The Neapolitan Novels

51.

What energy I had in those days. We went to the cardiologist, a big-name professor who had a house and office in Via Crispi. I took great care with my appearance for the occasion. Although the doctor was from Naples, he was connected with Adele’s world and I didn’t want to make a bad impression. I brushed my hair, wore a dress that she had given me, used a subtle perfume that resembled hers, put on light makeup. I wanted the professor, if he spoke to my mother-in-law on the telephone, or if by chance they met, to speak well of me. Lila instead looked as she did every day at home, careless of her appearance. We sat in a grand waiting room, with nineteenth-century paintings on the walls: a noblewoman in an armchair with a Negro servant in the background, a portrait of an old lady, and a large, lively hunting scene. There were two other people waiting, a man and a woman, both old, both with the tidy, elegant look of prosperity. We waited in silence. Lila, who on the way had repeatedly praised my appearance, said only, in a low voice: You look like you came out of one of these paintings—you’re the lady and I’m the maid.

We didn’t wait long. A nurse called us; for no obvious reason, we went ahead of the patients who were waiting. Now Lila became agitated, she wanted me to be present at the examination, she swore that alone she would never go in, and she pushed me forward as if I were the one being examined. The doctor was a bony man in his sixties, with thick gray hair. He greeted me politely, he knew everything about me, and chatted for ten minutes as if Lila weren’t there. He said that his son had also graduated from the Normale, but six years before me. He noted that his brother was a writer and had a certain reputation, but only in Naples. He was full of praise for the Airotas, he knew a cousin of Adele’s very well, a famous physicist. He asked me:

“When is the wedding?”

“May 17th.”

“The seventeenth? That’s bad luck, please change the date.”

“It’s not possible.”

Lila was silent the whole time. She paid no attention to the professor, I felt her curiosity on me, she seemed amazed by my every gesture and word. When, finally, the doctor turned to her, questioning her at length, she answered unwillingly, in dialect or in an ugly Italian that imitated dialect patterns. Often I had to interrupt to remind her of symptoms that she had reported to me or to stress those which she minimized. Finally she submitted to a thorough examination and exhaustive tests, with a sullen expression, as if the cardiologist and I were doing her a wrong. I looked at her thin body in a threadbare pale blue slip that was too big for her. Her long neck seemed to be struggling to hold up her head, the skin was stretched over her bones like tissue paper that might tear at any moment. I realized that the thumb of her left hand every so often had a small, reflexive twitch. It was a good half hour before the professor told her to get dressed. She kept her eyes on him as she did so; now she seemed frightened. The cardiologist went to the desk, sat down, and finally announced that everything was in order, he hadn’t found a murmur. Signora, he said, you have a perfect heart. But the effect of the verdict on Lila was apparently dubious, she didn’t seem pleased, in fact she seemed irritated. It was I who felt relieved, as if it were my heart, and it was I who showed signs of worry when the professor, again addressing me and not Lila, as if her lack of reaction had offended him, added, with a frown, that, however, given the general state of my friend, urgent measures were necessary. The problem, he said, isn’t the cough: the signora has a cold, has had a slight flu, and I’ll give her some cough syrup. The problem, according to him, was that she was exhausted, run down. Lila had to take better care of herself, eat regularly, have a tonic treatment, get at least eight hours of sleep a night. The majority of your friend’s symptoms, he said, will vanish when she regains her strength. In any case, he concluded, I would advise a neurological examination.

It was the penultimate word that roused Lila. She scowled, leaned forward, said in Italian: “Are you saying that I have a nervous illness?”

The doctor looked at her in surprise, as if the patient he had just finished examining had been magically replaced by another person.

“Not at all: I’m only advising an examination.”

“Did I say or do something I shouldn’t have?”

“No, madam, there’s no need to worry. The examination serves only to get a clear picture of your situation.”

“A relative of mine,” said Lila, “a cousin of my mother’s, was unhappy, she’d been unhappy her whole life. In the summer, when I was little, I would hear her through the open window, shouting, laughing. Or I would see her on the street doing slightly crazy things. But it was unhappiness, and so she never went to a neurologist, in fact she never went to any doctor.”

“It would have been useful to go.”

“Nervous illnesses are for ladies.”

“Your mother’s cousin isn’t a lady?”

“No.”

“And you?”

“Even less so.”

“Do you feel unhappy?”

“I’m very well.”

The doctor turned to me again, irritably: “Absolute rest. Have her do this treatment, regularly. If you have some way of taking her to the country, it would be better.”

Lila burst out laughing, she returned to dialect: “The last time I went to a doctor he sent me to the beach and it brought me a lot of grief.”

The professor pretended not to hear, he smiled at me as if to elicit a conspiratorial smile, gave me the name of a friend who was a neurologist, and telephoned himself so that the man would see us as soon as possible. It wasn’t easy to drag Lila to the new doctor’s office. She said she didn’t have time to waste, she was already bored enough by the cardiologist, she had to get back to Gennaro, and above all she didn’t have money to throw away nor did she want me to throw away mine. I assured her that the examination would be free and in the end, reluctantly, she gave in.

The neurologist was a small lively man, completely bald, who had an office in an old building in Toledo and displayed in his waiting room an orderly collection of philosophy books. He liked to hear himself talk, and he talked so much that, it seemed to me, he paid more attention to the thread of his own discourse than to the patient. He examined her and addressed me, he asked her questions and propounded to me his observations, taking no notice of the responses she gave. In the end, he concluded abstractedly that Lila’s nervous system was in order, just like her cardiac muscle. But—he said, continuing to address me—my colleague is right, dear Dottoressa Greco, the body is weakened, and as a result both the irascible and the concupiscible passions have taken advantage of it to get the upper hand over reason: let’s restore well-being to the body and we’ll restore health to the mind. Then he wrote out a prescription, in indecipherable marks, but pronouncing aloud the names of the medicines, the doses. Then he moved on to advice. He advised, for relaxation, long walks, but avoiding the sea: better, he said, the woods of Capodimonte or Camaldoli. He advised reading, but only during the day, never at night. He advised keeping the hands employed, even though a careful glance at Lila’s would have been enough to realize that they had been too much employed. When he began to insist on the neurological benefits of crochet work, Lila became restless in her chair, and without waiting for the doctor to finish speaking, she asked him, following the course of her own secret thoughts:

“As long as we’re here, could you give me the pills that prevent you from having children?”

The doctor frowned, and so, I think, did I. The request seemed out of place.

“Are you married?”

“I was, not now.”

“In what sense not now?”

“I’m separated.”

“You’re still married.”

“Well.”

“Have you had children?”

“I have one.”

“One isn’t much.”

“It’s enough for me.”

“In your condition pregnancy would help, there is no better medicine for a woman.”

“I know women who were destroyed by pregnancy. Better to have the pills.”

“For that problem of yours you’ll have to consult a gynecologist.”

“You only know about nerves, you don’t know about pills?”

The doctor was irritated. He chatted a little more and then, in the doorway, gave me the address and telephone number of a doctor who worked in a clinic in Ponte di Tappia. Go to her, he said, as if it were I who had asked for the contraceptives, and he said goodbye. On the way out the secretary asked us to pay. The neurologist, I gathered, was outside the chain of favors that Adele had set in motion. I paid.

Once we were in the street Lila almost shouted, irately: I will not take a single one of the medicines that shit gave me, since my head is falling off just the same, I already know it. I answered: I disagree, but do as you like. Then she was confused, she said quietly: I’m not angry with you, I’m angry with the doctors, and we walked in the direction of Ponte di Tappia, but without saying so, as if we were strolling aimlessly, just to stretch our legs. First she was silent, then she imitated in annoyance the neurologist’s tone and his babble. It seemed to me that her impatience signaled a return of vitality. I asked her:

“Is it going a little better with Enzo?”

“It’s the same as always.”

“Then what do you want with the pills?”

“Do you know about them?”

“Yes.”

“Do you take them?”

“No, but I will as soon as I’m married.”

“You don’t want children?”

“I do, but I have to write another book first.”

“Does your husband know you don’t want them right away?”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Shall we go see this woman and have her give both of us pills?”

“Lila, it’s not candy you can take whenever you like. If you’re not doing anything with Enzo forget it.”

She looked at me with narrowed eyes, cracks in which her pupils were scarcely visible: “I’m not doing anything now but later who knows.”

“Seriously?”

“I shouldn’t, in your opinion?”

“Yes, of course.”

At Ponte di Tappia we looked for a phone booth and called the doctor, who said she could see us right away. On the way to the clinic I made it clear to Lila that I was glad she was getting close to Enzo, and she seemed encouraged by my approval. We went back to being the girls of long ago, we began joking, partly serious, partly pretending, saying to each other: You do the talking, you’re bolder, no you, you’re dressed like a lady, I’m not in a hurry, I’m not, either, then why are we going.

The doctor was waiting for us at the entrance, in a white coat. She was a cordial woman, with a shrill voice. She invited us to the café and treated us like old friends. She emphasized repeatedly that she wasn’t a gynecologist, but she was so full of explanations and advice that, while I kept to myself, somewhat bored, Lila asked increasingly explicit questions, made objections, asked new questions, offered ironic observations. They became very friendly. Finally, along with many recommendations, she gave each of us a prescription. The doctor refused to be paid because, she said, it was a mission she and her friends had. As she left—she had to go back to work—instead of shaking hands she embraced us. Lila, once we were in the street, said seriously: Finally a good person. She was cheerful then—I hadn’t seen her like that for a long time.