Jacopo’s voice becomes uncertain, stammering. It’s time to act. As if Pietro has understood my intention — maybe from my stride, certainly not from the smiling expression on my face — I find him standing silently by my side, and I hear myself say, ‘Oh, Inès, a pleasure to see you! Come, let’s not ruin this party in Jacopo’s honour. Our Jacopo is happy. You should be happy as well. Come, let’s hug. It’s also been a long time since we’ve seen one another.’
Rigid and hostile in my arms, she whispers, ‘Jacopo is mine, mine alone, and I don’t like this slut. Why was she holding him so tight?’
‘All right, Inès, you’re here now, aren’t you? Stay with your Jacopo … and you, Nina, come and see how amazing Carluzzu has become. He says he can sing like Crispina. Let’s see if it’s true. You too, Pietro, you were certainly right: your Crispina must study music. You were right about that other matter as welclass="underline" we’ve wasted too much time, we must resolve things.’
‘Of course, Mody! I’m relieved to hear it, and with your permission everything will be arranged in the best possible way.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Pietro.’
‘What’s wrong with that Inès, Mody? Why did she get so incensed? Is she in love with Jacopo, maybe?’
‘Come on, Nina! Have you forgotten she’s his mother?’
‘Oh, right. But how does that change things?’
‘Territorialism. You invaded her colony!’
‘Hell, Mody, you’ve restored my good mood! Olimpia, come here, my precious colony! My adored Somalia, my Abyssinia! You crack me up, Mody! I’d like to write a song about it and sing it in the streets … Oh Bambuccia, there you are, finally! Where were you hiding? Come and hear your aunt’s latest … Come, you too, with your lands, your plantations! How is your colony?’
Nina and Bambolina laugh, and Bambù goes along with that amiable moment. And when Nina, looking around the crowded room, exclaims: ‘Where is your chosen twin? Your ’Ntoni? Uh-oh! Something has happened here. It’s the first time I’ve seen you two apart,’ Bambolina answers calmly: ‘’Ntoni had a slight indisposition, but he’s asleep now. I think it’s best to let him sleep. But afterwards, Zia, later on, when this delightful impromptu party is over, ’Ntoni has asked to speak with Jacopo.
‘Now let’s go get more wine, Nina. What kind of hostess are you, for heaven’s sake! Don’t you see they’ve drained every drop and are looking for wine and other drinks as if they were dying of thirst?’
* * *
‘So, Mama, will you make up your mind or not? Are you going to run for deputy, yes or no? You’d be at the top of the list. Down in Catania, they’re insisting on it. It would be a matter of pride for us: a communist deputy, a Sicilian woman, in Rome. Plus, I would love to have my mamma bambina side by side with me.’
‘No, Prando. Joyce wrote to me as welclass="underline" no! Despite the fact that we have only a little money, and a salary wouldn’t hurt. But if they pay you — and from what I’ve seen, the pay isn’t paltry — they become your masters and tie your hands. No, Prando, I want to be free to speak.’
‘You’re unpredictable, Mama, as unpredictable as you are irritating! The communist cause…’
‘I enrolled, didn’t I? I support it. In fact, since I’ve discovered this gift of public speaking that I didn’t know about…’
‘Oh, you’re simply fantastic!’
‘Fine, I’ll work for you, but on a grassroots leveclass="underline" in the piazzas, with the crowds, not in a building where there are already a great many of you to defend us.’
‘That’s true too. Young people don’t know how to speak in public. It’s strange.’
‘Twenty years of silence have an effect.’
‘In fact, the few who are able to speak are those who did so like me at the Littoriali — that is, in a Fascist setting.’
‘Exactly. So you’ll fill a void with me. Is it a deal, Prando?’
‘Still, I’m a little sorry. I dreamed of seeing you there in Rome alongside Joyce.’
‘Such a fine party, wasn’t it, Prando?’
‘Oh, wonderful! Whenever a party is unplanned, it turns out well.’
‘Too bad it’s over, right, Nina?’
‘Too bad. But why haven’t Jacopo and Bambù come back? They’ve been up there with ’Ntoni for an hour. I’m a little worried.’
‘Here they come. I’m off.’
‘Why, Prando? Stay! Don’t you want to hear about ’Ntoni?’
‘Hey, Nina, excuse me but I have other things to do than worry about these spoiled picciriddi and their crises!’
Prando gets up slowly and heads for the French door; on the way, he rights an overturned chair upholstered in red silk. For an instant, the silk focuses the sunset’s hundred tongues of fire and those of his hair; for a moment, his tall, lithe body pauses as he stares in silence at the tables full of glasses, pitchers, dishes … Maybe he noticed the dismay in our eyes over what he said. Perhaps he, too, was somewhat struck by his own words, since he is moved to add, ‘It was lovely, Mama! A party after years and years! I should give you all a hand cleaning up, but, well … I have to run. Forgive me. See you later.’
‘What can I say, Mody? No offence to anyone, but the more I see of these men, the happier I am to have had a little girl. Tell me, didn’t you have him read Voltaire?’
‘Of course I did!’
‘Are you sure? Including the terms “fanaticism”, “tolerance”? If I were in government, I’d see to it that the various Prandos were settled down nice and comfortably, amid fresh meadows and spouting water fountains, and I would make them read over and over again what Voltaire said about fanaticism … What a fanatic, wow! As if he were the only one who had gone to war!’
‘Oh Nina, you make me feel cheerful again. Do you know what I would do if I were in government?’
‘What would you do?’
‘I would give a lifelong income to people like you who have the talent to cheer others up.’
‘Don’t even mention income, please! What can I do to earn a living? Shit, the only thing I’m experienced in is prisons! Say, Mody, isn’t there some school where I can teach that subject?’
‘Stop, Nina, or I’ll die laughing!’
‘But there should be, or it should be created. Because, well, Fascism is over but the prisons are still there. Yesterday I took a little stroll through Catania … those prisons must be protected by God! Everything destroyed, Mody, bombed, but the prison is untouched, as if nothing had happened … But what are those kids doing? Those carusi, as you people say. I really like carusi, meschini, picciotti … There, I could study Sicilian and go teach it abroad.’
‘Abroad, Nina?’
‘Sure, in Italy … It’s given you some bitter disappointments, hasn’t it, this Italy! Tell me, Mody, couldn’t we have gone directly from the earlier little states to socialism?’
‘Apparently not, Nina.’
‘A pity! But what on earth are they doing? They’ve been standing there chatting on the stairs for an hour … Now look at that, instead of coming down, they’re going back up. Hell, who can understand them! Daytime parties are really nice, but like everything else, they have their downside: the sun sinks, and after the warmth of all that company the shadows deepen and you think … you think about the fact that there’s an entire night ahead of you, and melancholy slips in en pointe like a sad ballerina. You too, Mody, shit! If I don’t fire up the engines to make you smile … I see you, don’t you realize it? Even in the dark I see you. It may be because I feel like I’ve spent a hundred years with you! I see you all huddled and pale, as if harbouring bitter thoughts. My beautiful, sad Mody, what’s come over you?’