Carla Della Beffa Herstories
la c.
Questo libro è pubblicato da
la centrale edizioni un nome collettivo senza scopo di lucro, fondato in sud Europa nel 2018 no ISBN printed in Italy
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la c. è realizzata con il supporto della Fondazione Lac o Le Mon vol. 11, novembre 2018 stampato in 100 copie
Con Piacere 200 words on Carla Della Beffa’s Herstories by Cristina Viti art: work: vital tension: dynamic interaction of opposites: energy created & circulated by a disciplined refusal of resolution: poised balance: razor-sharp observation, crystalclear images: warmth, amity against generic & ultimately stereotyping solidarity: relating: seeing deeply & touching tenderly: non-judgment, a militancy of the image: freedom hard won & elegantly carried: colours, a long & intimate relationship with colour: machines as prompts for a critical reflection on systems: grace under fire: pure joie de vivre, laughter, dance, élan: fashion as play, taste as praxis: understatement as a focusing device for human kindness against emotional selfindulgence: travel, openness to risk & surprise: cities, their glamour, their miseries: economies of image & self-image: myth & fairy tale revisited with humour: skill, technique, the love of things done well: the detail as keystone: memory as lucidity wrestling with nostalgia: the world & the neighbourhood: the body & the family: the body & the workplace: the body & its transience, its freedoms & fragilities: the shutter’s split second: ‘foreign language’ with no pretension: ‘mother language’ with the ease of daily conversation: language observed: consciousness raising & urban acceleration: complacent assumptions whether one’s own or others’ relentlessly challenged: a world transformed by the pursuit of clarity.
herstory noun her·sto·ry [ ‘hər-st(ə-)rē ] plural herstories definition: history; specifically: history considered or presented from a feminist viewpoint or with special attention to the experience of women origin and etymology: blend of her and history first known use: 1962 source: www.merriam-webster.com
She was made redundant at 45. (But she preferred to say she had been fired: less politically correct, more expressive of the burns it left on her life.) The daughter of friends she spent many weekends with was worried, Why did they fire you? She clearly feared you might have misbehaved somehow, though she didn’t say so. You understood, and reassured her, They want to save, they sent away ten of us, it’s not against me. The girl smiled, felt visibly better. That Monday you started looking for a job, met or called eightytwo managers in forty days, was called back by one. That was enough. Though it was less qualified, less stable and paid one half of the previous one, at least it was a job.
4
Licenziata a quarantacinque anni, giĂ vecchia per trovare un altro impiego. E donna, poi! Passavi il weekend da amici, le bambine erano preoccupate, ti eri comportata male? Come una sospensione a scuola. No, stanno licenziando tutti i dirigenti. Vogliono risparmiare. Sperano di salvarsi cosĂŹ, le rassicuri. Tu cercherai lavoro da domani, quaranta giorni, ottantadue appuntamenti. Poi uno ti richiama. Uno solo. Non serve altro.
Then there are the bad girls, the nasty women, those who persist, fight, talk. The good and strong who light the way for all. The ones who don’t give up. (But still, nevertheless, they find it’s hard.)
E poi ci sono le cattive ragazze, le donne tremende, quelle che insistono, parlano, lottano. Quelle brave, coraggiose e forti che aprono la strada per tutte le altre. Quelle che non mollano. Quelle che sono fari nella notte. (Eppure anche loro, nonostante tutto, fanno fatica. Anche quando non vengono insultate, derise o minacciate.)
7
After my divorce, I threw myself into my job. (Working is such a good way to feel better, to have scope, I think.) I wanted to guarantee my son a good life, and sometimes I was late and so busy that I forgot him at school. He even had to wait outside, one winter evening, until a teacher saw him and tried to help. (There were no cellphones then, I was in a meeting, they didn’t know how to find me.) At fourteen he wanted to stop studying and start working: he wanted to earn money, to keep me, to come back home and find me there, cooking and waiting for him.
8
Dopo il divorzio, mi sono buttata nel lavoro. (Ăˆ sempre un buon modo per stare bene, penso.) Volevo garantire a mio figlio una buona vita, e qualche volta lo dimenticavo a scuola. A quattordici anni voleva smettere di studiare, voleva lavorare e mantenermi, tornare a casa la sera e trovarmi lĂŹ.
Many women artists, active in the 1970s, don’t define themselves as feminist. Their art wasn’t a political manifesto, it was, is, simply art. When I started, about twenty years later, an ex colleague said You’re a painter, how lovely, do you also paint cats? (She wanted a portrait of her kitten.) And the critic praised, Your paintings are manly. Between the two points of view, I preferred the second. But it wasn’t the good one yet. It was a sort of war. I fought to make art while at the same time changing words and grammar, that feminine desinence in -ess that reduced me, in many people’s imagination and expectations, to paint babies, flowers and pretty portraits.
10
Tante, attive negli anni ’70, non si ritengono artiste femministe. La loro arte non parlava delle donne, era, è, arte e basta. Quando ho iniziato, circa vent’anni dopo, un’ex collega diceva Dipingi, che bello, fai anche gattini? E il critico elogiava, La tua è una pittura virile. Fra i due punti di vista, preferivo il secondo. Era una guerra. Lottavo per togliere quell’apostrofo fra *un* e *artista*, che mi riduceva, nell’immaginario di molti, a dipingere bambini, fiori e graziosi ritratti.
12
13
The meeting didn’t start well. The lady here is our vicepresident, said the New Business manager to the prospect client. Why not the president himself? asked he, convinced as we all are to deserve the best, obviously a man. The meeting didn’t end well.
La riunione era iniziata male. La signora qui è vicepresidente, disse un dirigente presentandola al futuro cliente. Perché vice? Perché non il presidente? chiese questi, cortese ma visibilmente seccato, convinto, come facciamo tutti, di meritare solo il meglio: ovviamente un uomo. La riunione finì male.
15
In just a few months she had lost: enthusiasm. Eyeglasses (three pairs). A polka-dot red backpack. A sweatshirt. A woman friend, maybe two. Long-desired books, bought and lost before opening them. At least four pounds, and her doctor wasn’t happy with that weight loss and scolded her. (Not that she was too thin.) But she had found her past and started remembering. Memories and words sprouted and grew freely, at a furious pace. As grasses and weeds and life in April. As cranes, towers and malls where once there were factories.
16
Quell’anno aveva perso: l’entusiasmo. Gli occhiali (tre paia). Uno zaino. Un maglione. Forse un’amica. O due. Libri desiderati a lungo, comprati e perduti prima ancora di leggerli. Ma aveva ritrovato la memoria, e i ricordi spuntavano, erbe in aprile, gru e torri e centri commerciali dove una volta c’erano le fabbriche.
Suddenly she is six again. Mediterranean, mid-afternoon. She stands on top of a few steps facing the sandy beach. She is eating a peach, her back bent, feet apart to avoid juice drops to stain her skinny, tanned legs, red striped shorts, leather sandals. She licks her fingers. Her sister is already out swimming.
Di colpo, ha di nuovo sei anni. Mediterraneo, metà pomeriggio. Sta sul primo gradino di una scala breve, di fronte alla spiaggia. Mangia una pesca, piegata in due, a gambe larghe per non macchiare con il succo (la mamma dice sempre che le macchie di pesca non vengono via) i calzoncini rossi a righe, le ginocchia abbronzate e ossute, i sandali da frate, in cuoio. Si lecca le dita. Sua sorella è già in acqua, la aspetta.
19
As a girl, she had had pneumonia. In the hospital, at night, her mother held her hand under the oxygen tent to help her feel less scared. Her bed was white. It was snowing. She watched the large snowflakes falling in a hypnotic flurry against the gray sky.
Da ragazzina aveva avuto una brutta polmonite. All’ospedale, di nascosto dalle suore, la mamma le teneva la mano sotto la tenda a ossigeno, per farle coraggio nel buio. Il letto era bianco. Nevicava. Guardava i fiocchi di neve, larghi, vorticosi, ipnotici sul cielo grigio, cosÏ a lungo che poi le veniva la nausea come su una giostra.
21
I had three children, one after the other. I became like an animal with her litter, didn’t care for anything except them. I moved around, the baby at my breast, middle one on my hip, the eldest walking close, chubby hand on my leg, small fist pulling a toy car.
Ho avuto tre figli, uno dopo l’altro. Ero diventata come un mammifero con la sua cucciolata. Non mi importava di nient’altro, niente che non fossero loro. Andavo in giro per casa, il piccolo attaccato al seno, quella di mezzo seduta sull’anca. Il maggiore mi seguiva, tenendosi con una mano alla mia gamba e tirandosi dietro con l’altra un giochino di legno che gli piaceva molto: legato a un filo, con le ruote cigolanti e i colori scrostati, ereditato dai figli della vicina.
23
Blond, three years old, he wears a t-shirt, white with blue stripes, like Picasso and French sailors. Mum, you know, Gloria wants to marry me. Gloria! He looks up, thankful, in adoration. His mother and I exchange glances and a discreet smile while I pass by. How wonderful it is, every time, the birth of a new love. Thrilling. I remember a woman, about forty, very smart and professional, high heels, dark suit, glasses, she ran and jumped and laughed on the sidewalk along the via Turati. I felt like dancing too.
24
Tre anni, biondo, maglia a righe azzurre, come Picasso. Dice, Sai mamma che Gloria mi vuole sposare? Gloria! Che emozione, ogni volta, la nascita di un nuovo amore. Ho visto una donna manager, tacchi, tailleur e occhiali, saltava e correva e rideva sul marciapiede di via Turati.
She talked to her three teenager sons calling them Gentlemen. They lived in a house along the ringroad, with a long, narrow corridor of a garden in the back. Mornings, the sun woke her up behind red curtains. The boys made music in the afternoon.
Parlava con i tre figli adolescenti chiamandoli Gentlemen. Vivevano in una casa sulla tangenziale, con dietro un giardino alberato, lungo e stretto come un corridoio. Sul muretto davanti a casa, certe notti di weekend, si schiantava un’auto troppo veloce, un conducente che aveva bevuto un po’ troppo. La sbornia passava di colpo. Al mattino il sole spuntava dietro tende rosse. Dopo la scuola, i ragazzi facevano musica con i loro amici.
27
A woman among us says: Having children should help you to keep pace with life. We, the childless ones, travel and listen. Mothers sometimes live in an extratemporal world, unconnected to society, even if they have a job, go shopping and care for their family. One proposes to her son of twelve a career as a photo-reporter, at a time when journalists give up and become wine tasters, skippers, taxi drivers. Another one is repeating to her daughter a fifty-year old dream that used to be her mum’s, and was stale even then. Be an air hostess. You can fall in love with pilots, they are so handsome, and go here and there... The girl keeps silent, probably thinking of some low-cost flights she’s had, cheap indeed, though not exactly the stuff of dream jobs.
28
Una che non ne ha dice: Avere figli dovrebbe tenerti al passo con la vita. Noi, quelle senza figli, ascoltiamo. Le mamme a volte vivono in un mondo fuori del tempo, anche se lavorano e fanno la spesa. Una propone al figlio dodicenne una carriera da fotoreporter, mentre molti giornalisti si riciclano come sommelier, skipper, taxisti. L’altra ripete un sogno che era già di sua madre, vecchio di cinquant’anni: Fai la hostess. Ti innamori dei piloti, che sono belli, vai da una parte e dall’altra. La ragazza tace. Forse pensa ai voli low cost.
My mother loved me, didn’t like me, confides the childless woman. That’s impossible, reacts her friend. She has a grown-up daughter and a formidable mother, the kind of powerful matriarch that casts her mighty shadow over several generations.
Mia madre mi voleva bene, ma non le piacevo, confida la donna senza figli. Impossibile, protesta la sua amica. Lei ha una figlia adulta e una madre formidabile, il tipo di potente matriarca ammirata e irraggiungibile che proietta la sua ombra – e la sua luce – per molte generazioni.
31
Unknowingly patriarchal, but firmly so, mothers taught their daughters to be independent, and were always ready to contradict themselves in practice. Where are you going? With whom? Be home by ten. Nobody female dared to oppose or even discuss the brothers’ much bigger liberty and rights. It was a given: unquestionable.
32
Patriarcali senza saperlo, le madri insegnavano alle figlie l’indipendenza, sempre pronte a negarla nella pratica. Dove vai? Con chi? Torna a casa entro le dieci. Nessuna mai metteva in questione diritti e libertà dei fratelli.
No more gardening, her doctor had said. She looked at every leaf, every flower and balcony, grieving. Per una ghirlandetta ch’io vidi, mi farà sospirare ogni fiore, she thought. Dante was right.
Basta giardinaggio, le aveva detto il medico. Regalati i suoi vasi e le piante rimaste agli amici, ormai guardava ogni foglia, ogni fiore, ogni balcone e davanzale, con il rimpianto di un bambino con la gamba ingessata che vede gli altri correre. Per una ghirlandetta ch’io vidi, mi farà sospirare ogni fiore, pensò. Dante aveva ragione.
35
In Jane Austen’s novels, mothers are silly, lazy and superficial, and that’s why they are few. Many girls are orphans: it helps the Author to give them some freedom to risk and hope of success in life, though at the time success for a woman could only mean marriage. Dickens’s heroines don’t exist in real life: so sweet, patient, ready to sacrifice anything for others. Simply too perfect. No matter how liberated, we still have inside us that kind of feminine mystique. The understanding, the kindness that everybody seems to expect from a woman (and that somehow she expects from herself, obviously failing), are impossible objectives, and suggest frailty, a sort of intrinsic weakness. (Misogynists of all times believe in women’s natural badness, and have many ways to try and limit our actions and freedom.) It’s hard to fight against such deep-rooted ideas, and we know by now that war is not always the most effective of strategies. If not war, could we try diplomacy? Or is it just another name for therapy?
36
Le mamme dei romanzi di Jane Austen sono superficiali e un po’ stupide, e infatti sono poche: molte ragazze sono orfane. Le protagoniste di Dickens non esistono davvero: dolci, pazienti, pronte al sacrificio. Perfette. Quel tipo di mistica femminile l’abbiamo ancora dentro. La comprensione, la gentilezza che tutti si aspettano da una donna (e che lei chiede a sÊ stessa, fallendo), sono obiettivi impossibili, prova di intrinseca debolezza.
In five minutes, she’s going to fall and fracture her right wrist. Her life and priorities change. The river of words and projects stops abruptly, she only thinks of the very little she can do and the enormous amount of things she can’t, with her forearm in a cast and hurting like hell. For months now, her body will become her only law.
Fra cinque minuti, cadrà fratturandosi il polso. Cambiano la sua vita e le priorità . Il fiume di parole e di progetti si ferma di colpo su un marciapiede ghiacciato, e lei può solo pensare a quel poco che riesce a fare con una mano sola, la sinistra, e alle moltissime cose impossibili con il braccio ingessato che fa un male cane. Qualunque azione richiede tempi lunghi e gesti attenti. Per mesi, il corpo diventa la sua unica legge.
39
We met by chance at a women’s march. There was a lot of catching up to do. Her husband had died after a long illness, back and forth from the hospital for years. There was no more money and little hope. She rarely went out, stayed with him, prayed they could find a cure.
Ci incontriamo per caso durante un corteo. Dopo anni che non ci vedevamo, c’erano molte cose da raccontare. Figli, nipoti, lavoro‌ Suo marito era morto dopo una malattia lunga, avanti e indietro dagli ospedali. Erano finiti i soldi e c’era poca speranza. Lei non usciva quasi mai, restava a casa con lui, pregava che trovassero una cura.
41
I’m not sure what to believe, what happens after death. Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything changes, and if the material energy of the world is born again in the nitrogen cycle, I suspect that the spiritual forces will also go somewhere and do things we cannot see. Some believe in heaven, some are afraid of hell, some imagine reincarnation, one says she hopes to be born again as a cat, some are expecting a men’s paradise full of pretty virgins. (I wonder who invents similar promises, and for whom.) Some don’t believe, and that’s all. End of problem.
42
Non so bene a cosa credere, dopo la morte. Nulla si crea e nulla si distrugge, e se l’energia materiale rinasce nel ciclo dell’azoto, suppongo che anche quella spirituale andrà da qualche parte a fare cose che non vediamo. C’è chi crede nel paradiso, chi teme l’inferno, chi immagina la reincarnazione, chi spera in un paradiso per soli uomini, pieno di vergini. (Chissà chi inventa simili promesse, e per chi.) C’è chi non crede e basta, morta lì.
44
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She never felt lonely, nor bored. In fact, she quite loved her solitude, the silence. But every body needs contact. At times, while talking with someone, she let slip a caresse. Younger and more affluent, when the need was stronger she could afford massages. Or find a one-night stand. Or call a friendly ex-lover. Now she doesn’t care so much for sex, and knows that the average friendly lover doesn’t care much for cuddles and caresses.
46
Le piaceva la sua solitudine, il silenzio, ma i corpi hanno bisogno di contatto. A volte, mentre parlava con qualcuno, le sfuggiva una carezza.
The police superintendent’s beautiful wife spent whole afternoons getting a tan in front of her open window. There were no balconies on the fourth floor. In the flat nearby lived a nervous dobermann, I remember it better than its family. There was already a sort of gentrification: up to a year before, on the first floor a fat slow woman sporting purplish hair organized a small-scale brothel, peroxide blondes wearing fishnet stockings and lots of make-up, and was always afraid for her little bastard bitch to get pregnant, Take care! It can happen in a moment! With time, we all moved elsewhere: from attic to ground floor everybody’s new. The owner of the café on the corner and his sons are still there. We meet by chance, sometimes, at health check-ups and supermarkets.
48
La bella moglie del vicequestore si abbronzava davanti alla finestra. Non c’erano balconi, al quarto piano. Accanto viveva un dobermann inquieto, me lo ricordo meglio dei padroni. Al primo, una donna grassa e lenta gestiva una casa di appuntamenti, finte bionde truccate in calze a rete, e temeva le gravidanze della cagnetta, Basta un attimo! Negli anni, tutti ce ne siamo andati, dagli abbaini al pianoterra è arrivata gente nuova. Quelli del bar all’angolo sono ancora lÏ.
The Japanese bride sat in the middle of the piazza, wearing her wedding dress, smiling cheese and proudly showing her very expensive, stiletto-heeled, red-soled new Louboutins in the foreground. He clicked away, thinking At least it’s not raining yet.
La sposa giapponese si era seduta in mezzo alla piazza, con il suo abito bianco, il sorriso fotografico e in primo piano le nuove, costosissime Louboutins col tacco interminabile e quella suola rossa che la gente della moda chiama iconica. E che lei voleva mettere bene in mostra. Lui scattava veloce, gentile, pensando Dai, dai, sbrighiamoci, qui fra un po’ piove.
51
You can’t buy flowers, she scolds herself, you already bought a book. No more luxuries. But now she falls in love at a jeweller’s window, now she’s sailing away on a cruise... A part of her wishes very much to buy and do and have things, and tries to stretch her dreams budget. (She tries again and again, laughs at herself and starts again. Wishing is free.) We want bread but roses too. Every time she pays a big sum, like for taxes or the dentist, she has to stop herself from feeling entitled to buy something of similar price, squandering all the money she doesn’t have.
52
Non puoi comprare fiori, si ammonisce, hai giĂ comprato un libro. Basta lussi. Ma si incanta davanti a ogni vetrina, vuole partire per mari lontani. Ci prova sempre, a far quadrare i conti del suo budget reale con i sogni: ogni volta che paga le tasse vorrebbe farsi un regalo di uguale valore. We want bread but roses too.
A car blocks my path, two nervous policemen come out with their machine-guns. Do you often pass by here? I live there, I say, showing the direction I come from, and my documents. I was walking, disarmed and disarming, to vote in a school nearby. They were dark, leaden times, we still refer to them as anni di piombo. We lived near the city prison. Some nights, back from a dinner or a film, the police stopped our car. Documents please. Now! It also happened that some convict escaped, stole a neighbor’s car, used it for a hold-up, left it somewhere. It was usually found some weeks later, with a gun, ammunitions, fruit peels and empty bottles on the floor.
54
Un’auto si mette di traverso, scendono in due con il mitra imbracciato. Passa spesso di qui? Abito lÏ, dico mostrando il certificato elettorale. Andavo a piedi, sola e disarmante, a votare in una scuola vicina. Erano gli anni di piombo, abitavamo a due passi dal carcere. Certe sere la polizia ci fermava. Favorite i documenti.
Were it not for health reasons, rich women could have an abortion every month, said an activist. She worked in a factory and we all valued her, she was a born politician. (Abortion wasn’t yet legal at the time. It was the 1970s, a time for political and social fights at every level, including terrorism, riots and bombs.) There was a cloud of smoke in the room, cough, red weepy eyes. Cigarette butts and ashes everywhere. Later that night, someone threw a small Molotov in the backyard. The police never found the culprits, probably a pair of young extremist neighbors.
56
Le donne ricche, se non era per la salute, potevano abortire tutti i mesi, stava dicendo una militante, operaia politicamente molto apprezzata. C’era una nuvola di fumo nella stanza, colpi di tosse, occhi rossi. Mozziconi mal spenti. Cenere ovunque. Quella notte in cortile esplose una piccola Molotov.
You were walking one evening, mid-August, a time when the few people around become more friendly. A woman asked Would you please take a full-length picture of me? You took several. She invited you to drink something in a cafÊ, told you her life. Substances, she said, I was in a rehabilitation center, I was so fine when I came out, they found me a job‌ You listened thinking about the metaphors, the euphemisms people choose when it comes to drugs. User, an American friend said about his boy. My son is a user. (And with both words, substances and user, you had to think a moment before getting their meaning.)
58
Passeggiavi una sera di ferragosto. Una donna ti ha chiesto Mi fa una foto a figura intera? Gliene hai fatte parecchie. Ti ha invitata a bere qualcosa, ha raccontato la sua vita. Le sostanze, diceva, sono stata in comunitĂ , ero cosĂŹ brava quando sono uscita. Ascoltavi pensando agli eufemismi, il pudore della droga. User, diceva di suo figlio un amico americano. My son is a user.
For we are like tree trunks in the snow. In appearance they lie smoothly and a little push should be enough to set them rolling. No, it can’t be done, for they are firmly wedded to the ground. But see, even that is only appearance, wrote Kafka in a short story she knew by heart since she was a teenager. Everything there was only appearance. For her instead everything visible was economy: thoughts, actions, hard facts, concrete history. The pigment in the spray can, the hand shaking it. The sound of the little ball inside. Removing the cap. Spraying, smelling the color, planning the design. Solvents. Aluminium. Plastic. Chemicals. The choice of the place: location, visibility, quality of wall, plaster, house-painting. The rage of the ones and the others, the writers and the landlords. The cleaning up, sometime later. The time, the work and power hidden behind everything, ideas, competence, relationships.
60
Perché, vedi, siamo come alberi nella neve. Posano in apparenza, leggeri – scriveva Kafka in un breve racconto che sapeva a memoria da quando era ragazza: tutto lì era apparenza. Per lei invece tutto era economia, azione, storia concreta. Il pigmento della bomboletta spray, il gesto di scuoterla, il rumore della pallina. L’alluminio. Il tappo. La plastica. La qualità del muro, dell’intonaco e dell’imbianchino. La rabbia dell’uno e degli altri, il tempo, il lavoro nascosto dietro a tutto, idee, competenze, relazioni.
You were in Venice, walking to the Biennale, and saw on a corner near a bridge an A4 paper with an address and phone number, advertising what the probably foreign house-painters could do. They gave a high-quality description of their abilities, from contemporary techniques to other jobs, using some famous, beautiful, time-tested Venetian Renaissance methods. You fell in love with the wording, mixing together rather ancient and very modern technical words, and thought that you could call them, if only your love was strong enough, motivating enough. Though you could ask for a free home visit and cost estimate, you didn’t dare.
62
Dipintori cartongessisti Eseguiamo: Qualsiasi opera in cartongesso Imbiancamenti e dipinture in genere (inferriate, finestre, ecc.) La migliore calce rasata lucidata a specchio senza cera Appuntamenti e preventivi gratuiti (Leggi l’avviso sul muro, ti innamori. C’è anche il telefono, se solo volessi.)
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My sex-starved, bottle blonde ex-best-friend wanted a man. She chose the man I loved. Faced with extreme flirting, exposed legs, displayed breasts, and the irresistible magic of sexual novelty, he fell for her like a man. I stayed awake at night, wrote love poems in the dark. Got a publisher.
La mia migliore amica (cioè, io la credevo tale), tinta di biondo, affamata di sesso, voleva un uomo. Voleva quello che amavo io. Di fronte alle sue gambe in vista, ai seni esposti, al bel gioco del flirt e all’irresistibile attrazione di ogni novità sessuale, lui ci è cascato subito: un vero uomo. Io non dormivo più, la notte nel buio scrivevo poesie. Pubblicate con un buon editore. Ieri ho saputo che loro due non stanno più insieme.
67
Where’s your husband?, asked on the phone a rough, mean male voice. Tell him we are waiting for him below, will wait all night if necessary. Now she only went out in broad daylight, stayed near home, a fast walk with her dog, minimal shopping in the neighborhood and back as fast as she could. Her husband denied, forged checks. (Months later, when she filed for divorce, his mother accused her: How could you leave your checkbook around? As if the real crime had been trusting the man she had married not to steal.)
68
Dov’è tuo marito? chiese al telefono una voce roca e cattiva. Digli che noi lo aspettiamo sotto casa. Anche tutta la notte. Lei ormai usciva solo in pieno giorno, senza andare lontano, un giro in fretta con il cane, fare la spesa solo nei negozi piÚ vicini. Il marito negava, era evasivo, falsificava assegni.
You were far away from home and quite lost, asked for directions. You felt very lucky when those three gave you a lift, promising they were going to drive you there. Their car went under the driving rain, nobody speaking, stopping at a deserted quarry. You were saved by your innocence, your small voice when you said Where are we going? Then they knew they had misunderstood and brought you back to the small town they had just left, to the only hotel open in the dead season. Thinking back to that night, after so many years, you still heave a sigh of relief. You were very lucky indeed. (You have always been quite lucky, actually. Every big risk you naĂŻvely or trustingly took in your life was reduced to just a big scare, a memento, never becoming the deadly accident it could have been. After all, you prefer trust and optimism to diffidence and fear.)
70
Ti era andata bene quando quei tre ti avevano offerto un passaggio. Avevano guidato in silenzio, sotto la pioggia, tu dietro, fino a una cava deserta. Ti salvò la tua innocenza, la voce esile con cui dicevi Dove stiamo andando? Allora si accorsero di avere frainteso e ti riportarono intatta al paese, all’unico albergo aperto fuori stagione.
The hero is alone, by definition. To make sure she is lonely, the storyteller makes her an orphan. Snow White, Cinderella, Jane Eyre. All of them. (Boys too, of course.) They were lost but brave, so they fight and survive, becoming fine adults. It could be enough, but girls’ Destiny is to marry. They passed through the blackest night and won against fiery dragons, now they must find Love and live happily ever after. Beware, Woman dear: if Love has many shapes, not all of them are True.
L’eroe è solo, per definizione. Per essere sicuro che l’eroina si senta sola, il narratore la rende orfana. Biancaneve, Cenerentola, Jane Eyre. Tutte orfanelle. (Vale anche per i ragazzi, s’intende.) Perduti ma coraggiosi, combattono e sopravvivono, e diventano ottimi adulti. Potrebbe bastare, ma il Destino delle ragazze è di sposarsi. Hanno attraversato la notte più buia e spaventosa e vinto draghi sputafuoco, adesso devono trovare l’Amore e vivere felici e contente per sempre. Ma stai attenta, Donna cara: se l’Amore ha molte forme, non tutte sono Vere.
73
Were it not for married men, I’d still be a virgin, you used to say. You had a good hairdresser, a very bad dentist.You made sex after work, at drinks time, Cléo de 5 à 7. Fake overtime, nonexisting, never-ending meetings. Many of them had told you My wife doesn’t understand me, while you kissed them back and thought How original. And should I believe you? I’m here, let’s make it. And afterwards don’t forget to call me a taxi, please: I shouldn’t have to ask. And yet sometimes you too, as brave and carefree as you thought yourself and seemed to us to be, fell in love, phoned him, found his wife, stammered Sorry, wrong number.
74
Se non era per gli sposati, ero ancora vergine, dicevi. Avevi un buon parrucchiere, un pessimo dentista. Facevi sesso all’ora dell’aperitivo, Cléo de 5 à 7, finti straordinari, riunioni inesistenti e interminabili. Molti di loro avevano detto Mia moglie non mi capisce, mentre tu rispondevi a quei baci e pensavi Che frase originale. E ci dovrei credere? Sono qui, facciamolo. E dopo, chiamami un taxi. Eppure anche tu qualche volta ci credevi, telefonavi, balbettavi Scusi, ho sbagliato numero.
The dark gray silk dress was her mother’s. She wore it once, one hot July night, going out for dinner with a man whose name was a slice of history. She had chrome yellow clogs. He had a tailcoat, gaiters, a very high-necked, very white starched shirt, double-breasted pearl-grey waistcoat, family heirloom golden watch-chain. No silk hat, though, nor gloves or cane. That would have been too much even for him. He took her to a place on the Ticino riverbank. Folding chairs on the pebbles. Sweaty couples, fat men in wife-beater shirts. Garlands of colored lightbulbs. Mosquitoes. Plastic tableclothes. Risotto. Deep-fried frogs. Champagne, of course. Their conversation was sophisticated, a rather absurd, unwritten comedy for two actors-spectators. He bought and gave her all the roses of the flower seller. Wilted in an hour. Thrown away as soon as she got home, after saying goodbye at the door, thanking him once again, never letting him inside.
76
L’abito di seta era di tua madre. L’avevi messo una sera, per uscire con uno dal nome troppo nobile. Avevi zoccoli giallo cromo. Lui era in tight, ghette, camicia inamidata, panciotto. Mancava solo il cilindro. Ti portò a cena sul greto del Ticino. Sedie pieghevoli. Coppie sudate, uomini grassi in canottiera. Zanzare. Tovaglie di plastica. Rane fritte. Champagne, ovviamente. Discorsi sofisticati, assurdi, molto teatrali. Ti offrì tutte le rose del fioraio. Appassite in un’ora. Buttate via dopo un saluto sulla soglia di casa, senza farlo entrare.
She liked to have flowers on the table. To make them last longer, at night before going to bed she usually put them on the window-sill, compressed between the window pane and the clothes pegs. And so she did with his pale pink rose. She saw it again some days later, when she needed to hang out the washing. Oh, yes, she thought, Mario’s rose. And shrugged.
78
Per farla durare di piÚ, quella sera mise la rosa pallida sul davanzale, stretta fra i vetri e le mollette del bucato. La rivide, appassita, al momento di stendere le lenzuola. Ah, già , la rosa di Mario, pensò.
Happy or unhappy marriages, there they all stayed, teaching daughters to do the same. When they didn’t grow them up to be the nurses of their old age, marking them at their birth with names like Modesty and other virtues deemed feminine and inspiring. Any rebel was excluded from society, the women themselves condemned their sisters, trying to keep things unchanged and unchallenged. (Even now it’s not much better, we have all seen some unfair, cruel attacks by women on other, powerful, successful women.) In novels and films, still in the 1960s, any adulteress leaving her husband died an untimely, often violent death or led a short, self-destroying, unhappy life.
80
Matrimoni felici o infelici, lÏ si restava, educando le figlie a fare altrettanto. Chi si ribellava era esclusa dalla società , erano le donne stesse a condannarla. (E anche adesso non è molto meglio.) Nei romanzi e nei film, ancora nel 1960, le adultere morivano di morte prematura.
Girotondo is a game Italian children have played for centuries, similar to many folk dances. Holding hands, the players run and walk and dance in a circle, following the music rhythm and the lyrics instructions to curtsey, turn, sit, kiss… I haven’t seen it around for years. Children have less brothers and sisters and freedom. They usually aren’t allowed to walk home alone as I was, from the tenderest age their lives are full of things to do, sports lessons, dance, languages, and I see them play more structured games, in the parks’ children areas, watched by one of their grandparents or by a baby-sitter. What Venetian writer Tiziano Scarpa calls fossil games aren’t easily found in cities with traffic and cars. Girotondo of daily chores (to be sung counterclockwise). Pretty laundress washing handkerchiefs and making beds every day. Go to the market, go shopping again, turn around, turn around again. Kisses are optional. To the one you want, a luxury.
82
Girotondo della quotidianità (da cantare in senso orario). La bella lavanderina che lava i fazzoletti e rifà i letti tutti i dì. Vai a far la spesa, fanne un’altra, fai la giravolta, falla un’altra volta. Il bacio è un optional. A chi vuoi tu, un lusso.
Say, what makes you fall in love? Which hidden detail makes the magic, sparking desire even many years later? Once, one got you by simply kissing your hair. You always felt hot when you saw a big man’s slim ankles under his desk (and he adored your voice on the phone). That one had good hands, another made you laugh. One had an irresistible smell, the other didn’t but was a very good man and loved you. Pity that hormones react much faster to the five senses than to reason.
Per esempio, che cosa ti fa innamorare? Qual è il dettaglio di un uomo che mette in movimento i tuoi ormoni, il desiderio? Uno ti ha sedotta con un bacio sui capelli. Di un altro ti facevano impazzire le caviglie (e lui adorava sentire la tua voce al telefono.) Uno aveva un odore irresistibile, l’altro era un uomo buono e ti voleva bene. Peccato che il corpo reagisca più in fretta ai cinque sensi che alla ragione.
85
We were not schooled for love. Fathers expressed it by being alternately severe and teasing, mothers with a sense of duty and resentment. Caresses were rare. Even rarer was praise, however well a girl did. Zero self-confidence. The stationmaster’s son, a published poet well able to tell others that she was the love of his life, to her said only, and only once, I love you, you idiot. The night before she had had a car accident, prognosis three weeks if all went well.
86
Non eravamo educati all’amore. I padri si esprimevano con rigore e dispetti, le madri con doveri e rimostranze. Rare le carezze. Rarissimi gli elogi. Self-confidence a zero. Il figlio del capostazione, poeta e capace di dire agli altri che eri il grande amore della sua vita, a te disse soltanto – solo una volta – Ti amo, cretina. Avevi appena avuto un incidente, prognosi venti giorni.
She barely refrained from laughing when he took a bread knife and said Kill me. How melodramatic, she thought, and wanted to scream. He had spent the night ringing her doorbell, the dog barking. For months afterwards she slept at friends’, a different couch every night. (It was summer, and that made things easier.) Are you sure you want to accuse him? asked the policeman, and added Women always retract‌ Stalking was not yet considered a crime.
Si era trattenuta a stento dal ridere, quando il marito le aveva offerto un coltello (da pane, del tutto inadatto) dicendo Uccidimi. Melodrammatico, pensò, e avrebbe voluto urlare. Lui, che ormai abitava altrove, aveva passato la notte a suonare al citofono. Il cane, povera bestia, abbaiava. I vicini, poveri anche loro. Dopo quella notte, lei era corsa dall’avvocato a chiedere il divorzio, e dormiva dalle amiche. Ogni sera un divano diverso. L’estate semplificava un po’ le cose. È sicura di volerlo denunciare? chiese il poliziotto. Sa, le donne ritirano sempre la denuncia… Non era ancora considerato un reato, lo stalking.
89
He was a good lover, you were happy with him: humour, good food, great sex. Wonderful orgasms, especially during storms. You laughed a lot, letting lightning and thunder speak for you. Those were stormy, wild summers.
90
Stavi bene con lui, cibo e sesso, orgasmi facili, entusiasmanti. Soprattutto durante i temporali non gridavi, ridevi: ci pensavano i lampi e i tuoni a parlare per te. Furono estati molto tempestose.
92
93
She missed Paris, the Seine, that grey sky, the colors, light, wind. Open air markets. MusĂŠes, cinĂŠmas, bistrots. French friends. Deep voices of men. Lovers kissing everywhere. When feeling more nostalgic, she even missed the overpowering smell of some mĂŠtro corners that forced her to run up the stairs to the exit, holding her breath. How she had loved that city, all flaws included.
Le mancava Parigi, la Senna, quel cielo grigio, quei colori, la luce, il vento. I mercati all’aperto. Musei, cinema, bistrot. Gli amici francesi. Le voci profonde degli uomini. Gli innamorati che si baciano ovunque. Quando la nostalgia era più intensa, le mancava perfino la puzza di piscio di certi angoli del métro, che nei suoi anni parigini la spingeva a correre su per le scale, arrivando in cima senza fiato. Dio, come aveva amato quella città, difetti compresi.
95
Herstories di Carla Della Beffa Non si vede nessuno, o solo un’ombra. La presenza umana è nelle parole. Sono storie di donne e dettagli di città, e alcune sono in inglese. Tutte hanno una versione a fronte, che non è esattamente una traduzione.
vol. 11, 2018