Elena Ferrante - The Story of a New Name

Gigliola complimented me profusely: “How well you look, all tanned, and your hair is even lighter.”

I smiled, I was self-deprecating, but I was thinking only: I’ve got to find a way to get them out of here.

“Come rest at the house,” I said. “Nunzia’s there, she’ll be very happy.”

They refused, they had to catch the boat in a couple of hours, they preferred to have a little more sun and then they would head off on their walk.

“So let’s go to the bath house, we’ll get something to eat there,” I said.

“Yes, but let’s wait for Lina.”

As always in tense situations, I undertook to blot out the time with words, and I started off with a flurry of questions, anything that came into my head: How was Spagnuolo the pastry maker, how was Marcello, if he’d found a girlfriend, what did Michele think of the shoe designs, and what did his father think and what did his mamma think of them, and what did his grandfather think. At one point I got up, I said, “I’ll call Lina,” and I went down to the water’s edge, I began to shout: “Lina, come back, Michele and Gigliola are here,” but it was useless, she didn’t hear me. I went back, and started talking again to distract them. I hoped that Lila and Nino, returning to shore, would become aware of the danger before Gigliola and Michele saw them and avoid any intimate attitude. But though Gigliola listened to me, Michele wasn’t even polite enough to pretend. He had come to Ischia purposely to see Lila and talk to her about the new shoes, I was sure of it, and he cast long glances at the sea, which was getting rougher.

Finally he saw her. He saw her as she came out of the water, her hand entwined in Nino’s, a handsome couple who would not pass unobserved, both tall, both naturally elegant, shoulders touching, smiles exchanged. They were so entranced with themselves that they didn’t immediately realize I had company. When Lila recognized Michele and pulled her hand away, it was too late. Maybe Gigliola didn’t notice, and her brother was reading the comic book, but Michele saw and turned to look at me as if to read on my face the verification of what he had just had before his eyes. He must have found it, in the form of fear. He said gravely, in the slow voice that he assumed when he had to deal with something that required speed and decisiveness: “Ten minutes, just the time to say hello, and we’ll go.”

In fact they stayed more than an hour. Michele, when he heard Nino’s last name — introducing him I placed great emphasis on the fact that he was our schoolmate in elementary school as well as my classmate in high school — asked the most irritating question:

“You’re the son of the guy who writes for Roma and for Napoli Notte ?”

Nino nodded unwillingly, and Michele stared at him for a long instant, as if he wanted to find in his eyes confirmation of that relationship. Then he did not speak to him again, he spoke only and always to Lila.

Lila was friendly, ironic, at times deceitful.

Michele said to her, “That blowhard your brother swears he thought up the new shoes.”

“It’s the truth.”

“So that’s why they’re garbage.”

“You’ll see, that garbage will sell even better than the preceding.”

“Maybe, but only if you come to the store.”

“You already have Gigliola, who’s doing great.”

“I need Gigliola in the pastry shop.”

“Your problem, I have to stay in the grocery.”

“You’ll see, you’ll move to Piazza dei Martiri, signò, and you’ll have carte blanche.”

“Carte blanche, carte noir, get it out of your head, I’m fine where I am.”

And so on in this tone, they seemed to be playing tamburello with their words. Every so often Gigliola or I tried to say something, mainly Gigliola, who was furious at the way her fiancé talked about her fate without even consulting her. As for Nino, he was — I realized — stunned, or perhaps astonished at how Lila, skillful and fearless, found the phrases, in dialect, to match Michele’s.

Finally the young Solara announced that they had to go, they had an umbrella with their belongings quite far away. He said goodbye to me, he said goodbye warmly to Lila, repeating that he would expect her in the store in September. To Nino he said seriously, as if to a subordinate whom one asks to go and buy a pack of Nationals, “Tell your papa that he was wrong to write that he didn’t like the way the store looked. When you take money, you have to write that everything’s great, otherwise no more money.”

Nino was caught by surprise, perhaps by humiliation, and didn’t answer. Gigliola held out her hand, he gave her his mechanically. The couple went off, dragging the boy, who was reading the comic book as he walked.

I was enraged, frightened, unhappy with my every word or gesture. As soon as Michele and Gigliola were far enough away I said to Lila, so that Nino could also hear me: “He saw you.”

Nino asked uneasily, “Who is he?”

“A shit Camorrist who thinks he’s God’s gift,” said Lila contemptuously.

I corrected her immediately, Nino should know: “He’s one of her husband’s partners. He’ll tell Stefano everything.”

“What everything,” Lila protested, “there’s nothing to tell.”

“You know perfectly well that they’ll tell on you.”

“Yes? And who gives a damn.”

“I give a damn.”

“Don’t worry. Because even if you won’t help me, things will go as they should go.”

And as if I weren’t present, she went on to make arrangements with Nino for the next day. But while she, precisely because of that encounter with Michele Solara, seemed to have multiplied her energies, he seemed like a windup toy that has run down. He murmured:

“Are you sure you won’t get yourself in trouble because of me?”

Lila caressed his cheek. “You don’t want to anymore?”

The caress seemed to revive him. “I’m just worried for you.”

We soon left Nino, we returned home. Along the way I sketched catastrophic scenarios—“Michele will talk to Stefano tonight, Stefano will rush over here tomorrow morning, he won’t find you at home, Nunzia will send him to Barano, he won’t find you at Barano, either, you’ll lose everything, Lila, listen to me, you’ll ruin not only yourself but you’ll ruin me, too, my mother will kill me”—but she confined herself to listening absent-mindedly, smiling, repeating in varying formulations a single idea: I love you, Lenù, and I will always love you; so I hope that you feel at least once in your life what I’m feeling at this moment.

Then I thought: so much the worse for you. We stayed home that night. Lila was nice to her mother, she wanted to cook, she wanted her to be served, she cleared, washed the dishes, sat on her lap, put her arms around her neck, resting her forehead against hers with an unexpected sadness. Nunzia, who wasn’t used to those kindnesses and must have found them embarrassing, at a certain point burst into tears and amid her tears uttered a phrase convoluted by anxiety: “Please, Lina, no mother has ever had a daughter like you, don’t make me die of sorrow.”

Lila made fun of her affectionately and took her to her room. In the morning she dragged me out of bed; part of me was so anguished that it didn’t want to get up and be conscious of the day. In the mini cab to Forio, I laid out other terrible scenarios that left her completely indifferent. “Nella’s gone”; “Nella really has guests and has no room for me”; “The Sarratores decide to come here to Forio to visit their son.” She continued to reply in a joking tone: “If Nella’s gone, Nino’s mother will welcome you”; “If there’s no room you’ll come back and sleep at our house”; “If the whole Sarratore family knocks at the door of Bruno’s house we won’t open it.” And we went on like that until, a little before nine, we arrived at our destination. Nino was at the window waiting, he hurried to open the door. He gave me a nod of greeting, he drew Lila inside.