86
And just as silence fell over the brief reminders of my life in that distant 1945, I fall silent again now as I write, trembling as I search for Jacopo’s name among the papers. I’m afraid I’ve lost the date of his return.
Waiting makes us impervious, distracted … Here it is: 6 August 1945, Hiroshima. Jacopo returned at just that time. Clearly that was why I didn’t note the date. The A-bomb was able to distract even me. Merely a bomb more powerful than the others, they said. And later on, in fact, they gave the name ‘bikini’ to a bathing suit and the uplifting nickname ‘atomic’ to a movie star.
I close my eyes and hear only the memory of that waiting, which draws out the seconds and minutes in a single bleak sound. And I don’t notice ’Ntoni coming toward me on the beach at Villa Suvarita … From a distance — his body strong again, his hair trimmed — he looks like he did many years earlier. But as soon as he comes closer I have to look away to avoid seeing his bitter, unsmiling face.
‘You really missed the sea, didn’t you, Modesta? You don’t even seem concerned about the mines.’
‘Don’t worry, ’Ntoni. I settle for going back and forth along the permitted space. See, there are signs posted. Besides, sooner or later we have to decide to fix up this villa.’
‘It’s seen a lot, poor Suvarita! I haven’t had the heart to go inside yet. Bambù sounds like a madwoman when she talks about it, yet no one can say that Bambù isn’t strong, right, Modesta?’
‘No, that’s for sure.’
‘Is it true that all the walls are smeared and soiled in the room we used as a theatre? Are there bloodstains on the walls?’
‘We cleaned everything, ’Ntoni.’
‘Are the stains gone?’
‘They’re gone.’
‘Good.’
‘Nina helped me.’
‘Nina is the dearest, most beautiful woman I have ever known. Poor Nina! You can tell she’s suffering over her Arminio … how she waited for him! War is atrocious! After the news, she became thin and old. But now she seems like a young girl again. How can it be? How old is she?’
‘I don’t know, ’Ntoni. You know I can never remember anyone’s age.’
‘Where does she get that strength? From her daughter, maybe? She’s certainly a wonderful girl. It would be nice to have a daughter like her! But I think — I spoke with Prando about this and he agrees — I think it will be better, I’d say appropriate, not to have any more children. Not to bring any more unfortunate creatures into the world. What kind of a future can children have in these times? All we needed besides everything else was this bomb, Mody! What a death: disintegrated, pulverized in an instant! Plus, who knows what else they’re not telling us … We owe this to our American friends.’
‘Please, ’Ntoni … it’s really all so sad.
‘Oh, forgive me, Modesta, you’re right, it’s just … I can’t help it! What were we saying? Oh, yes, Nina is fantastic! And can she sing! It’s a shame she wasn’t with us when we used to put on performances; she’d have driven everyone wild. Too bad she didn’t know us then, right, Mody!
‘Let’s go, I can’t stand to see our house destroyed like this. Yet even now, if I stare at it, I can see you all the way you used to be: My mother in those funny outfits, part peasant, part signora. Prando always muddy and tattered, trying to be like Jean Gabin,110 the big snob! Bambù always the prettiest in her white dresses … oh, I can still see her coming down the stairs! Then behind her, the starring couple: the Princess arm in arm with her favourite … even though you never said so, did you, Mody?… arm in arm with her Jacopo, tall, lanky, with his childlike face and old man’s walk … There, now the Princess and her darling deign to come down the stairs. Oh, Modesta, I’m losing my mind, losing it! Look, I see you there, dressed in white, with Jacopo, and yet you’re here. Modesta, help. You look too!’
A deep terror makes me turn toward him at once: his face is ashen, like that of someone who has seen a ghost.
‘Look, I haven’t lost my mind. It’s Bambolina, with Jacopo! It’s him, Modesta, it’s him! There can’t be anyone else that tall but him!’
Can joy transfix you like lightning, and rip through your body? Riveted by that joy, I barely have a chance to see him before I faint in his arms.
When I open my eyes again, years seem to have passed, even though the sea is there, lit by the same dazzling sun.
‘Oh, Mama, thank goodness you’re opening your eyes again! For a moment I thought you had blacked out.’
It’s his voice, but that robust chest, those strong arms that almost lift me off the ground must be Prando’s arms. It’s best not to look; it must be an illusion. I shouldn’t have listened to ’Ntoni and his madness.
‘No, Mama, no, I’m not Prando. Here, look at me closely. I’m Jacopo, can’t you see? It’s this American uniform that’s to blame, but I wanted to come right away rather than waste time changing. Besides, what would I change into, Bambù? Nothing fits me anymore.’
‘Oh yes, Zia, even Prando’s shirts are too tight for him!’
Why don’t I recognize him? Yet Nina had alerted me: ‘Of course, Mody, your Jacopo carried you in his arms all the way when you had the fever.’ But it’s one thing to imagine and another thing to see, to touch. With my hands on that broad chest, I search for my Jacopo. With my palms, I inch slowly up toward the straight, broad shoulders. And only when I meet the grey eyes behind the misted glasses do I find him. It’s ridiculous, I know, and I can see why Bambolina bursts out laughing. But I can’t help taking off his glasses to be sure. Stripped of them, the pupils widen, gentle and shy, and the sad, demure gaze — as Beatrice used to say of Uncle Jacopo’s — stares out at me intently as if from the photograph. ‘Oh yes, if it weren’t for his thinness and that stooped, solemn gait, Uncle Jacopo would have been a very handsome man’… Uncle Jacopo moves off, bent under his burden, while my Jacopo sighs and settles his eyeglasses on his slightly aquiline nose with its thin nostrils.
‘Oh, thank you, Mama, now I can finally see you again! That’s right, Bambolina: I’m really blind as a bat! Just think, from a distance, even with my glasses on, I mistook you for Modesta.’
‘It’s just that she’s all you think about. You see her everywhere.’
‘And what about you, then? A fine welcome! Mama, do you know that until I was right under her nose, she kept staring at me suspiciously?’
‘I mistook him for one of those giant Americans.’
‘You should be ashamed! And how about ’Ntoni, staring at me as if I were a ghost? And you, Mama, so pale you can’t say a word? It’s all because of this damn uniform. Come on, let’s go, I want to take it off. I can’t stand it anymore!’
Gradually, as he speaks, the lightning bolt of joy that struck me dissolves into a happiness I’d never felt before. But as soon as he loosens his hold and starts to let me go, fear of the soft, unsteady sand underfoot makes me say foolishly, ‘No, Jacopo, don’t let me go. Carry me in your arms like you did when you came with Pietro to free me from the island.’ And Bambù laughs.
‘Of course, of course, but do you remember that? How can you? You were delirious.’
‘No, I don’t remember. Nina told me about it.’
‘Of course, Nina! Where is she? I’m really eager to see her again. What a courageous woman, Bambù. You can’t imagine.’
‘Oh, tell us about it, Jacopo, tell us and hold me tight.’
In Jacopo’s arms I listen again to the adventurous stages of our journey, and only now do my senses feel certain that the time in prison, the war, is over. Only now do I hear in his voice that it’s possible to think about a future. Indeed, as Jacopo says, settling me in an armchair and covering me with a shawl … What is he saying?