The Neapolitan Novels

84.

Enzo wanted to leave by six, but already at four in the morning I heard him moving in his room and I got up to make him some coffee. In private, in the silent house, the language of computers disappeared, along with the Italian suited to Pietro’s position, and we moved to dialect. I asked about his relationship with Lila. He said it was good, even though she never sat still. Now she was chasing after work problems, now she was squabbling with her mother, her father, her brother, now she was helping Gennaro with his homework and, one way or another, she ended up helping Rino’s children, too, and all the children who happened to be around. Lila didn’t look after herself, and so she was overworked, she always seemed close to collapse, as she once had; she was tired. I quickly understood that their harmony as a couple, working side by side, blessed by good salaries, should be set within a more complicated sequence. I ventured:

“Maybe the two of you have to impose some order: Lina shouldn’t get overtired.”

“I tell her that constantly.”

“And then there’s the separation, divorce: it makes no sense for her to stay married to Stefano.”

“She doesn’t give a damn about that.”

“But Stefano?”

“He doesn’t even know that you can divorce now.”

“And Ada?”

“Ada has survival problems. The wheel turns, those who were on top end up on the bottom. The Carraccis don’t have even a lira left, only debts with the Solaras, and Ada is taking care to get what she can before it’s too late.”

“And you? You don’t want to get married?”

It was clear that he would happily get married, but Lila was against it. Not only did she not want to waste time with divorce—who cares if I’m still married to him, I’m with you, I sleep with you, that’s the essential—but the mere idea of another wedding made her laugh. She said: You and I? You and I get married? Why, we’re fine like this, and as soon as we get fed up with each other we go our own way. The prospect of another marriage didn’t interest Lila, she had other things to think about.

“What?”

“Forget it.”

“Tell me.”

“She never talked to you about it?”

“What?”

“Michele Solara.”

He told me in brief, tense phrases that in all these years Michele had never stopped asking Lila to work for him. He had proposed that she manage a new shop on the Vomero. Or the accounting and the taxes. Or be a secretary for a friend of his, an important Christian Democratic politician. He had even gone so far as to offer her a salary of two hundred thousand lire a month just to invent things, crazy notions, anything that came into her head. Even though he lived on Posillipo, he still kept the headquarters of all his businesses in the neighborhood, at his mother and father’s house. So Lila found him around her constantly, on the street, in the market, in the shops. He stopped her, always very friendly, he joked with Gennaro, gave him little gifts. Then he became very serious, and even when she refused the jobs he offered, he wasn’t impatient, he said goodbye, joking as usual: I’m not giving up, I’ll wait for you for eternity, call me when you want and I’ll come running. Until he found out she was working for IBM. That had angered him, and he had gone so far as to get people he knew to remove Enzo from the market for consultants, and hence Lila, too. He hadn’t had any success, IBM urgently needed technicians and there weren’t many good technicians like Enzo and Lila. But the climate had changed. Enzo had found Gino’s fascists outside the house and he escaped because he managed to reach the front door in time and lock it behind him. But shortly afterward an alarming thing had happened to Gennaro. Lila’s mother had gone to pick him up at school as usual. All the students had come out and the child was nowhere to be seen. The teacher: He was here a minute ago. His classmates: He was here and then he disappeared. Nunzia, terribly frightened, had called her daughter at work; Lila returned right away and went to look for Gennaro. She found him on a bench in the gardens. The child was sitting quietly, with his smock, his ribbon, his schoolbag, and he laughed at the questions—where did you go, what did you do—with expressionless eyes. She wanted to go and kill Michele right away, both for the attempted beating of Enzo and the kidnapping of her son, but Enzo restrained her. The fascists now went after anyone on the left and there was no proof that it was Michele who ordered the kidnapping. As for Gennaro, he himself had admitted that his brief absence was only an act of disobedience. In any case, once Lila calmed down, Enzo had decided on his own to go and talk to Michele. He had showed up at the Bar Solara and Michele had listened without batting an eye. Then he had said, more or less: I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Enzù: I’m fond of Gennaro, anyone who touches him is dead, but among all the foolish things you’ve said the only true thing is that Lina is smart and it’s a pity that she’s wasting her intelligence, I’ve been asking her to work with me for years. Then he continued: That irritates you? Who gives a damn. But you’re wrong, if you love her you should encourage her to use her capabilities. Come here, sit down, have a coffee and a pastry, tell me what those computers of yours do. And it hadn’t ended there. They had met two or three times, by chance, and Michele had demonstrated increasing interest in the System 3. One day he even said, amused, that he had asked someone at IBM who was smarter, him or Lila, and that person had said that Enzo was certainly smart, but the best in the business was Lila. After that, he had stopped her on the street again and made her a significant offer. He intended to rent the System 3 and use it in all his commercial activities. Result: he wanted her as the chief technician, at four hundred thousand lire a month.

“She didn’t even tell you that?” Enzo asked me warily.

“No.”

“You see she didn’t want to bother you, you have your life. but you understand that for her personally it would be a significant step up, and for the two of us it would be a fortune: we’d have seven hundred and fifty thousand lire a month altogether, I don’t know if that’s clear.”

“But Lina?”

“She has to answer by September.”

“And what will she do?”

“I don’t know. Have you ever been able to figure out what’s in her mind ahead of time?”

“No. But what do you think she should do?”

“I think what she thinks.”

“Even if you don’t agree?”

“Even then.”

I went out to the car with him. On the stairs it occurred to me that maybe I should tell him what he surely didn’t know, that Michele harbored for Lila a love like a spiderweb, a dangerous love that had nothing to do with physical possession or even with a loyal subservience. And I was about to do it, I was fond of him, I didn’t want him to believe that he was merely dealing with a quasi-camorrist who had been planning for a long time to buy the intelligence of this woman. When he was already behind the wheel I asked him:

“And if Michele wants to sleep with her?”

He was impassive.

“I’ll kill him. But anyway he doesn’t want her, he already has a lover and everybody knows it.”

“Who’s that?”

“Marisa, he’s got her pregnant again.”

For a moment it seemed to me that I hadn’t understood.

“Marisa Sarratore?”

“Marisa, the wife of Alfonso.”

I recalled my conversation with my schoolmate. He had tried to tell me how complicated his life was and I had retreated, struck more by the surface of his revelation than by the substance. And to me his uneasiness seemed confused—to get things straight I would have had to talk to him again, and maybe not even then would I have understood—and yet it pierced me unpleasantly, painfully. I asked:

“And Alfonso?”

“He doesn’t give a damn, they say he’s a fag.”

“Who says?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone is very general, Enzo. What else does everyone say?”

He looked at me with a flash of conspiratorial irony:

“A lot of things, the neighborhood is always gossiping.”

“Like?”

“Old stories have come back to the surface. They say it was the mother of the Solaras who murdered Don Achille.”

He left, and I hoped he would take away his words, too. But what I had learned stayed with me, worried me, made me angry. In an attempt to get rid of it I went to the telephone and talked to Lila, mixing anxieties and reproaches: Why didn’t you say anything about Michele’s job offers, especially the last one; why did you tell Alfonso’s secret; why did you start that story about the mother of the Solaras, it was a game of ours; why did you send me Gennaro, are you worried about him, tell me plainly, I have the right to know; why, once and for all, don’t you tell me what’s really in your mind? It was an outburst, but, sentence by sentence, deep inside myself, I hoped that we wouldn’t stop there, that the old desire to confront our entire relationship and re-examine it, to elucidate and have full consciousness of it, would be realized. I hoped to provoke her and draw her in to other, increasingly personal questions. But Lila was annoyed, she treated me coldly, she wasn’t in a good mood. She answered that I had been gone for years, that I now had a life in which the Solaras, Stefano, Marisa, Alfonso meant nothing, counted for less than zero. Go on vacation, she said, abruptly, write, act the intellectual, here we’ve remained too crude for you, stay away; and please, make Gennaro get some sun, otherwise he’ll come home stunted like his father.

The sarcasm in her voice, the belittling, almost rude tone, removed any weight from Enzo’s story and eliminated any possibility of drawing her into the books I was reading, the vocabulary I had learned from Mariarosa and the Florentine women, the questions that I was trying to ask myself and that, once I had provided her with the basic concepts, she would surely know how to take on better than all of us. But yes, I thought, I’ll mind my own business and you mind yours: if you like, don’t grow up, go on playing in the courtyard even now that you’re about to turn thirty; I’ve had enough, I’m going to the beach. And so I did.