She was sorry that she hadn’t taken the knife: for a moment, in fact, she believed that she had, then was forced to admit she hadn’t. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, she compared it appreciatively with the one in the new house, thinking that hers was nicer. Her towels, too, were of a higher quality. Hers? To whom, in fact, did the towels, the tub—everything—belong? She was bothered by the idea that the ownership of the nice new things was guaranteed by the last name of that particular individual who was waiting for her out there. Carracci’s possessions, she, too, was Carracci’s possession. Stefano knocked on the door.
“What are you doing, do you feel all right?”
She didn’t answer.
Her husband waited a little and knocked again. When nothing happened, he twisted the handle nervously and said in a tone of feigned amusement, “Do I have to break down the door?”
Lila didn’t doubt that he would have been capable of it—the stranger who waited for her outside was capable of anything. I, too, she thought, am capable of anything. She undressed, she washed, she put on the nightgown, despising herself for the care with which she had chosen it months earlier. Stefano—purely a name that no longer coincided with the habits and affections of a few hours earlier—was sitting on the edge of the bed in his pajamas and he jumped to his feet as soon as she appeared.
“You took your time.”
“The time needed.”
“You look beautiful.”
“I’m very tired, I want to sleep.”
“We’ll sleep later.”
“Now. You on your side, I on mine.”
“O.K., come here.”
“I’m serious.”
“I am, too.”
Stefano uttered a little laugh, tried to take her by the hand. She drew back, he darkened.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Lila hesitated. She sought the right expression, said softly, “I don’t want you.”
Stefano shook his head uncertainly, as if the three words were in a foreign language. He murmured that he had been waiting so long for that moment, day and night. Please, he said, in a pleading tone, and, with an expression almost of dejection, he pointed to his wine-colored pajama pants, and mumbled with a crooked smile: See what happens to me just when I look at you. She looked without wanting to and, with a spasm of disgust, averted her gaze.
At that point Stefano realized that she was about to lock herself in the bathroom again and with an animal leap he grabbed her by the waist, picked her up, and threw her on the bed. What was happening. It was clear that he didn’t want to understand. He thought they had made peace at the restaurant, now he was wondering: Why is Lina behaving like this, she’s too young. In fact he was laughing, on top of her, trying to soothe her.
“It’s a beautiful thing,” he said, “you mustn’t be afraid. I love you more than my mother and my sister.”
But no, she was already pulling herself up to get away from him. How difficult it is to keep up with this girl: she says yes and means no, she says no and means yes. Stefano muttered: No more of these whims, and he stopped her again, sat astride her, pinned her wrists against the bedspread.
“You said that we should wait and we waited,” he said, “even though being near you without touching you was terrible and I suffered. But we’re married now—behave yourself, don’t worry.”
He leaned over to kiss her on the mouth, but she avoided him, turning her face forcefully to right and left, struggling, twisting, as she repeated, “Leave me alone, I don’t want you, I don’t want you, I don’t want you.”
At that point, almost against his will, the tone of Stefano’s voice rose: “Now you’re really pissing me off, Lina.”
