The Lost Daughter

7

I left at sunset as usual, but tense and resentful. After my refusal the pregnant woman had grown insistent, in an increasingly aggressive tone, and the old man had come over and said things like what’s it to you, you do us a favor today we do one for you tomorrow; but it all lasted just a few minutes, maybe I didn’t even have time to say no again, clearly, but confined myself to shaking my head. The matter was ended by an abrupt remark from Nina’s husband, words uttered at a distance but in a loud voice: that’s enough, he said, we’re fine like this, leave the lady alone. And they all withdrew, the young attendant last, murmuring an apology as he returned to his post.

As long as I stayed on the beach I pretended to read. In reality, all I could hear, as if amplified, was the clan’s dialect, their shouts and laughter, and it kept me from concentrating. They were celebrating something, eating, drinking, singing, they seemed to think they were the only people on the beach, or anyway that our task was simply to delight in their happiness. From the supplies that had been brought on the motorboat all sorts of things emerged, a sumptuous meal, lasting for hours, with wine, desserts, liqueurs. No one glanced in my direction, no one said even a vaguely ironic word that concerned me. Only when I got dressed, and was preparing to leave, did the woman with the big belly leave the group and come toward me. She offered me a little plate with a slice of a raspberry-colored ice.

“It’s my birthday,” she said seriously.

I took the ice even though I didn’t feel like it.

“Happy birthday. How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

I looked at the stomach, the protruding navel like an eye.

“You have a nice big belly.”

She had a very satisfied expression.

“It’s a girl. I never had children, and now look here.”

“How much longer?”

“Two months. My sister-in-law had hers right away, I had to wait eight years.”

“These things happen when they’re supposed to happen. Thank you, and have a happy birthday.”

I held out the plate to her after two bites, but she paid no attention.

“Do you have any children?”

“Two girls.”

“Did you have them right away?”

“When I had the first I was twenty-three.”

“They’re grown.”

“One is twenty-four, the other twenty-two.”

“You seem younger. My sister-in-law says you couldn’t be more than forty.”

“I’m almost forty-eight.”

“Lucky you, to have stayed so attractive. What’s your name?”

“Leda.”

“Neda?”

“Leda.”

“Mine is Rosaria.”

I held out the plate more decisively, and she took it.

“I was a bit anxious, earlier,” I said, apologizing reluctantly.

“Sometimes the sea isn’t good for us. Or is it the girls who are worrying you?”

“Children are always cause for worry.”

We said goodbye; I realized that Nina was looking at us. I went through the pinewood discontentedly, now feeling in the wrong. What would it have cost me to change umbrellas, the others had done it, even the Dutch, why hadn’t I? Sense of superiority, presumption. Defense of my leisure for thinking, snobbish tendency to give lessons in civility. All nonsense. I had paid so much attention to Nina only because I felt her to be physically closer, while I had given not a single glance to Rosaria, who was ugly and without pretensions. How many times they must have called her by name and I hadn’t noticed. I had kept her outside my range, without curiosity, anonymous image of a woman who carries her pregnancy crudely. That’s what I was, superficial. And then that remark: children are always cause for worry. Said to a woman about to bring one into the world: how stupid. Always words of contempt, skeptical or ironic. Bianca had cried to me once between her tears: you always think you’re best. And Marta: why did you have us if all you do is complain about us? Fragments of words, mere syllables. The moment arrives when your children say to you with unhappy rage, why did you give me life: I walked absorbed in thought. The pine trees had a violet tinge; there was a wind. I heard a creaking noise behind me, perhaps footsteps, I turned, silence.

I began walking again. A violent blow struck my back, as if I had been hit with a billiard ball. I cried out in pain and surprise together, turned, breathless, and saw a pinecone tumbling into the undergrowth, big as a fist, closed. Now my heart was racing, and I rubbed my back hard, to get rid of the pain. Unable to recover my breath, I looked around at the bushes, at the pines above me, tossing in the wind.