What until that door could still be avoided from that moment became an unstoppable mechanism. In the same cab, at Lila’s expense, I was taken to Barano. On the way I realized that I couldn’t truly hate them. I felt bitterness toward Nino, I certainly had some hostile feelings toward Lila, I could even wish death on both of them, but almost as a kind of incantation that was capable, paradoxically, of saving all three of us. Hatred no. Rather, I hated myself, I despised myself. I was there, I was there on the island, the air stirred by the cab’s movement assailed me with the intense odors of the vegetation from which night was evaporating. But it was a mortified presence, submissive to the demands of others. I was living in them, unobtrusively. I couldn’t cancel out the images of the embraces, kisses in the empty house. Their passion invaded me, disturbed me. I loved them both and so I couldn’t love myself, feel myself, affirm myself with
69.
I was greeted by Nella and the Sarratore family with the usual enthusiasm. I assumed my humblest mask, the mask of my father when he collected tips, the elaborate mask of my forebears—always fearful, always subordinate, always pleasingly willing—by which to avoid danger, and I went from lie to lie in a pleasant manner. I said to Nella that if I had decided to come and disturb her it wasn’t by choice but necessity. I said that the Carraccis had guests, that there was no room for me that night. I said that I hoped I hadn’t presumed too much in showing up like this, unexpectedly, and that if there were difficulties I would return to Naples for a few days.
Nella embraced me, fed me, swearing that to have me in the house was an immense pleasure for her. I refused to go to the beach with the Sarratores, although the children protested. Lidia insisted that I join them soon and Donato declared that he would wait for me so we could swim together. I stayed with Nella, helped her straighten the house, cook lunch. For a moment everything weighed on me less: the lies, the images of the adultery that was taking place, my complicity, a jealousy that couldn’t be defined because I felt at the same time jealous of Lila who was giving herself to Nino, of Nino who was giving himself to Lila. In the meantime, Nella, talking about the Sarratores, seemed less hostile. She said that husband and wife had found an equilibrium and since they were getting along they gave her less trouble. She told me about Maestra Oliviero: she had telephoned her in order to tell her that I had come to see her, and she had been very tired but more optimistic. For a while, in other words, there was a tranquil flow of news. But a few remarks were enough, an unexpected detour, and the weight of the situation I was involved in returned forcefully.
“She praised you a lot,” Nella said, speaking of Maestra Oliviero, “but when she found out that you came to see me with your two married friends she asked a lot of questions, especially about Signora Lina.”
“What did she say?”
“She said that in her entire career as a teacher she never had such a good student.”
The evocation of Lila’s old primacy disturbed me.
“It’s true,” I admitted.
But Nella made a grimace of absolute disagreement, her eyes lit up.
“My cousin is an exceptional teacher,” she said, “and yet in my view this time she is wrong.”
“No, she’s not wrong.”
“Can I tell you what I think?”
“Of course.”
“It won’t upset you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t like Signora Lina. You are much better, you’re prettier and more intelligent. I talked about it with the Sarratores, too, and they agree with me.”
“You say that because you love me.”
“No. Pay attention, Lenù. I know that you are good friends, my cousin told me. And I don’t want to interfere in things that have nothing to do with me. But a glance is enough for me to judge people. Signora Lina knows that you’re better than her and so she doesn’t love you the way you love her.”
I smiled, pretending skepticism. “Does she hate me?”
“I don’t know. But she knows how to wound, it’s written in her face, it’s enough to look at her forehead and her eyes.”
