The Story of a New Name

81

A series of whirlwind days began. A few things to wear, a very few books. My mother’s sullen words: “If you earn money, send it to me by mail; now who’s going to help your brothers with their homework? They’ll do badly at school because of you. But go, leave, who cares: I’ve always known that you thought you were better than me and everybody else.” And then my father’s hypochondriac words: “I have a pain here, who knows what it is, come to your papa, Lenù, I don’t know if you’ll find me alive when you get back.” And then my brothers’ and sister’s insistent words: “If we come to see you can we sleep with you, can we eat with you?” And Pasquale, who said to me, “Be careful where all this studying leads, Lenù. Remember who you are and which side you’re on.” And Carmen, who couldn’t get over the death of her mother, and was fragile, started crying as she said goodbye. And Alfonso, who was stunned and murmured, “I knew you’d keep studying.” And Antonio, who instead of listening to what I was saying about where I was going, and what I was going to do, kept repeating, “I’m really feeling good now, Lenù, it’s all gone, it was going into the Army that made me ill.” And then Enzo, who confined himself to taking my hand and squeezing it so hard that it hurt for days. And finally Ada, who said only, “Did you tell Lina, did you tell her?” and she gave a little laugh, and insisted, “Tell her, she’ll die of envy.”

I imagined that Lila had already heard from Alfonso, from Carmen, from her husband, whom Ada had certainly told, that I was going to Pisa. If she didn’t come to congratulate me, I thought, it’s likely that the news really has disturbed her. On the other hand, if she didn’t know, to go deliberately to tell her, when for more than a year we had scarcely said hello, seemed to me out of place. I didn’t want to flaunt the good fortune that she hadn’t had. So I set aside the question and devoted myself to the last preparations. I wrote to Nella to tell her what had happened and ask for the address of Maestra Oliviero, so that I could give her the news. I visited a cousin of my father, who had promised me an old suitcase. I made the rounds of some of the houses where I had taught and where I had to collect my final payment.

It seemed to me an occasion to give a kind of farewell to Naples. I crossed Via Garibaldi, went along the Tribunali, at Piazza Dante took a bus. I went up to the Vomero, first to Via Scarlatti, then to the Santarella. Afterward I descended in the funicular to Piazza Amedeo. I was greeted with regret and, in some cases, affection by the mothers of my students. Along with the money they gave me coffee and almost always a small gift. When my rounds were over, I realized that I was a short distance from Piazza dei Martiri.

I turned onto Via Filangieri, uncertain what to do. I recalled the opening of the shoe store, Lila all dressed up like a rich lady, how she was gripped by the anxiety of not having truly changed, of not having the same refinement as the girls of that neighborhood. I, on the other hand, I thought, really have changed. I’m still wearing the same shabby clothes, but I’ve got my high-school diploma and I’m about to go and study in Pisa. I’ve changed not in appearance but deep inside. The appearance will come soon and it won’t be just appearance.

I felt pleased with that thought, that observation. I stood in front of an optician’s window, I studied the frames. Yes, I’ll have to change my glasses, the ones I have overwhelm my face, I need lighter frames — I picked out a pair with large, round thin rims. Put up my hair. Learn to use makeup. I left the window and arrived at Piazza dei Martiri.

Many shops at that hour had their shutters lowered halfway; the Solaras’ was three-quarters down. I looked around. What did I know of Lila’s new habits? Nothing. When she worked in the new grocery she didn’t go home for lunch, even though the house was nearby. She stayed in the shop and ate something with Carmen or talked to me when I came by after school. Now that she worked in Piazza dei Martiri, it was even more unlikely that she would go home for lunch: it would be pointless, besides the fact that there wasn’t enough time. Maybe she was in a café, maybe walking along the sea with the assistant she surely had. Or maybe she was inside resting. I knocked on the shutter with my open hand. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing. I called, I heard steps inside, Lila’s voice asked, “Who is it?”

“Elena.”

“Lenù,” I heard her exclaim.

She pulled up the shutter, she appeared before me. It was a long time since I’d seen her, even from a distance, and she seemed changed. She wore a white blouse and a tight blue skirt, her hair and makeup were done with the usual care. But her face was as if broadened and flattened, her entire body seemed to me broader and flatter. She pulled me inside, lowered the shutter. The place, gaudily illuminated, had changed, it really did seem not like a shoe store but like a living room. She said with a tone of such genuineness that I believed her: “What a wonderful thing has happened to you, Lenù, and how happy I am that you came to say goodbye.” She knew about Pisa, of course. She embraced me warmly, she kissed me on both cheeks, her eyes filled with tears, she repeated, “I’m really happy.” Then she called, turning to the door of the bathroom:

“Come, Nino, you can come out, it’s Lenuccia.”

My breath failed. The door opened and Nino appeared, in his usual pose, head lowered, hands in pockets. But his face was furrowed by tension. “Hello,” he murmured. I didn’t know what to say and offered him my hand. He shook it without energy. Lila meanwhile went on to tell me many important things in a brief series of sentences: they had been secretly seeing each other for almost a year; she had decided for my good not to involve me further in a deception that, if discovered, would cause trouble for me as well; she was two months pregnant, she was about to confess everything to Stefano, she wanted to leave him.