The Confessions Of A Concubine. Roberta Mezzabarba

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      My baby.

      My baby.

      Give me back my baby.

      Give him back to me.

      Where did you put him?

      Where?

      Where?

      Where did you hide him?

      Where did you take him?

      It was too beautiful.

      I know it was too good.

      I felt as if I had gone crazy.

      Nothing made sense anymore, nothing seemed important enough to me to live.

      Filippo was almost always sitting by the side of my bed, but he didn't look at me, he didn't talk to me.

      In those days of pain, his presence was of no comfort to me, partly because I believed that he was there only because the situation forced him to be, partly because I felt I was obliged to endure his presence.

      It seemed to me that the few times he turned his gaze to me, pointing his black eyes at me, he blamed me without the possibility of appeal for not having been able to guard the life of our son.

      One morning I woke up and Filippo was already there.

      "So do you realize that you weren't even able to keep my son. What kind of woman are you, but what kind of filth are you, that you can’t even bring a child into the world!"

      His eyes flashed at me, and I could not hold his gaze and lowered mine.

      "You don't even have the courage to look at me, do you?"

      He walked out, slamming the door, making such a loud noise that it made me jump.

      Silent tears began to slide down my cheeks, and I missed my grandmother in a painful way.

      I closed my eyes, wet with the tears and imagined her ancient hands caressing my neck and cheeks. It was as if I could smell her perfume and the feel softness of her breast where I wished I could lay my head even for an instant.

      At that moment my mother came in.

      I hadn't thought of calling her, but maybe Filippo had.

      "You must have overdone it with that work you have and here you are!"

      My grandmother's sweetness had not passed to her daughter, my mother, even the slightest bit.

      Inexplicable how such a kind person could bring a woman so different from her into the world.

      Who knows what my son would have been like?

      "Do you have everything you need? Are they treating you well in here?"

      My mother was practical and reliable, a perfect life planner, impeccable, but in terms of feelings she was completely arid.

      I answered her with a tired smile, without a word.

      "But, my star, you are neither the first nor the last to have had a miscarriage, cheer up, sulking won’t help!"

      I opened my eyes again and looked at her, to see if maybe I was dreaming everything, instead she was there in front of me, with her hands on her hips.

      I wonder if my son would have looked like her or me?

      ***

      The doctors kept saying that there had never been a fetus, that it had been an ectopic pregnancy, that I had not lost the life of a child because it had never existed, that I was so young that I still had many years to have a child, that, that, that.

      Seeing the condition I was in, an elderly doctor tried to explain to me what had happened. He spoke to me in technical terms that reminded me of some science class.

      "Dear girl," the doctor concluded, resting his warm hand on mine, "there was nothing you could do to make things different."

      Having received the medical explanations of what had happened did not relieve the pain for the loss of my son, nor did it take Filippo’s accusations of not being able to bear a child, of being half a woman, from my ears.

      I came home still in shock.

      And just a few days later I wanted to go back to

      work: being constantly busy helped me to stop tormenting myself, albeit for only a few seconds, with feelings of guilt that overpowered me and made me short of breath.

      At

      work

      everyone

      treated

      me

      with

      condescension, and this hurt me because it gave me the impression that in fact there really was something wrong with me.

      That niche, which I had prepared for my son, seemed to petrify, and a wall, an insurmountable rock, seemed to rise up from nothing between me and Filippo, that prevented us from having even the slightest contact.

      ***

      For a couple of years we sluggishly tried to have intercourse, no longer with the hope of being able to procreate.

      Filippo snarled at me, and spoke to me only 41

      when forced to, in monosyllables.

      From the tests we had done it appeared that neither of us was sterile, but only that we probably could not generate a new life together.

      The miles of distance between us increased.

      One day I had the misguided idea to propose a solution to my husband that had been buzzing around in my head for some time:

      "Filippo, I thought we could adopt a child, and besides if we really can't have one ourselves...

      there are many children waiting for a family. You know, I talked to a colleague at the office and she told me that in a few months we could be able to...

      "Could what?"

      "Adopt a child..."

      "Are you kidding? Raising whoknowswho’s child, break my back for a brat who doesn't even have my blood? You're really crazy!"

      The vase, which was cracked, had broken into a thousand pieces with those words.

      He dozes on the armchair in the living room, in a singlet.

      I dream of running away.

      But how can I do that?

      My parents would die, they taught me that you don’t do certain things, СКАЧАТЬ