In the evening the telephone rang; it must be Pietro, with the girls. I nodded to Nino not to breathe, I left the bed and went to answer. I prepared in my throat an affectionate, reassuring tone, but without realizing it I kept my voice too low, an unnatural murmur, I didn’t want Nino to hear and later make fun of me or even get angry.
“Why are you whispering like that?” Pietro asked. “Everything all right?”
I raised my voice immediately, and now it was excessively loud. I sought loving words, I made much of Elsa, I urged Dede not to make her father’s life difficult and to brush her teeth before going to bed. Nino said, when I came back to bed:
“What a good wife, what a good mamma.”
I answered: “You are no less.”
I waited for the tension to diminish, for the echo of the voices of my husband and children to fade. We took a shower together. It was a new, enjoyable experience, a pleasure to wash him and be washed. Afterward I got ready to go out. Again I was trying to look nice for him, but this time I was doing it in front of him and suddenly without anxiety. He watched, fascinated, as I tried on dresses in search of the right one, as I put on my makeup, and from time to time—even though I said, joking, don’t you dare, you’re tickling me, you’ll ruin the makeup and I’ll have to start over, careful of the dress, it will tear, leave me alone—he came up behind me, kissed me on the neck, put his hands down the front and under the dress.
I made him go out alone, I told him to wait for me in the car. Although people were on vacation and the building was half deserted, I was afraid that someone would see us together. We went to dinner, we ate a lot, talked a lot, drank a lot. When we got back we went to bed but didn’t sleep. He said:
“In October I’ll be in Montpellier for five days, I have a conference.”
“Have fun. You’ll go with your wife?”
“I want to go with you.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Dede is six, Elsa three. I have to think of them.”
We began to discuss our situation, for the first time we uttered words like
“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
“If for you it’s possible, fine. For me it’s not.”
“Nonsense. You’ve known me for decades and yet you’ve had a full life without me. You’ll forget about me before you know it.”
“Promise that you’ll keep calling me every day.”
“No, I won’t call you anymore.”
“If you don’t I’ll go mad.”
“I’ll go mad if I go on thinking of you.”
We explored with a sort of masochistic pleasure the dead end we felt ourselves in, and, exasperated by the obstacles we ourselves were piling up, we ended by quarreling. He left, anxiously, at six in the morning. I cleaned up the house, had a cry, drove all the way to Viareggio hoping never to arrive. Halfway there I realized that I hadn’t taken a single book capable of justifying that trip. I thought: better this way.
115.
When I returned I was warmly welcomed by Elsa, who said sulkily: Papa isn’t good at playing. Dede defended Pietro, she exclaimed that her sister was small and stupid, and ruined every game. Pietro examined me, in a bad mood.
“You didn’t sleep.”
“I slept badly.”
“Did you find the books?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“Where do you think they are? At home. I checked what I had to check and that was it.”
“Why are you angry?”
“Because you make me angry.”
“We called you again last night. Elsa wanted to say good night but you weren’t there.”
“It was hot, I took a walk.”
“Alone?”
“With whom?”
“Dede says you have a boyfriend.”
“Dede has a strong bond with you and she’s dying to replace me.”
“Or she sees and hears things that I don’t see or hear.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said.”
“Pietro, let’s try to be clear: to your many maladies do you want to add jealousy, too?”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Let’s hope not. Because if it weren’t so I’m telling you right away: jealousy is too much, I can’t bear it.”
In the following days clashes like that became more frequent. I kept him at bay, I reproached him, and at the same time I despised myself. But I was also enraged: what did he want from me, what should I do? I loved Nino, I had always loved him: how could I tear him out of my breast, my head, my belly, now that he wanted me, too? Ever since I was a child I had constructed for myself a perfect self-repressive mechanism. Not one of my true desires had ever prevailed, I had always found a way of channeling every yearning. Now enough, I said to myself, let it all explode, me first of all.
