The Neapolitan Novels

97.

I telephoned Adele as soon as I got home, to find out about the German translation that Antonio had sent me. It had come out of the blue, she didn’t know anything about it, either. She called the publisher. She called me back after a while to tell me that the book had been published not only in Germany but in France and Spain. So, I asked, what should I do? Adele answered in bewilderment: Nothing, be satisfied. Of course, I said, I’m very pleased, but from the practical point of view, I don’t know, should I go promote it abroad? She said affectionately: You don’t have to do anything, Elena, the book unfortunately didn’t sell anywhere.

My mood got worse. I nagged the publisher, I asked for precise information about the translations, I was angry because no one cared to keep me informed, I ended up saying to an indifferent secretary: I found out about the German edition not from you but from a semiliterate friend: can you do your job or not? Then I apologized, I felt stupid. One after the other the French copy and the Spanish arrived, a copy in German without the crumpled look of the one sent by Antonio. They were ugly books: on the cover were women in black dresses, men with drooping mustaches and a cloth cap on their head, laundry hung out to dry. I leafed through them, I showed them to Pietro, I placed them on a bookshelf among other novels. Mute paper, useless paper.

A time of weary discontent began. I called Elisa every day to find out if Marcello was still kind, if they had decided to get married. She responded to my apprehensions with carefree laughter and stories of a happy life, of trips by car or plane, of prosperity for our brothers, of well-being for our father and mother. Now, at times, I envied her. I was tired, irritable. Elsa was constantly getting sick, Dede required attention, Pietro lingered over his book without finishing it. I lost my temper for no reason. I scolded the children, I quarreled with my husband. The result was that all three were afraid of me. The girls, if I merely passed by their room, stopped playing and looked at me in alarm, and Pietro increasingly preferred the university library to our house. He went out early in the morning and came home at night. When he returned he seemed to have on him signs of the conflicts that I, now left out of all public activity, read about only in the newspapers: the fascists who knifed and killed, the comrades who did no less, the police who had by law a broad mandate to shoot and did so even here in Florence. Until what I had long been expecting happened: Pietro found himself at the center of a nasty episode that got a lot of attention in the papers. He failed a youth with an important surname, who was very active in the struggles. The young man insulted him in front of everyone and aimed a gun at him. Pietro, according to the story that an acquaintance told me, not him—nor was it a first-hand version, she wasn’t present—calmly recorded the failure, handed the exam book to the boy, and said more or less: Either be serious and shoot or you’d best get rid of that weapon immediately, because in a moment I’m going to go and report you. The boy aimed the gun at his face for long minutes, then he put it in his pocket, took the exam book, and fled. Pietro went to the carabinieri and the student was arrested. But it didn’t end there. The young man’s family went not to Pietro but to his father to persuade him to withdraw the charges. Professor Guido Airota tried to convince his son, and there were long phone calls, in the course of which, with some amazement, I heard the old man lose his temper, raise his voice. But Pietro wouldn’t give in. In great agitation, I confronted him, I asked:

“Do you realize how you’re behaving?”

“What should I do?”

“Reduce the tension.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“You don’t want to understand me. You’re just like our professors in Pisa, the most intolerable.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you are. Have you forgotten how we struggled in vain to keep up with stupid courses and pass exams that were even more stupid?”

“My course isn’t stupid.”

“You might ask your students.”

“One asks for an opinion from those who are competent to give it.”

“Would you ask me, if I were your student?”

“I have very good relations with the ones who study.”

“So you like the ones who suck up to you?”

“You like the ones who brag, like your friend in Naples?”

“Yes.”

“And is that why you were always the most dutiful?”

I was confused.

“Because I was poor and it seemed a miracle to have gone so far.”

“Well, that boy has nothing in common with you.”

“You don’t have anything in common with me, either.”

“What do you mean?”

I didn’t answer, I avoided it out of prudence. But then my rage increased again, I went back to criticizing his intransigence, I said to him: You’d already failed him, what was the point of pressing charges? He said: He committed a crime. I: He was playing at frightening you, he’s a boy. He answered coldly: That gun is a weapon, not a toy, and it was stolen with other weapons seven years ago, from a carabinieri barracks in Rovezzano. I said: The boy didn’t shoot. He muttered: The weapon was loaded, what if he had? He didn’t, I cried. He, too, raised his voice: I should have waited for him to shoot me and then reported him? I yelled: Don’t shout, your nerves are shattered. He answered: Think of your own nerves. And it was pointless to explain to him, anxiously, that even if my words and tone were argumentative, the situation actually seemed very dangerous and I was worried. I’m afraid for you, I said, for the children, for me. But he didn’t console me. He went to his study and tried to work on his book. Only weeks later he told me that two plainclothes policemen had come to see him and asked for information about certain students, had showed him some photographs. The first time he had greeted them politely and politely sent them away without giving them any information. The second time he had asked:

“Have these youths committed crimes?”

“No, for now no.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

He had seen them to the door with all the contemptuous courtesy he was capable of.