The Neapolitan Novels полностью

Because of all my hesitations we arrived late at the restaurant. The Sarratore family was already at the table. Nino introduced his wife, Eleonora, and my mood changed. Oh yes, she had a pretty face and beautiful black hair, just as in the photograph. But she was shorter than I, and I wasn’t very tall. She had no bosom, though she was plump. And she wore a bright-red dress that didn’t suit her at all. And she was wearing too much jewelry. And from the first words she spoke she revealed a shrill voice with the accent of a Neapolitan brought up by canasta players in a house with a picture window on the gulf. But mainly, in the course of the evening, she proved to be uneducated, even though she was studying law, and inclined to speak ill of everything and everyone with the air of one who feels she is swimming against the tide and is proud of it. Wealthy, in other words, capricious, vulgar. Even her pleasing features were constantly spoiled by an expression of irritation followed by a nervous laugh, ih ih ih, which broke up her conversation, even the individual sentences. She was irritated by Florence—What does it have that Naples doesn’t—by the restaurant—terrible—by the owner—rude—by whatever Pietro said—What nonsense—by the girls—My goodness, you talk so much, let’s have a little quiet, please—and naturally me—You studied in Pisa, but why, literature in Naples is much better, I’ve never heard of that novel of yours, when did it come out, eight years ago I was fourteen. She was sweet only with her son and with Nino. Albertino was sweet, round, with a happy expression, and Eleonora did nothing but praise him. The same happened with her husband: no one was better than he, she agreed with everything he said, and she touched him, hugged him, kissed him. What did that girl have in common with Lila, even with Silvia? Nothing. Why then had Nino married her?

I observed her all evening. He was nice to her, he let himself be hugged and kissed, he smiled at her affectionately when she said rude and foolish things, he played distractedly with the child. But he didn’t change his attitude toward my daughters, giving them a lot of attention; he continued to talk pleasantly to Pietro, and even spoke a few words to me. His wife—I wished to think—did not absorb him. Eleonora was one of the many pieces of his busy life, but had no influence on him, Nino went forward on his own path without attaching any importance to her. And so I felt increasingly at ease, especially when he held my wrist for a few seconds, and almost caressed it, showing that he recognized my bracelet; especially when he kidded my husband, asking him if he had left me a little more time for myself; especially when, right afterward, he asked if I had made progress with my work.

“I finished a first draft,” I said.

Nino turned to Pietro seriously: “Have you read it?”

“Elena never lets me read anything.”

“It’s you who don’t want to,” I replied, but without bitterness, as if it were a game between us.

Eleonora at that point interrupted, she didn’t want to be left out.

“What sort of thing is it?” she asked. But just as I was about to answer, her flighty mind carried her away and she asked me blithely: “Tomorrow will you take me to see the shops, while Nino works?”

I smiled with false cordiality and she began with a detailed list of things that she meant to buy. Only when we left the restaurant I managed to approach Nino and whisper:

“Do you feel like looking at what I’ve written?”

He looked at me with genuine amazement: “Would you really let me read it?”

“If it wouldn’t bore you, yes.”

I handed him my pages furtively, my heart pounding, as if I didn’t want Pietro, Eleonora, or the children to notice.

105.

I didn’t close my eyes. In the morning I resigned myself to the date with Eleonora; we were to meet at ten at the hotel. Don’t do the stupid thing—I ordered myself—of asking her if her husband began to read it: Nino is busy, it will take time; you mustn’t think about it, at least a week will go by.

But at precisely nine, when I was about to leave, the phone rang and it was him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m on my way to the library and I can’t telephone until tonight. Sure I’m not bothering you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I read it.”

“Already?”

“Yes, and it’s really excellent. You have a great capacity for research, an admirable rigor, and astonishing imagination. But what I envy most is your ability as a narrator. You’ve written something hard to define, I don’t know if it’s an essay or a story. But it’s extraordinary.”

“Is that a flaw?”

“What?”

“That it’s not classifiable.”

“Of course not, that’s one of its merits.”

“You think I should publish it as it is?”

“Absolutely yes.”

“Thank you.”