Blood Curse

LXII

Don’t try to tell me that’s my mother. Damned witch, filthy whore. Don’t tell me that she’s blood of my blood.

I remember my mother perfectly. She might have been older than the mothers of the other children in the poorhouse; but she was also smarter. She used to tell me, I have to work, you can’t stay with me. But I’ll give you everything, much more than the other children who have just a single outfit, a single pencil, a single notebook. Not me. . My mamma showered me with things. And you know why? Because I’m handsome.

The nuns like me, the schoolteacher likes me. To hell with my classmates, who locked me in the bathroom that one time and covered me with bruises, kicking and punching me on the body but not the face, knowing that otherwise the bruises would show and they’d get in trouble. To hell with them.

The bigger I got and the handsomer I became, the more things my mamma gave me. She used to tell me that I was all she had in the world, that she had to make sure I had everything I wanted. And everything is exactly what I wanted, because a person gets used to having fine things. And if I wanted it, Mamma would get it for me. She told me that I was born by accident; not even she knew exactly how it happened. One day, my father would be a sailor who had left us; another day, if I’d been a good boy, he’d be a nobleman; and on yet another day, if I’d made her mad at me, he’d be a stinking drunk. Now that’s my mamma.

Now I’m grown up and I want to be an actor. Because I’m handsome, did I mention that? Plus I can sing and dance. And if they say I can’t, it’s because they’re jealous, because they’re not as good as I am. Mamma tells me that I can’t let anyone know that I’m her son, otherwise the people won’t pay, and she won’t be able to give me the money. And I go to see her secretly, at night, so she can tell me what it is I need to do. The money-who knows where it comes from? Mamma tells me that the porter woman, the idiot girl’s mamma, is putting her money in the bank for the idiot girl. And she told that lady that they’re equal partners, each one for her own child. But that lady didn’t understand; maybe she’s just as much of an idiot as her idiot daughter. Not me. I’m handsome, Mamma looks at me and smiles. And she tells me what to do, what to say.

So don’t try and tell me that witch is my mamma.

I remember what my mamma told me. And I do it, word for word. When I can’t talk to her, that’s when I get mixed up. And I get things wrong.

With Emma, I did everything that my mamma told me to do. She’d been looking for her for such a long time: a suitable lady. Then one day she told me that she had found her, that a cousin of mine I’d never met had brought the lady to her, a cousin who doesn’t even know I exist. And Mamma prepared everything, down to the last detail, the way she always did. And she told me where I was supposed to wait and what I was supposed to say. And that I should be even more careful than usual, because Emma could never knew who I was-that I was my mamma’s son, in other words. Because, as you know, we only have one mamma; if you need help, she’s the one you turn to. Otherwise, what are mammas for?

So then I become Emma’s lover. That’s something I know how to do; it’s something that comes natural to me. Every night I go to Mamma’s place. She leaves the door open for me, I climb the stairs after the porter woman has doused the lamp, which I can see from the street. And she tells me what to do next. Emma falls in love with me. She can’t live without me anymore. I make love to her; that’s something I like. Mamma makes the other arrangements, making sure Emma takes care of the money and her stupid old husband, too: we’ll take everything but his underpants, Mamma tells me. We’ll be the winners of this card game. And we’ll take all their money and run, Mamma says.

Emma is a man-woman, Mamma says. She drives and she smokes; she could easily get into an accident in that red car she drives. For now, let’s just get the money and get out of here. We’ll see about that accident later.

Mamma laughs and caresses me. I like it when she laughs. It means everything’s okay.

Then one night Emma comes to the theater, all puffy from crying. That’s it, she says, it’s over, I can never see you again. I hardly know what to say to her; it’s the kind of thing Mamma usually explains to me. I need to go see her, but then I can’t because the porter woman doesn’t turn out the lamp. That idiot daughter of hers must have gone to sleep late. I tell myself I’ll go the next day and ask Mamma what’s happening. She’ll explain, wait and see, that mamma of mine is so smart. That’s just how we are, the two of us: perfect. I’m handsome, she’s smart.

But when I get there, who do I find? This old witch. She looks just like my mamma, true, but it can’t be her because instead of talking about me, her son, she starts talking about Emma’s baby. She says that where she was unable to succeed with me, she can make it work with the baby, make sure he lives a rich life with an important last name. And I say to Mamma, to this witch, I say: But why? Are you saying I can’t have an important last name? That I can’t become rich and famous? And she tells me no, that fate pays you back sooner or later. Those who do evil sooner or later are paid back for it, by God.

And she tells me, me of all people, that the baby is more important, that my father told her so in a dream. You understand? My father! In a dream! And now you have the nerve to try to tell me that that was my mother? The woman who gave me a different surname so that I could grow up to be famous? Never! That’s not my mother!

And I ask her what I’m going to get out of it. This time, nothing, she answers. And she’s weeping as she says it. Maybe another day. Maybe we’ll find another one like Emma. After all, Naples is full of bored wealthy women looking for a lover to keep. God Almighty, she tells me, isn’t a merchant who pays His debts on Saturday.

And I kicked her out, kicked that witch right out, out from inside my mother. I split her head open, to let the evil out. And I kicked her all around the room. The damned witch. That blood, all that blood: not the blood of my blood. My mother always thought only of me. That couldn’t be her, not if she now preferred an unborn bastard to me. Now I’m waiting. You’ll see, sooner or later my mamma will come back and make everything right. That’s right, she really is blood of my blood.