‘You’re sad too, Nina, come on!’
‘It’s because the party’s over, I think.’
‘It’s not because of the party and you know it.’
‘Of course, you have to admit that it seemed more like a farewell party than a welcome home party.’
‘When Prando stalked off that way, I had the same feeling I had when he left for the war.’
‘Certainly, imprisoned down on the island, we weren’t hoping for such a quick end to Fascism. We were thinking of a different kind of peace.’
‘That’s exactly right, Nina.’
‘And yet my father and his old buddies had warned us.’
‘Yes, you told me many times, and Maria down in Catania said so as well.’
‘I’m afraid comrade Angelo was right.’
‘Angelo who?’
‘Angelo Tasca, when he said back then that with the Lateran Treaty, the Church wasn’t so much forming an alliance with Fascism as preparing to assume its legacy … Oh, damn! You startled me, Bambolina! Are you all crazy, appearing like ghosts and turning on the light so abruptly?’
‘Are you angry, Nina?’
‘No, no! But I have to say something. Sorry. It must be because of being in prison; six years take their toll, after all! Every time the light is suddenly switched on or someone yells, it makes me jump. May I ask what you were all doing, going up and down the stairs? Hey, don’t tell me something serious has happened?’
‘It’s just that we had to make some decisions, Nina, Zia … Or rather, Jacopo had to make them because I can’t do it. I … I’d dreamt of this moment so often. I was so happy! All of us here together like before, and instead … oh, Nina, I can’t believe it! Just reunited and we have to…’
‘Come, sweetheart, come. Don’t cry. What am I saying? Cry, cry, let it all out here in Nina’s arms.’
Bambolina sobs in her arms, and her shoulders, toughened by the outdoor air and sunshine, become fragile and tremulous again, shaken by those sobs. Nina holds her gently, tenderly. She knows, as I knew, that that slim waist, barely marked by a black patent-leather belt, can break under the pressure of a harsh gesture, an unkind word. Like my Beatrice, Bambolina strives for absolute joy as a natural right, and she knows how to achieve it and how to offer it to others. Even Mattia, who slowly enters through the French door and looks at me gravely — why hadn’t I noticed him before? — even he, despite the problem with his heart, seems like a young man again, his skin and his gaze soothed by Bambù’s caresses.
‘Happiness is a right.’ Yes, Carlo, like bread, water, sunshine. And together we will fight for Bambolina and for little Beatrice who, we can already see, ‘lacks the shrewdness and ruthlessness needed to fight, which fortunately you have, Modesta’.
Jacopo studies an overturned pitcher, trying not to listen to Bambolina’s sobs. ‘Oh, Mama, when I hear a woman cry I want to die. I can’t take it!’ Jacopo, his tall body once erect, now humbled, takes off his glasses and wipes them. Jacopo, like Bambolina, lacks shrewdness and ruthlessness. It’s for them that we must fight, Carlo, only for them … for that Carluzzu, who fell asleep on the sofa and is now rubbing his eyes, staring at the chandelier. ‘… Well, Mama, with this child about to be born to Stella and Prando, we’re at the fourth generation of atheists. I know you don’t like the word, but four generations are already almost a nobility.’ ‘What do you mean, Jacopo?’ ‘Uncle Jacopo, then you, Mama, then me, Prando and Bambù. And Carluzzu makes four…’
Look at him there: a big-boned little man, sliding off the sofa and running, dazed, toward his aunt. In that wide-eyed gaze you can read everything, those eyes still full of the earlier fun and games, the cheerful singing. Clearly undecided whether to leave the joy behind and cry too, he clings to Bambolina’s skirt, asking for help in his own way. The tiny hands have the power to rouse Bambù, who lets go of Nina and exclaims: ‘Ma che semu pazzi, are we all crazy in this house! Carluzzu, what did they do, abandon you? Just look at that, forgetting about such a sweet piccioletto! My little one, my little kitten! What are we today, eh, Carluzzo? Come, tell your aunt what you are today: a kitten or a little ant?’
‘I’m a sciccareddu today, Zia, a little donkey.’
‘You mean an asinello, right, Carluzzu? Sooner or later, we have to learn an Italian word or two, don’t we?’
‘Asinello, ’u sacciu. I know the song too: Sciccareddu di lu me cori…’112
‘Oh, Zia, when you were away I thought I might be mistaken, but now seeing you two side by side … Did you know that Carluzzu looks just like you?’
‘Well, what a surprise, Bambù! Prando is Mody’s son.’
‘Of course, of course, Nina. But Prando doesn’t resemble Modesta. And you Carluzzu, do you love your nonna?’
Carluzzu doesn’t answer and stares at me, serious. Indeed, I was a grandmother … how did it feel? Nina had asked me many times, but I had no answer. Even now, with that overly serious face, the big wide eyes staring at me, I don’t feel anything, but I’m beginning to understand. Up till now, my inattention toward the last born concealed envy toward someone whose youth reminds you of a time that is past for you, and of a future that you will not live to see owing to biological constraints. And everyone’s insistence on the fact that that small creature looked so much like me? Sensing an old person’s envy which, if badly directed, might explode, they were probably trying to arouse my tenderness in order to protect him. His little face, so intent on studying me, was further confirmation of my conclusion: Modesta must seem tall to him, powerful … like Nonna Gaia, Nonna Valentina. Of course, it would be easy to intimidate and dominate him with authority, just as it would be easy to suffocate him with excessive love, thereby protecting oneself against the ever-present threat of a ‘league against abominable grandmothers’.
‘Just look at them, Jacopo: two peas in a pod!’
How can I resist the temptation of power that makes my brow throb now that he, perhaps sensing my doubt and confusion, smiles with my smile and touches his hand to my face to feel through my flesh where the danger, or tenderness, of my being lies? His palm reads me, and as soon as I decide not to use that power, the little hand gains strength and pretends to slap me.
‘You must like your nonna, don’t you, if you do that! He always does that when he likes someone, even with Olimpia.’
‘Olimpia! Where is Olimpia?’
‘It’s really an obsession. Always fixated on Olimpia! Just look at him. That’s always the way: first a slap, then he kisses you.’
I feel like I’ve been able to strip the word nonna off my skin — or transform it into something small and tender like him.
‘Oh Zia, he’s just like you: always restless, always up to something, and he asks so many questions! You must have been like that as a little girl. I can just see you! And then too, he has a mania for dragging…’
‘Dragging, Bambù?’
‘Yes, he drags tree limbs, gathers leaves, and he never stops asking questions. He’s alert, intelligent, but what worries me is his fear that everyone may disappear at any moment. What do you think, Jacopo? Could it be because of the war? Because he saw you all leave one after the other?’
‘That could be. But at the moment it’s ’Ntoni we need to worry about. Right now he’s sleeping, but he’s in bad shape, worse than you think. And as I told you earlier upstairs, your loving care, your words, won’t help him. He needs medical care and that’s that. The soul can fall ill just like the body. He was wounded inside and the wound will only heal with the help of a physician who specializes in these things. It’s not solely because of the war, the concentration camp, as you thought. There’s also Stella…’