Her reaction was equivocal. First she teased me, she said I was a liar, she said I must really love my boyfriend if I was willing to go in person and humble myself with the Solaras, even though I knew that, given all that had happened, they would not lift a finger for him. Immediately afterward, however, she began nervously going in circles, she laughed, became serious, laughed again. Finally she said: all right, go, let’s see what happens. And then she added:
“After all, Lenù, where’s the difference between my brother and Michele Solara or, let’s say, between Stefano and Marcello?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that maybe I should have married Marcello.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“At least Marcello isn’t dependent on anyone, he does as he likes.”
“Are you serious?”
She quickly denied that she was, laughing, but she didn’t convince me. She can’t possibly be reconsidering Marcello, I thought: all that laughter isn’t real, it’s just a sign of ugly thoughts, of suffering because things aren’t going well with her husband.
I had proof of that immediately. She became thoughtful, she narrowed her eyes to cracks, she said, “I’m going with you.”
“Where.”
“To the Solaras.”
“To do what?”
“To see if they can help Antonio.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You’ll make Stefano angry.”
“Who gives a damn. If he goes to them, I can, too, I’m his wife.”
15.
I couldn’t stop her. One Sunday—on Sundays Stefano slept until noon—we were going out for a walk and she pressed me to go to the Bar Solara. When she appeared on the new street, still white with lime, I was astonished. She was extravagantly dressed and made up: she was neither the shabby Lila of long ago nor the Jackie Kennedy of the glossy magazines but, based on the films we liked, maybe Jennifer Jones in
Walking next to her I felt embarrassment and also a sense of danger. It seemed to me that she was risking not only gossip but ridicule, and that both reflected on me, a sort of colorless but loyal puppy who served as her escort. Everything about her—the hair, the earrings, the close-fitting blouse, the tight skirt, the way she walked—was unsuitable for the gray streets of the neighborhood. Male gazes, at the sight of her, seemed to start, as if offended. The women, especially the old ones, didn’t limit themselves to bewildered expressions: some stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and stood watching her, with a laugh that was both amused and uneasy, as when Melina did odd things on the street.
And yet when we entered the Bar Solara, which was crowded with men buying the Sunday pastries, there was only a respectful ogling, some polite nods of greeting, the truly admiring gaze of Gigliola Spagnuolo behind the counter, and a greeting from Michele, at the cash register—an exaggerated hello that was like an exclamation of joy. The verbal exchanges that followed were all in dialect, as if tension prevented any engagement with the laborious filters of Italian pronunciation, vocabulary, syntax.
“What would you like?”
“A dozen pastries.”
Michele shouted at Gigliola, this time with a slight hint of sarcasm:
“Twelve pastries for Signora Carracci.”
At that name, the curtain that opened onto the bakery was pushed aside and Marcello looked out. At the sight of Lila right there, in his bar and pastry shop, he grew pale and retreated. But a few seconds later he came out again and greeted her. He mumbled, to my friend, “It’s a shock to hear you called Signora Carracci.”
“To me, too,” Lila said, and her amused half-smile, her total absence of hostility, surprised not only me but the two brothers as well.
Michele examined her carefully, his head inclined to one side, as if he were looking at a painting.
“We saw you,” he said, and called to Gigliola. “Right, Gigliò, didn’t we see her yesterday afternoon?”
Gigliola nodded yes, unenthusiastically. And Marcello agreed—
“Yesterday afternoon?” Lila asked.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Michele confirmed, “on the Rettifilo.”
Marcello came to the point, irritated by his brother’s tone of voice. “You were on display in the dressmaker’s window—there’s a photograph of you in your wedding dress.”
They talked a little about the photograph, Marcello with devotion, Michele with irony, both asserting in different ways how perfectly it captured Lila’s beauty on her wedding day. She seemed annoyed, but playfully: the dressmaker hadn’t told her she would put the picture in the window, otherwise she would never have given it to her.
“I want
“If someone marries you,” said Michele.
“You’re marrying me,” she replied darkly, and went on like that until Lila said seriously:
“Lenuccia wants to get married, too.”
