Now, the Emperor of the fourth Arcanum of the Tarot does not have a sword or any other weapon. He rules by means of the sceptre, and by the sceptre alone. This is why the first idea that the Card naturally evokes is that of the authority underlying law.
Slave and princess, beloved and prisoner, daughter and lover: Aida, suspended between opposites, appeared to me in the theater incomplete and fickle, while I was disoriented by Amneris, the deceived, who, by means of signs visible only to intuition, discovers the affair between her slave and her beloved. I was on her side, the embittered, abandoned, and betrayed Amneris, the heroine thrust into the tragedy of another woman, who steals her fiancé along with the place of honor in her story. I was vexed by the female rivalry stirred up by the text, I was annoyed that two women had to fight over a man, a soldier who wasn’t even so valuable, who had already proved unworthy of one and might have disappointed the other as well: both seemed like marionettes controlled by the power of men, incited to hatred of each other and dragged into ruin.
During the performance, Grandmother never once turned to look at me. Everything about her behavior was unusual; even the way she greeted me when I arrived at her house had struck me. She was irritated, she said, because I had refused to take the earlier train and now we might be late. I had never known her angry with me, and apologized in confusion. I placed my bag on the bed in the guest room and changed quickly, instinctively choosing, between the two outfits I had brought, the one with the higher neck, which covered me more fully. The theater was near her house, and during the short walk Grandmother didn’t say a word to me, greeting friends and acquaintances but continuing to ignore me.
I tried to concentrate on the performance, on my vexation with Verdi’s opera, which couldn’t be shared, on my solitary doubts about what concerned my family and my desires. I tried again to find a way to enjoy the opera, but it seemed impossible. Compelled to be on Aida’s side, we were obliged to hate Amneris, as if she were an enemy and not also a victim of conventions, a woman who had to become an informer to save herself from the humiliation of betrayal, because the man she should have married loved someone else. Only marriage legitimized a woman’s life, it was said, and if it was true for Princess Amneris certainly it must be for me who was no one.
There was a note of grotesque unreality on the painted faces of the actors, fake Ethiopians who crowded the stage with coal-colored faces, artificial imitations of children in the illustrations in the Giornalino della Domenica that entertained me on dark winter afternoons. Here Aida seemed one of those caricatures, just a little older, but she was played by an actress with diaphanous skin: the coloring dripped off with the sweat, and her lost, slightly mystical gaze moved gracefully from the stage to the audience, as if wishing to apologize for the embarrassment that was coming out of her, precisely her, with her body and her complexion. If with half my brain I followed the performance, with the other I invented a form for the actors’ silences, I deconstructed the story, I inserted myself between the person and the character, I opened the gap between the invented story and the life, I felt worry and intolerance flying over our heads, beyond the orchestra and the boxes of the Vittorio Emanuele, beyond the square and the Palazzata, beyond the Strait, where I, too, would have liked to flee. The tenor more than once sought my gaze, or at least so I wanted to think, interpreting that gesture in the dark through my wish to exist, to be seen.
My grandmother was never distracted from the stage and never touched my arm while we were sitting beside each other; at the intermission she merely rose, assuming that I would follow her, and ordered two glasses of mint liqueur without asking me what I wanted. With an ill grace I swallowed that cold drink, unsuited to the season: her favorite drink, not mine—I liked the amaro Ferro China. My grandmother’s new hostility disoriented me, but I bided my time and said to myself that I would ask her about it calmly, not, certainly, in the lobby, where we were surrounded by people who treated her like a queen and looked at me with greedy, searching curiosity. What was Signora Ruello’s granddaughter up to, why wasn’t she engaged yet, and why did she always come to the city by herself?
When the final act arrived, I wasn’t on the side of Aida or Amneris but was hoping that the color, dripping yet again, would free the faces of the singers and the truth would be bared by the staging. While the odor of death advanced from the stage, my grandmother, hair gathered on her neck, and on her lap the embroidered purse, was moved, in harmony with the rest of the audience: a euphoric energy roused the spectators, and the last word and the last note evoked immediate applause. Grandmother was the first to jump to her feet, weeping along with the others at the death of two lovers buried alive.
Long live love, the voices around me sighed, long live love and long live the nation; the curtain fell on the cave of Aida and Radamès, and Amneris prayed on their grave, shedding tears of forgiveness or regret.
Outside the warm, magnificent night awaited us.
The new electrical system in Reggio produced a luminous reflection in the Strait, and the cities joined by that wake were closer than ever: the moon and the stars seemed to have moved from the sky to the sea, and the entire Milky Way was floating on it. I would have liked to swim amid the water lilies of light, strip off my coat and skirt, loosen my corset, throw off the hat, abandon my shoes on the cliffs, and give my body to the sirens. I wanted to sink in the currents like Cola, the boy with the fish tail, then return to the surface and swim to Calabria, abandoning on the island everything that had to do with my appearance: the carapaces that bound and disguised me, the fabrics that constrained me to an unnatural aesthetic, my gestures and voices when speaking to my family—my father and now, too, my grandmother. Swimming, I would get to the other side and be saved.
In fact I had never crossed the Strait. Of the world I knew only my town and my city; not even the opposite coast was permitted. For a long time I’d wanted to go to Reggio to admire the magic of the ancient Aragonese castle, and I’d asked permission to take the ferry to watch the inauguration of the lights that everyone was talking about, but my father had answered as he always did: it’s not the moment, we don’t have time. For my father it was never the moment, the right time, and he didn’t even add a future, a word to let me hope that one day a different calendar would be there for me. He blocked the answer and moved on: my voice and my question didn’t exist.
Meanwhile, in the square there was a continuous clasping and kissing of hands, praise of the performers’ skill, greetings sent to the family members who had stayed home, what they’d missed, that Aida had been a marvel, so many tears we’d shed, and the two buried alive, what a harrowing image, what a cruel end. Someone had put some chairs in the street for those who had to wait for the end of the leave-taking ceremonies among the worldly, a few old people sat down, a pregnant woman, and me. I had my back to the theater’s façade and was looking again at the sea, when an unknown voice called me by name. Before me was the handsomest creature I’d ever seen, so handsome he cut off my breath and blew it away.
“Barbara, I apologize if I’m disturbing you,” said a young man. He had a pale complexion, greenish eyes, and fine brown hair, and was dressed with sober elegance. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I’ve seen you at the university. You’re brave to come there—why don’t you come to Professor Salvemini’s classes, too?”
So someone was aware of my forays into academe. It wasn’t enough to sit in the back rows like the sister of a student, avoid taking notes so as not to arouse curiosity, leave a little before the end and slip immediately into the street, to go to Grandmother’s house. Someone had seen me and understood that I was there not to wait but to listen.
The creature apologized for bothering me and introduced himself. His name was Vittorio Trimarchi, and he was the assistant of the legendary historian Gaetano Salvemini: for a cultured girl the professor’s lectures would be interesting, he insisted, and then he could come and get me and bring me home if it was a problem to go out alone. He would reserve a seat apart for me, no one would bother me, a seat for the entire duration of the course. He said other things, but I was stunned and missed whole sentences. I could think only: a seat just for me at the university, an invisible plate with my name stamped on it. And also: that creature who responded to the name of Vittorio Trimarchi knows who I am, has observed me, has seen me, his large emerald eyes reflecting my figure, my soul. I thanked him and said I would think about it, I would have to ask my family for permission, because I lived in Scaletta Zanclea and spent most of my time there, and if I came to Messina it was only for short periods. But I was strengthened in my convictions: by the start of the new year I will find a way of freeing myself and do what I like without accounting to my father or others. For once I was forced to include my grandmother among the jailers, and that thought was a shadow over me. Vittorio continued to reassure me, he said there was nothing dishonorable about an educated woman, in fact it was right that women should study before getting married: having an intelligent wife was good for a man, equality of intentions and culture was the secret of a long partnership. And as his speeches moved through me, something in me was released, I trusted him with an unknown naturalness, I said little because he said it all, I had no need to add or correct, every word was perfect, like his face; I admired his fine hair, curly in the dampness that came from the harbor. Finally he asked if I’d like to come to his house, he lived with his mother, and they had invited a group of friends and relatives for a post-theater gathering. At that point Grandmother approached and answered for me that it was late, that I was tired because of the journey, even if out of politeness I didn’t show it; she emphasized that I was well brought up, certainly I wouldn’t want to be rude, and it was up to her to be firm and protect me. Vittorio replied that then they would expect us at lunch the next day, when I had rested. We’ll see, Grandmother dismissed him; he wrote the address on a piece of paper that he gave me, but she took it out of my hand and immediately turned her back on him.
This time, during the short walk home, I tried to talk to her. It was now clear that the matter of the marriage to the man whose name I didn’t even want to utter was already known to her. My father had acted on his own inclinations, and it wasn’t a question of recent pressure but a work rooted in time, which had found fertile ground in her. I tried anyway to appeal to what we had in common, the values in whose name she had brought me up, music, theater, literature, and the disdain for village life that separated her from my father and led her to disagree with his choices. You, I entreated her, you taught me to look for my destiny in what I read. Until she’s twenty a woman has to grow, she answered, and then she stops. And she added: with another surname beside yours you’ll be able to do everything; with your own name, by yourself, you’re nothing. We went in.
I hoped that the crystal chandelier in the living room would come crashing down, that every piece of antique furniture would turn to dust, that no trace would remain of who we had been. I hated every mark of the vaunted antiquity of my family, and went to sleep knowing that for me there was no hope, the only possibility escape.
Around me, the city’s din was fading. After the theater the last entertainments were ending in the houses where cards were played: the Messinese with exotic tastes loved baccarat, chemin de fer, and French cards, but for the most part they played Tivitti, that is to say ti vitti, “I saw you.” It was my favorite game, and had been since I was a child, the game where if a forgetful or distracted player doesn’t put down a card, and misses his turn, one more vigilant could report him: I saw you, you’re making a mistake, you’re not paying attention. Ti vitti was the tipoff, the disgrace, and saying it we enjoyed ourselves hugely at the festive Christmas tables. Ti vitti was what none of us wanted to hear.
And yet today someone saw me and I would like him to see me tomorrow, too, I thought, before falling asleep. Tranquillity didn’t last long, though: I dreamed I was on the stage between Aida and Amneris and I tried to sing but couldn’t, not the faintest sound came out of my mouth. I woke up frightened and, after tossing and turning for a long time, tormented by too many thoughts, decided that for me the night ended there.
Looking out the third-floor window I gazed at the sea and the quay outside the living room of my childhood and, alongside, the windows of the other apartments in the Palazzata, all shuttered: the office windows that would stay closed until the end of the Christmas holidays, and those of the houses, where families were sleeping and no one was restless, like me.
I couldn’t drive out the face of the man whose surname I wouldn’t say, while Vittorio appeared distant, blurred, not even he could soothe me. I repeated the beginning of Maria Landini: “The power of suffering alone, the bitter nourishment of my entire life, drove the pen almost in spite of myself.” The author warned that her pages would not provide a display of learning or style, but I knew that wasn’t true: quotations from Leopardi and Alfieri undergirded the chapters, there was knowledge in the prose. Letteria Montoro had studied, and a lot, careful never to shine too brightly, in order not to attract the envy of men. Her very name had its origins in a story of women and words: in 42 AD the Madonna had sent a message to the Messinese to thank them for their faith and bless them, and a Madonna-writer had therefore become the patron saint of the city, the Madonna della Lettera, Madonna of the Letter. It was she who blessed all us women, and Letteria Montoro had merely followed the destiny stamped in her name. A few weeks before, I had learned from the cemetery caretaker where she was buried. I knew that on the stone she was remembered as “a woman of free spirit,” and that description fascinated me; I had promised myself to go and visit her with more time. In the crisp dark December air, I vowed that the next day I would kneel at her grave, I would tell her my story and receive in exchange the good luck of her talented hand, and then I would accept Vittorio Trimarchi’s invitation to lunch, with or without my grandmother. I would begin to live as I believed and would become strong-willed and open-minded, I would stop complaining and repeating the same litany, I would pay the price to be who I wanted to be. Along with this premise for the future an unexpected sleepiness returned. By now my legs were stiff, and I decided to go to bed.
An instant before I turned my back to the night, the sea moved.
A polyphony pierced my ears, the floor collapsed along with the remains of my house and with it I plunged into a pile of ruins.
The world as I had known it ended, and everything loved or hated disappeared.