Italy has finally been united” — he used to say — “and now that the parasitic papacy has been chased out, it’s our duty to gather together the expressions of revolt that rose spontaneously from the oppressed people…” That’s right, like popular songs and poems: part of the cultural heritage, he said. Poor Nonno! He was completely unshakeable. I only saw him cry twice: over the Concordat106 and over Sacco and Vanzetti.’107
‘For God’s sake, Nina, don’t start in with Sacco and Vanzetti!’
‘Yet if the Allies win, we’ll have to take a look at that ugly crime, my dear Mody.’
‘No, Nina, no! Instead, tell me: any news of Arminio?’
‘Nothing, not about Arminio or your ’Ntoni. But we can be happy to have heard something about Jacopo and Prando. And if I’m happy, not being part of the family…’
‘You are part of the family!’
‘How I love your Mattia! If it weren’t for Bambolina I would gladly spend a couple of hours one-on-one with him. But though Nina may be a cottarola who loses her head easily, she gives in to her fancies, yes, but not with men who are taken.’
Nina, Nina … The dark-haired, feral Nina of the island, the golden-haired, smiling Nina of Carmelo. Finally I can run beside her, enjoy the sight of her harmonious freedom, her step that sketches melodious whorls of vital energy. Now she stops, preoccupied. She must have something to confess to me.
‘I have a confession to make, micia. Last night I had a relapse, so to speak. It’s just that that dark-skinned guy appealed to me, plus this morning, he was leaving. Well, now you know, it wasn’t so bad…’
Each time she confesses, my surprise at not being jealous makes me run into her arms, grateful. How can that be? Thinking of Joyce, I realize that jealousy is always provoked by those in the habit of using it out of pointless, venomous cruelty. Besides, after her confession, her arms tighten around me with new warmth.
‘You’re not mad at me, are you, micia? What can you do? That’s how Nina is! She’s a bit of a maschiaccio, a hoyden, as Arminio used to call me when I was a little girl. And was he ever right! Don’t pay any attention. They’re just passing fancies, nothing serious, things that only render the affection I have for you purer. Even with my husband, it was the same. Of course, he got worked up a little…’
‘And if he did it?’
‘Oh well, it doesn’t work both ways!’
‘And if I do it?’
‘It works both ways, micia, don’t worry. Nina keeps her word.’
‘But you’re all I want.’
‘Bullshit! It’s just that you don’t know; you have no experience. You, Bambolina, you’re the first to have had a little freedom. Not to brag, but we, in these things, had it really easy with my mother, and my mother with my grandmother … But then come to think of it, maybe each of us is the way we are. Any rational thinking stops when it comes to love, and it’s best not to talk about it. What a time your Nina went through, torn between you, who were dying, and that little one so far away! Only Jacopo understood me. That young man understands everything. How could I leave you to go and bring Olimpia back from Rome? “Well, then we’ll send Pietro,” he said, without batting an eye. “If you feel you can rely on him, write a letter to your sister and Pietro will go and get her.” What a decision, my micia with that giant who never looks at you directly. I trust him, but would Licia trust that beast? And so Jacopo, as if he had read it in my eyes, said: “All right, I’ll go. For some reason, everyone trusts me.” For some reason, he says! He looks like an angel!’