Bambù: ‘I’m scared, more scared than before, during the war. The house seems empty since Prando has been gone, and Modesta doesn’t talk, doesn’t smile. She comes and goes from Catania looking sadder and sadder.’
Bambolina speaks about me as if I weren’t there, and she’s right. In the evening I sit with them around the table and bring food to my mouth but I’m unable to speak. My mind is focused solely on a deep disappointment. On those men in Palermo, in Catania, who receive me with open arms as they slip around the old desks of power, the same gestures barely softened by white-striped grey suits, the same heads, though not wearing the Fascist beret: ‘You, Princess, are a heroine, and today more than ever we need women like you. The future will belong to women! Like in America. With your past, you will attract crowds of women to us. You’ll be one of the first women deputies…’ Except for Pasquale, and I almost feel sorry for him, they’re all still there: their cheeks smoothly shaven, fragrant with bergamot. And though at home I’m silent, there at least I enjoy blanching those cheeks: ‘You mean the first woman paid to collaborate? Why, isn’t the word “collaborate” used anymore? But of course, collaborate with the landowners, the barons, the priests?’
‘But Princess, democracy! It will be a democracy! All we have to do, as America has suggested, is demonstrate first through local elections that we Italians are capable of establishing this democracy! And with a democracy we … you’ll soon see … You’re not turning communist on us, are you, Princess?’
‘Oh, Zia, please, say something!’
‘Sorry, Bambù. I was thinking about what I should say to those signori tomorrow.’
‘Did you say that with the fall of the Parri government and with the Americans in Italy there will never be a revolution?’
‘Yes, that’s right, Bambù. Parri falls and that Jesuit De Gasperi takes over the government.108 The Jesuits will reassume their influence, as Jose would have said.’
‘But there’s also Togliatti!’
‘For as long as it’s convenient, and certainly to circumvent the risk of revolution. Ah, that’s what I’ll say tomorrow! I want to have some fun.’
‘It doesn’t seem like you’re really having fun, Zia!’
‘I’ll say that I’m a communist and that I believe only in the revolution. We have to side with the opposition. I’ve thought about it. Nina is right. Especially women: we’re always part of the opposition.’
‘Why are you crying now, Zia? For the love of God, why are you crying?’
‘Because I’ve made up my mind! But above all, because … because I knew I would never see Jose again. I knew it, but he shouldn’t have died, he shouldn’t have!’
‘Oh, Modesta, is he dead? How did it happen?’
‘Yes, fighting at Cassino. He had enlisted in the Fifth Army. With him, this war took away one of the best. ‘And if you two foolish little ladies thought for even a moment about celebrating this unfortunate peace, you were mistaken! I will never tolerate the sight of those shirkers who, while profiting from the absence of the best men, prepare to enjoy a peace based on theft and lies. War carries off the best men, always!’
Nonna Gaia’s grey eyes pierce my pupils like daggers, and I have to lower my head to escape the pain they inflict … Months of abject conversations, full of inflated rhetoric, good intentions, plans. Meanwhile, in the countryside people are starving to death. And already, invisible shotguns are aimed at the heads of the godless reds. No, that’s what they said before; now they’re called ‘Bolshevik emissaries’. Already heads are falling in this time of peace, and now we can put a name to a few heads among the countless who have vanished into thin air: on 7 June 1945, union leader Nunzio Passalacqua is killed in Naro, with instigators and perpetrators acting in broad daylight, out in the open, so that everyone might see and reflect on it.
* * *
‘Indeed, the noblewoman we know gave everything she had to Don Calò. Yes, the same Calogero Vizzini from when we were young, Modesta. The Mafia in Palermo and Monreale encouraged her, let’s say, to support EVIS:109 a kind of militia formed by the right wing of the separatist party, the party of those who want to separate from Italy so they can steal better. And in the absence of a Mussolini, they finance and arm a certain bandit, Giuliano. Don Calò dealt with him personally. I’ve had confirmed reports.’
‘They don’t lose any time, do they, Mattia?’
‘The signori are always prompt to act, as Carmine used to tell me when I was a boy: “This is something you must learn from them, only this. Because we peasants are slow, but with the strength of our arms and their alacrity you’ll be riding high like your father Carmine for your whole life and that of your children.” Only now do I understand why it gave me so much joy to lose at the gaming table. It was like a beneficial blood-letting, Mody; it drained away all the bad black blood of us ill-fated Tudia!’
‘You Tudia may be ill-fated, but not us Brandiforti! Thanks to our mother’s teachings, we found ourselves on the right side, and we will make the price we paid — first, through anti-fascism and later, fighting in the war and in the mountains — count for something. I warn you, Mattia Tudia, that nothing is solved by such defeatism.’
‘Defeatism was a Fascist word, Prando.’
‘We’ll find another one, don’t worry! We’ll find other words, right, Mama? The important thing is to act!
‘How beautiful you are, Mama. I’m ashamed to say so, but I was afraid I’d find you old. It’s strange, but in the midst of that inferno, my only concern was that I wouldn’t find you as I’d left you. Mama, you know what I’ll call you from now on? And maybe it will help to make you stay young for ever…’
‘What, Prando?’
‘My mamma bambina, my child-Mama … What a strange creature man is!’
‘Why, Prando?’
‘Oh yes, strange! Before, I had you all to myself and I didn’t understand you. Then, when I was far away I realized who you were and I was afraid of losing you: a kind of remorse for not having understood you earlier, as if fate wanted to punish me for my inattention. That was the only thing I was afraid of, not killing or being killed. Let me rest my head on your lap. Touching you is the only way I feel sure I’ve found you again.’
As soon as he lays his head on my lap he falls asleep. His face, unchanged, shows no signs of distance. As if he had gone and returned from a ride on his motorcycle. Only his eyes have become more thoughtful. Another wound, still red, can be seen parallel to the long scar on his cheek that has now faded. His skin has lost the gloss of stone polished by the sea, but even in sleep it is still firm and smooth under my fingers. Why can’t I rejoice in his return? Is it Nonna Gaia’s refrain perhaps? ‘In every war the best are lost…’ Or maybe it’s the presence of ’Ntoni who, cloaked in his sorrow, wanders distractedly in the garden without speaking? From a distance, his restored body makes him look just as he was before, but when you get closer, his eyes bleed from a wound that is still open.
An airplane passes overhead, obscuring the sun, and Prando’s eyes open, somewhat troubled.‘You’re here, Mama? Thank goodness! I always fall sleep. I wonder why? It’s as if I never get enough sleep and … But are you sad, Mama? Oh, I’m sorry, what a moron! Your Prando will always be a self-centred idiot! Is it because of Jacopo? Are you worried about Jacopo? But he must come back, Mama, he must … He was the best of all of us.’
Those words make me cry out loud in his arms. If Jacopo is dead, I won’t add another line to these memoirs of mine and I’ll remain silent for ever.