The first impression of the Card is therefore as if the last Major Arcanum of the Tarot would suggest a conception of the world as rhythmic movement or dance of the female psyche, sustained by means of the orchestral accompaniment of the four primordial instincts, which gives the appearance of a rainbow of colours and forms—or, in other words, that the world is a work of art.
Dear Rosalba,
It’s six in the morning and I’m awake, and I want to take advantage of this moment of solitude to tell you about myself, how I’ve lived in these months. I’m sorry to have sent you only photos and greetings in the postscripts of Jutta’s letters, but I couldn’t write. I could justify it by saying that in the morning I was busy with school and in the afternoon I had to take care of Mimma, help Jutta in the kitchen, tidy up . . . And then the last weeks of pregnancy arrived and there was no room for anything else. But the excuses wouldn’t be sufficient, the truth is that life besieged me all at once and the words were somewhere waiting.
But I always read your letters, and I glanced at the ones that Jutta put in the envelope for you, envying the precision with which she kept you informed. I read her story of our Easter, but since she’s modest she neglected to say she made a delicious sciusceddu, a dish so airy and light it seemed a cloud, a breath of eggs, ricotta, and meatballs that you will remember is typical of this city. It was wonderful. That day I, too, was a little resurrected, my nausea diminished and for the first time I tasted meat again. Even now, as I write, I think of Mother Fortunata’s nasty looks when I refused it and she thought I was disdainful, but I was only pregnant.
I don’t think Jutta told you about Theodore Roosevelt, who came to visit us in our misery. We were crushed in the crowd and only just managed to glimpse his back, a tiny distant black point, and that is the most we stole from the president’s visit. Those who have relatives in America have already left, and those who remained have received donations from aunts and uncles and cousins celebrating their Italian origins with ostentatious charity. As you know, America has distributed photos of checks signed by generous philanthropists and tear-jerking stories of children called Giuseppe and Rosario, who beg in the alleys of New York for a dollar to send to their more unfortunate cousins in Italy. But no one has sent anything to us, I mean to Jutta, Elvira, and me. Messina has named a street for Roosevelt.
I realize I’m taking my time. It’s pointless to linger on the summer, which was scorching and exhausting: Jutta already told you about the invasion of mice in the cabins, and how we exterminated them with sambuca leaves, and how in the heat we were so in need of everything. Luckily they gave pregnant women a double ration of water, otherwise I would have died of thirst, we would all have died of thirst. For me a parched throat is not a pleasant memory: maybe one day I’ll tell you why.
So I’m getting there, I know what you want to know: yes, the baby we were expecting was born.
I gave birth on September 28th, at a quarter to twelve midnight. I felt the contractions in the morning, Mimma was at school, Elvira doing the shopping, and Jutta delivering clothes to her clients. She has a lot of work now (she’s the most sought-after dressmaker in the city, she’s too modest even to tell you that, so I assure you). I wasn’t afraid because at the end of August a young midwife came to see me, younger than me, a girl with birth in her heart, who told me how to breathe, and who cheered me and calmed me simply by her presence. At lunchtime Elvira came home and I sent her to call the midwife, then Mimma came home, finally Jutta, and at night, as soon as the baby began to push, she came out on my bed, in the middle of us. Jutta cut the cord, we wanted that. I called the baby Cinzia, like the midwife. I didn’t give her my mother’s name, because I don’t want to live looking at the past, I don’t want any shadow to fall on my daughter, any destiny, her path must be free. Cinzia Cosentino belongs to no one, not even to me: She belongs to the world, to this sea, to this city that will take care of her. I want to hope that, with stubborn faith.
Remember when I told you that the eyes of a boy with long lashes came to see me in a dream? I thought they were my child’s, that I would recognize them as soon as I brought her into the world. But they weren’t Cinzia’s, hers are pale, big and luminous: I told you she doesn’t belong to the past, and since she was born those eyes have disappeared.
Dear Rosalba, I’ve written too much. My hand hurts, I’m not used to it anymore. Mimma has come over because it’s late, time for school, and I have to make her snack, bread in milk with a thin slice of prosciutto, the way she likes. How much I want you to know her, why don’t you come visit us at Christmas? In the new year she’ll go to a school made of brick, not the cabin where for now another teacher is substituting. As for me, one thing is certain: as soon as possible I will enroll in the university, and I want to continue teaching. Elvira and Jutta encourage me and tell me that we can organize ourselves with schedules, daughters, and jobs.
Maybe in 1910 they’ll give us real houses, but do you believe it? I’ve been hearing this story for months now. It doesn’t matter. When it happens, we won’t separate. We’ll keep one house for ourselves and one for the children, for when they grow up. We have nothing but ourselves, but it’s a lot.
I know, you want to know about Cinzia.
She’s sleeping on my lap and she didn’t wake up, even though this letter is full of emotions and she feels everything that happens to me. You must come in person to bring her your baptism gift, I don’t want you to send it.
I kiss you, I expect you. Yours,
Barbara