The Neapolitan Novels полностью

I also saw Pasquale and Carmen: he still worked on construction jobs around Naples and the provinces, she continued to work in the new grocery. But the thing they were eager to tell me was that both had new loves: Pasquale was secretly seeing the oldest, though very young, daughter of the owner of the notions shop; Carmen was engaged to the gas-station man on the stradone, a nice man of forty who loved her dearly.

I also went to see Pinuccia, who was almost unrecognizable: slovenly, nervous, extremely thin, resigned to her fate, she bore the marks of the beatings that Rino continued to give her, taking revenge on Stefano, and, in her eyes and in the deep creases around her mouth, even more obvious traces of an unhappiness with no outlet.

Finally I got up my courage and tracked down Ada. I imagined I’d find her more distressed than Pina, humiliated by her situation. Instead she lived in the house that had been Lina’s and was beautiful, and apparently serene; she had just given birth to a girl she had named Maria. Even during my pregnancy I didn’t stop working, she said proudly. And I saw with my own eyes that she was the real mistress of the two groceries, she hurried from one to the other, she took care of everything.

Each of my childhood friends told me something about Lila, but Ada seemed to be the best informed. And it was she who spoke of her with greater understanding, almost sympathy. Ada was happy, happy with her baby, her comforts, her work, Stefano, and it seemed to me that for all that happiness she was sincerely grateful to Lila.

She exclaimed, admiringly, “I did things like a madwoman, I realize it. But Lina and Enzo behaved in an even crazier way. They were so careless of everything, even of themselves, that they frightened me, Stefano, and even that piece of shit Michele Solara. You know that she took nothing with her? You know that she left me all her jewelry? You know that they wrote on a piece of paper where they were going, the precise address, number, everything, as if to say: come find us, do what you like, who gives a damn?”

I wanted the address, I took it down. While I was writing she said, “If you see her, tell her that I’m not the one keeping Stefano from seeing the child: he has too much to do and although he’s sorry, he can’t. Also tell her that the Solaras don’t forget anything, especially Michele. Tell her not to trust anyone.”

117.

Enzo and Lila moved to San Giovanni a Teduccio in a used Fiat 600 that he had just bought. During the whole journey they said nothing, but battled the silence by talking to the child, Lila as if she were addressing an adult, and Enzo with monosyllables like well, what, yes. She scarcely knew San Giovanni. She had gone there once with Stefano, they had stopped in the center for coffee and she had had a good impression. But Pasquale, who often came there for construction work and for political activities had once talked to her about it with great dissatisfaction, both as a worker and as a militant. “It’s a filthy place,” he had said, “a sewer: the more wealth it produces, the more poverty increases, and we can’t change anything, even if we’re strong.” But Pasquale was always critical of everything and so not very reliable. Lila, as the car traveled along bumpy streets, past crumbling buildings and big, newly constructed apartment houses, preferred to tell herself that she was taking the child to a pretty little town near the sea and thought only of the speech that, to clarify things, out of honesty, she wanted to make to Enzo right away.

But because she was thinking about it she didn’t do it. Later, she said to herself. So they arrived at the apartment that Enzo had rented, on the third floor of a new building that was already shabby. The rooms were half-empty, he said he had bought what was indispensable but that starting the next day he would get everything she needed. Lila reassured him, he had already done too much. Only when she saw the double bed she decided that it was time to speak: she said in an affectionate tone: “I’ve had great respect for you, Enzo, since we were children. You’ve done a thing I admire: you studied by yourself, you got a diploma, and I know the determination it takes, I’ve never had it. You’re also the most generous person I know, no one would have done what you’re doing for Rinuccio and for me. But I can’t sleep with you. It’s not because we’ve seen each other alone at most two or three times. And it’s not that I don’t like you. It’s that I have no feelings, I’m like this wall or that table. So if you can live in the same house with me without touching me, good; if you can’t I understand and tomorrow morning I’ll look for another place. Know that I’ll always be grateful for what you’ve done for me.”

Enzo listened without interrupting. At the end he said, pointing to the bed: “You go there, I’ll settle on the cot.”

“I prefer the cot.”

“And Rinuccio?”

“I saw there’s another cot.”

“He sleeps by himself?”

“Yes.”