‘You’re amazed at all those photos of airplanes, aren’t you? The photo above the cot, the one with him in it, I put it there myself, afterwards … All he wanted on the walls were airplanes. That’s why Maman used to say that he didn’t love anyone, only his infernal machines. But it’s not true; he loved me. I was the only one he wanted around after the tragedy. A year he lay paralysed on this cot. He was wounded just three months after the war began. He had enlisted voluntarily. He said the war would end quickly because of the airplanes, and instead … this war is never ending. Why won’t it ever end?… Every afternoon I would come and find him increasingly thinner and paler on this cot, and he would talk to me about the war, about the Socialists, about a certain Mussolini whom he greatly admired: he said he was a man who believed in youth, not in those old men in parliament who pretend they’re taking care of Italy, while instead they’re digging her grave. He loved Italy very much. He smoked constantly, and when he fell silent he would make smoke rings … like men do. But of course, you have no experience with these things. I can tell, you know, that when I talk about men you become distracted, and maybe I shouldn’t speak about them. Still, it’s too bad you didn’t get to know him.’
Dazzled by Ignazio’s good looks as he stared at me from the photograph, I heard my voice say: ‘Too bad…’
Terrified, I glanced at Beatrice, but, captivated by her Ignazio, she hadn’t understood.
‘Yes, unfortunately, because now the family will die out. He was the only male left, the youngest of the Brandiforti. And if he hadn’t let himself get caught up in politics, as Maman says … she’s right about that. What do we Sicilians care about a war that the King of Italy is waging for his own gain? On this point Maman and Uncle Jacopo were in agreement. But Ignazio, up in Rome at the university, got carried away and so he enlisted. He was shot down after only three months. But I already told you that. Sorry. It’s just that I loved him so much. I would read to him. I was the only one he wanted to see. Sometimes he got tired. He turned his head to the wall and I kept silent. Once I was getting up to leave, but he said: “No, stay here, little one. It’s just that I’m tired, but I like knowing you’re there, as long as you aren’t bored.” Bored! I lived for those hours in the afternoon when I came here. After a while, maybe half an hour, twenty minutes, he would turn his head back and I continued reading. I was happy with him…’
At the word ‘happy’, perhaps because she was smiling, her unexpected, desperate tears blinded me. Or had the sun gone down? There was darkness all around. How long had I been listening to her voice? In the dark, in response to her sobbing, I embrace her. She’s trembling all over. I feel her silky hair against my neck and cheek and, what surprises me even more, I begin cradling her, singing something I didn’t know I knew:15
‘Si Beatrice nun voli durmiri coppa nno’ culu sa quantu n’ha aviri…’. If Beatrice won’t go to sleep, whack goes the ladle on her little behind …
And, seeing that a few giggles began to be heard amid the tremors and tears, I continued cradling her, my hands encircling the slimmest, dearest little body that I could ever imagine existed on earth.
25
‘Ooh, ooh, ooh, dormi figghia, fa la “O”. E si Beatrice nun voli durmiri coppa nno’ culu sa quantu n’ha aviri … ooh, ooh, ooh … dormi bedda, fa la “O” … Sleep, little one, go to beddy-bye…’
Beatrice’s ability to go from tears to laughter was something that took my breath away. She was laughing now, curled up in my lap.
‘Do you know why I’m laughing?’
‘How would I know that?’
‘Because you’re singing the same lullaby that my tata used to sing to me.’
‘Your tata?’
‘Yes, my nanny, the wet nurse. They say tata on the continent, and that’s what they taught me to call her. It seems more elegant to them, except that my tata was Sicilian, and I know there’s a bad word in that lullaby.’
‘So you understand Sicilian then?’
‘Of course I understand it. With my tata, when we were alone, ’u parravamu sempri, we always spoke it. I like it a lot, but in our home it’s forbidden: French, English, Italian, anything but Sicilian. So many things my tata told me! She always spoke to me in Sicilian, or rather in Palermitano. She was from Palermo, and she was very proud of it. She hated Catania: “Catanisi soldu fausu,” she always said, “The Catanesi are false.”16 And I enjoyed needling her. She would get angry, but then we laughed and made up. What good times those were, Modesta, there in Catania! The house was always full. They were all alive, then, and we didn’t have this damn war. We came to the villa only in the summer, but here too, the house was always full of people. Ignazio’s friends … if you knew how many he had! And all young. When they came to see him they would shut themselves up in his room and talk loudly, you know, like men do. I always stood behind the door, not to eavesdrop, but I liked to hear the voices and smell the aroma of tobacco that filtered through the cracks. Later they came for dinner or tea with their sisters … Then, in 1915, they began leaving. Everyone said that the war would last only six months, thanks to some extraordinary weapons or other that … Well! Almost two years have gone by and it’s still not over. And the losses aren’t over either … cousin Manfredi died right after Ignazio … as if he had called him. And two months ago Alberto, too, disappeared at the front in … I don’t remember where. And so all the houses are closed up. Those doors draped in black are so sad. Then there was Alessandra’s tragedy, poor child: she was Ignazio’s fiancée.’
She stopped talking, and her head felt heavy on my shoulder.
‘Are you asleep?’
‘No. Why haven’t you asked me about Alessandra?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s really true what Maman says. You were born for the convent. You’re not at all curious. But me, I’m curious about everything! Is it a sin?’
‘Why should it be a sin? Come on, cheer up, don’t be so sad. And to show you it’s not a sin, I’ll admit…’
‘Address me familiarly, as “tu”.’
‘I’ll admit that I’m curious about Alessandra too. So?’
‘But you’re asking without being really interested! Ask me properly! Otherwise I’ll think it’s a sin.’
‘Would you please tell me … What is the tragedy that concerns Alessandra?’
‘Address me as “tu”.’
‘All right, so tell me about it.’
‘She killed herself when she found out that Ignazio was paralysed.’