The Lying Life of Adults. Elena Ferrante

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СКАЧАТЬ is an obstacle. But you’ve already gotten back on track with studying, haven’t you? It’s a pity not to cultivate one’s intelligence.”

      I exclaimed:

      “I don’t want to be intelligent, Mamma, I want to be beautiful, like the two of you.”

      “You’ll be much more beautiful.”

      “Not if I’m starting to look like Aunt Vittoria.”

      “You’re so different, that won’t happen.”

      “How can you say that? Who can I ask, to find out if it’s happening or not?”

      “There’s me, I’ll always be here.”

      “That’s not enough.”

      “What are you proposing.”

      I almost whispered:

      “I have to see my aunt.”

      She was silent for a moment, then she said:

      “For that you have to talk to your father.”

      9.

      I didn’t take her words literally. I assumed that she would talk to him about it first and that my father, as soon as the next day, would say, in the tone I loved best: here we are, at your orders, if the little queen has decided that we have to go meet Aunt Vittoria, this poor parent of hers, albeit with a noose around his neck, will take her. Then he would telephone his sister to make a date, or maybe he would ask my mother to do it, he never concerned himself in person with what annoyed or irritated or grieved him. Then he would drive me to her house.

      But that’s not what happened. Hours passed, days, and we scarcely saw my father. He was always tired, always torn between school, some private lessons, and a demanding essay that he was writing with Mariano. He left in the morning and returned at night, and in those days it was always raining: I was afraid he’d catch cold, get a fever and have to stay in bed till who knows when. How is it possible—I thought—that a man so small, so delicate, has fought all his life with Aunt Vittoria’s malice? And it seemed even more implausible that he had confronted and kicked out the married delinquent with three children who intended to be the ruin of his sister. I asked Angela:

      “If Ida fell in love with a delinquent who was married with three children, what would you, the older sister, do?”

      Angela answered without hesitation:

      “I’d tell Papa.”

      But Ida didn’t like that answer, she said to her sister:

      “You’re a snitch, and Papa says a snitch is the worst thing there is.”

      Angela, miffed, answered:

      “I’m not a snitch, I’d only do it for your own good.”

      “So if Angela is in love with a delinquent who’s married with three children, you won’t tell your father?”

      Ida, as an inveterate reader of novels, thought about it and said:

      “I would tell him only if the delinquent is ugly and mean.”

      There, I thought, ugliness and meanness are more important than anything else. And one afternoon when my father was out at a meeting I cautiously returned to the subject with my mother:

      “You said we would see Aunt Vittoria.”

      “I said you had to talk about it with your father.”

      “I thought you talked to him.”

      “He’s very busy right now.”

      “Let’s go the two of us.”

      “Better if he takes care of it. And then it’s almost the end of the school year, you have to study.”

      “You two don’t want to take me. You’ve already decided not to.”

      My mother assumed a tone similar to the one she’d used until a few years earlier when she wanted to be left alone and would propose some game that I could play by myself.

      “Here’s what we’ll do: you know Via Miraglia?”

      “No.”

      “And Via della Stadera?”

      “No.”

      “And the Pianto cemetery?”

      “No.

      “And Poggioreale?”

      “No.”

      “And Via Nazionale?”

      “No.”

      “And Arenaccia?”

      “No.”

      “And the whole area that’s called the Industrial Zone?”

      “No, Mamma, no.”

      “Well, you have to learn, this is your city. Now I’ll give you the map, and after you’ve done your homework you study the route. If it’s so urgent for you, one of these days you can go by yourself, to see Aunt Vittoria.”

      That last phrase confused me, maybe it hurt me. My parents wouldn’t even send me by myself to buy bread down the street. And when I was supposed to meet Angela and Ida, my father or, more often, my mother drove me to Mariano and Costanza’s house and then came to pick me up. Now, suddenly, they were prepared to let me go to unknown places where they themselves went unwillingly? No no, they were simply tired of my complaining, they considered unimportant what to me was urgent, in other words they didn’t take me seriously. Maybe at that moment something somewhere in my body broke, maybe that’s where I should locate the end of my childhood. I felt as if I were a container of granules that were imperceptibly leaking out of me through a tiny crack. And I had no doubt that my mother had already talked to my father and, in agreement with him, was preparing to separate me from them and them from me, to explain to me that I had to deal with my unreasonable, perverse behavior by myself. If I looked closely behind her kind yet weary tone, she had just said: you’re starting to annoy me, you’re making my life difficult, you don’t study, your teachers complain, and you won’t stop this business about Aunt Vittoria, ah, what a fuss, Giovanna, how can I convince you that your father’s remark was affectionate, that’s enough now, go and play with the atlas and don’t bother me anymore.

      Now, whether that was the truth or not, it was my first experience of privation. I felt the painful void that usually opens up when something we thought we could never be separated from is suddenly taken away from us. I said nothing. And when she added: close the door, please, I left the room.

      I stood for a while in front of the closed door, dazed, waiting for her to give me the street atlas. She didn’t, and so I retreated almost on tiptoe to my room to study. But, naturally, I didn’t open a book; my head began to pound out, as if on a keyboard, plans that until a moment before had been inconceivable. СКАЧАТЬ