The Neapolitan Novels

75.

Stefano arrived at the usual time. We all three greeted him with false cheerfulness, and he was polite but a little tense, as if behind his benign expression he had a worry. Since his vacation was to begin that day, I was surprised that he hadn’t brought any luggage. Lila didn’t seem to notice, but Nunzia did and asked him, “You look preoccupied, Ste’, is something worrying you? Is your mamma well? And Pinuccia? And how are things with the shoes? What do the Solaras say, are they pleased?” He said that everything was fine, and we had dinner, but the conversation was forced. First Lila made an effort to seem in a good mood, but when Stefano responded with mono­­syllables and no sign of affection she became annoyed and was silent. Only Nunzia and I tried every possible means to keep the silence from becoming permanent. When we got to the fruit Stefano, with a half smile, said to his wife:

“You go swimming with Sarratore’s son?”

My breath failed. Lila answered with irritation: “Sometimes. Why?”

“How many times? One, two three, five, how many? Lenù, do you know?”

“Once,” I said, “ he came by two or three days ago and we all went swimming together.”

Stefano, still with the half smile on his face, turned to his wife.

“And you and the son of Sarratore are so intimate that when you come out of the water you hold hands?”

Lila stared straight into his face: “Who told you that?”

“Ada.”

“And who told Ada?”

“Gigliola.”

“And Gigliola?”

“Gigliola saw you, bitch. She came here with Michele, they came to visit you. And it’s not true that you and that piece of shit went swimming with Lenuccia, you went by yourselves and you were holding hands.”

Lila got up, she said calmly, “I’m going out, I’m going for a walk.”

“You’re not going anywhere: sit down and answer.”

Lila remained standing. She said suddenly, in Italian and with an expression that looked like weariness but which—I realized—was contempt: “How stupid I was to marry you, you’re worthless. You know that Michele Solara wants me in his shop, you know that for that reason Gigliola would kill me if she could, and what do you do, you believe her? I don’t want to listen to you anymore, you let yourself be manipulated like a puppet. Lenù, will you come with me?”

She was about to move toward the door and I started to get up, but Stefano leaped up and grabbed her by the arm, said to her, “You’re not going anywhere. You will tell me if it’s true or not that you went swimming by yourself with the son of Sarratore, if it’s true or not that you go around holding hands.”

Lila tried to free herself, but she couldn’t. She whispered, “Let go of my arm, you make me sick.”

Nunzia at that point intervened. She reproached her daughter, said she could not allow herself to say that terrible thing to Stefano. But right afterward, with a surprising energy, she nearly shouted at her son-in-law to stop it, Lila had already answered, it was envy that made Gigliola say those things, the daughter of the pastry maker was treacherous, she was afraid of losing her place in Piazza dei Martiri, she wanted to get rid of Pinuccia, too, and be the sole mistress of the shop, she who knew nothing about shoes, who didn’t even know how to make pastries, while everything—everything, everything—was due to Lila, including the success of the new grocery store, and so her daughter didn’t deserve to be treated like that, no, she didn’t deserve it.

She was truly enraged: her face was alight, wide-eyed, at a one point she seemed to be suffocating, as she added point to point without taking a breath. But Stefano didn’t listen to a word. His mother-in-law was still speaking when he yanked Lila toward the bedroom, yelling: “You will now answer me, immediately,” and when she insulted him grossly and grabbed the door of a cupboard to resist, he pulled her with such force that the door opened, the cupboard tottered dangerously, with a sound of plates and glasses rattling, and Lila almost flew through the kitchen and hit the wall of the hall that led to their room. A moment later her husband had grabbed her again and, holding her by the arm, but as if he were steadying a cup by the handle, pushed her into the bedroom and closed the door.

I heard the key turn in the lock, that sound terrified me. I had seen with my own eyes, in those long moments, that Stefano really was inhabited by the ghost of his father, that the shadow of Don Achille could swell the veins of his neck and the blue network under the skin of his forehead. But, although I was frightened, I felt that I couldn’t stay still, sitting at the table, like Nunzia. I grabbed the doorknob and began to shake it, to pound the wooden door with my fist, begging, “Stefano, please, it’s not true, leave her alone. Stefano, don’t hurt her.” But by now he was sealed within his rage, I could hear him yelling that he wanted the truth, and since Lila didn’t respond—in fact, it was as if she were no longer in the room—he seemed to be talking to himself and meanwhile hitting himself, striking himself, breaking things.

“I’m going to call the landlady,” I said to Nunzia, and I ran down the stairs. I wanted to ask the woman if she had another key or if her grandson was there, a large man who could have broken down the door. But I knocked in vain, the woman wasn’t there, or if she was she didn’t open the door. Meanwhile Stefano’s shouts shattered the walls, spread through the street, through the reeds, toward the sea, and yet they seemed to find no ears but mine, no one looked out of the neighboring houses, no one came running. All that came was Nunzia’s pleas, in a low tone, alternating with the threat that if Stefano continued to hurt her daughter she would tell Fernando and Rino everything, and they, as God was her witness, would kill him.

I ran back, I didn’t know what to do. I hurled myself with all the weight of my body against the door, I cried that I had called the police, they were coming. Then, since Lila still showed no signs of life, I shrieked: “Lila, are you all right? Please, Lila, tell me you’re all right.” Only then did we hear her voice. She spoke not to us but to her husband, coldly:

“You want the truth? Yes, the son of Sarratore and I go swimming and we hold hands. Yes, we go into the deep sea and kiss each other and touch each other. Yes, I’ve been fucked by him a hundred times and so I discovered that you’re a shit, that you’re worthless, that you only demand disgusting things that make me throw up. Is that what you want? Are you happy?”

Silence. After those words Stefano didn’t take a breath, I stopped pounding on the door, Nunzia stopped crying. Outside noises returned, the cars passing, some distant voices, the hens beating their wings.

Some minutes passed and it was Stefano who began speaking again, but so softly that we couldn’t hear what he was saying. I realized, though, that he was looking for a way to calm down: short, disconnected phrases, show me that you’re done, be good, stop it. Lila’s confession must have seemed so unbearable that he had ended by taking it as a lie. He had seen in it something she resorted to in order to hurt him, an exaggeration equivalent to a solid punch to bring his feet back to the ground, words that in short meant: if you still don’t realize what groundless things you’re accusing me of, now I’m going to make it clear to you, you just listen.

But to me Lila’s words seemed as terrible as Stefano’s blows. I felt that if the excessive violence he repressed behind his polite manners and his meek face terrified me, I now couldn’t bear her courage, that audacious impudence that allowed her to cry out the truth as if it were a lie. Every single word that she had addressed to Stefano had returned him to his senses, because he considered it a lie, but had pierced me painfully, because I knew the truth. When the voice of the grocer reached us more clearly, both Nunzia and I felt that the worst had passed, Don Achille was withdrawing from his son and returning him to his gentle, pliable side. And Stefano, restored to the part of himself that had made him a successful shopkeeper, was bewildered, he didn’t understand what had happened to his voice, his hands, his arms. Even though the image of Lila and Nino holding hands probably persisted in his mind, what Lila had evoked for him with that hail of words could not help but have the flashing features of unreality.

The door didn’t open, the key didn’t turn in the lock until it was day. But Stefano’s voice became sad, a depressed pleading, and Nunzia and I waited outside for hours, keeping each other company with despondent, barely heard remarks. Whispered words inside, whispered words outside. “If I tell Rino,” Nunzia murmured, “he’ll kill him, surely he’ll kill him.” And I whispered, as if I believed her: “Please, don’t tell him.” But meanwhile I thought: Rino, and even Fernando, after the wedding never moved a finger for Lila; not to mention that ever since she was born they’ve hit her whenever they wanted. And then I said to myself: men are all made of the same clay, only Nino is different. And I sighed, while my resentment grew stronger: now it’s absolutely clear that Lila will have him, even if she’s married, and together they’ll get out of this filth, while I will be here forever.