‘There, that’s it. Look at me with those beautiful eyes. Beautiful and limpid. Think no more about that fire that clouds your gaze. Don’t think about it anymore; pray instead. Pray to Saint Agatha to perform a miracle, to make you forget everything and heal your tormented body and soul.’
‘Who is Saint Agatha?’
6
‘Oh Jesus and Mary, don’t you know? The things one sees in this pitiable country of ours! They haven’t taught you a thing, not a thing. Nothing but misery and suffering. If you promise me you’ll do what Dr Milazzo said…’
‘What did he say?’
‘He told you to forget, forget everything. If you do that, I will teach you…’
The voice promised a warm, gentle lullaby of fragrant sheets and daring adventures of queens and regents, sieges, wars and exploits. In Mother Leonora’s sweet lilting voice, armies advanced with gold and silver breastplates. Enemy troops and savage hordes fled, driven off by her hand, rising toward the sun like the wing of a dove. Dreadful, wicked men, multitudes of godless individuals to be subjugated by the righteous law dictated by the Cross. The small room smelling of sugared almonds was populated with knights and paladins, saints and virgins consecrated to God, who could not be turned against their faith by anyone, despite snares and persecutions. Saint Agatha was very beautiful. I was right to ask who she was. Her severed breasts on a tray made me shudder even more than Mother Leonora’s delicate, gentle hands, which caressed me whenever I had an epileptic seizure.
And I had these seizures often. At least every two or three days. Not more often, or she might become suspicious. Something in her gestures, her voice, told me that she did not touch herself, and that if she found out about me she would surely send me to hell. The story about hell and heaven was really boring, but every so often I had to put up with it; it didn’t last long, after all. And soon enough Saint Agatha would be evoked by Mother Leonora’s raised finger. Tall and fair, she would appear with her wavy, long blond hair falling softly down her garment of blue and silver brocade. Through the gossamer hair, fine as gold dust, her small rosy breasts could be glimpsed.
There was Saint Agatha, coming through the door; and nearby, in a dark corner of the room, before our eyes, two men, black as sin, ripped out those small breasts with red-hot forceps and arranged them, still warm and tremulous, on a silver tray … At that point in the story, Mother Leonora always looked into my eyes and asked: ‘It scared you, didn’t it? Were you scared?’
I understood what her eyes were trying to suggest — eyes blue as the sky illuminated by numerous tiny gold stars — and I began to tremble, but only a little, just enough to make her take me in her arms. In those arms I rested my head on her bosom, feeling its fullness and warmth beneath the white fabric. Mine was still no bigger than two small bumps. ‘How thin and undernourished you are, poor creature! Such a skimpy chest!’ she’d told me. ‘Let’s hope this chest develops, that it grows and develops, since tuberculosis is quick to strike!’
I didn’t like that word, ‘tuberculosis’, or those little bumps: I shuddered at the thought that those bumps might not develop like hers. I trembled, my cheeks buried in that warm, fragrant swelling.
And as the red-hot forceps tore the white fabric and ripped out the tender flesh of her breasts, a thrill of pleasure started up inside me. And when she, seeing me continue to tremble and fearing that I might fall, held me even closer, the thrill became so intense and protracted that I had to clamp my teeth so I wouldn’t scream. Unfortunately this never happened to me again, that is, without even touching myself, as I’d had to do until then.
7
The cool air, smelling of sugared almonds, made me fly through dim corridors, the darkness barely relieved by numerous small whitewashed doors that were always kept closed. Behind them, no doubt, were many small cubicles like mine which the swarm of tall, white-robed women sometimes entered, and sometimes left, their swift, cautious tread so light that it was easier to hear the rustle of their skirts than the sound of their footsteps. Those women were always sighing. Maybe because they never spoke? Or because they didn’t stroke themselves and never saw any men? How long had it been since I myself had seen a man? There was the gardener, but talking to him was forbidden. Sometimes another man came, but he wore a long skirt like the women did, though his was black. I later learned that in addition to a host of women who laboured — as Mother Leonora said — to spread the word of God on earth, there was also a host of men who, again in Mother Leonora’s words, were mankind’s blessing. Afterwards I realized that these men who wore skirts were the priests of whom my mother always spoke so lovingly, the ones Tuzzu’s father hated, often calling them ‘filthy priests, fucking priests, asshole priests’. Such wicked words! Mother Leonora had been right to scold me that time, but I had just arrived then and didn’t know any better. What was it I had said? Oh, yes: ‘damn it’. From that day on, I abandoned all those bad words without any regret. It wasn’t easy — even though I tried to forget them, I couldn’t get them out of my head — but I devised a system, a discipline, to use Mother Leonora’s word (such a beautiful word, though, ‘discipline’). Every time I felt them rising in my throat, I bit my tongue. The pain made me forget them. I had no regrets. From Mother Leonora’s tender, rosy lips — sometimes she let me touch them — I learned so many beautiful new words that at first, listening closely so I could catch them all, my head would spin and I felt breathless. Tomorrow morning, too, who knows how many I will learn?… I must sleep, that way it will soon be light. And with the light, in that room lined with cupboards as high as the ceiling, with windows so clean that it seemed there was no glass, Mother Leonora would begin to speak, standing upright, pointer in hand in front of those immense cupboards. Except that instead of cups and plates and glasses, like in Mama’s cupboard, Mother Leonora’s shelves were full of books. And those books were full of all those words and stories that Mother Leonora taught me. I wonder if she’s read them all?
‘So many books, Mother! Have you read them all?’
‘What are you saying, you silly little thing! I’ve studied, yes, I know some things, but I’m not a learned scholar. Only the doctors of the Church hold all the world’s knowledge in their hands.’
‘I’m going to become a scholar too!’
‘What a silly creature you are! What good would it do you, being a female? A woman can never attain the wisdom of a man.’
‘What about Saint Teresa then?’
‘But Saint Teresa, as the word “saint” tells you, was one of God’s chosen, you silly little thing! Be careful not to fall into the sin of conceit. It pleases me to see how much you like to study and I certainly have to admit that your memory and determination are uncommon. But be careful, because intelligence can lead you to fall into the dark web of sin. Pray and embroider, besides studying! Embroider and pray. Embroidery accustoms you to humility and obedience, which are the only sure defences against sin. And while we’re on the subject: Sister Angelica has complained. She says you’re not as attentive at the embroidery hoop as you are with me and at the piano. She was very resentful about this apathy of yours. Try to make her happy in the future. Sister Angelica knows much more about humility than we do, and only from her patient hands can you learn it. I worry about your intelligence … you’re a female … a woman … Sister Angelica…’
When she spoke like that her voice rose shrilly, almost like Mama’s voice. But it was pointless to contradict her; she didn’t understand. How could I apply myself with Sister Angelica? She was so homely that she almost reminded me of Tina. At the piano it was different. Sister Teresa, though she was neither beautiful nor homely, spoke through her hands. She made such sweet sounds come from the keyboard that it was like listening to Mother Leonora’s voice …