He was kind, that coachman, and once she sat up straight, the automobile ran so swiftly that Mother Costanza would never be able to catch up with a carriage that, as Mimmo said, ran faster than the wind.
Repeating to myself I have to sit up straight; otherwise the man inside the glass enclosure will stop again, I fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes the glass enclosure was still full of light. But there was no sign of the gentleman … the driver, that’s what he was called. The automobile was still moving, however. Placing her hand on the wall to feel the velvet again, she felt something silky smooth instead. That unexpected touch made her open her eyes. She was no longer in the small, dark velvet room speeding along. This one was stationary and was much larger, and the walls, though covered with fabric like those of the automobile, did not have those little windows all around, only a single, very large one, barely shielded by a length of white transparent cloth. Just like the wedding veil the novices wore when they went to the altar for the divine marriage ceremony.
She wanted to jump out of bed and run to look outside, but she restrained herself. Who knew if it was permitted by the rules of the house? She had learned to be prudent, and although her stomach began complaining of hunger, she stayed where she was and settled for just moving her eyes. Her suitcase wasn’t there, but her books were arranged neatly on a small desk, so glossy it looked like glass. The picture of Saint Agatha hung above her, a little below the large crucifix in the middle of the wall. Her smock was arranged so carefully on a small chair at the foot of the bed that if it had had a head it would have seemed that she was sitting there watching herself. Slipping her hands under the blanket, she felt her coarse nightgown and the bands binding her chest. Her hair had been spared, but those bands, it seemed, she had to keep. Never mind! But who could have arranged everything so neatly while she slept? As if in answer to her question, the door opened and a young girl wearing a smock and a white cap — had she ended up in another convent? — entered the room, smiling. The smile reassured her: she had never heard of being allowed to smile like that in convents, brazenly showing one’s teeth.
‘Please excuse me, signorina, the Princess wishes you a good morning and wants to know if you slept well and if you’re satisfied with the way I arranged your things.’
I didn’t know what to say. Could I speak, or was it better to remain silent? But seeing that her smile was wilting into a pout, I got up my courage and said: ‘Very satisfied.’
The smile reappeared.
‘Thank you, signorina, I will let the Princess know. The Princess asks me to tell you that you may do whatever you wish: go out, walk in the garden, explore the library, the music room. And if you’re hungry, you may go down to the kitchen where you will find the cook at your disposal … Here is a sheet of paper. It’s for you, so that you will know how to act. May I go now? If you need me, pull that cord to your left and I will come right away. I’m very swift, signorina, so swift that the Princess has honoured me by calling me Argentovivo, Quicksilver. She never calls me by my real name, only that one. Oh, by the way, my name is Luigia. The fact is, I’m not from here. And as the Princess says — I myself would never presume to pass judgement on the town I live in — the women here are slow, if not somewhat lazy … As I was saying, I was born in Tuscany, in Poggibonsi, to be exact. There, signorina, if you don’t hustle, you don’t eat, my dear signorina …
And was she ever quick! Within seconds she had rattled off all those words with a smile, while rearranging anything she didn’t feel was quite in order. She drew the curtains, tying them back with a perfect bow, then disappeared from sight, leaving me blinded by the sun, holding that sheet of paper, light and delicate as silk — was the whole house made of silk? — on which a tiny, flawless script told me the times when I was permitted to leave that room. I was allowed to go anywhere, but only during the hours which the pen had written elegantly but firmly on that precious piece of paper.
21
The entire house wasn’t made of silk, but almost. There were wooden doors and tables, velvet drapes. Outside, however, everything was made of marble: staircases, fountains and statues that, when you least expected them, peeped out from a green niche, not marble of course, but leaves and flowers so lovely that if Mimmo could see them he would be wild with joy. No, better that he wasn’t there to see them; he would have felt bad. He was so proud of his geraniums, even though he grumbled: ‘Eh, princess, there are flowers that are more beautiful. I wish with all my heart that one day you may see them as I did in Catania … If you could see that villa! I was in Catania when I was a soldier. But here, amid the lava, on this meagre scrap of land that we manage to reclaim from it, we have to grow beans, tomatoes, things to eat…’
As Mimmo had wished for her, she now saw those flowers. Sometimes she even touched them, but she didn’t know their names. And after days and days of that silky silence which made her slip from her room into the corridor, and out to the garden, she found the courage to enter the library to find the names of those flowers. She had been right: there were huge volumes full of illustrations where you could find all of them if you looked.
All the names were in Latin. She had to learn them by heart. Now she had something to keep her busy: going from the library to the garden, from the garden to the library to engrave all those strange, difficult names firmly on her mind.
Mimmo always told the truth. Those plants truly were beautiful. If only he were there to break the silence with his sturdy, unhurried voice! Instead, there were only the rushed words of that frivolous creature from the continent, who raced around the room always saying the same things. She didn’t even listen to her anymore. Or rather she stopped listening to her, until she said:
‘The Princess is very pleased to know that you are less sad, and that you go to the library.’
So then, the house wasn’t deserted. They knew what she was doing. Heartened by it, she even dared to enter the music room that day, and with trembling hands, opened the lid of the piano that was at least three times longer than the one in the convent; it wasn’t brown, but black and shiny like the marble columns of the entry staircase. The brilliant gloss was intimidating, but she couldn’t stand that silky silence anymore, so she resumed her practice. Could she be disturbing anyone? At the convent they only allowed her one hour. Her eyes and her fingers were entranced by the whiteness and pliancy of those keys. She barely had to touch them and the sound rang out powerful and pure like an organ. It wasn’t a piano — or maybe, as with the automobile, there were three of them hidden under that long hood …
‘The Princess bids you good morning and asks me to tell you that you have a marvellous touch. She also said that she admires how you have resumed studying and practising the piano, despite your grief over what happened … The Princess would like to know if the food in our house is to your liking and why you don’t take tea at five o’clock. Oh! I see, at the convent they didn’t take tea … Forgive me, signorina, but the Princess has instructed me to measure your shoulders and waist and the circumference of your chest. What’s this you’re wearing under your shirt, signorina? Why is it so tight? Oh, of course, the convent’s rules. I will report it to the Princess if I may … The Princess asks if you would please — provided you don’t mind too much — she asks that you please take off those bands for a moment so that I can take the exact measurement of your chest … The Princess asked me if you have a photograph of yourself. No photographs? Of course: the convent. Too bad. The Princess asks me to tell you that, knowing how devout you are, she has ordered the driver to take you to Mass tomorrow morning in the village. Only since it’s a two-hour drive she would like to know if you prefer to go to the eight o’clock Mass or the one at noon … at eight? Very well, I’ll tell her.’