Элена Ферранте - The Lying Life of Adults

She said words like that but more vulgar, with a familiarity that disoriented me. In no time at all her face cleared then clouded, troubled by diverse feelings: remorse, aversion, rage, melancholy. She covered my father with obscenities I’d never heard. But when she mentioned that Enzo, she broke off because of the emotion, and, head down, dramatically hiding her eyes with one hand, she hurried out of the kitchen.

I didn’t move, I was in a state. I took advantage of her absence to spit into the glass the orange seeds I’d held in my mouth. A minute went by, two, I was ashamed that I hadn’t reacted when she insulted my father. I have to tell her it’s not right to talk like that about someone everybody respects, I thought. Meanwhile some music began softly and in a few seconds exploded at high volume. She shouted to me: come on, Giannì, what are you doing, sleeping? I jumped up, went from the kitchen toward the dark entrance. A few steps and I was in a small room with an old armchair, an accordion left on the floor in a corner, a table with a television, and a stool with the record player on it. Vittoria was standing in front of the window, looking out. From there she could surely see the car in which my father was waiting for me. In fact she said, without turning, alluding to the music: he’s got to hear that singer, so he’ll remember. I realized she was moving her body rhythmically, small movements of feet, hips, shoulders. I stared at her back, bewildered.

“The first time I saw Enzo was at a dance party and we danced this dance,” I heard her say.

“How long ago?”

“Seventeen years on May 23rd.”

“A long time has gone by.”

“Not even a minute has gone by.”

“Did you love him?”

She turned.

“Your father hasn’t told you anything?”

I hesitated, she was as if frozen, for the first time she seemed older than my parents, even though I knew she was a few years younger.

“I know only that he was married and had three children.”

“Nothing else? He didn’t say he was a bad person?”

I hesitated.

“A little bad.”

“And then?”

“A delinquent.”

She burst out:

“The bad person is your father, he’s the delinquent. Enzo was a police sergeant and he was even nice to the criminals, on Sunday he always went to Mass. Imagine, I didn’t believe in God, your father had convinced me that he doesn’t exist. But as soon as I saw Enzo I changed my mind. A man more good and more just and more sensitive has never existed on the face of the earth. Such a lovely voice he had, and he sang so well, he taught me to play the accordion. Before him, men made me vomit, after him anyone who came near me I drove away in disgust. Everything your parents told you is false.”

I looked uneasily at the floor, I didn’t answer. She pressed me:

“You don’t believe it, eh?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know because you believe more in lies than in the truth. Giannì, you’re not growing up well. Look how ridiculous you are, all in pink, pink shoes, pink jacket, pink barrette. I bet you don’t even know how to dance.”

“My friends and I practice whenever we see each other.”

“What are your friends’ names?”

“Angela and Ida.”

“And are they like you?”

“Yes.”

She scowled with disapproval and leaned over to start the record again.

“Do you know how to do this dance?”

“It’s an old dance.”

She made a sudden movement, grabbed me by the waist, held me tight. Her large bosom gave off an odor of pine needles in the sun.

“Climb on my feet.”

“I’ll hurt you.”

“Come on.”

I climbed on her feet, and she whirled me around the room with great precision and elegance, until the music ended. She stopped but didn’t let go of me, she held me tight, and said:

“Tell your father that I made you dance the same dance that I danced for the first time with Enzo. Tell him that, word for word.”

“O.K.”

“And now that’s enough.”

She pushed me away forcefully, and, suddenly deprived of her warmth, I muffled a cry, as if I’d felt a sharp pain somewhere but was ashamed to show myself weak. It seemed wonderful that after that dance with Enzo she hadn’t liked anyone else. And I thought she must have preserved every detail of her unique love, so that maybe, dancing with me, she had relived it moment by moment in her mind. I thought it was thrilling, I wanted to love, too, immediately, in that absolute way. Surely she had a memory of Enzo so intense that her bony organism, her chest, her breath had transmitted a little love into my stomach. I said softly, dazed:

“What was Enzo like, do you have a picture?”

Her eyes shone:

“Good, I’m glad you want to see him. Let’s make a date for May 23rd and we’ll go: he’s in the cemetery.”

3.

In the days that followed, my mother tried delicately to carry out the mission my father must have entrusted to her: to find out if the encounter with Vittoria had succeeded in healing the involuntary wound that they themselves had inflicted. This kept me constantly alert. I didn’t want to show either of them that I hadn’t disliked Vittoria. So I forced myself to hide the fact that, although I continued to believe in their version of things, I also believed a little in my aunt’s. I carefully avoided saying that Vittoria’s face, to my great surprise, had seemed so vividly insolent that it was very ugly and very beautiful at the same time, and so now I was hovering between the two superlatives, puzzled. Mainly I hoped that I wouldn’t give away by some uncontrollable sign or other—a flash in the eyes, a blush—the appointment in May. But I had no experience as a deceiver, I was a well-brought-up child, and I felt my way blindly, sometimes answering my mother’s questions with excessive prudence, sometimes taking things too lightly and in the end talking recklessly.

I made a mistake that very Sunday, in the evening, when she asked me: “How did your aunt seem to you?”

“Old.”

“She’s five years younger than me.”

“You look like her daughter.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“It’s true, Mamma. You and she are very far apart.”

“About that there’s no question. Vittoria and I were never friends, even if I did all I could to love her. It’s hard to have a good relationship with her.”

“I noticed.”

“Did she say nasty things?”

“She was testy.”

“And then?”

“Then she got a little angry because I didn’t wear the bracelet she gave me when I was born.”

I said it and immediately regretted it. But anyway it had happened, I felt myself blush, and immediately tried to figure out if mentioning the jewelry had made her uneasy. My mother reacted in a completely natural way.

“A bracelet for a newborn?”

“A bracelet for an older girl.”

“That she supposedly gave to you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so. Aunt Vittoria never gave us anything, not even a flower. But if it interests you, I’ll ask your father.”

That upset me. Now my mother would report the story to him, and he would say: so it’s not true that they talked only about school, about Ida and Angela, they also talked about other things, of many things that Giovanna wants to hide from us. How stupid I’d been. I said confusedly that I didn’t care about the bracelet and added in a tone of disgust, Aunt Vittoria doesn’t wear makeup, doesn’t wax her facial hair, has eyebrows this thick, and when I saw her she wasn’t wearing earrings or even a necklace; so if she ever gave me a bracelet it was probably very ugly. But I knew that any dismissive remark was now pointless: from here on, whatever I said, my mother would talk to my father and would report to me not her true response but the one they had agreed on.