Элена Ферранте - The Lying Life of Adults

We settled ourselves in the same order a few rows ahead, Angela started whispering in Tonino’s ear: she was angry, I realized that she was taking advantage of the moment to get rid of him. The innumerable ads were finally over, the lights went on again. The three kids were having fun, I heard them laughing, I turned. They had stood up and were climbing noisily over one two three rows, and in an instant they were sitting behind us again. Their spokesman said: you let that shit order you around, we’re insulted, we can’t stand to be treated like that, we want to watch the movie with you.

Then it was a matter of seconds. The lights went out, the film began clamorously. The boy’s voice was drowned out by the music, we were all reduced to flashes of light. Angela said to Tonino in a loud voice: did you hear, he called you a shit? Laughter from the boys, sssh from the audience, Tonino jumped up unexpectedly, Giuliana said: no, Tonì. But he slapped Angela so violently that her head banged against my cheekbone, it hurt. The boys shut up, disoriented, Tonino twisted around like an open door banging in a gust of wind, and unrepeatable obscenities came out of his mouth in a sustained rhythm. Angela burst into tears, Giuliana grabbed my hand, she said: we have to go, let’s get him out of here. Get her brother out of there by force, she meant, as if the person in danger weren’t Angela or the two of us but him. By now the boys’ spokesman had recovered from his surprise, and said: oh, I’m real scared, we’re shaking, you clown, you only know how to fight with girls, come on. Giuliana seemed to want to erase his voice as she cried, Tonì, they’re kids. The seconds passed, with one hand Tonino grabbed the boy by the head—maybe by an ear, I wouldn’t swear—grabbed it and pulled it toward him as if to detach it. Instead he hit him under the chin with the other hand closed in a fist, and the boy flew backward, he sat in his seat again with his mouth bleeding. The other two wanted to help their friend, but when they saw that Tonino meant to climb over the seats, they looked frantically for the exit. Giuliana grabbed her brother to keep him from going after them, the music of the film’s opening was blaring, the audience was shouting, Angela weeping, the wounded kid shrieking. Tonino shoved his sister aside, started taking it out again on the kid, who had fallen in tears and groans and curses on the seat. He slapped and punched him, insulting him in a dialect incomprehensible to me it was so fast and loaded with fury, one word exploding inside the next. Now everyone in the theater was shouting, turn on the lights, call the police, and Giuliana and I, and Angela, too, grabbed hold of Tonino’s arms yelling: let’s go, that’s enough, let’s go. Finally, we managed to pull him away and get to the exit. Go, Tonì, run, Giuliana shouted, hitting him on the back, and he repeated twice, in dialect: it’s not possible that, in this city, a respectable person can’t watch a film in peace. He spoke mainly to me, to see if I agreed. To calm him down I agreed, and he ran away toward Piazza Dante, handsome in spite of his wild eyes, his blue lips.

7.

We got out of there fast, too, heading toward the basilica of the Spirito Santo, and slowed down only when we felt protected by the crowd in the Pignasecca market. Then I became aware of my fear. Angela, too, was terrified, and so was Giuliana, who seemed to have taken part in the brawl herself, her hair was disheveled, the collar of her jacket half torn. I looked to see if she still had the bracelet on her wrist, and it was there, but it wasn’t shining.

“I have to get home right away,” Giuliana said, speaking to me.

“Go, and call me, let me know how Tonino is.”

“Were you scared?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Tonino usually controls himself, but sometimes he just can’t see straight.”

Angela interrupted, her eyes filled with tears:

“I was scared, too.”

Giuliana turned pale with rage, she almost yelled:

“Shut up, you better just shut up.”

I had never seen her so furious. She kissed me on the cheeks and left.

Angela and I reached the funicular. I was confused, the phrase was impressed on me: sometimes he just can’t see straight anymore. All the way home, I listened distractedly to my friend’s complaints. She was in despair: I was stupid, she said. But then she touched her red, swollen cheek, her neck hurt, she cried: how could he dare, he slapped me, me, not even my father and mother ever slap me, I don’t want to see him ever ever again. She wept, then started in with another grievance: Giuliana hadn’t said goodbye to her, she had said goodbye only to me. It’s not right to put all the blame on me, she muttered, how was I supposed to know that Tonino was a beast. When I left her at her house, she admitted: all right, it’s my fault, but Tonino and Giuliana aren’t well brought up, I never would have expected it, his hitting me, he could have killed me, he could have killed those boys, too, I was wrong to love an animal like that. I said: you’re wrong, Tonino and Giuliana are very well brought up, but there can be times when you really can’t see straight anymore.

I walked back home, slowly. I couldn’t get that expression—unable to see straight—out of my mind. Everything seems in order, hello, see you soon, make yourself at home, what can I give you to drink, could you lower the volume a little, thank you, you’re welcome. But there’s a black veil that can drop at any moment. It’s a sudden blindness, you don’t know how to keep your distance, you crash into things. Does it happen only to some people or to everybody that, once a certain level is passed, they can’t see straight anymore? And was it truer when you saw everything clearly or when the strongest and deepest feelings—hatred, love—blinded you? Had Enzo, blinded by Vittoria, been unable to see Margherita? Had my father, blinded by Costanza, been unable to see my mother? Had I, blinded by the insult of my classmate Silvestro, been unable to see straight? Was Roberto also someone who could be blinded? Or was he always able—in every circumstance, under the pressure of whatever emotional impulse—to remain clear and serene?

The apartment was dark, very silent. My mother must have decided to spend Saturday evening out. The phone rang, I answered it immediately, sure that it would be Giuliana. It was Tonino, who said slowly, with a calm that I liked because now it seemed to be his own rich invention:

“I wanted to apologize and say goodbye to you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Venice.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight.”

“Why did you decide that.”

“Because otherwise I’ll throw my life away.”

“What does Giuliana say.”

“Nothing, she doesn’t know, nobody knows.”

“Not even Roberto?”

“No, if he knew what I did tonight he’d never speak to me again.”

“Giuliana will tell him.”

“I won’t.”

“Send me your address?”

“As soon as I have one, I’ll write to you.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because you’re someone who understands.”

I hung up, I felt sad. I went into the kitchen, got some water, went back out to the hall. But the day wasn’t over. The door of the bedroom that once had been my parents’ opened and my mother appeared. She wasn’t wearing her usual clothes, but was dressed up. She said in a natural tone:

“Weren’t you supposed to go to the movies?”

“We didn’t go.”

“Now we’re going: how is it outside, do I need a coat?”

From the same room—he, too, nicely dressed—Mariano appeared.

8.

That was the last stage of the long crisis in my house and, at the same time, an important moment in my arduous approach to the adult world. I learned—just at that moment, when I decided to appear cordial, and reply to my mother that the evening was warm, and accept Mariano’s habitual kiss on the cheeks as well as the usual glance at my breasts—that it was impossible to stop growing up. When the two closed the door behind them, I went to the bathroom and took a long shower as if to wash them off me.