Элена Ферранте - The Lying Life of Adults

He was silent for a moment, then I heard him laugh.

“I always keep my promises. Did your aunt tell you to call me?”

“No, I do what I feel like doing.”

From there we started a conversation that unsettled me because it demonstrated his willingness to talk to me about personal matters. He said that he loved Giuliana, that the only thing that could keep him from marrying her would be that she didn’t want to marry him. I assured him that Giuliana wanted it more than anything, but I added that she was insecure, she was afraid of losing him, afraid that he would fall in love with someone else. He answered that he knew that and did everything possible to reassure her. I believe you, I said, but now you’re going abroad, you might meet another girl: if you discover that Giuliana doesn’t understand anything about you and your work, while that other person does, what will you do? He gave me a long answer. He began with Naples, Pascone, his childhood there. He talked about them as of marvelous places, very different from the way I saw them. He said that he had contracted a debt there and had to repay it. He tried to explain to me that his love for Giuliana, born on those streets, was like a reminder, the constant memory of that debt. And when I asked him what he meant by debt he explained that he owed a spiritual compensation to the place where he was born, and a lifetime wouldn’t be sufficient to restore the balance. So I replied: you want to marry her as if you were marrying Pascone? He seemed embarrassed, he said that he was grateful to me because I was forcing him to reflect, and he struggled to articulate his thoughts: I want to marry her because she is the very incarnation of my debt. He maintained a low tone, although occasionally he uttered a solemn phrase like “we can’t be saved by ourselves alone.” Sometimes I seemed to be talking to one of my classmates: he chose elementary constructions, and that made me feel at ease, but also upset me. At times I suspected he was mimicking behavior suitable to what I was, a girl, and for a moment I thought that maybe with that Michela he would have talked with greater richness and complexity. On the other hand what claim did I have? I thanked him for the conversation, he thanked me for letting him talk about Giuliana and for the friendship I had demonstrated for both of them. I said without thinking:

“Tonino left, she’s suffering a lot, she’s alone.”

“I know and I’ll try to remedy that. It was a real pleasure to talk to you.”

“For me, too.”

11.

I reported every word to Giuliana, she regained some color, and she needed it. It didn’t seem to me that things got noticeably worse when Roberto left for London. She said that he called her, had written her a wonderful letter, and she never mentioned Michela. She cheered up when he told her he’d just had a new article published in an important review. She seemed proud of him, she was happy, as if she had written the article. But she complained, laughing, that she could boast about it only to me: Vittoria, her mother, Corrado couldn’t appreciate it; and Tonino, the only one who would have understood, was far away, working as a waiter, who knew if he was still studying.

“Will you let me read it?” I asked.

“I don’t have the review.”

“But you read it?”

She realized I took it for granted that he had her read everything he wrote, and I did: my father had had my mother read everything, sometimes he had even made me read pages that he liked. She darkened, I saw in her eyes that she would have liked to answer yes, I’ve read them, she automatically gave a nod of assent. But then she looked down, looked up again angrily, said:

“No, I haven’t read them, and I don’t want to.”

“Why.”

“I’m afraid I won’t understand.”

“Maybe you should try anyway, it must be important to him.”

“If it was important, he would give them to me. But he hasn’t, and so he’s sure I can’t understand.”

I remember we were out walking on Toledo, it was hot. The schools were closing, soon the grades would be coming out. The street was crowded with kids, boys and girls, it was nice not to have homework, to be outside. Giuliana looked at them as if she didn’t understand the reason for all that energy. She ran her fingers over her forehead, I sensed she was getting depressed, I said quickly:

“It’s because you live apart, but when you’re married, you’ll see, he’ll want you to read everything.”

“He has Michela read everything.”

The news hurt me, too, but I didn’t have time to react. Right at the end of that sentence a powerful male voice called us, I heard first Giuliana’s name, then mine. We turned at the same time and saw Rosario in the doorway of a café across the street. Giuliana made a gesture of irritation, she hit the air with her hand, she wanted to keep going as if she hadn’t heard. But I had already nodded in greeting, and he was crossing the street to join us.

“Do you know the lawyer Sargente’s son?” Giuliana said.

“Corrado introduced me.”

“Corrado’s an idiot.”

Meanwhile Rosario was crossing the street and, naturally, laughing; he seemed very happy to have met us.

“It’s fate,” he said, “to run into you so far from Pascone. Come on, let me get you something.”

Giuliana replied stiffly:

“We’re in a hurry.”

He had an expression of exaggerated worry.

“What’s the matter, you don’t feel well today, you’re nervous?”

“I’m very well.”

“Your fiancé is jealous? He said you shouldn’t talk to me?”

“My fiancé doesn’t even know you exist.”

“But you know, right? You know, and you’re always thinking of me, but you don’t tell your fiancé. And yet you should tell him, you should tell him everything. Between fiancés there shouldn’t be secrets, otherwise the relationship doesn’t work and you suffer. I see you’re suffering, I look at you and I think: she’s so skinny, what a pity. You were so round and soft, and you’re turning into a broomstick.”

“You’re the good-looking one.”

“Better than your fiancé. Giannì, come on, you want a sfoglia­tella?”

I answered:

“It’s late, we have to go.”

“I’ll drive you in the car. First we’ll take Giuliana to Pascone and then we’ll go up to Rione Alto.”

He dragged us to the bar, but once there he completely ignored Giuliana, who sat in a corner near the door staring at the street and the passersby. He talked continuously while I ate the sfogliatella, standing so close to me that every so often I had to move a little. He whispered racy compliments in my ear and aloud praised, I don’t know, my eyes, my hair. He went so far as to ask in a whisper if I was still a virgin and I laughed nervously, I said yes.

“I’m going,” Giuliana grumbled, and left the bar.

Rosario mentioned his house on Via Manzoni, the number, the floor, he said it had a view of the sea. Finally, he said:

“You’re always welcome, you want to come over?”

“Now?” I said, pretending to be amused.

“Whenever you want.”

“Not now,” I said seriously, I thanked him for the sfogliatella and joined Giuliana in the street. She exclaimed angrily:

“Don’t give that shit any leeway.”

“I didn’t, he took it.”

“If your aunt sees you together she’ll kill you and him.”

“I know.”

“Did he tell you about Via Manzoni?”

“Yes, what do you know about it?”

Giuliana shook her head hard, as if she wanted with that gesture of negation to get rid of the images that came to mind.

“I’ve been there.”

“With Rosario?”

“Who else?”

“Now?”

“What do you mean, I was younger than you.”