Elena Ferrante - The Story of the Lost Child

I hadn’t seen him for a long time, and an unease took possession of all three of us. Michele seemed very changed. He had gone gray, and his face was lined, although his body was still young and athletic. But the oddest thing was that he appeared to be embarrassed by my presence, and behaved in a completely uncharacteristic way. First of all he stood up when I entered. Then he was polite but said very little, his usual teasing patter had disappeared. He kept looking at Alfonso as if he were seeking help, then immediately looked away, as if merely looking at him could be compromising. And Alfonso was just as uncomfortable. He kept smoothing his long hair, he smacked his lips in search of something to say, and the conversation soon languished. The moments seemed fragile to me. I became nervous, but I didn’t know why. Maybe it annoyed me that they were hiding— from me , no less, as if I couldn’t understand; from me, who had frequented and did frequent circles more progressive than that little neighborhood room, who had written a book praised even abroad on how brittle sexual identities were. On the tip of my tongue was the wish to exclaim: If I’ve understood correctly, you are lovers. I didn’t do it only out of fear of having mistaken Lila’s hints. But certainly I couldn’t bear the silence and I talked a lot, pushing the conversation in that direction.

I said to Michele:

“Gigliola told me you’re separated.”

“Yes.”

“I’m also separated.”

“I know, and I also know you you’re with.”

“You never liked Nino.”

“No, but people have to do what they feel like, otherwise they get sick.”

“Are you still in Posillipo?”

Alfonso interrupted enthusiastically:

“Yes, and the view is fabulous.”

Michele looked at him with irritation, he said:

“I’m happy there.”

I answered:

“People are never happy alone.”

“Better alone than in bad company,” he answered.

Alfonso must have perceived that I was looking for a chance to say something unpleasant to Michele and he tried to focus my attention on himself.

He exclaimed:

“And I am about to separate from Marisa.” And he related in great detail certain quarrels with his wife on money matters. He never mentioned love, sex, or even her infidelities. Instead he continued to insist on the money, he spoke obscurely of Stefano and alluded only to the fact that Marisa had pushed out Ada ( Women take men away from other women without any scruples, in fact with great satisfaction ). His wife, in his words, seemed no more than an acquaintance whose doings could be talked about with irony. Think what a waltz, he said, laughing — Ada took Stefano from Lila and now Marisa is taking him away from her, hahaha.

I sat listening and slowly rediscovered — but as if I were dragging it up from a deep well — the old solidarity of the time when we sat at the same desk. Yet only then did I understand that even if I had never been aware that he was different, I was fond of him precisely because he wasn’t like the other boys, precisely because of that peculiar alienation from the male behaviors of the neighborhood. And now, as he spoke, I discovered that that bond endured. Michele, on the other hand, annoyed me more than ever. He muttered some vulgarities about Marisa, he was impatient with Alfonso’s conversation, at a certain point he interrupted in the middle of a sentence almost angrily (Will you let me have a word with Lenuccia?) and asked about my mother, he knew she was ill. Alfonso became suddenly silent, blushing. I started talking about my mother, purposely emphasizing how worried she was about my brothers. I said:

“She’s not happy that Peppe and Gianni work for your brother.”

“What’s the problem with Marcello?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. I heard that you don’t get along anymore.”

He looked at me almost in embarrassment.

“You heard wrong. And anyway, if your mother doesn’t like Marcello’s money, she can send them to work under someone else.”

I was on the point of reproaching him for that under: my brothers under Marcello, under him, under someone else: my brothers, whom I hadn’t helped with school and now, because of me, they were under . Under? No human being should be under, much less under the Solaras. I felt even more dissatisfied and had a desire to quarrel. But Lila came out.

“Ah, what a crowd,” she said, and turned to Michele: “You need to talk to me?”

“Yes.”

“Will it take long?”

“Yes.”

“Then first I’ll talk to Lenuccia.”

He nodded timidly. I got up, and, looking at Michele but touching Alfonso on the arm as if to push him toward Michele, said:

“One of these nights you two must invite me to Posillipo, I’m always alone. I can do the cooking.”

Michele opened his mouth but no sound came out, Alfonso intervened anxiously:

“There’s no need, I’m a good cook. If Michele invites us, I’ll do everything.”

Lila led me away.

She stayed in her room with me for a long time, we talked about this and that. She, too, was near the end of her term, but the pregnancy no longer seemed to weigh on her. She said, smiling, as she placed her hand in a cup shape under her stomach: Finally I’ve gotten used to it, I feel good, I’d almost keep the child inside forever. With a vanity that she had rarely displayed, she turned sideways to be admired. She was tall, and her slender figure had beautiful curves: the small bosom, the stomach, the back and the ankles. Enzo, she said, laughing, with a trace of vulgarity, likes me pregnant even more, how annoying that it’ll end. I thought: the earthquake seemed so terrible to her that each moment now is uncertain, and she would like everything to stand still, even her pregnancy. Every so often I looked at the clock, but she wasn’t worried that Michele was waiting; rather, she seemed to be wasting time with me on purpose.

“He’s not here for work,” she said when I reminded her that he was waiting, “he’s pretending, he’s looking for excuses.”

“For what?”

“Excuses. But you stay out of it: either mind your own business, or these are matters you have to take seriously. Even that remark about dinner at Posillipo, maybe it would have been better if you hadn’t said it.”

I was embarrassed. I murmured that it was a time of constant tensions, I told her about the fight with Elisa and Peppe, I told her I intended to confront Marcello. She shook her head, she repeated:

“Those, too, are things you can’t interfere in and then go back up to Via Tasso.”

“I don’t want my mother to die worrying about her sons.”

“Comfort her.”

“How.”

She smiled.

“With lies. Lies are better than tranquilizers.”

But in those low-spirited days I couldn’t lie even for a good cause. Only because Elisa reported to our mother that I had insulted her and as a result she wanted nothing more to do with me; only because Peppe and Gianni shouted at her that she must never dare send me to make speeches like a cop, I finally decided to tell her a lie. I told her that I had talked to Lila and Lila had promised to take care of Peppe and Gianni. But she perceived that I wasn’t really convinced and she said grimly: Yes, well done, go home, go, you have children. I was angry at myself, and on the following days she was even more agitated, she grumbled that she wanted to die soon. But once when I took her to the hospital she seemed more confident.

“She telephoned me,” she said in her hoarse, sorrowful voice.

“Who?”

“Lina.”

I was speechless with surprise.

“What did she tell you?”