The Neapolitan Novels полностью

I hung up before he could object, feeling proud of myself. I hadn’t shown the least emotion, I had been curt, a few remarks in Italian, polite first, then aloof. I hoped that Pietro was right: was I really acquiring Adele’s tone, was I learning, without realizing it, her way of being in the world? I decided to find out whether I was capable, if I wanted, of carrying out the threat I had ended the phone call with. Agitated—as I had not been when I called Bruno, still the boring boy who had tried to kiss me on the beach of Citara—I dialed the number of the editorial offices of l’Unità. While the telephone rang, I hoped that the voice of my mother yelling at Elisa in dialect in the background wouldn’t be heard. My name is Elena Greco, I said to the switchboard operator, and I didn’t have time to explain what I wanted before the woman exclaimed: Elena Greco the writer? She had read my book, and was full of compliments. I thanked her, I felt happy, strong, I explained, unnecessarily, that I had in mind an article about a factory on the outskirts, and I gave the name of the editor Adele had suggested. The operator congratulated me again, then she resumed a professional tone. Hold on, she said. A moment later a very hoarse male voice asked me in a teasing tone since when practitioners of literature had been willing to dirty their pens on the subject of piece work, shifts, and overtime, very boring subjects that young, successful novelists in particular stayed away from.

“What’s the angle?” he asked. “Construction, longshoremen, miners?”

“It’s a sausage factory,” I said. “Not a big deal.”

The man continued to make fun of me: “You don’t have to apologize, it’s fine. If Elena Greco, to whom this newspaper devoted no less than half a page of profuse praise, decides to write about sausages, can we poor editors possibly say: that it doesn’t interest us? Are thirty lines enough? Too few? Let’s be generous, make it sixty. When you’ve finished, will you bring it to me in person or dictate it?”

I began working on the article right away. I had to squeeze out of Lila’s pages my sixty lines, and for love of her I wanted to do a good job. But I had no experience of newspaper writing, apart from when, at the age of fifteen, I had tried to write about the conflict with the religion teacher for Nino’s journal: with terrible results. I don’t know, maybe it was that memory that complicated things. Or maybe it was the editor’s sarcastic tone that rang in my ears, especially when, at the end of the call, he asked me to give his best to my mother-in-law. Certainly I took a lot of time, I wrote and rewrote stubbornly. But even when the article seemed to be finished I wasn’t satisfied and I didn’t take it to the newspaper. I have to talk to Lila first, I said to myself, it’s a thing that should be decided together; I’ll turn it in tomorrow.

The next day I went to see Lila; she seemed particularly unwell. She complained that when I wasn’t there certain presences took advantage of my absence and emerged from objects to bother her and Gennaro. Then she realized that I was alarmed and, in a tone of amusement, said it was all nonsense, she just wanted me to be with her more. We talked a lot, I soothed her, but I didn’t give her the article to read. What held me back was the idea that if l’Unità rejected the piece I would be forced to tell her that they hadn’t found it good, and I would feel humiliated. It took a phone call from Adele that night to give me a solid dose of optimism and make up my mind. She had consulted her husband and also Mariarosa. She had moved half the world in a few hours: luminaries of medicine, socialist professors who knew about the union, a Christian Democrat whom she called a bit foolish but a good person and an expert in workers’ rights. The result was that I had an appointment the next day with the best cardiologist in Naples—a friend of friends, I wouldn’t have to pay—and that the labor inspector would immediately pay a visit to the Soccavo factory, and that to get Lila’s money I could go to that friend of Mariarosa’s whom Pietro had mentioned, a young socialist lawyer who had an office in Piazza Nicola Amore and had already been informed.

“Happy?”

“Yes.”

“Did you write your article?”

“Yes.”

“You see? I was sure you wouldn’t do it.”

“In fact it’s ready, I’ll take it to l’Unità tomorrow.”

“Good. I run the risk of underestimating you.”

“It’s a risk?”

“Underestimating always is. How’s it going with that poor little creature my son?”

50.