The Neapolitan Novels

74.

I settled myself to wait, a wait that became much more anxious than that for the child who was kicking in my belly. I counted five days, one after another, no word from Adele. On the sixth day, at dinner, while Dede was making an effort to eat by herself in order not to displease me, and her grandmother was desperate to help her but didn’t, Pietro asked me:

“Did you finish your book?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you give it to my mother to read and not me?”

“You’re busy, I didn’t want to bother you. But if you want to read it, there’s a copy on my desk.”

He didn’t answer. I waited, I asked:

“Adele told you I sent it to her?”

“Who else would it have been?”

“Did she finish it?”

“Yes.”

“What does she think?”

“She’ll tell you, it’s between you two.”

He was offended. After dinner I moved the manuscript from my desk to his, I put Dede to bed, I watched television without seeing or hearing anything, and finally I went to bed. I couldn’t close my eyes: Why had Adele talked to Pietro about the book but hadn’t yet called me? The next day, July 30, 1973, I went to see if my husband had started reading: the typescript was under the books he had been working on for most of the night, it was clear that he hadn’t even looked through it. I became nervous, I shouted at Clelia to take care of Dede, not to sit around and let my mother to do everything. I was very harsh with her, and my mother evidently took it as a sign of affection. She touched my belly as if to calm me, she asked:

“If it’s another girl what will you call her?”

I had other things on my mind, my leg hurt, I answered without thinking:

“Elsa.”

She darkened, I realized too late that she was expecting me to say: We gave Dede the name of Pietro’s mother, and if it’s another girl this time we’ll give her your name. I tried to justify it, but reluctantly. I said: Ma, try to understand, your name is Immacolata, I can’t give my daughter a name like that, I don’t like it. She grumbled: Why, is Elsa nicer? I replied: Elsa is like Elisa, if I give her the name of my sister you should be pleased. She didn’t say another word. Oh, how tired I was of everything. The heat was getting worse, I was dripping with sweat, I couldn’t stand my heavy belly, I couldn’t stand my limping, I couldn’t stand anything, not a thing.

Finally, a little before lunchtime, Adele telephoned. Her voice lacked its usual ironic inflection. She spoke slowly and seriously, I felt that every word was a struggle: she said, with a lot of euphemistic phrases and many fine distinctions, that the book wasn’t good. But when I tried to defend it, she stopped looking for formulations that wouldn’t hurt me and became explicit. The protagonist was unlikable. The characters were caricatures. Situations and dialogues were mannered. The writing tried to be modern and was only confused. All that hatred was unpleasant. The ending was crude, like a spaghetti Western, it was an insult to my intelligence, my education, my talent. I resigned myself to silence, I listened to her criticisms to the end. She concluded by saying: The earlier novel was vivid, innovative, this, however, is old in its contents and so pretentiously written that the words seem empty. I said quietly: Maybe at the publisher they’ll be kinder. She stiffened and replied: If you want to send it, go ahead, but I would assume they’ll judge it unpublishable. I didn’t know what to say, I said: All right, I’ll think about it, goodbye. She kept me on the line, however, and, rapidly changing her tone, began to speak affectionately of Dede, of my mother, my pregnancy, of Mariarosa, who enraged her. Then she asked:

“Why didn’t you give the novel to Pietro?”

“I don’t know.”

“He could have advised you.”

“I doubt it.”

“You don’t respect him?”

“No.”

Afterward, shut in my study, I despaired. It had been humiliating, intolerable. I could hardly eat, I fell asleep with the window closed despite the heat. At four in the afternoon I had my first labor pains. I said nothing to my mother, I took the bag I had prepared, I got in the car, and drove to the clinic, hoping to die on the way, I and my second child. Instead everything went smoothly. The pain was excruciating, but in a few hours I had another girl. Pietro insisted the next morning that our second daughter should be given the name of my mother, it seemed to him a necessary tribute. I replied bitterly that I was tired of following tradition, I repeated that she was to be called Elsa. When I came home from the clinic, the first thing I did was call Lila. I didn’t tell her I had just given birth, I asked if I could send her the novel.

I heard her breathing lightly for a few seconds, then she said: “I’ll read it when it comes out.”

“I need your opinion right away.”

“I haven’t opened a book for a long time, Lenù, I don’t know how to read anymore, I’m not capable.”

“I’m asking you as a favor.”

“The other you just published, period; why not this one?”

“Because the other one didn’t even seem like a book to me.”

“I can only tell you if I like it.”

“All right, that’s enough.”