The Neapolitan Novels полностью

But one morning when I was going to do the shopping I heard my name called. I turned and at first I didn’t recognize him. Then I brought into focus the black mustache, the pleasing features gilded by the sun, the thin-lipped mouth. I kept going, he followed me. He said that he had been pained not to find me at Nella’s house, in Barano, that summer. He said that he thought only of me, that he couldn’t live without me. He said that to give a form to our love he had written many poems and would like to read them to me. He said that he wanted to see me, talk to me at leisure, that if I refused he would kill himself. Then I stopped and whispered that he had to leave me alone, I had a boyfriend, I never wanted to see him again. He despaired. He murmured that he would wait for me forever, that every day at noon he would be at the entrance to the tunnel on the stradone. I shook my head forcefully: I would never go there. He leaned forward to kiss me, I jumped back with a gesture of disgust, he gave a disappointed smile. He murmured, “You’re clever, you’re sensitive, I’ll bring you the poems I like best,” and he went off.

I was very frightened, I didn’t know what to do. I decided to turn to Antonio. That evening, at the ponds, I told him that his mother was right, Donato Sarratore was wandering around the neighborhood. He had stopped me in the street. He had asked me to tell Melina that he would wait for her always, every day, at the entrance to the tunnel, at midday. Antonio turned somber, he said, “What should I do?” I told him that I would go with him to the appointment and that together we would give Sarratore a candid speech about the state of his mother’s health.

I was too worried to sleep that night. The next day we went to the tunnel. Antonio was silent, he seemed in no hurry, I felt he had a weight on him that was slowing him down. One part of him was furious and the other subdued. I thought angrily, He was capable of confronting the Solaras for his sister Ada, for Lila, but now he’s intimidated, in his eyes Donato Sarratore is an important person, of a certain standing. To feel him like that made me more determined, I would have liked to shake him, shout at him: You haven’t written a book but you are much better than that man. I merely took his arm.

When Sarratore saw us from a distance he tried to disappear quickly into the darkness of the tunnel. I called him: “Signor Sarratore.”

He turned reluctantly.

Using the formal lei, something that at the time was unusual in our world, I said, “I don’t know if you remember Antonio, he is the oldest son of Signora Melina.”

Sarratore pulled out a bright, very affectionate voice: “Of course I remember him, hello, Antonio.”

“He and I are together.”

“Ah, good.”

“And we’ve talked a lot—now he’ll explain to you.”

Antonio understood that his moment had arrived and, extremely pale and tense, he said, struggling to speak in Italian, “I am very pleased to see you, Signor Sarratore, I haven’t forgotten. I will always be grateful for what you did for us after the death of my father. I thank you in particular for having found me a job in Signor Gorresio’s shop. I owe it to you if I have learned a trade.”

“Tell him about your mother,” I pressed him, nervously.

He was annoyed, and gestured at me to be quiet. He continued, “However, you no longer live in the neighborhood and you don’t understand the situation. My mother, if she merely hears your name, loses her head. And if she sees you, if she sees you even one single time, she’ll end up in the insane asylum.”

Sarratore gasped. “Antonio, my boy, I never had any intention of doing harm to your mother. You justly recall how much I did for you. And in fact I have always and only wanted to help her and all of you.”

“Then if you wish to continue to help her don’t look for her, don’t send her books, don’t show up in the neighborhood.”

“This you cannot ask of me, you cannot keep me from seeing again the places that are dear to me,” Sarratore said, in a warm, falsely emotional voice.

That tone made me indignant. I knew it, he had used it often at Barano, on the beach at the Maronti. It was rich, caressing, the tone that he imagined a man of depth who wrote poems and articles in Roma should have. I was on the point of intervening, but Antonio, to my surprise, was ahead of me. He curved his shoulders, drew in his head, and extended one hand toward the chest of Donato Sarratore, pressing it with his powerful fingers. He said in dialect, “I won’t hinder you. But I promise you that if you take away from my mother the little reason that she still has, you will lose forever the desire to see these shitty places again.”

Sarratore turned very pale.

“Yes,” he said quickly. “I understand, thank you.”

He turned on his heels and hurried off toward the station.