‘Modesta! You weren’t listening to me! You mustn’t let your mind wander like that when you are being scolded. It’s a sign that the devil is flirting with you, making it hopeless for us to try to straighten your young branches, which are inclined toward darkness rather than the light. A child is a fragile plant that tends to be weak-willed and playful. Only by securing it tightly with the cords of discipline can you make it grow straight, its body and soul free of deformities. This distraction of yours is indeed a sin. Go to the chapel after class and recite ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers! That way you’ll learn to listen when you are scolded.’
Sinfulness! The devil! She was truly tiresome when she acted like that and even her face changed: it got withered and twisted. That was why Modesta looked away, not to see her that way. She only wanted to see her beautiful.
‘Modesta! What are you looking at? Did you hear me?’
‘I heard.’
She had to be patient, and besides, those awful words like ‘evil’, ‘hell’, ‘obedience’, ‘sin’, didn’t go on for long. She knew how to put a stop to those protests: all she had to do was lower her eyes and start crying. It was a bit taxing. But afterwards, Mother Leonora’s voice, composed again and sweet as always, would once more start murmuring beautiful words, like ‘infinity’, ‘blue’, ‘gentle’, ‘celestial’, ‘magnolias’… How beautiful the names of flowers were: ‘geraniums’, ‘hydrangeas’, ‘jasmine’… what marvellous sounds! Now once she wrote the words down on the blank page, in black and white, she would never lose them, never again forget them. They were hers, hers alone. She had stolen them, stolen them from all those books, through Mother Leonora’s mouth.
8
And she had to steal more of them, accumulate as many as possible even there in that enormous room they called the parlour; it was the only room in the convent with tall windows, full of gilded furniture. Amid the glitter of gold, the black piano held precious notes and chords free for the taking. All she had to do was follow Sister Teresa’s voice, not sweet like Mother Leonora’s, but really rather coarse.
‘Today after the vocal drills and the piano exercises we will also learn to write the notes … Oh, what is it this morning, my child? Your eyes are so radiant that you look like the Virgin Mary being lifted up to everlasting glory by the angels. Ah, youth, how beautiful and resplendent it is!’
‘It’s not youth, Sister Teresa: it’s that after months and months of promising and putting it off, Mother Leonora is going to show me the stars.’
‘I’m glad. You see, being good and obedient has quickly brought you a reward!’
Actually, not so quickly. For months she had toiled over that damn embroidery frame under the harpy-like eyes of that shrewish Sister Angelica.
‘“Only good bringeth forth good!”5 And tonight you will go … it’s tonight you’re going, isn’t it? You will go with her where none of us has ever set foot. Actually, I should say “has never laid eyes”, because it’s about seeing with your eyes!’
‘Not even you, Sister Teresa?’
‘Good heavens, no! Aside from the fact that going round and round up that iron staircase would make me drop from vertigo before reaching the top of that slender tower. How slender it is! It may be my impression, but when it’s windy, it appears to sway like a banner. Then too, I don’t suffer from insomnia. I sleep at night, by God’s grace, and I wouldn’t trade my sleep for all the stars in the firmament.’
‘What does insomnia have to do with it, if I may ask?’
‘It has everything to do with it! And don’t act so simpering with me. “May I” this, “may I” that. Save all that decorum for Mother Leonora.’
‘So what does insomnia have to do with it?’
‘It has a lot to do with it.’
‘How?’
‘If I say it does, it does! You’re so pig-headed! Come on, vocal exercises. Let’s go. Forget insomnia and do your scales.’
‘But isn’t insomnia the malady that afflicts you at night and doesn’t let you sleep?’
‘Of course! It’s the malady that props your eyelids open with its iron claws and won’t let you close your eyes, or, as they say, will not grant you the blessing of sleep.’
‘But isn’t it the malady that by the hand of God strikes those who are in mortal sin?’
‘What are you saying! Who tells you such nonsense? Oh, you haven’t been speaking to the gardener, have you?’
I had spoken with Mimmo, but I replied promptly: ‘No! God forbid! I never speak to men!’
‘A proper answer! So was it that prattler Sister Angelica? Don’t listen to her. That woman has ruined her eyesight with her embroidery and all she sees are tangles of colour … Well! Never mind. We’re not here to embroider. Come on, sing your scales now, in groups of four: one, two, three, four, one…’
‘Who is it, then, who suffers from insomnia?’
‘Stubborn as a mule, she is, oh! A real horse fly, this picciridda is, when she wants to know something. It’s partly true that insomnia is a punishment that God inflicts on those who have sinned. But sometimes — though rarely — it’s like a warning, an alarm bell for those who possess great intelligence and, without insomnia cautioning them to beware, might fall into sins of presumption, of … What do I care about sins! Let Mother Leonora tell you about them. All I know about are notes! The convent’s physician says that all great minds suffer from insomnia and that it’s also hereditary. But that fellow is a heretic, and except for castor oil or some pill, it’s best not to listen to him.’
‘Ah! Then it’s Mother Leonora who suffers from insomnia?’
‘Exactly, and when this malady struck her — I think it was two or three years after she came here to fill the position vacated by Mother Giovanna, who died … never mind how she died, may God forgive her! — a medical specialist, sent from Palermo only in exceptional cases, after examining and re-examining her obtained the bishop’s dispensation for her to bring her father’s telescope here. He was a great astronomer. And she installed it on the tower. The dispensation also stated that she could spend as many hours as she wished studying the stars, like her father. That, too, is a family affliction. It’s inherited along with intelligence, wealth and power. You should know that Mother Leonora is from one of the oldest noble families on our island, one of the most affluent. I can’t tell you the name because, as you know, when we take the vows we no longer have family members nor … Are you surprised? Your surprise tells me how many acts of humility Mother Leonora must have performed in her heart to cleanse away the arrogance she must have had. I saw her mother, once. Such arrogance! Beautiful, like her, the same eyes, same forehead, same nose. And then, you too: why do you think you were able to stay here after that night when Tuzzu and his father brought you here? They say it was because the convent was close by, but I think it was because they were afraid of the police … So why do you think you were allowed to stay here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, that’s a good one! She doesn’t know! It was because of Mother Leonora’s influence! If you only knew how she fought, afterwards, to keep you here and not send you to some orphanage with its bedbugs and hunger. Of course, I shouldn’t say that, because the orphanages too are run by nuns, but you know how I am: I can’t help speaking plainly. The fact is that these orphanages are run by nuns from poor families, of low extraction. Lower-class individuals who come from rural areas or from the same wretched orphanages. It’s not like it is here. This, too, is something I shouldn’t say — may God forgive me — but here there isn’t one of us who isn’t the daughter of a baron at least. Even the immensely wealthy have never interfered in here and never will.’